#anyway this is my magnum opus and I'm really soft

[dix0nvix3n]

𖤓°⋆ Chapter 1 °⋆𖤓

⋆☀︎｡Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader  ⋆☀︎｡Media: The Walking Dead; No Apocalypse & Alternate Universe ⋆☀︎｡Pronouns: She/Her  ⋆☀︎｡ Warning: Smoking (Cigarettes), One mention of weed, Talk of a bad past relationship. (That's it I think?) ⋆☀︎｡ Word Count: 2.5k

⋆☀︎｡ Author's Note: It's finally here... the beginning of my magnum opus. Even though I only have this one chapter out, there hasn't been a single day since I came up with the idea for the fic where I didn't think about it at least once. I just wanna thank all the people who let me infodump about it; y'all are true soldiers, cause I can really ramble on. Special thanks to @sinkdownbeneath for helping me write the intro because I was completely stuck for months with almost nothing to show, and being the person who let me yap the most, he can account for me pretty much talking about it every day for the past five months. So, anyway, I guess I hope y'all like my first finished something that wasn't just a blurb. Last night I only had a little over 200 words at 10 PM something, and now it's 7:44 AM with 2.5k words as I write this... I don't know what got into me, but anyway, enjoy!

June 1st, 1992

Daryl finds himself propped up against a tree, catching his breath. The cool summer air around him makes his chest ache with every breath he takes. He had been running, hearing the twigs snap and the leaves crunch beneath his feet as he darted past every tree, trying to evade potential capture from a party that had him jumping out a window when the cops showed up due to a noise complaint.

He spent much of his life within the comfort of the woodland, underneath the thick canopy of leaves and branches, the first roof he ever felt safe under.

He gasped for air, his legs exhausted and his lungs overworked, adrenaline still pulsing through him as he slid down the rough bark of a tree, pulling his legs up to his chest.

He's close to the road, hearing a solitary car cruise past. He can tell it's late from the stars that peek through the leaves that loom above him in the thick black sky, but he spots his glimmer of hope, which seems to be the soft light of a gas station just a bit beyond the road's traffic barrier closest to him.

With a deep inhale, Daryl knew he had to walk to the gas station and reluctantly call for a ride in a phone booth.

After fully catching his breath, he pulled himself off the ground and began walking towards the gas station, already dreading the thought of the phone call.

Reaching the gas station, he saw two cars; one belonged to the lone worker at the cash register inside, and the other belonged to a woman smoking a cigarette at the side of the building. The woman did a quick wave at him, which he found to be a little odd just because most people at this time of night aren't too friendly, but he gave a polite wave back anyway. 

Finally getting up to the phone booth, Daryl looked down at his watch, which read 1:00 AM, causing him to let out a deep sigh, realizing how late it was and how much of an inconvenience it would be for someone to come and pick him up. 

He stepped inside the phone booth, staring at the phone for a minute before popping in the quarters he luckily grabbed from the living room floor of the party. If he hadn't grabbed them, he'd be completely fucked and have to figure out his way back to his apartment.

After dialing the number he knew would pick up, the phone rang just a few times before a tired and clearly just woken up by a phone at one in the morning voice picked up.

"Hey, Mr. H... Could ya pick me up?"

"Thanks. 'm sorry about this; kinda just started walking and didn't stop. Ended up at some party, and now I don' know where I am."

"Yeah. Place is called Peachy Speed, never seen another gas station called this; it must be family-owned or somethin' and the closest road sign says it's on Navel Street. You know where I'm at?"

"Okay, cool. See ya in a bit. Sorry again."

After hanging up, Daryl stepped out of the phone booth with his head held down, letting out a deep exhale and running a hand through his hair until he heard a pair of feet shuffling up to him.

He looked up to see who it was, and it was you, the woman who waved at him.

"Need one?" You held out an open pack of Marlboro Reds, with only one cigarette missing from the pack.

"Oh. Yeah. Thanks." His thoughts stuttered for a moment because he was caught up in the fact that you came over to him. You're really pretty, and now Daryl feels like a nervous schoolboy trying to ask a girl to the prom just because of a simple gesture.

He grabbed a cigarette out of the box and reached to pull his lighter out of his pocket, only not to feel it, and checked the other pocket to have the same luck. "Shit."

You let out a small chuckle. "Need a light too?” You pulled a lighter out of your pocket and handed it over to him.

He nodded his thanks and popped the cig in his mouth before lifting the black bic with a spiderweb seemingly hand-painted on up to the end of the stick. Flicking the flame to life, he took a long inhale and handed you back the lighter, as he really took a moment to take in the sight of you. 

You were in a black tank top tucked into a pair of black ripped jean shorts. Under the pair of jean shorts were fishnets with an intricate pattern of moons and stars, and you had on a pair of slightly battered-up Doc Martens. 

As he exhaled the first plume of smoke into the night sky, he saw your kind smile, which sent a rush of warmth through his face. Your lips had a simple gloss on them, but your eyes were a different story, painted with smokey eyeshadow, sharp graphic eyeliner, and two rounds of mascara on each set of your top lashes. He also noticed the simple yet pretty titanium stud on the left side of your nose and two helix rings on both your ears.

He thought you were gorgeous, his heartbeat a slightly faster pace than what it normally rested at.

"Rough night?" You asked as you lit up a cigarette for yourself, letting out a slight gag at the taste and smell that you weren't used to, which caused Daryl to let out a small chuckle.

"Sorta. More of just hated the fact I had to call and wake someone up to come and get me. First time smokin'?" He said before he took another drag.

"How'd you know?" You said sarcastically as your face contorted in disgust a bit at the taste building up in your mouth and throat after each puff.

"Maybe try a different brand. You'll find one ya like." A small smile graced his lips as he butted off the ash at the end and took another drag. 

"Nah. Think I'm quitting after this one. I'll just stick to weed."

He let out a chuckle. "May I ask, why'd ya even start?"

You let out a small groan, running your hand through your hair in slight embarrassment. "I finally left my shitty boyfriend once and for all. I finally realized he'd never like me for the real me. I constantly had to put on this mask around him, and I finally found out that it was impossible to fix him and the fact he didn't actually like me. I know it sounds weird, but I guess my thought process was that my epiphany about him would stick with me after smoking one like a character in a movie or something." You let out a laugh. "Stupid, right?" 

He snubbed out the end of the cigarette, as it was almost a roach at this point. "Nah, it ain't stupid. A lot of my best thoughts come after smokin' one, cleared my head more times than I can count. You deserve one after the bullshit he put you through, I think. Hope the prick is havin' a shit night after realizin' he's lost you cause ya seem awesome to me so far."

You felt warmth begin to rise in your cheeks at his words. "Thanks. I know I deserve better. I'm just pissed; it took me so long to realize it. So, anyway, what's your name? I can't believe I haven't asked yet."

"Name's Daryl; what's yours?"

You had a few good puffs left of your cig but decided to snub yours out as well since you didn't like it anyway. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Daryl. My name is (Y/N). Do you wanna come sit with me at my spot against the wall? My most likely melted slushy is calling my name to get this taste out of my mouth." 

"Yeah, I can. Might be a bit till my ride gets here, so I might as well sit down." He started walking to your spot, and you followed in tow. 

When you got back to your spot, you looked down at your slushy on the ground. The dark purple concoction of blue raspberry and cherry slushy combo was completely melted. "Goddammit." You didn't fully care though; you paid for that slushy, because you were stubborn it meant you were going to have all of what you paid for, so you drank down the rest of the sugary liquid with a satisfied sigh. It was luckily still cold, at least, and it was just what you needed to get the taste of the cigarette out of your mouth.

As time passed, you and Daryl talked about whatever came to mind as you doodled some intricate pattern on the front of the pack of the Marlboro Reds with a sharpie, ultimately moving to the back when you ran out of room. You found out that he works as a mechanic for motorcycles and cars at a nearby auto body shop, that he rides a motorcycle that he built himself a few years ago, that he loves to hunt on occasion, specifically with a crossbow, and that he ran from the cops at a house party tonight.

You knew your short time with Daryl was up when you saw a 1987 Ford Sierra MK2 pull into a parking spot at the gas station, and Daryl stood up, doing a quick stretch. The man in the car smiled and made a small wave at you, and you did the same back.

"It was nice meetin' ya, (Y/N). I'd talk more, but I don't wanna keep him up any longer." He said as he gestured a hand towards the man who came to pick him up. 

"It was nice meeting you too. Thanks for talking to me, Daryl." You pulled the pack of cigarettes from your pocket and held them out to him. "Take these. You need them more than me. Plus, I just quit." You grinned at him as he took the box from you. 

"Holy shit, thank you." He smiled back as he placed the box in his own pocket and slowly started walking backward towards the car. "Hope ya have a good night and that Nick the dick has a shit one. 

You let out a laugh at the nickname Daryl gave your ex-boyfriend and waved him goodbye with a "You too." You leaned your head back against the wall, staring up at the night sky as your eyes finally began to feel tired, knowing you should head back to your friend's apartment soon and try and get some sleep before your nine AM shift. 

Once Daryl got in the car, he let out a quiet sigh as he looked out the window at you, wishing he dared to ask for your number. You were the first good conversation he'd had in a while, and his schoolboy-like crush on you kept growing the whole time you talked.

"So, who's that?" The man said as he shifted the car into gear, Daryl noticing the grin on his face.

"A girl that started talkin' to me after our call. Name's (Y/N)." He pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, mindlessly tracing the pattern of doodles you did.

"You ask for her number? The car was now beginning to be backed out of its parking spot.

"Nah. Mind if I smoke?" Daryl shook the pack and began looking for one of the lighters he left in the glove compartment a few weeks ago. 

The man shook his head with a slight sigh and said, "Go ahead." He wasn't shaking his head over Daryl wanting to smoke, but over the fact he wouldn't ask for your number when he obviously liked you, but he knew he couldn't push him; he understood Daryl's nature.

Daryl looked back out the window at you, opening it as he blew out the first cloud of smoke. He then looked back down in his lap where the box lay, flipping it over to the back to see what you had drawn there as well. His breath hitched as he saw it. On the back was your phone number, and above it said, "Call me" with a smiley face. 

The tips of Daryl's ears were beet red, and he tried to hold back his face from turning the same color. He looked back out the window at you to see you grinning at him this time, to which he smiled and waved goodbye to you as the car pulled out of the lot. In Daryl's twenty-three years of life, he could say that this night was one of his best.

"Daryl, why'd you call me Mr. H again? Son, you've known me for five years; how many times do I gotta remind you to call me by my name? It's Dale for you."

Daryl let out a small cloud of smoke this time, wanting to savor this one on the peaceful ride back. "I'll tell ya again, it happens when I'm nervous; didn't wanna wake you up, s'all, and you still are my boss after all."

"Daryl, you're like a son to me, and I told you to never be nervous if you need help, and that includes coming and picking you up in the middle of the night if needed. I'm here for you." Dale placed his right hand on Daryl's shoulder, keeping his left on the wheel as he squeezed his shoulder lightly before returning it to the steering wheel.

"Now, it's not Mr. H or Mr. Horvath, son. It's Dale."

Daryl rolled his eyes playfully. "Yes, sir," he joked, letting out a chuckle.

It was the next day around 10:30 PM when Daryl picked up the phone on his nightstand and finally called the number you gave him, nervously wrapping the cord around his finger. The phone only rang twice before the other end picked up, "Hey, is this (Y/N)?" 

The inner teenage girl in your brain screamed in excitement, so happy that he finally called. "Omg, Daryl! I was wondering when you were gonna call me. I've been waiting since I got off my shift."

"Didn't know if you worked a mornin' shift or got off at night, and I didn't wanna leave too many voicemails on your friend's phone."

"Yeah, I worked a morning shift at the diner today. I got off at five. Morning shifts are the fucking worst." You're lying on your stomach on the couch, playfully curling the phone's cord around your finger and kicking your feet back and forth in the air.

You and Daryl talked for an hour, mainly talking about the shitty customers you dealt with today, sounding especially frustrated about the woman who yelled at you just because the diner was out of unsweet tea that you couldn't do anything about because the place was also out of tea bags to make more. What did she want you to do? Just up and leave your job and go buy the tea bags, your fucking self?

"Even though I don't want to, I gotta go to bed 'cause I have another morning shift tomorrow. I get off at five, so call me around six-thirty, okay?" 

"I get off at five too. Works for me. Goodnight, (Y/N)."

"Goodnight to you too, Daryl."

The call ended, and you both looked up at your respective ceilings, smiling as warmth bloomed through your faces. You both slept well that night, falling asleep to the thought of calling each other tomorrow.

⋆☀︎｡ Extra author's note: Here's what Dale would look like in 1992, I took Dale's age of 64 from the show since the apocalypse started in 2010 so he'd be 46 in 1992. I think this picture of Jeffrey Demunn is from when he was 43 maybe? I can't remember but that's close enough to 46 and even if he isn't 43 in the image he fits the look of someone in their mid-forties. Just imagine him without the cowboy hat, okay? There's not a lot of pictures of him when he was younger.

⋆☀︎｡ Taglist: @mrdixon , @yevmarie , and @shadowcitrine

⋆☀︎｡ Divider creds: @ saradika, go check her account out! She has some very cute dividers!

[thatbigbisexual29]

Revenge Is A Dish Best Served.... Spider (ATSV)

GREAT GOOGLY MOOGLY IT IS FINISHED!!! MY MAGNUM OPUS!!!! So... hi everyone! I'm so sorry this fic took so long! I got caught up with life stuff and my writer's inspo kept leaving me when I needed it most ;-; But it's now done! So now I post it! Also its super fricken long sorry about that lols. ANyways, enjoy and eat up my lovlies! ^<^

There he was. Perfect timing. Perfect position. Perfect opportunity. Three spidermen stood and watched their older counterpart closely with crossed arms.

“He’s asleep.”

“He’s wide open.”

“He’ll kill us if we go through with this.”

The three teens, Miles, Pavitr, and Gwen, all took pause and thought for a moment. The one they were looking at was none other than Hobie Brown, asleep and outstretched on Miles’ parents sofa. It was an amusing sight. The teen was waaaaay too big for the couch. Hobie laid on his stomach with his arms outstretched over one arm of the couch, and his legs dangling over the other arm. And he had a small flock of spider-teens observing him with crossed arms.

The three had recently come across the fact that they had all been targeted and sentenced to tickling by the punk. They came to this realization as they were watching a movie and a tickle scene came on. They all shuddered at their recent memories from their own experiences (as well as the scene being especially rude) and they started talking. That leads us to now.

“Do we really need to get him back? I mean, I liked it when he tickled me, it was fun!” Pavitr admitted, earning a look from the other two spiders.

“That’s only because he didn’t punish you. We,” Gwen gestured to herself and Miles, “got punished. We want to get him back.”

“Yeah, just because you had a good time doesn’t mean we did. Revenge is in order,” Miles agreed. Pav smiled a bit and shook his head.

“You Americans and your ticklish bloodlust. You shouldn’t have pranked him in the first place!” he giggled as he earned more scowls from his friends. Then he stretched his arms and cracked his fingers. “But if you two are too scared to start, I know where he’s ticklish!”

Pavitr walked up confidently, constantly surprising Miles and Gwen with his boldness. Moving Hobie’s hair from his neckline, he found his nape and started gently scribbling. The reaction was immediate. Hobie hummed a laugh, then started mumbling out chuckles, shifting on the couch as Pav continued. His arms sleepily reached behind him and his hands waved around as if he was trying to catch Pav’s, but he had no such luck.

“Mmmhmhmhmhmhm… Kahaharl quihihihit…” the punk muttered through his soft giggles. Miles and Gwen looked on in awe but soon dawned evil smiles on their faces. Pavitr was about to speak until they all held their breaths. Hobie groaned in his sleep and turned over entirely, now lying on his back. He scratched at his stomach and smacked his lips, returning to his peaceful slumber. The three teens gave each other looks of confirmation.

“I’m getting his stomach.” Miles called.

“His legs are all mine.” Gwen purred.

“Well, someone has to hold his arms...” Pavitr sighed.

They all jumped onto the taller Spider-Man. Miles sat on his thighs, Gwen sat on his knees facing him, and Pavitr quickly thwipped Hobie’s wrists together and held down the web with his foot, keeping his hands free. Hobie instantly woke up with a snort, looking around all dazed and confused.

“H-Huh? Whas happnin’? ‘S goin’ on?” he asked. He pulled at his wrists and started to panic as he realized the situation he was in. He pulled more as he saw Miles sitting above him with crossed arms and a smirk.

“Mornin’ Hobs. Had a nice nap?” Brooklyn’s Spider-Man asked. Hobie looked straight up and saw Pav who waved. He looked around Miles to see Gwen who nodded her head towards him. Hobie simply sighed and deflated where he laid, ragdolling his head on the arm of the couch.

“Whas dis den? You lot tryna get me back, is that it?” he said.

“Yep,” Gwen said.

“Nailed it right on the head,” Miles agreed.

“I mean, not really but this seems like fun,” Pavitr chided. Hobie took one more assessment of his situation before shrugging.

“Fine,” he sighed. “If it keeps you busy.”

The three spider kids were slightly taken aback by his willingness, but they shook it off nonetheless.

“Pav, you wanna start first?” Miles asked. Pavitr tapped his chin as if he was thinking about it.

“Hmm… let me think…” As he started to ponder, he took his free hand and softly scribbled his fingers up and down Hobie’s bicep, getting so close to his armpit but stopping just a hair short to continue upwards.

Hobie jumped at the contact and bit his lip, fighting back snickers while saying, “Oho fuck ohoff Pav.”

“I mean, I really should go first, shouldn’t I?” India’s Spider-Man spoke as he touched his other hand down on Hobie’s bicep, now scribbling up and down both his arms while speaking. “I am the one he got first. Even though I liked it, you can’t just tickle someone and not expect to be tickled back, right? Oh but if I do, he might get me back worse! What to do, what to do! Maybe I should just stay here, teasing him, almost going to his armpits but not quite yet~” 

Meanwhile, Hobie was currently suffering under the torturous teasing he was being subjected to. Miles smiled and watched as his usually concealed friend lose his mind at a few simple scratches.

“Come on, Hobs!” Pav continued, now scratching right above his armpits. “I know how ticklish you are! Why hide it? I can feel you’re gonna break~ Aaaaaaaaaany second now~ Maybe I should go lower? Maybe I should tickle your armpits? Would that make you laugh? Hm?~”

“Ffffffffffuhuhucker- Pahav- Imma k-kihihill you!” Hobie growled through his giggles. He used all the movement he could to cover his eyes with his elbows. His smile was bigger than ever and he was constantly moving and shaking his torso.

“Looks like Hobie’s quite the dancer! Wiggle wiggle Hobs~” Miles cooed. Gwen just sat back and pulled out her phone, recording this moment. I’m so sending this to Peter, she thought with an evil smirk.

“What do you guys think? Should I go for the kill?” Pav asked as he hovered his hands over his friend’s armpits. Hobie’s eyes widened and he gasped, holding his breath. He let out hesitational giggles as Pav’s fingers wriggled above their target area. Even Miles felt shivers up his spine.

“Oh hell yes you should! Why don’t I help out?~” Miles brought his own wiggly fingers to hover above Hobie’s ribs. The taller teen grunted and covered his eyes again.

“Y-You fuckheads! Teasin’s not fair! Bofa yous as dead as doornails, ‘ear me??” The Spider-Punk said in a panicked voice. Miles and Pav looked at each other and nodded. At the same time they mouthed ‘1…2…3!’

Then, they attacked! Both Miles and Pav touched down onto Hobie’s torso and began their assault. Pavitr wickedly scratched and clawed Hobie’s armpits while Miles dug his fingers between the spaces of his ribs. Hobie, meanwhile, barked out a laugh and jerked hard. He nearly sent Gwen flying! She was lucky that he was barely using his spider strength, so instead she got shoved into Miles’ back. 

“Oof! Hehey, watch it Hobs! You tryna kill me here?” the Spider-Woman retorted. Hobie was too busy laughing his ass off to make up a witty response.

“BAHhahahahahahahahaha! F-Fuck sake- gyahahahahaha! Gehehehehet outta thehehehehehere! Shhhhihihihihihits! You shihihihitbags! Fffr- grrr- pfffhahahahahahaha!” Hobie was a completely new person. The only people who’ve seen this ticklish side of him were Karl and Pav, but he’s never been tickled by them at the same time. But did having Miles and Pav tickle him simultaneously make it any less fun? No. No it did not. This was the most fun he’s had in his life!

“I told you guys he’s ticklish! Oh, oh! What’s that thing you sing to Karl when you tickle him? It goes like “I’m gonna tickle tickle tickle you until you dieeeeeeee~” right? Am I right?” Pav asked, constantly stirring the pot and switching up his technique. He went from digging and vibrating to scratching and scribbling, then to poking and prodding. Miles laughed a bit.

“You seriously sing that?” he asked.

“Yes, he does. I have videos for proof,” Gwen said from her spot behind Miles (she fixed her position to where she was sitting on Hobie’s shins).

“Ooh, you should show him the video you took of Karl and Hobie on Karl’s birthday! Now that was brutal!” Pav said, harboring another bark of laughter from the punk below him as he jammed his fingers into the center of his hollows.

“J-Jehehehehehehehesus Christ! Stahahahahahahahap tahahahahalkin’!” Hobie ordered, but his words failed to carry any authority. Miles just smirked and vibrated his fingers faster and he felt deeply satisfied when the punk jerked forward.

“Guys, I don’t think I can believe what I’m hearing. Is he actually trying to order us around right now?” Miles raised an eyebrow and looked to Gwen and Pav.

“Completely unbelievable,” Pav agreed.

“Especially coming from the guy who ‘doesn’t follow orders.’ What do you have to say for yourself, Hobs?” Gwen asked. Hobie could only flop back and forth while spewing giggles and laughs from his mouth, shaking his head so much so one would think you asked him if he liked the government. The three teens just laughed with him. Then, Hobie said something unexpected.

“Breheheheheheak!” he laughed out. “Breheheheheheak break break! I cahahahahahahan’t!”

Without a second thought, Miles and Pavitr raised their hands and halted their tickling. Hobie’s body instantly relaxed, giggling and sighing as he caught his breath. Gwen was up in a flash and making a beeline for the kitchen. Pavitr rubbed Hobie’s pits to rub the ghost tickles away, being careful he wasn’t tickling the older spider. Miles patted Hobie’s side in an attempt to calm him.

“You alright, Hobie? Is it too much? Should we stop??” Brooklyn’s Spider-Man questioned, looking from Hobie to Pavitr for confirmation. Pav just smiled back at him.

“No need to panic, Spidey,” he explained, “It’s normal for someone to get worked up in a situation like this. He just needs some water and a breather, then we’re free to get back to it! Right Hobs?”

Hobie responded with a nod, now just panting. Gwen returned with a cup of water and offered it to Hobie’s lips. The punk shimmied up so he could drink more comfortably. And drink he did. He barely left a drop in the cup before laying back down. Then, he chuckled.

“You two are right fuckin’ evil, man. Downright awful, it was. Shihihit,” he chuckled.

“Well just you wait! Cause Miles is really about to knock your socks off~” Gwen cooed, pinching Hobie’s cheek like a grandma would. Hobie, feeling playful, bit at her fingers. Gwen squeaked out in surprise and shot her hand back to her side.

“Hey!” she fussed. Hobie just grinned with mischief. Gwen just rolled her eyes with a smile, shook her head, and traveled back to the kitchen with cup in hand.

“Now that wasn’t very nice, Hobie!” Miles said.

“Oh yeah? Whatcha gon’ do bout it, Miles? Hm? Gon’ punish me? Treat me like a bad boy, huh? I reckon you won’t, ya too much of a coward~” Hobie taunted, shimmying his chest at Miles. Brooklyn’s Spider-Man was immediately taken back, sending a confused look at Pavitr. Pav simply laughed.

“This trick again, Hobie?” Pav asked as he looked down at his friend, giggling when Hobie waggled his eyebrows at him. “This is a method he tries to mess with anyone who’s tickling him. But it never works. Just go ahead, he loves this stuff!”

Miles simply looked at Hobie and smiled. Hobie sighed and shrugged.

“Wurf a shot, roight?” he said. Miles grabbed the hem of Hobie’s shirt and pulled up, finding a pleasant surprise. 

“No way!” he exclaimed.

“What is it?” Pavitr poked his head up. 

“Did you find an embarrassing birthmark? A third nipple??” Gwen said, running back from the kitchen, all too excited to find something humiliating to tease Hobie for.

“No, look!” Miles pointed his finger to his stomach where it harbored a black and silver belly button piercing with an upside down cross. The three gawked as they looked at it, giving the punk a longer break.

“Holy crap you have a belly piercing??” Pavitr asked, bewildered. 

“You should see what else I have pierced~” Hobie said with a wink to his friends. 

There were three seconds of silence before Pavitr barked out, “YOU PIERCED YOUR PENIS?!?”

Everyone burst out into hysterical laughter at Pav’s declaration. Miles deflated onto Hobie’s chest, Gwen slumped against the back of the couch, and Hobie just cackled as if they started tickling him again.

“No Pahav, mah nips! I pierced mah nipples, ya goon! I’m fuckin’ out mah mind, not crazy! Pahahaha!” Hobie said, giggling out of his mind.

“Oh my god, I wish I had that recorded!” Gwen cried out through her laughter. Miles just held his head on Hobie’s chest and snickered hysterically. Pavitr blushed from embarrassment but started laughing too. And Hobie was a mess. He was giggling so much that he started to let out tiny snorts. Miles shot up when he heard them.

“You snort when you laugh!” Brooklyn’s Spider-Man accused, pointing a finger right in the punk’s face. “Why did you rip on me when you snort too? You’re such a hypocrite!”

Hobie just giggled and said, “Cause it’s cuter when you do it! ‘S adorable, mate, ‘ow can I not tease ya?”

“Oh, you’re getting it now!” Miles declared, raising his two hands and forming them into claws. “Any last words?~”

“Sleep with one eye open- yeEEAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” Hobie taunted then screamed as Miles dug into his stomach. He used the same method he used on his ribs, only this time, he used tiny sparks of his venom to add more to its kick. Hobie jerked up hard, nearly sending Miles flying, but the teen just laughed and held on tighter.

“Haha! Oh man, regret teasing me yet? Or do you need more persuasion?” Miles asked as he kneaded and zapped Hobie’s toned stomach. Hobie just barked out loud laughter as he swung around, thrashing like a rodeo bull. Pav looked shocked but was laughing with them as Gwen started recording again.

“FAHAHAHAHAHAHAHACK MIHIHIHIHIHIHILES!! CH-CHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEAT!! YOU CHEHEHEHEHEHEAT!! NOHOHOHOHO VEHEHEHEHEHENOM!! MAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAILES!!!” Hobie threw his head back and cackled like a madman.

“Holy crap! You’re ruthless Miles! That’s his worst spot!” Pavitr said. It was unaware if he was warning Miles or encouraging him.

Either way, Hobie genuinely looked like he was having fun. His smile was wide and unapologetic, his eyes closed as his nose scrunched tight. It was a beautiful sight and such a 180 from his normal personality. Miles was going to ask for every single video and picture Gwen was taking at that very moment. And every other video or picture where Hobie’s getting tickled.

“You think this is ruthless?” Miles asked, removing his hands to give Hobie a very short lived break. “Let me show you what my Uncle Aaron taught my dad when I was a kid.”

“You… you still are a kid… bitch…” Hobie panted out. Now his fate was sealed. Miles furrowed his brows and smiled. Without any warning, Miles rapidly squeezed his hands against Hobie’s sides and inhaled deeply before blowing a massive raspberry on the punk’s stomach. Hobie fucking lost it. He arched up high and his laughter went silent. Then, it roared out of him as if he was the offspring of a lion and hyena.

“MAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAILES!!!! SHIHIHIHIHIHIHI- FAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NOHOT AGAIN! NOT AGAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAIN!!! YOUHUHU FUCKIN PEHEHEHEHEHEST!! AHAHAHAHAHA SHIT!! OK!! OKOKOK AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!! I TAHAHAHAHAKE IT BAHAHAHAHAHAHACK!!” Miles sat back and laughed a bit, enjoying how easily he picked apart his friend.

“Come on, punk rocker! Can’t handle a few wittle tickews? You’re lucky I’m not shocking you! Or going after your piercing~ Man, how hellish would that be?” Brooklyn’s Spider-Man taunted. Hobie was ballistic. Pav noticed this and was about to warn Miles to stop when his spider sense went off. He looked up to the front door and saw the doorknob turning and heard the sound of jingling keys.

“Miles, stop! Your parents are home!” Pavitr said, quickly fishing Hobie’s pocket knife from the punk’s discarded jacket. Miles looked up and towards the hall. He sprang off Hobie as Gwen casually went to get another cup of water. Pavitr cut the webs and Miles helped calm Hobie down just as Rio Morales walked in.

“Miles? Everything alright? It sounded like someone was dying in here,” she said, hanging up her purse and walking into the living room. What she found was quite the wholesome sight. The tv was on as Miles and Pav sat with Hobie on the couch, laughing at some sitcom that was playing. Gwen came from the kitchen and smiled to Rio.

“Sorry, Rio- I mean, Mrs. Morales. The show we were watching is just super funny! I was about to make us some popcorn, want a bag?” the blonde spider-woman somewhat lied, distracting the woman. Meanwhile, Hobie was leaning back on the couch and hugging his torso, still recovering from the harsh tickles he received. Miles immediately felt guilty.

“Hey man, you alright? I went too far, didn’t I?” he asked, looking at Hobie with a worried glance. Hobie just chuckled, and as if he had regained all of his strength just then, he swooped an arm around Miles’ neck and dug his knuckles into his head, giving him a noogie.

“Ah, you little bugga! Who knew you were such a meanie? Yeah, I’s jus ‘bout to tap out. But you good mahn! Was super fun. You’ll still have to watch your back~” Hobie cooed that last part into his ear as he squeezed his ribs, making Miles bark out a laugh.

The teens went on with their night, Gwen declaring that one day she’d get her own personal revenge on Hobie (even though they argued that the pictures and photos she took were her revenge). They found a movie and nuzzled into a large cuddle pile, falling asleep in the blankets and pillows, all of them leaning on Hobie.

And the last thing Hobie thought before he faded into sleep was, God my friends are the best.

[shiroselia]

Guess who completely missed I've been posting on Ao3 for over a year now, so to celebrate that almost two weeks later, behold! Self-promo!

I know, I know, but I suppose since I've been going for a year(???) now I might as well give a little Summary on what the hell I've been doing over on the Ao3, and also have a bit of fun with it in the process.

So, who the hell am I? I'm Manda Shiroselia EquestrianEquivalent, and apparently I'm an Ao3 publisher now. Sentence I never thought I'd say, but here we are!

What do I write? Well, primarily I write for Fire Emblem, Honkai Star Rail, and Star Stable Online. More precisely, I'm a character dynamics connossieur, which means I'm mostly writing character interaction and/or ship-focused fics because that's what I find the most fun! I generally average about 3-5k on my oneshots, but there are shorter (and longer) ones, so if length is something you're particularly picky about, you'll have variety in there, promise.

My personal favourite choices of the Fire Emblem variety are, coincidentally, my two most recent Fire Emblem fics! Soft Pegasus Feathers, and Dream of Me.

Good stuff, fun times, huge self-reccs of mine.

In terms of HSR, well, I've written. a lot of those, but I'm particularly, well, well-known might be a stretch, but those of you who subscribe to JingFu might recognize me for my most popular fic, Better Luck Next Time, or for my newest piece of insanity, KONTORSRENOVERING.

Better Luck Next Time is probably the best introduction to my writing style you will ever find, especially since it's kind of responsible for me finding my style, and it's also incredibly funny, if I do say so myself.

KONTORSRENOVERING is a great introduction to my particular niche, which I like to describe as "It could've been a fanart, but I'm glad it's a fic." If you read it you'll know exactly what i mean by that! Both of them are fics I hold very near and dear, so obviously I recommend each of them in particular.

And as for what I write for SSO? Well. I don't know if you have ever sorted that tag by word count, but if you have, you might have come across a certain little fic called A Quintessential Jorvegian Summer Vacation.

Which is, well, a lot of things. It's the entire reason I started publishing on Ao3 to begin with, my life's work pretty much, arguably my magnum opus really, and the entire reason my friends both discovered and has since never let me live down how fucking nuts I am.

It is the most taxing out of all my works, since, you know, check that chapter count:word count and you'll understand. I'm currently in the middle of reposting the last 4 chapters, because yes I've rewritten every single one of the first 24 chapters and counting, and once that is done, I'm going to rewrite the entire fic. Which is really just a first draft into a second draft, but considering how much I've changed as a writer throughout the 10 months I wrote this behemoth of a fic (first draft clocked in at 280k words so you can imagine how much effort this fucker took), it needs some maintainance.

With that being said, even if you don't know what the fuck a Star Stable Online is, I genuinely suggest you check this out anyways, because I legitimately think it works really well as just a standalone horse adventure magic fantasy. And a tragedy. Apparently. Supposedly. According to my friends who know too much about this fic.

It's going to take a fuck ass while to publish this entire thing, and I talk about it all the time on this blog, but there is so much love put into this fic, and I'm not abandoning it ever, it will be published, mark my word.

So that's essentially a "quick" summary of what the fuck I'm doing over there at the Ao3s. This mentioned like half of the roster, so there are a few more things over there if you're curious. And there's more to come, like a lot more to come.

For example, I'm currently working on two longer HSR fics, one starring Himeko and Pom-Pom, and the other starring Jiaoqiu featuring Bailu and Lingsha. I've also gotten way too into Zenless Zone Zero, and I'm definitely going to write a few fics for that, so far every one of them featuring Nicole. Other than that I have a lot of silly Fire Emblem ideas lying about (most of them related to Awakening, which means more Chromia in particular), and I'm no stranger to just throwing out a fic for the hell of it, so you might even be surprised!

And with that, Manda out, and happy late Ao3 anniversary to me <3

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

Hunger games au pls?

:D

TW: Child death, dehumanisation, threats, discussions of slavery (as in the Avoxes in hunger games canon), threats to children, possessive behaviour (platonic)

“you killed ranboo.” tommy's voice was numb as he looked up from the too-soft sofa he lay curled up in a ball on. “you killed him.”

“c'mon, tommy, he had one in a couple thousand odds of winning anyway. really, you should thank me for making it quicker. he didn’t feel a thing.” dream laughed, his tone somehow lacking malice. “well. not for long, at least.”

“you killed him.” tommy just stated again. “it’s- it's not fair-“

“course it isn’t fair. that’s showbiz, tommy. d'you really think you would have won if i didn’t rig the dice a little? it’s entertainment, tommy, not a contest.”

“it’s not entertainment when you’re the one in it.” tommy said, darkly. “it's torture. pure and utter torture. if i could, I’d take every single person who ever worked on that goddamn living hell and i'd-“

“tommy, you do know you’re being recorded right now?” dream sounded more amused than anything. “i could hand that over to the president, and you know what would happen?”

“they'd kill me?” tommy wouldn’t mind that, if he was honest.

“you’re naive. they'd make an avox out of you- cut out your tongue and break you into an obedient little servant. and, i mean, i could spare enough to get the contract of even a hot-of-the-press victor, but it'd be very annoying to not be able to hear you speak.”

“you’re threatening me.”

“i'm making a deal, tommy. you're my magnum opus, my masterpiece, my muse. my greatest accomplishment. i don’t want to have to make that go to waste. and they'll investigate everyone who’s connected to you, y’know? wil, jack, niki, tubbo. even poor little fundy.”

“he's, like, ten! what could they find on him?”

“probably nothing concrete, but enough to make sure every slip in the bowl has his name once he turns twelve. hell, maybe he'd even win- i know wilbur has been training him. just in case. i have eyes and ears everywhere, tommy. if i chose to, i could ruin you and everyone you love.”

tommy gulped. he- if it was just him, it’d be… but it wasn’t. first it was ranboo, and now… fuck. they’d already been through enough. “what do you want me to do?”

“eh, nothing special, really.” dream waved a hand. “i just want to be friends. is that so hard to believe?”

yes, tommy thought. “no,” he said.

[brood-mother]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love 💕

okay so trying to whittle down the 69 (nice) fics i have post on ao3 so far to five definitive favs was hard, so here's five fics off the top of my head that i at least enjoy, from most recent to oldest

--

Our Joy Is Magenta and Gold (BG3, M, Tav/Astarion, 6202 words); "They say vampires can't feel love, only obsession - but it doesn't matter. Neither of them had ever been able to tell the difference anyway." - This incredibly self indulgent fic has it all: graphic mutilation, purple prose, insane homosexual activity, married domestic fluff, puns, organised crime, the whole shebang. I had a lot of fun writing it.

The Red Room (R6S, T, Doc/Lion, 14,647 words); "When a careless mistake lands them in quarantine, it's not the disease that's their biggest problem - it's each other." - While not my post popular fics numbers wise, I think TRR was probably my best received fic in terms of fandom response, and for good reason. I like what I wrote, I don't particularly care for the ending but otherwise I'm proud of it, and I think of this fandom with great fondness (they were very sweet and supportive).

Red Sky At Night (DA, M, Samson/Maddox, 4450 words); "The rise of the Red General began with two men and a missed headcount; or, how Samson was lost to the Chantry and found by Corypheus." - This fic and this ship in general was slept on. All hurt no comfort, my beloved.

Sic Semper Tyrannis (SW, E, Kylux, 49,934 words/unfin.); "Disturbed by manic dreams of gods and tyrants, the Emperor's troubled right hand is pulled from the front lines and sent to an isolated mountain base to recover - unwittingly delivered into the hands of an ambitious young General with the power to blur the lines between reality and depraved fantasy." - Part re-imagining of Venus In Furs, part love letter to overwrought gothic horror classics, SST would be my magnum opus...if I ever finished it (mark my words I will finish this one day! I have like 10k words languishing in google docs already!).

Soft to the Touch (MEA, E, Kandros/mRyder, 1850 words); "Tiran Kandros has a fetish for humans, but there's one human in particular that really catches his eye." - Post-Andromeda, I wrote so many xeno fics...I had to, hardly anyone else was picking up the slack! Honestly one of my favourite things ever is writing alien/human from the alien perspective, it's so much fun. (There was also a part two to this that fucked, plus Kaetus/Reyes gunplay, and the Gil/Kallo series ofc.)

--

so there you are. better go read them and comment.

[crater-lake]

51

10/16/23

Time moves very fast so I guess I am going home soon. Congratulations to me for seeing through the memory of the present tense and for being a clever boy in a private corner. I fear death and am sharp. My award is the deepest eyes on the block.

I am tired of my individualism complex, as Alanna put it, but I respect the ego I defend. Looking back at the previous entry, I feel glad to told Miquel no. A part of him does not care about my long silence. I am at least half dead anyways. What is one voice when someone beautiful loves you? I mean, I know about man's hands and his eyes delving into Miquel's. I am a dead boy a few countries away. I am important like a storm that destroys a basement. I am important like local news. I am every pumpkin pie in Costco. I am important like rising gas prices, and have my edge of being clever, and I know and I know and I know and I know I mostly won't ever do anything "great." Seriously - what does that mean? A magnum opus, a great poetic or musical work? I don't know if I have it in me. And I don't think my reasons for wanting it are right. But if I'm not going to make money, I might as well make a beautiful thing and have others wonder about my beautiful thing and feed me their envy. Some stimulating envy.

I texted Ananya I am hurt that Fernando hooked up with someone Friday. Actually: someone fucked him and came in him. And he told me. He said he was an open book so I opened the book. If I knew I couldn't handle the answer, why did I ask? And why am I so jealous and upset about that, despite the fact that we are not in a relationship?

I think this has happened to many times to me. To be chosen and not chosen. Miquel if you lose me, it will be forever! Our souls are not interconnected. My back aches and neck aches and the soft crab belly under my sternum warbles with sadness. You genuinely don't care about that! I know this. Miquel you don't and have not loved me in a way I have loved you. This is your mistake. I do not forgive you. I am saying goodbye to that love! Goodbye, dead Will from other warmer months. I hold onto this because at least it makes me feel important. If I could commit to being a dead thing and fill up my schedule, this could maybe cure me.

I chose wrong. I won't make the money and won't prove that it was the wrong choice. My German isn't even that good. I don't really have discernible skills besides decent social skills but that is not a hard skill. I am not in a PhD program. Though I may run a half marathon, and have joined an orchestra, and will audition for a choir. I choose to represent everything like a senate. The hope and despair need seats.

To inherit myself. Dear Miquel I do not forgive you for the festering space you've created in the shadow of unrequited love. It comes back to me rotting. I get all of it. Even carving this paragraph of you into this anonymous little slice of consciousness is to build a house that I literally must burn. I feel unchosen a lot and it vexes me.

How are the choices I make informed by not feeling chosen? I spent most of the day off of Grindr and felt better. I went on and jerked off for 45 minutes and felt far away away away away. So tomorrow I will try to use Grindr less again, because it saved me. I have decided I will buy a clock too.

I am just angry with Fernando. That is the first reaction. I just feel useless and unimportant. I am kind of already a half dead thing and people hold me and I guess it is less true. My friend Charlie says things to me I don't understand and I take a long time in the supermarket and I feel too bad for myself in a not shareable way. Maybe. Even though I hurt rather hurt and be real than that other stuff that I've been before. I've tucked myself away into pleasure a lot of times I fit this body into poems and men and whatever and whatever and city streets in this city I do not know. What if I lose my gratitude and see what texts it place? If a poem stops being gratitude, then the language feels like a flood.

I tell my classes "poetry is asking yourself what you already know and changing the way you understand it." I am going to follow the power of transformation and put myself between a verb and a preposition. Or the seeing becomes breath, or you turn metaphors into wheels and drive a stanza into the distance.

I sometimes convince myself that my best friend will abandon me one day because I will not be a great poet or musician and I find myself at times with very little to say. If this is my greatness, let my life be relatively painless God. Or because this is too much to ask.

At least I feel thin right now.

[fairytales-of-yesterday]

The Fantastic Drowse

Pairing: Roger Taylor x reader

Word Count: 8.2k

Warnings: nudity, it’s not smut though, illness (the flu), allusions to sex, it’s really really soft and cozy, my first use of the f word in a fic, mentions of stretch marks

A/N: Oh my god I’m soft. That’s it, I’m just insanely soft. This is for all of you that need a hug as much as I do. And who doesn’t love a good old-fashioned lover boy sick fic?

/

    When you’d first started feeling bad, you hadn’t planned on telling anyone. You’d never liked asking for help, not wanting to inconvenience anyone. Although you did desperately want Roger with you, you’d gotten through countless colds when you were single, so you figured you’d get over it quickly and then laugh with friends about it later. Sadly, the universe had other plans, and by the fifth day of aches and shivers and sniffles, you were done. It really had started out fine, but after you got a bit too close to passing out just from trying to wash a few dishes, you knew you had to reach out.

    It took you around ten minutes to convince yourself to pick up the phone and call your boyfriend. You had it all planned out, you were gonna tell him you weren’t feeling well and ask for help like an adult. The call had started with questions about recording and how the boys were, but Roger was quick to realize you sounded off.

    “Darling, are you doing okay? You sound a bit… croaky.”

    Hearing the twinge of concern in his voice, you bit your lip and lowered the phone a bit, covering up the receiver. You could lie. You could just tell him your allergies were acting up, that you’d eaten something spicy, that you’d been tidying up your flat and inhaled a bit of dust. However, as a chill passed through you, your bones aching at the slight movement, you knew you couldn’t. You cursed your body as you held the phone up to your face again.

    “I…” you sighed, “I don’t feel great. When you finish recording, could you come over?”

    “Oh, my love,” he cooed quietly, “absolutely, I’ll be over as soon as I possibly can. What’s wrong?”

    “‘M just a bit under the weather, Rog, it’s okay, I’m alright.”

   You knew your reassurances were hopeless as he began asking you when it started, if you’d been getting rest and eating well. You felt awful for phoning, for worrying him, but a warmth settled in your chest at his concern.

    On the other end of the line, Roger stood in the corner of the studio, twisting the phone cord into knots similar to the ones in his stomach. The idea of you alone and feeling bad was not a happy one. He should be home. He was quiet for a moment, before sighing softly.

    “I wish you’d told me sooner, dove, I’d’ve been over days ago.”

    “Roger, I know you’ve gotta work, I wasn’t gonna take you away from the album.”

    His frown, audible in his quiet hum of acknowledgement, mirrored the one you wore. What you really wanted to do was ask how much longer he’d be there, but you already felt bad enough for worrying him and asking him to come over, so you kept your mouth shut. The boys couldn’t just call it a week because you were ill.

    He asked if you needed him to pick up any medicine for you on his way, and you politely declined, not wanting to bother him more than you already were. He sounded unconvinced, but didn’t press. He knew no matter what you said that he’d be making a few stops before he went over to your place. It was quiet for another moment or two before a shout from somewhere behind him told you it was time for him to get back. You held back a sad sigh.

    “God, I’ve gotta get back to those mugs, but I promise I’ll be home as soon as I possibly can.” He forced a quiet laugh, pretending he wasn’t coming up with worst-case-scenarios at a mile a minute. You couldn’t be fooled though, and you immediately brightened your tone, hoping to convince him you were fine.

    “No, no it’s okay! You tell them I say hello, and I love them!”

    You could hear the gentle grin in his voice.

    “Will do. Love you so much, and I’ll see you so soon.”

    “I love you too, Rog,” you whispered, not wanting to hang up.  

    You said goodbye back and forth a few times, trying to delay it as long as you could, but eventually you heard another shout from Brian, and you knew you had to let him go.

    As soon as the phone was back in its cradle, you wrapped yourself back up in your little cocoon, trying to stave off the shivers that had been plaguing you for the past few days. You turned the tv on and flipped to something mindless. Smiling softly to yourself at the idea of Roger coming home, your last thought before dozing off was if he’d be back in time for dinner.

/

    “Fuck,” Roger swore loudly as he hit a cymbal offbeat for the fourth time. The others flinched at the sound, watching as he slammed his sticks down, and stood up abruptly. He’d been frustrated for the past few hours, and it was showing. He could hardly focus, his mind elsewhere, and his friends could tell. They were worried but afraid to ask, knowing any little thing could set him off. They knew it had started after you’d gotten off the phone, and didn’t want to pry with him this upset, but it was getting to be too much.

    “Alright, Rog?” John was the first to speak up.

    Roger’s head snapped towards the bassist, eyes wide, as if he hadn’t even realized he was causing a slight scene.

    “Yeah, yeah I’m fine, sorry,” he sighed, trying to calm himself down. Brian gave him a look that said “bullshit,” and he looked away, frustrated, knowing he’d been caught. He just couldn't help it. His earlier goodbye had left a bad taste in his mouth. You were the only thing on his mind.

    “C’mon, love, what’s up?” Freddie moved to Roger’s kit, coming around so he could clearly see the drummer unobscured by cymbals. Roger sat back down, propped his arms up on his knees, and rubbed his hands over his face. He couldn’t find it in himself to be angry, not tonight. Sighing, he looked up at his friends.

    “Y/N just called and said she’s feeling poorly. ‘M just worried is all.”

    The boys’ faces softened a bit, now understanding his outburst. You and Roger had only been together for a few months, but they could see how absolutely taken he was with you. You’d become quite close to the whole band honestly. Roger was happier with you than he’d been with anyone in a long time, and the others adored you as well. They’d quickly started inviting you to hang out with them, sometimes even without Roger knowing. You had found a new best friend in each of them. John moved to stand beside Freddie and asked if you were alright.

    “Hm? Oh, yeah she’s- I mean, she says she’s fine, told me to tell you lot she loves you.” The others smiled softly, each planning on calling and checking on you at some point in the coming days. Roger smiled to himself as well, stricken for a moment by just how much he loves you, before frowning again. “But she said she’s been ill for a week.” Roger paused to rub his eyes again. “And I didn’t even know.”

    Deaky smiled sympathetically at his friend before glancing at Brian and Freddie, giving them a pointed look. They both nodded knowingly as Roger dropped his face back into his hands in thought.

    “Plus,” Roger continued, muffled only slightly by his palms, “she hardly ever asks me for help or anything. ‘M just worried it’s bad.”

    “Well, what are you still doing here then?” Freddie asked with a smirk.

    “Trying to record an album,” Roger chuckled in exasperation, missing the point entirely, his mind still on you. “Emphasis on ‘trying.’ Feels like I’ve forgotten how to bloody play.”

    The boys rolled their eyes, realizing he hadn’t understood what Freddie meant, and Brian came up, putting a hand on his shoulder.

    “Go home, you berk.”

    Roger’s head shot up almost comically.

    “Sorry?”

    “Mate, you’re worried, we’ve all been there. We’ve made a lot of progress today, and I think we’re all ready for a little break.”

    The blond smiled softly, still unsure if it was really okay for them to call it a day.

    “Are you positive? If you let me go, I’m not sure you’ll ever get me back in here,” he chuckled, trying to mask his concern.

    Freddie, John, and Brian each gave him a look that said “please just go home” and he laughed again, genuinely, shaking his head. As soon as he relented, the boys were basically ushering him out the door, giving him as many tips as they could think of while putting on their own jackets.

    “You boys know I studied biology, right? I can take care of my sick girlfriend,” he chuckled as he pulled his coat on. Deaky grinned, trying to wrangle his scarf.

    “Rog, just because you know how many bones there are in the body doesn’t mean you have any common sense whatsoever.”

    “Oh piss off,” he sighed, trying to hide his grin. “God, you fuck up one hard boiled egg and you’re branded incompetent!”

/

    When you woke later that evening, still cozied up on the couch, you hadn’t expected to see Roger sitting in the chair adjacent to you with his glasses on and a book in hand. But there he was.

    His hair was backlit by a dim lamp, creating a golden halo around his soft features. You couldn’t help but smile at your handsome love. He looked about as cozy as you did, with a blanket draped over his shoulders and a cuppa beside him. He had changed since leaving the studio, not that you would have known, and instead of his usual flashy getup, he was wearing an old, seemingly loved jumper that made you want to curl up in his arms and never leave. Forehead creased in concentration, he absentmindedly played with his own hair as his eyes scanned the pages, still not used to how short it was after years of having it down past his shoulders. Every now and again you heard him make little noises of surprise or agreement at whatever story he was caught up in, and you smiled, endeared beyond belief. A few tears sprang to your eyes as the sheer relief of seeing him home settled in. You knew you had missed him, but having him here now… gosh. He was a sight for sore eyes.

    Roger’s head shot up the second he heard you sniffle, his eyes meeting yours. He sheepishly ripped his glasses off his now red face, reflexively embarrassed to be seen with them, and moved from his seat to sit next to you.

    “When,” you paused to clear your throat, “when did you get here?”

    He smiled softly, brushing some hair out of your face as he responded.

    “About an hour ago, I figured I’d let you sleep.”

    You frowned as you rubbed your tired eyes. You hadn’t meant to sleep for so long. Before you could apologize though, he was tilting your chin up with his long fingers.

    Your breath caught in your throat as he looked over you. You always felt breathless watching him focus on something, but it always took the cake when he was focused on you. His eyes swept over your face as you tried to keep your breathing steady, and he asked you a few questions, about your symptoms and when they started. You answered him as honestly as you could, a bit confused as to what he was doing and lost in his blue eyes.

    After asking you what your last temperature was (and you shyly admitting you hadn’t taken it in a few days), he gave you a chaste kiss on the forehead and stood up. Muttering he’d be back in a moment, he went back in the direction of your bathroom. You remained on the couch, still a bit confused. He said he studied dentistry for a time, right? He wasn’t going to be a doctor? You could have sworn it was dentistry.

    You didn’t have much time to keep wondering though, as he quickly made his way back to you, thermometer in hand.

    “Alright, darling, open wide.”

    You didn’t know if it was the soft way he said it, the words themselves, or both combined, but you couldn’t deny the way your knees went weak at his gentle command. You saw his eyes darken slightly at the way you immediately obeyed, opening your mouth and letting him put the thermometer in, but sadly, the moment passed the second you almost sneezed it across the room.

    “Okay, let’s try that one more time, yeah?” He chuckled softly as you nodded, embarrassed.

    This time when he put the thermometer in, he made sure to hold it there, his other hand gently cupping your face. You couldn’t help the blush that darkened your features at the intimacy of the action. He was so close. His eyes met yours, still dark, and you swallowed hard.

    “Right I uh… I think it’s been three minutes,” Roger laughed hoarsely, as caught up in the moment as you were. Taking the thermometer from you, he looked at it once before huffing slightly and pulling his glasses back out. Your heart grew ten sizes as he slipped them onto his nose. Now able to see the small numbers, he frowned to himself.

    “38.2. Do you feel warm, love?” He felt your forehead as you shook your head and pulled your blanket tighter around you.

    His frown deepened slightly, but when he caught you looking at him worriedly, he was quick to reassure you.

    “I think you’ve got a mild flu, love, nothing to worry about, I’ve got ya.”

    You smiled gratefully and asked teasingly,

    “What would I do without you, Dr. Taylor?”

    The air shifted for a second, almost like you’d knocked the wind out of him. Now wasn’t the time to ask about it, but the way his eyes darkened at your words did not escape your notice.

    Dr. Taylor, huh? You’d remember to ask him about that later.

    Quickly though, he regained his composure, and smiled sweetly.

    “Crash and burn, my love. Same thing I’d do without you.”

    You grinned, but before you could respond, he was standing up. You scrambled to sit up all the way, not wanting him to leave you. He moved to take his glasses off, but you croaked out a soft protest.

    “Wait!” He looked at you questioningly, freezing with his hand halfway to his face. “Keep them on?” You paused to sneeze. “Please? You look really lovely.” You couldn’t help the blush that overtook your cheeks, now embarrassed about your outburst, but it was nothing compared to the shade Roger’s face had become. He smiled bashfully, and held his hands up in mock surrender, and left his spectacles where they were. Your grin at his assent could’ve outshone the sun, and he mumbled a quiet thanks, love before he flashed you a kind smile, turned around, and disappeared into your tiny kitchen.

    Adjusting the blanket around you once more, you listened to the sounds coming from the next room. There was a clattering of dishes as Roger did… whatever he was doing, and you smiled to yourself. You just hoped he didn’t break anything.

    You didn’t have to wait long before he was coming back with two plates and two mugs precariously balanced in his arms.

    “Rog, oh my god,” you croaked, moving to stand. His face reddened at your hoarse words, but he still shot you a look, maneuvering to sit next to you.

    “If you get up and try to help me, I will genuinely shove you back down.”

    You huffed a laugh, but stayed put. You did help him once he sat down, taking the mugs and your plate to let him get comfortable. He smiled gratefully, taking his mug back from you, and passed you some silverware he pulled from his pocket.

    “Dinner is served, madame,” he gestured to your plate, speaking in what you hesitated to call a French accent. You giggled softly, bowing slightly in appreciation.

    “Roger.. didn’t you take French?”

    “I have an A level in it actually!” He nearly dropped his fork as he laughed. “Doesn’t mean I actually know anything about it.”

    You stifled another giggle as you admitted he did have a point and turned your attention to your plate, starving after not eating all day. You paused though as you realized what he’d handed you.

    “Wait… did you get takeout?”

    He blushed a bit, putting his hand up for a minute as he finished a bite, and then nodded.

    “I stopped by on the way home! Knew it was your favorite.”

    Tears stung your eyes again, emotions running rampant due to your fever, and you took his free hand with one of yours. The second he noticed you were crying, his fork clattered to his plate.

    “Woah, love,” he was quick to take your other hand as well, “are you okay? What’s wrong, dove?”

    You tried to hide your face as you squeezed his hands reassuringly.

    “Don’t look at me!” You laughed through sniffles, “I’m okay. I just… I missed you a lot.”

    He laughed outright at that, a warm smile on his face, and leaned over to give you a quick kiss on your temple before digging back into his dinner.

    “I missed you too, darling. More than you could imagine.”

    Once the two of you were full, and once he’d coaxed you into eating just a few more bites, love, c’mon to make up for your lack of an appetite the past few days, you found yourself in his embrace. You lay down in his lap, and he soothingly ran his hands up and down your arms, telling you stories from the studio and watching as you struggled to keep your eyes open. The only indicators that you were still at least somewhat listening were your hums of acknowledgement and your occasional quiet laughter. You were in heaven, really. Your nap had actually been restful, you’d eaten your favorite food, and you had Roger. You couldn’t even dream of ever leaving his arms. Until he went to play with your hair.

    You groaned weakly, trying to grab his wrists as he moved to massage your scalp. He looked down at you quizzically, immediately worried he’d done something wrong, but you quickly laced your fingers with his to let him know he was alright. “I haven’t showered in like three days,” you managed to chuckle sheepishly. His eyes softened, worry leaving his face, as you continued. “My hair feels gross right now.”

    “Well guess what?” You cocked an eyebrow at him before he smiled playfully. “I don’t care.” Before you could protest again, he took his hands from yours, and he was running his fingers through your hair. You groaned again, this time in pleasure. Chuckling, he scratched your scalp gently and watched as you melted in his lap. You still clung to his wrists, but instead of stopping him, you pulled him closer.

    “Y’know, darling,” he mused, trying to work out a knot, “I could wash your hair for you.”

    Your eyes fluttered open at his proposition. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, laughing when you gave him a slight shove, and pressed on.

    “I’m serious! I could wash your hair, give you a whole bath if you like! You’d feel so much better, little love.”

    Your face reddened at one of your favorite terms of endearment, but his proposition definitely piqued your interest.

    But god, he’s already done so much.

    You snuggled deeper into his lap, pressing your face against his soft tummy, and mumbled something, but it was completely muffled by his warm jumper.

    “What was that?” He couldn’t help but giggle as he felt you huff against him, your breath warming him through his shirt. You rolled over a bit so that you were looking up at him once more. You couldn’t meet his eyes.

    “I don’t wanna be a bother.”

    His expression softened, a sadness creeping over him. He untangled one of his hands from your hair to gently cup your chin and make you look at him.

    “Love, you could never ever come close to being a bother.”

    You blushed a bit, still nervous. You really didn’t want to be too much of a hassle. You had already taken him away from work and his friends, and he’d gone through the trouble of bringing you food. He’d already done more than you could have dreamed of.

    He watched with a small smile as your eyes clouded over. All he wanted to do was help you, and he could tell that you loved being looked after. But, you were so hesitant to be any sort of burden, even though you couldn’t be if you tried. He just cared about you so much. He wanted to show you.

    A soft tap on your cheek brought you back to reality. Roger’s voice was as gentle as could be.

    “Do you trust me?”

    You nodded, a few tears pricking your eyes.

    “Then let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

    Your vision blurred, and a lump formed in your throat as you nodded once more and whispered a quiet,

    “Okay.”

    Roger laughed softly as he scooped you up in his arms.

    “You’re a soppy little thing when you’re ill, aren’t you?”

    You hit his chest lightly in mock offense and smiled playfully.

    “I’m this sentimental when I’m well, and you know it.”

    He set you down when you got to the bathroom and started the water running before gently grabbing the hem of your shirt. He looked at you, the question in his eyes. Your gaze fell to his hands.

    The two of you had only been dating for a few months. You’d kissed, you’d said your ‘I love yous,’ you’d gotten a bit hot and heavy, but you hadn’t gone all the way. You really thought the first time he saw you would be a bit nicer than this. Maybe with some lingerie or some slow music. You hadn’t planned on it being with you not having showered in days and unable to breathe through your nose. Even well you were insecure. It hit you now like a ton of bricks.

    But then you looked up at him, into his kind eyes. He smiled at you softly, gently reminding you that you really didn’t have to go through with this if you weren’t comfortable. He could always turn around until you were in the tub, or he could carry you back to the couch and watch a nice movie with you. But you were positive. Taking a deep breath, you gave him the go-ahead. His eyes softened.

    “You sure? Really, it’s okay if you’re not up for this.”

     You nodded once more. You trusted him.

    “Alright, arms up then, sweetheart,” he murmured softly, a warm smile on his face. His fingertips tickled your sides as he lifted your t-shirt up and over your head. You giggled quietly, trying to squirm away from him, and he laughed brightly. “There’s my girl,” he grinned, tossing your shirt into the hamper and giving you a kiss on the forehead. You smiled, turning a bit red as you crossed your arms over your chest and watched as he kneeled to help with your pajama pants.

    He untied the little ribbon at your waist, looking up at you once more to make sure this was okay. Swallowing thickly, you nodded again, and he began to shimmy your pants down.

    “Just hold onto my shoulders, sweet thing, I’ve got you.”

    Had you been any stronger, you might have refused, still nervous to reveal yourself to him. But you knew your sense of balance wasn't to be trusted. Timidly, you uncrossed your arms and grabbed his shoulders. Your legs wobbled a bit as you stepped out of your pants, but Roger held you steady. After a few deep breaths, he did the same with your underwear. He couldn’t help but stare as you blushed down to your tummy, looking at the ceiling to avoid his eyes.

    With your gaze averted, you missed his reaction, but Roger was stunned. As he looked up at you from where he kneeled on the floor, he couldn’t help but moan softly simply at the sight of you. Your warmth, your gorgeous curves, all your little freckles and stretch marks. He wanted to kiss you all over, every little mark a target for his lips. His eyes roamed over your soft figure, tinged pink with your bashfulness, and he felt his heart flutter. You trusted him with all of you, you were willing to expose yourself to him, even now when you felt infinitely more vulnerable and insecure than normal. You were letting him take care of you. Your grip on his shoulders tightened slightly, briefly, as if to check if he was alright. As if to ask if he thought you were alright. Christ. He was in love.

    Humming quietly and beaming, he moved forward slightly to press a gentle kiss right below your belly button. You gasped slightly at the touch, finally making eye contact with him as he leaned his chin against your soft tummy, hands still resting on your hips.

    “You’re gorgeous, y’know that? Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

    Your blush deepened, and you smiled softly, not knowing what to say. Normally, you would redirect the comment or simply deny it, but when you saw his starry eyes, when you saw how genuinely in awe he was, you couldn’t.  You settled on a bashful thank you, and he squeezed your sides in response as he stood back up. You couldn’t help but squeal quietly in surprise, and his tiny smirk made your knees weaken, but you saw the gentleness in his eyes and knew it was a gesture of comfort.

    “Alright, love, now you just give me your hands, and I’ll help you in, okay?”

    You smiled, nodded, and did as you were told. Roger’s hands enveloped yours as he held them a bit over your head and helped you step carefully into the tub. You sighed immediately, the warm water feeling like heaven on earth. You couldn’t help the small moan that escaped you as you sunk down and settled in. Roger smiled softly, watching the bubbles surround you. Your smile was the best thing he’d seen all week, and as he sat down on the edge of the tub beside you, he realized that he never felt more at home than by your side.

    Once more, Roger moved to take his glasses off, and once more, you whined in protest. However, this time, he was not to be swayed.

    “I don’t wanna get them all soapy, love,” he chuckled quietly as he placed them carefully on the little shelf on the opposite wall. You pouted playfully, and he laughed loudly. “I promise they’ll make an appearance some other time. You can hold me to that.”

    You sighed in faux defeat and hung your head low, trying to evoke some sort of pity from your boyfriend. All you drew out of him was a bright grin, but you couldn’t complain, and you were quickly smiling back.

    Roger’s already dopey smile widened as your hand popped out from amongst the suds and took his. Another laugh escaped him before he planted a soapy kiss on your palm, knowing he’d get to hear your lovely, albeit slightly congested, giggle again. And sure enough, your raspy laugh immediately rang through the bathroom. His heart fluttered at the sound, and he gave you a wet kiss on the forehead as he went back to the sitting room to grab a pillow.

    Upon his return, he threw the cushion on the floor beside the tub and proceeded to kneel on it. Your brows knit in concern.

    “Won’t,” you paused to cough slightly, sending bubbles in every direction, “won’t your knees get sore?”

    He smiled softly, shaking his head in reassurance. “I’ll be fine, lovely, you just direct me to your favorite shampoo.”

    With another giggle, you pointed to a bottle, and with a salute, he took it. Before going any further though, he pulled his jumper and undershirt off and tossed them out the bathroom door into your hallway. He saw the way your eyes darkened at his bare chest and tried to cover up his pink cheeks with an eye roll.

    “Alright, easy tiger, I just don’t want my clothes all wet, yeah? Plus, now we’re a bit more even!”

    You smiled sheepishly and raised your hands in mock offense, flinging some bubbles out of the tub once more, but you just couldn’t look away. You nearly had to bite back a groan. His soft middle was definitely the eighth wonder of the world. You’d seen him shirtless a few times now, privately at least, but he always took your breath away. When you met him, so long ago, you’d expected him to be a twig of a man—the typical toned rockstar. But the first time you saw him drum with his shirt off at a concert, with his soft hips and pudgy chest on display, you were left completely speechless. Obviously he had muscles, he had a strength that was evident in every beat of his drum, but there was a softness about him that made you melt, and looking at him now reaffirmed every one of those feelings. your eyes trailed down his frame, and you felt a heat rising to your cheeks. The way his little tummy poked over his jeans - it made you downright feral.

    Roger chuckled bashfully once more as he watched your eyes slowly move down his body, and he tried to appear composed as he squeezed a sizable amount of shampoo onto his palm. He gently directed you to sit up a bit, and you complied, giving him access to your hair.

    The second his hands were on you, you let out a low, rumbly groan. He massaged the shampoo in gently, smiling as he felt you lean into his touch.

    “That’s right,” he murmured, “just relax those muscles for me.”

    Moans and quiet whines spilled from your mouth as you fought tears from spilling from your eyes. You were absolutely lost in how good it felt to be touched. You pushed against his hands, urging him to never ever stop please, and you had to suppress a sob when he eventually pulled away.

    He chuckled quietly and helped you sit up a bit before grabbing the cup you kept on the edge of the tub. He softly instructed you to tilt your head back slightly, and with one hand at your hairline to keep the water from running into your eyes, he rinsed your shampoo out.

    You smiled, blissed out, as the warm water ran down your back. Roger watched amusedly as you swayed slightly, doing your best to stay upright. His warm hands kept you steady though, and eventually your hair was soap free. Leaning back again, you looked up at your boyfriend with a sleepy smile as he found your body wash. He held it up for you to see.

    “‘S this alright?”

    You nodded, a bit more awake now at the prospect of his hands all over you. Once he’d lathered it up nicely, he beckoned you forward, and after a brief moment of apprehension, you complied. Your hesitation did not go unnoticed however, and he was quick to sit back a bit.

    “Hey,” his voice was quiet and gentle, “we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, love. You can get out and dry off now, and we can just watch something on the telly.”

    You were quick to shake your head.

    “No!! No no ‘s okay! I’m just… nervous is all. I’m okay.”

    “Nervous?”

    You hoped he’d attribute your red color to the heat of the water.

    “You’ve… we’ve never…” you paused to collect yourself, “You’ve felt me up through my clothes before, but not… without them, y’know? And it’s not that I don’t trust you!! It’s just new. I trust you, but it’s new.” Roger opened his mouth to respond, but you continued. “And I know you’ve already seen me, so it feels even sillier to worry, but what if... what if you don’t like the way I feel? Like it’s not what you expected or... or I don’t even know. The point is, it’s okay, I just worry a lot.”

    His face softened as your words registered properly. You seemed to have taken quite an interest in the bubbles floating around your belly. He ducked down a bit, getting level with you so you’d meet his eyes.

    “I know this isn’t quite how we planned things,” he said as you huffed a quiet laugh, “I’d honestly hoped to do something a bit more romantic, but I really will take any chance I get to look after you, love. You’ve got nothing to worry about either! You’re bloody gorgeous, like, I mean, fuck, and I really am very excited to touch you. I have no doubt,” he paused as you raised your eyebrows at him, blushing, “no doubt you will feel fantastic.”

    You moved to shush him, still trying to stifle a giggle, but he wouldn’t let you.

    “Even ill and scruffy and covered in vanilla soap. You’re perfect, Y/N, I’m serious.” He paused a moment, thinking, before adding, “Well, the vanilla is very nice, but you still get my meaning.”

    You couldn’t help but really laugh at that, and you leaned your head on the side of the tub to look up at your boyfriend. He smiled down at you, a faint blush on his cheeks, and leaned over to kiss your forehead.

    “I really promise, love. I firmly believe you hung the moon, and there’s not much you could do to change my mind.”

    Your smile mirrored his as he grabbed the body wash and gently brought you towards him. Any and all of your worries washed away with the last few days the second his hands were on you.

    He washed your arms first, running his warm hands over your smooth skin and whispering sweet things. His touch was firm but gentle, only barely keeping you grounded in reality. You couldn’t help the small whines that fell from your lips. It just felt so good.

    You didn’t think anything could feel better than Roger massaging your tender arm muscles, but that was nothing compared to the feeling of him gently lathering your breasts and tummy with soap. His touch had been overwhelmingly heavenly all evening, but this was the icing on the cake. His big hands kneaded your breasts gently, and he laughed softly in delight as your lewd moans filled the bathroom. His touch was cool on your feverish chest, and you found yourself relaxing like never before. He moved so that his hands were on your soft hips, and after giving them a squeeze, he began massaging up and down your sides. You giggled softly at the ticklish sensation, and he grinned.

    “There’s my girl, that feels good, yeah?”

    All you could do was whimper in response, a dopey grin on your face. Roger continued his gentle massage and watched your euphoric expression fondly.

    “Mm…” he smirked softly, “I could say the same.”

    He couldn’t lie, it was great to touch you, fantastic even. You were just as soft and grabbable as you looked, and he really... god he could spend the rest of his life doing this. But really nothing compared to the knowledge that he was making you feel better. He still felt awful for not having been with you until today, but he was over the moon that he was a comfort.

    Truth be told, when the boys had started giving him tips, he had worried that he wasn’t prepared to take care of you. The others had been genuinely trying to help, but they had mostly just succeeded in making him worry. Most of their suggestions were things he hadn’t even thought of. But the second he walked in your door and saw you asleep on the couch, he knew he would be just fine.

    After helping you wash away the layer of bubbles coating your torso, Roger pulled the drain and helped you stand. He pressed a quick, fond kiss to your forehead before turning around and grabbing a towel for you. Draping it over his shoulder, he took your hands once more and helped you from the tub. You stood still for him as he dried you off as much as he could, and then you were gingerly wrapped up and led to your bedroom.

    You sat on your bed, watching as your boyfriend, still shirtless, rummaged through your drawers to find some suitable pjs. He tossed some underwear at you first, and you pulled them on as you asked if he wanted some help.

    “No!! No, no don’t tell me, I’ll find them.”

    You sat down on your bed, covering yourself with your arms, and rolled your eyes fondly at his boyish delight. He went through your dresser like a hurricane, and you couldn’t help but laugh at his triumphant aha ha!! when he found the right drawer. He combed through your clothes for a minute or so before something caught his eye.

    “Hang on...” Roger cocked his head to the side as he pulled out a large, soft shirt from one of Queen’s earliest tours. “Is this mine?” He peered back at you over his shoulder and laughed as you nodded, embarrassed. It wasn’t your fault, he’d let you wear it one night at his place after the two of you had gotten swept up in a rainstorm, and you’d just worn it home the next morning.

    “You can have it back, I keep forgetting to tell you I have it.”

    “And miss seeing you wear it again? Yeah, as if.”

    You scoffed, but he could see you were blushing and considered that a victory.

    “It’s comfy,” you mumbled, not meeting his eyes. “And it smells like you.”

    His expression softened, going from teasing to flustered in two seconds flat.

    “Well then,” he beamed, pulling out some soft pajama bottoms and moving back to you, “you can definitely keep it.” Your heart fluttered at his sweet grin and his pink cheeks. You loved making him blush, knowing that it was usually the other way around. His smile widened at your soft expression, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

    “Alright, come on, silly thing, you know the drill. Arms up!”

    You blushed, uncovering yourself and lifting your arms. Roger’s adoring smirk at seeing your breasts once more did not escape your notice, but you just shut your eyes, too flustered to say anything. You felt him pull your shirt down over your arms, and once your head was out, you pulled the rest of it down yourself.

    “Y’know I could do this on my own,” you smiled as he crouched to help with your pants. He looked up at you in mock offense, putting a hand over his chest.

    “As if I’d let you,” he scoffed, pressing a kiss to your knee before pulling your bottoms over it. He helped you stand, so he could pull them up the rest of the way, and then sat you back down, grabbing your towel. You expected him to take it back to the bathroom, but he surprised you, settling down with you on the bed. You were about to ask what he was doing when he pulled you into his lap and began gently towel drying your hair.

    You melted in an instant, sighing happily as Roger methodically went from the roots to the tips, getting all the water out. You moaned a little, leaning into his hands as he massaged your scalp, and you felt tears prick your eyes at the sheer intimacy of the action and the affection in his touch. He was humming softly as he went, a tune you recognized but couldn’t place. You found yourself having trouble staying upright, his soft voice lulling you to sleep almost instantly. It was after he steadied you for the third time that he couldn’t help but laugh.

    “Doing alright, darling?”

    You hummed softly, a sleepy smile gracing your features, and Roger chuckled, putting the towel aside and pulling you close.

    “Getting a bit tired?”

    You nuzzled your face into his neck, nodding ever so slightly, and he wrapped his arms around you. He still hadn’t put his shirt back on, and his shoulder was cool and comfortable against your still-feverish skin. He rubbed your back sweetly, letting you drape yourself over him, and heard you mumble something into his shoulder.

    “What was that?”

    You giggled sleepily and turned your head so you weren’t muffled.

    “Been tired all week.”

    He chuckled softly, murmuring a quiet I know, dove, and kissed your temple. His grin widened even more as you snuggled further into him, as if you wanted to somehow get even closer, and he gave you a gentle squeeze. Your sigh of relief was music to his ears.

    “Ready for bed, little love?”

    Your answer came as a little hum from where you were snuggled against him. The vibration tickled his sweet spot slightly, and he giggled, reflexively tilting his head as if to cut off access to his neck, but all he succeeded in doing was leaning his head on yours. He felt you smile, and another laugh rose up in his chest.

    “I’m guessing that was a ‘yes.’”

    You lifted your head up, a dorky smile gracing your features as you spoke to an imaginary audience.

    “Wow, show the man what he’s won.”

    He laughed again, squeezing you tight.

    “Cheeky.”

    Smiling still, he helped you off his lap and lifted your covers, so you could crawl under them. After pulling your comforter up to your chin and making a big show of tucking you in, he gave you a quick kiss on the cheek and started to walk away. You caught his wrist.

    “Stay. Please,” you whimpered. You’d missed him so much.

    “No, hey, it’s okay, love,” he chuckled softly, moving closer once more, “I’m just grabbing my shirt! I’m not leaving you.”

    Your cheeks reddened at his reassurance, embarrassed that you automatically assumed he would leave you. Mumbling an apology, you buried yourself in the covers once more, barely peeking up at him as he looked on, absolutely endeared.

    “‘S perfectly alright,” he grinned, kissing your forehead, “just wanted to make sure you knew. I’m not planning on leaving until you’re well, darling.”

    You smiled bashfully but opened your mouth to protest, to tell him that you weren’t gonna hold him hostage, but he was already out the door.

    When Roger returned, though only a few minutes had passed, you were nearly asleep. You fought to keep your eyes open, sleepily grinning at him as he moved about your room quietly, turning your lights off and drawing the curtains. He hadn’t gotten his shirt as he said he would, and your brows furrowed slightly.

    “Where’s… where’s your shirt?”

    He huffed a quiet laugh as you realized he wasn’t wearing his jeans anymore either, and you grew even more confused. He began climbing in bed beside you.

    “Put it in the wash, along with my trousers,” he pulled the covers up around him, “which I’m sure you noticed.”

    A small blush rose to your face, but he wasn’t wrong, and he laughed as he pulled you in, so you were once again snuggled into his bare chest. He heard you sigh contentedly and rested his chin on the top of your head, grinning. His hand moved lazily up and down your back as you relaxed in his arms, clinging to him like your life depended on it. The quiet ticking of the clock on your wall was almost hypnotic, lulling Roger to sleep almost immediately. His heart had a similar effect on you, the sound of it beating enveloping you. Your ear pressed against his chest, your body moving along with his breathing.

    Roger was almost completely out when he heard, or rather felt, you murmur something against his bare skin.

    “Hm?” He cleared his throat. “What’d you say?”

    He moved to where your face wasn’t pressed into him, laughing softly at how this seemed to be a common theme tonight, and propped himself up on his elbow. He looked down at you fondly, his sleepy love. You smiled, eyes opening slowly.

    “Thank you,” you sounded far away, already halfway dreaming, “for… for looking after me.”

    Roger’s heart fluttered, and he felt a breathless laugh bubble up in his stomach.

    “God… you precious thing,” he brushed some hair out of your face, softening even further somehow, “‘was my pleasure. Love lookin’ after you, you know that.”

    Your sleepy giggle made Roger’s heart do somersaults, cartwheels, a whole gymnastics routine.

    “Yeah, I know.”

    It was silent for a few moments as you gazed at each other, taking in your favorite sights. The slope of his sweet nose, the way you seemed to glow in the moonlight that barely shone through your sheer bedroom curtains, his incredible eyelashes, the freckles that dotted your nose and around your eyes, the way his smile could brighten even your dark bedroom. You heard him sigh quietly, still smiling, before he leaned down and kissed your forehead then the tip of your nose.  

    “Come on, love. Let’s get some rest now, yeah?”

    You nodded, eyes half closed, and Roger hummed, continuing down your face, kissing you on each cheek, and then your chin. A sleepy giggle escaped you as you felt his lips trail down your neck, tickling you slightly. You murmured his name, your eyes falling shut, and you felt him smile against your skin. Your head involuntarily tilted back, pressing against the pillow to allow him more room to work. Chaste kisses fluttered over your collarbones as he worked his way down your body, and you squirmed slightly at the heavenly feeling, hoarsely and sleepily moaning his name once more.

    “Hey, hey,” he hushed you quietly, moving back up and cupping your cheek with one hand as he kept himself propped up with the other. “You’re okay, love, I’ve got you. Sleep, angel, sleep for me.”

    All you could do was whine as he continued, pulling your shirt up slightly so he could pepper your tummy with light kisses. His hands held onto your soft hips, his thumbs rubbing small circles into your sides.

    “C’mon, honey, relax,” he murmured, his warm breath fanning out over your exposed skin. You took a deep, albeit shaky breath and finally let yourself melt into his touch. He smiled against your hip bone, giving your sides another gentle squeeze. “That’s it,” he whispered, “there’s my sweet girl.”

    As Roger kissed his way back up one of your arms, you felt yourself begin to drop off, his soft pecks and sweet touches sending you to sleep in record time. Your last thought before falling completely came in the form of a slurred mumble.

    “L...love you.”

    Roger smiled softly as he pressed his lips to the soft skin on the inside of your elbow. He looked up at you, to meet your eyes, but you were out.

    With a quiet chuckle, he moved back up next to you and pulled you into his arms. Almost instinctively, you cuddled into his chest, getting as close as you could, even in your sleep. Learning down and pressing a kiss into your hair, he sighed softly.

    “I love you too, baby.”

    He felt you relax even further into him as a small, happy sigh escaped you, and his eyes began to fall shut. He tried to stay awake for just a few moments longer, just so he could stay in this moment for a few seconds more, so he could stay with you.

    He watched in sleepy awe as you snored softly, already out cold. Your chest rose and fell with each breath, pressing against him with every inhale and drawing back with each exhale. In his exhaustion, he found himself smiling every time your breath forced you up against him and missing your touch whenever your exhalation pulled you away ever so slightly. Your arms remained tight around him, making sure he stayed put, as if he had any other plans. Gently running his fingers through your still-damp hair, he felt his heart flutter.

    “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

    With a final featherlight kiss to your forehead, he let his eyes shut. He slowly ran his thumb up and down your arm, smiling slightly just at how soft you are. How perfect you are to him. He let your warm embrace, along with your soft, congested snores, pull him gently to sleep, just as his kisses had done to you, and as he slowly fell, his last thoughts were of how wonderful it was going to be to wake up with you in the morning.

[ziskandra]

Fanfic Author Self-Recs!

@haljathefangirlcat tagged me to rec five of my own fanfics with you all — thank you, friend! 💖 I've tried to go with a variety of different fandoms and have mostly focused on older works. I also purposely haven't recommended any of my Dragon Age works as I feel DA has been occupying a lot of my brain space lately, and I wanted to give some of the spotlight to my other fannish interests! I'm gonna tag @mxanigel, @barbex, @joiningthefandomeightyearslate, @chocochipbiscuit and @fandomn00blr to share five of their works with us (if you so desire!) Without any further ado, I present my self-recs: 1. Retrospect - Mass Effect: Andromeda - Alec Ryder/Ellen Ryder (10k, rated M)

They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die and he's about to find out just how right they are.

A series of vignettes exploring Alec Ryder's relationships with his nearest and dearest, and the faltering steps he took to bridge the gaps between them.

Every time any sort of self-recommendation meme comes up, Retrospect is always the first fic that comes to mind. To this day, I still consider it my magnum opus, as I feel it really captures my strengths as an author. Character study of a morally grey, controversial character? Check. Non-linear narrative? Check. Experimental prose? Check. Vignettes? Check. Themes of family and struggling to fit in? Check check. If anyone ever wants to make my entire fucking month, please read this fic and tell me your thoughts on it. You will have my undying gratitude! 💖

2. Grounded - Mass Effect Andromeda - Calvin Kosta/Joelle Kosta (2.2k, rated M)

Calvin remembers the first time he held Liam in his arms. Big baby, nine pounds. His son is an ugly, wrinkly thing and yet also the most beautiful sight in the world. He smooths down the infant’s hair, kisses the soft spot on his head and whispers, “You’re gonna do great things." During the Reaper War, Calvin Kosta reflects on his relationship with his son.

This fic did really well on Tumblr (one of the few times I'd ever gotten over 100 notes on a post), but didn't quite get the same level of traction on AO3, which was quite interesting to me at the time as I'd never had that happen before (or since!) Honestly, it covers a lot of similar themes as Retrospect, but this time focused on Liam's family and how they deal with the Reaper War when they're left behind on Earth. IDK, I'm just obsessed with examining the human drive to live and survive, and what we struggle for, and how both our past experiences and our hopes for the future shape our actions, whether we're willing to admit it to ourselves or not.

3. Best Served Hot - Ace Attorney - Miles Edgeworth/Franziska von Karma (2k, rated E)

Franziska's gloved fingers seized Miles's jaw, digging into the sides of his face. "We were never siblings," she said. "Papa made sure of that. But if I can't best you in any other way, then I will have this."

If Retrospect is my ultimate magnum opus, then Best Served Hot is my franmiles manifesto. It truly is all of my feelings about this complicated and messy relationship dynamic carefully distilled into a fanfic! Anyway, I'm obsessed with the fact that Franziska regularly refers to Miles as her little brother, but Miles never refers to her as his sister.

However, the way that Miles acts with Franziska is SO sibling-like, whereas Franziska's a bit... weirder. She never really had normal familial relationships modeled to her (Miles, on the other hand, at least had something of a normal upbringing before his father's death).

Franziska is also a character who, for lack of a better term, weaponises her femininity. She's so young but she's built this whole aesthetic around tight miniskirts and kitten-heeled boots and carrying and using a fucking bullwhip. So, I 'm particularly fascinated by the cross-section of Franziska's obsession with Miles Edgeworth and her insecurities (and how she over-compensates for them).

Of course, if she stopped to think about it for a minute, she should have realised that Miles Edgeworth is perhaps not the ideal target for her feminine wiles, but Franziska's not exactly known for keeping a cool head in a crisis.

Finally, this fic also explores another point in Franziska's life that I'm fascinated by, which is her reaction to Phoenix Wright's disbarment. Phoenix is the only lawyer who has ever bested her (if she can even admit that much), and I think she would be INFURIATED by the insinuation that he owes his career success to forgery. Franziska von Karma would NOT be bested by a fraud! (And also she would be furious that Klavier Gavin got the chance to do what she's always wanted to do -- that is, defeat Phoenix Wright -- but that's a topic for another fanfic.)

4. Intermission - Crazy Ex-Girlfriend - Audra Levine/Greg Serrano (2.3k, rated T.)

Recently divorced Audra Levine visits West Covina to provide moral support during her frenemy’s open mic night. Greg has always had a type.

While gregaudra (graudra?) might be something of a random ship, I was really surprised by how well they worked together (although in hindsight, it should have been obvious -- Greg really has a type, huh). I love Audra as a character, and I'm always obsessed with giving her room to grow and move on as a character and determine the shape of her own life, the way she wants, much as Rebecca (and Greg) got to do in the course of the series. (Also, its sequel, Realization, still has one of my favourite lines I think I've ever written: Audra's been busy filing away the parts of her life that don’t spark joy while retaining the parts that do, like she’s Marie Kondo-ing the weight and burden of everyone’s expectations instead of her household possessions.

I so rarely write in contemporary fandoms that it was a fun exercise to write stories where the popculture references actually help ground it in time and place.)

5. Sink or Swim - Harry Potter - Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood (12k, rated T.)

Percy has always struggled to keep his head above water.

(Or: the story of Percy Weasley, from his youth, through to his estrangement with his family, to the end of the war.)

It feels weird to be recommending HP fic in this day and age, but my complicated* feelings towards the fandom aside, I'm still really proud of how this fanfic turned out and how I was able to cram all of my Percy Weasley analysis into a coherent story. I particularly loved delving into how Percy was pushed into positions of responsibility from a young age (and then simultaneously derided for the very same qualities his parents reinforced), and how he struggled with his conflicting desires to fit in but also to succeed and be recognised for his talents and efforts. There's a couple of sentences from the fic which really encapsulate how I see Percy's relationship to his family, which I'll quote here:

In bits and pieces, Percy tells Oliver all about the estrangement to his family: how he’d always gotten along with his dad best growing up, no matter how his mother had doted on him. How when he was younger, he’d wanted nothing more than to be the next Arthur Weasley. How he’d always thought that his dad deserved more.

How it was easier to blame his father’s idiosyncrasies and personality for his family’s struggles with money, than to acknowledge it as a failure of the society he’d been raised in.

How he’d foolishly thought that if he studied enough, worked enough, succeeded enough, he could change it all.

Percy's story really is that of every working-class child who's sought to improve their life (and their family's life) through education and I just... relate to that a lot!!

[laur-rants]

seeing your markiposting for ISWM has finally given me that kick to go binge the other series as well and I'm VERY EXCITED, BUT! is there a certain order to watch them in, are there any guides for how to proceed through them (if that makes sense)?

Hi! I would love to! I'm taking a break from work to eat some dinner, so I thought I would sit down and see if I can't help you out the best I can. I took myself through all of Mark's creative ventures on my own, and successfully took a friend through too, in a way that I think makes everything best make sense. Now there's a couple of ways to go about it that I can give you: there's the chronological order of events, and also what I call the 'Lore Route' which is to say, this is the best way to watch everything and have it more easily click mentally.

NOTE: Just as an aside before we start, you CAN start with Space, right now, if you want to. It's not really directly linked to anything .... at this time. Anyone can enjoy Space, and they should! It's really great! But I think to get the full effect of not only Mark's characters, but how far he has come as a creator in his own right, the other endeavors should be appreciated first.

And if you do choose to watch all the stuff below first, TAKE YOUR TIME. You have plenty of time. Space part 2 doesn't release until May 2nd. So if anything is long, take a break! come back to it. No need to consume it in a day, you got time, baby.

ANYWAY!

Here's my preferred method of watching (pertinent to Space) Markiplier's Cinematic Universe:

-A Date with Markiplier (12 endings) -- I have people start with this because it gives you a taste of what Mark... does. This was his first foray into the first person interactive experience, where the Viewer is, actually, a character and a starring role in his stories. It shows where he's been, and how far he's come since then. It's also just, silly and fun and a little spooky. It's very Mark. It's a good thing to dip the toes into.

OR

-A Heist with Markiplier (31 endings, not all are important, but they are fun and there are plenty of guides out there) -- Heist is a LOT of fun. It's what I watched first and it actually plummetted me down the pipeline because I was like 'WOW! Mark has all this thought out really well! And what is that referencing? And this? I want to know' and wow I really learned! Heist was, at the time, Mark's Magnum Opus (I think Space is actually that now). It's really well made, he's very proud of it, and through dedicated tracking of routes, I finished it in about a day. I would tell someone to take their time, and back track slowly, and you'll find the endings that are important. Also a tried true clue in any of his interactives is to look at the video length. and choose that way haha. But yeah! Good luck~

-Who Killed Markiplier 1-4 -- THIS IS WHERE IT ALL ACTUALLY BEGINS. All the story, all the characters... even yours! Who Killed Markiplier is older, and I dont think Mark had perfected his story-telling skills at the time, so things at the end may be a bit jumbled. It's okay. Typically look no further than the youtube comments on the 4th vid. Or ask me! I know it pretty well whats going on by this point, I can steer folks in the right direction. The point is, the community has had years to piece it together, so its mostly all sorted out.

-Wilford 'MotherLoving' Warfstache -- Direct follow-up to Who Killed Markiplier, and is conveniently in the WKM playlist. This is personally one of my favorite things Mark has ever done; I rewatch it on occasion for inspiration. Also the acting is just... chef's kiss. Phenomenal. Definitely worth it, if only for Mick Lauer and feels.

-Damien -- This is an animated piece that Mark got a game studio to help him with! It also takes place right after WKM, and around the same 'time' as Wilford Motherloving Warfstache. It covers his character Damien, who I personally have a very very large soft spot for. You could even say he's my favorite. uwu

-The Warfstache Automated Interview Automaton -- This is a very short interactive dealing with Warfstache creating an automaton to conduct his interviews with, because he cant' be everywhere at once. My biggest advice; just pick the longer videos until you get to the end, otherwise the only other option is death. At the end, choose either ending you prefer. It's here because it's feelsy.

[Some fun extras that arent required also include]

-Warfstache Interviews Markiplier

-Markiplier TV

-Wilford 'MOTHERLOVING' Warfstache FULL BREAKDOWN

-WHY KILLED MARKIPLIER? (Damien animated short explained)

And I think that's everything.

NOW. IF YOU WANNA DO IT CHRONOLOGICALLY...

That's a little more convoluted because in Mark's universe time is.... weird? And things sometimes happen simultaneously, or in the future, or in the past, or the past is happening during the future... basically time is meaningless.... sometimes. Here is what I think is the best guesstimation of the chronological order of things.

1. Who Killed Markiplier

2. Wilford 'Motherloving' Warfstache

3. Damien

4. Markiplier TV (yes this is real i swear)

5. The WAIA

6. A Heist with Markiplier

7. A Date with Markiplier

AND THAT'S IT!!!

I personally don't recommend the 'chronological' route because everything is kind of confusing that way, but it's there if you wanna do it! I just think Mark's work is best enjoyed from both a story perspective and a creative one, so my route seems to be the best for both worlds. Sometimes, things are not meant to be seen chronologically (and i dont think Mark's stuff is), but people like being chronological so for you guys out there, THERE YOU GO.

I personally, as a creator the same age as Mark, I have a lot of respect for the work he does, and what he chooses to do with his time, his money, and has surrounded himself with a solid team who goes along with his crazy ideas and in doing so, they are making something insanely great. Obviously feel free to enjoy his silly gaming or review videos or whatever else he puts out, but his creative projects should 100% in my opinion not be overlooked, because it's him bringing his stories to life and doing what he actually is passionate about and cares about, and he then offers these ambitious creations to everyone ~*~FOR FREEEE~*~. Which is more than a lot of people can say these days and more than we deserve.

Anyway that's enough of that. Enjoy the videos, have fun, and if you have any questions let me knoooow~! I'll..... do my best to answer, haha, but honestly there are fans out there way more well-read than I am. I think.

[aka-indulgence]

WOAH dude I didn't know you struggled with writing anxiety too!! Hmm. Maybe. Maybe I might post some of my Undertale ideas. Sometime. Um. What kind of content do you like reading, just curious lol haha.

Oh absolutely, tbh I don't know many people that don't struggle with writing problems ^^;

When I look at my old running fics that I haven't updated in *a while* or some aus that I haven't written for as much as I would like, it makes me feel.... euh... and really sucks away the motivation away? Like, I stopped writing them for a bit because I need a break, because when I try writing them I'm not as enthusiastic, so I put it down for a bit... and then months pass and thinking about it makes me "ono" and intimidates me from writing it, thinking about 'how am I going to portray this properly'... and it sits there even longer ;w;

Also occasionally (and by occasionally I mean often) I get worried that people are gonna compare my works and that it "won't be as good as (x)" or "won't be as good as I want it to be" that also discourages me from writing...

Sometimes just need a reminder/reassurance that most people aren't out to critic people, that I'm writing mostly for myself for something I enjoy and I'm not just doing this to impress people with a magnum opus or something... also the fact that people actually like my stuff?? ;w; I still get surprised when people tell me they look up to me and such but it makes me happy to be told that people enjoy the stuff I make and my writing... So thank you for sticking around /w\ comments and the occasional kind words I get in the inbox keep me goin ;;w;;

*Ahem* I got a bit sentimental there-

You should totally post your undertale ideas! It'll take time to cultivate a follower base-thing, and being consistent helps (even if it’s in a small way). Prioritize your interests first before catering to other people! Attention is nice but in the long run, actually liking what you make keeps the fire going. And usually people can get brought by your enthusiasm too! I hope this doesn't come across as 'generic advice' but... I mean, I remember when I first started and getting 7 notes was the biggest achievement ever ^^

Even when it's specific, there's a ton of people out there, and someone's bound to be interested in the same thing you're interested in (usually more). In this fandom anyway, we're all skeleton lovers :> + monsterlovers in general dfkjdlf

Personally, I like dark sinister stories but with softness mixed. But hey, show them undertale ideas you've had ping-ponging in your brain for a while -wo

[himbo-only-zone]

ballroom dancing with byakuya togami

Now this is the post that I'm the most proud of. Uh, yeah, please take this fluff masterpiece that will forever be my magnum opus.

- Mod Anna

Standing on the carpeted floor of your small apartment, you locked eyes with him. Those cold, ice-ridden eyes looked so warm and soft due to the glow of the candles. You rested your hand against his shoulder, taking the other within his own as his other found its home at your waist. He rested your his forehead against yours, a small smile gracing his lips.

“You're pretty bad at this, s/o. Here, let me guide you. That's how it was supposed to go anyway,” he chuckled lightly, slowly dancing with you as the song progressed. You scoffed, shaking your head but letting him do what he wanted. You were glad he did, because you would've just been embarrassing yourself even more.

However, you couldn't help but notice how he looked at you. It was different. You had only started dating that week, and you hadn't seen him really act like he cared. The way he looked at you in that moment, it looked like pure bliss. It showed you love and care that you had never seen before, especially from the male in front of you. You were scared of being some useless bug that he would stomp all over. You knew that he would never think of you in that manner. He would never.

As you were lost in his trance, his hand slipped from your waist to your lower back, gently dipping you. Strands of his hair fell from his face to yours, staring into your starstruck eyes. He used the other hand to carefully brush the hair out of your face before caressing your cheek.

“You look stunning, dear. I don't think I say it enough, but you do. You are stunning in every way ... I commonly can't find the words to express it, and it's coming out like a running faucet at the moment. You're just ... the one I want to be with,” the blonde muttered, his tone the softest it's ever been, simulating a whisper, as if those were words only you were meant to hear.

Moments like those were the ones that made you feel whole. They made you feel like you were worth something. Worth something to one of the most important people on the planet. Not just to you, but to anyone who asked. You knew him in a way no one else did, and you cherished that.

Those thoughts came back when you stood in the middle of a crowded ballroom, staring up into those same eyes. He hadn't shown you that look, hell, he hadn't got the chance to. This was the first time you two were out in public as a couple, due to the Togami's status and his family pressuring him to continue their treacherous ways of bringing up a heir. However, you had finally but that behind you. Both of you. You were free to love him as you pleased. But that still came with stress.

The stress of being good enough. All of the superior people in the room looked down upon you with an obvious sense of disgust, only the densest of idiots wouldn't catch on. Byakuya Togami certainly wasn't an idiot. He knew exactly what he was doing when he brought you out to the dancefloor.

Gently resting his hands in their positions, almost as if he'd done this many times, he began to carefully move you around the dancefloor. When his eyes met yours, a soft chill ran down your spine. You knew that those eyes were only for you, and this entire room knew it. They knew that Byakuya Togami loved you.

As his hand slipped to your lower back, a soft gasp left your lips. You hadn't expected him to do something like this here of all places, especially in front of such esteemed people. Those thoughts seemingly flew away as he began speaking, his voice in a low whisper, speaking words that were only meant for you to hear.

“You're stunning, dear. The whole room knows it. I know you feel uncomfortable, and I clearly shouldn't have asked you to accompany me, but just know that they'll never understand what we have. And I'm perfectly content with that. You're the only person that could catch my eye. You're the only person in the world that I love,” he spoke, words that you had been longing to hear the entire night.

You never doubted those words for a second. You knew that he loved you, and he would continue to love you, until both of your dying breaths.

You knew this when you looked up into his once cold eyes, ones that only showed happiness. The winters had melted and all that showed was an ocean that was yours to swim in. You adjusted the skirt of your wedding dress, a small giggle escaping your lips. You couldn't believe the day had come. You were finally married, and you were finally having your first dance.

His hands perfectly met the spots where they were supposed to be positioned, sliding into places they've been so many times before. He carefully began to guide you, and you two were confident with your steps. So wonderful and so connected, you had perfected this.

His hand slipped to your lower back, a place that sent electricity through your bones as you were dipped. Even though you've done it so many times before, it always catched you by surprise. He stared into your eyes, brushing the strands of hair off of your face.

“I've said it a million times, but ... I love you. You've showed me how to love, in a true and healthy way. I get to spend the rest of my life with someone that truly deserves to accompany me, to be a Togami. And ... you look stunning, dear. Another thing that I've said a million times, but ... it'll never stop being true.”

[sunderlust]

Jeez louise I cannot HANDLE this!! Bestie I'm so amazed by everything you've written and how much work you've put into this and how much detail, attention, thought you put into this work. The whole storyline from beginning to end was a fucking rollercoaster of angst and fluff and the hottest smut ever but most importantly just... relatable, real things? With real feelings? Am I rambling yes I am

And you know I love everything about this magnum opus - but I definitely want to talk about the characterization because holy shit is it my favorite pairing in the whole world.

The way you characterized jake is absolutely spot on and in this part you gave him an INCREDIBLE background that doesn't excuse him for being an asshole, but gives him a chance to own up to the way he was behaving and come to terms with his feelings. I think every single time you included a detail of Hangman being soft I blushed so hard bc it's so MEANINGFUL to see a jackass like him be so vulnerable!! Also the smut with him being so caring and wonderful and dominant but soft was fucking hot I'm still thinking about it oops! And Jake's slow ascent into realizing he was in love with mojito was perfect - he needed Phoenix to slap sense into him and SHE DID GOOD OKAY?!?!? And then him keeping Emma on his lil night stand?? With a gas station receipt (from when he got the six pack from her no doubt) as a bookmark? I fucking loved the small details of love you sprinkled in.

AND THEN!!! READER?!?! LIL MOJITO? Slay absolute slay - it's so amazing to see fics where reader is shy and not sure of her every decision and protective of herself. It's just nice to see a reader who doesn't have things figured out but is trying her best anyways, and to have a guy love her where she is at. I love that SHE went after him in the very end, it's just a wonderful moment of growth for her to go after what she wants and be honest and forthcoming about her emotions and I love it for mojito <3

Truly I think this has to be one of the most beautifully written pieces I've ever read. I'm really gonna miss Jake and Mojito but they live on forever in my memory! And in all the headcannons I'm gonna send you whenever they pop into my head oops (still here for mirrored pets of them). You're amazing I cannot wait to see what's next!

bad habit part iii (hangman)

part i, part ii

pairing ; hangman x female!reader

synopsis ; the moment you meet hangman, you know you hate him. and then suddenly, you’re not so sure anymore.

wc ; 23k; yes you read that right you can’t be more confused than me idk either and i wrote it in six days

warnings ; angst, explicit language, mentions of alcohol consumption, mentions of previous character death, explicit sexual activity (Explicit sexual content (oral f and m receiving, p in v, like one sentence about choking but not rlly, some dom/sub elements, a little bit of degradation and praise kink), age gap, inexperienced reader, more angst, sappiness, feelings so many feelings all the feelings

note ; i don’t know what to say, this is literally INSANE i’m feeling INSANE this was a fever dream i wrote 8k words today none of this makes sense but it’s OVER IT’S DONE IT’S FINISHED anyways this isn’t proofread but i love you all besties and girlies and babes pls don’t hate it

also this would never have been possible without sol aka desertsagecelestial the best lines in this whole thing are credit to her sol i love you hand in marriage NOW

Hangman doesn’t lose.

And people call him cocky, arrogant, conceited… but the thing is, it’s the truth. He’s not exaggerating. He just really is that good.

When Hangman wants something, he gets it. Promotions, missions, girls, difficult to obtain first editions of Spiderman comic books… Hangman figures out a way.

Of course, it wasn’t always like that. Back when Jake was younger, when he was the invisible kid at the back of the class who nobody wanted to play with, he had to fight tooth and nail for everything. When his father said he’d never amount to anything, it took Jake years to push back, to say no, you’re wrong. But he did, eventually, joined the Navy, graduated top of his class at Top Gun, became someone people knew, someone people looked at, someone who wanted to be seen.

So Hangman doesn’t lose because Jake learned how to fight.

This situation, then, is a complete novelty.

Jake rips his helmet off, ears still ringing with the roaring of the engine, heart still hammering the way it always does after a landing. He’s half adrenaline, the highest of high, half jitters. Head still firmly stuck in the clouds. Only this time, there’s the unfamiliar, bitter taste of failure on his tongue. 

He doesn’t know whether to be embarrassed or surprised.

Captain Mitchell, having climbed out of his own plane, approaches with a frown. Just a few steps away, by the entrance to the hangar, where the Californian sun is flooding the asphalt with golden light, a throng of the other pilots has formed.

If Jake even sees Rooster, he might start throwing punches. He’s toeing a precarious line here - ascension or plummeting.

“What was that?” Maverick wants to know, fiddling with his helmet’s clasp. “You flew straight into my line of fire, Hangman.”

So, yeah, maybe Jake just got shot down in less than a minute. So, yeah, maybe he made a rookie mistake. So, yeah, maybe Jake is having a really bad day.

“I still maintain that he got dumped last night,” Coyote says. There’s no malice to the words, but Jake wouldn’t be surprised if he and Payback had some money running on this.

“I did not get dumped,” Jake growls for what feels like the fiftieth time. Seriously, his tongue is starting to go numb.

“Oh,” Phoenix says, “you totally got dumped.”

Now that might be actual malice. Phoenix decided last night that whatever had happened between you and Jake was clearly his fault, and she was therefore firmly and squarely on your side.

In Jake’s opinion, there are several things wrong with that assessment.

First of all, there shouldn’t even be any sides. It’s not like your circle of friends has to pick teams in a divorce. Secondly, even though she constantly complains about him, he’s known Phoenix for years. She met you less than a month ago. Shouldn’t she be in his corner? And then lastly and most importantly… Jake has no idea what the hell he did wrong.

It’s all pretty unfair.

“I told you that I didn’t get dumped,” Jake repeats, forming the words slowly and carefully in the hopes that they will sound more convincing than he knows them to be. “We weren’t dating.”

And he can’t explain it, that clenching in his stomach, that lump in his throat. He can’t explain any of it, except that it hurts in a way that’s unfamiliar, in a way that’s unwelcome.

Man. He really needs a drink.

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

That’s Rooster, definitely. Jake tilts his head back towards the high, high ceilings of the hangar to avoid catching the other pilots’ eyes. 

Lord, give me strength, he thinks.

“Don’t quote Shakespeare at me.”

“Wow, you know Shakespeare?” Phoenix says immediately. “I didn’t know you could read, Bagman.”

Before Jake can retort something, Maverick steps between them.

“Hangman,” he says, and something about his voice is severe enough that Jake snaps to attention. “Is that true?”

“Is what true?”

He’s one hundred percent playing for time here. Sue him. He needs to come up with an excuse.

“Did you mess up because you were thinking about a girl?”

And the thing is, Jake wants to say no. He wants to say, No, Sir, I had a bad night. He wants to say No, Sir, the sun was in my eye. He wants to say, No, Sir, I was dodging a bird strike.

But every word turns to vapor on his tongue. He can’t get anything out.

And so he just stands there, blinking like an idiot at his instructor.

Because the truth is, Jake can’t for the life of him remember what he was thinking about as he went up on the plane. Considering you’ve been on his mind pretty much non-stop since you met, and it’s only gotten worse since you stormed up to him at the Hard Deck last night, it’s not unlikely that he really was knee-deep in a train of thought revolving around you.

You’ve been haunting him. A specter squeezing into the cockpit with him. A ghost sneaking into his bed. Riding shotgun in his car.

You’re everywhere, at the bottom of each glass, soaring in the skies, under his skin, in his bloodstream. He can’t shake you.

There’s real disappointment on Maverick’s face, and Jake’s stomach drops. The older man sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“You guys…” he says softly. “This isn’t a joke. Up there, you can’t be distracted, not by girls or boys or anything juvenile like that. You can’t be distracted by anything. This is life or death. Death, do you get that? I won’t have it. And this goes for all of you.”

He makes sure to let his pointing finger wander over all of them before he storms off, the door slamming behind him.

An awkward silence spreads among them, punctured only by the shuffling of feet and somebody clearing their throat.

“Well,” Rooster says finally, slapping Jake on the back with enough force it almost buckles his knees as he makes for the door. “Thanks for that, Hangman.”

Jake should probably say something, but his mind is wandering again. He’s thinking of you, standing in a sea of broken glass, Mojito staining the front of your shirt, eyes shuttered and forlorn in a way he hadn’t seen before… 

He gets the feeling now.

“Jesus,” Coyote says, stepping up beside Jake. “The way Captain Mitchell is talking, you’d think he isn’t hooking up with Penny on the down-low.”

Something about Coyote’s voice tells Jake he feels bad for him. He doesn’t like the idea of that, not one bit, but he also can’t really find it within himself to do something about it right now.

“Mitchell and Penny are hooking up?” Jake asks, genuinely surprised.

Bob, passing by them, frowns. “Hangman, you really aren’t very perceptive, are you?”

It’s so out of character that for a moment, Jake considers if he’s somehow managed to go through a black hole and ended up smack dab in a parallel universe where Bob, of all people, goes around insulting others. Where Jake, eternal bachelor, famed ladies’ man, messes up flight maneuvers because he’s too busy thinking about a girl.

“Did… did Bob just shade you?” Coyote asks.

For a moment, Jake seriously considers hitting his head against a wall.

So, yeah, maybe Jake is having a really, really, really horrible day. So much for never losing.

+

Something’s off.

First of all, Penny’s never invited you to dinner. Second of all, this is decidedly not the kind of establishment you were expecting.

Penny seems like a burger and fries in her car sort of girl. Maybe a few bottles of beer or a couple of milkshakes to wash it all down. The little restaurant twinkling golden on the beachfront is entirely out of character. 

Narrow round tables are covered in red and white checkered tablecloths, fairy lights are strung to the rafters, and behind the floor-to-ceiling windows, boats bob up and down on the waves. It’s a tiny place, cramped but charming. Upbeat Jazz plays from invisible speakers, and a smiling waitress leads you past what seems to be only couples on anniversary dates.

“Here you go,” she says as she seats you at your table, right at the glass front, and hands you each a menu. “I’ll come to take you guys’ order in a minute.”

You sit in the plush chair, frowning. Penny is perusing the menu like nothing’s wrong.

“Oooh, Lasagna al Forno… that sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Penny,” you interrupt, not even opening your own menu. “What’s going on?”

Penny barely glances up at you. “You needed to get out of the house, sweetie.”

And she’s not wrong. You spent the last week since your… altercation with Hangman curled up in your bed, letting the anxiety eat away at you. The walls of your room closing in on you, the weight on your chest pushing you down until it practically molded you to the mattress.

Everywhere you looked, the world had grown teeth.

“I’m fine,” you say, but the words sound empty even to your ears.

Penny doesn’t indulge you.

“No, you’re not,” she says, voice firm. “You’re miserable.”

When you ended things with Hangman, you didn’t think much about whether you were making the right decision. You just wanted out. You wanted it to end, so scared of what would happen if it didn’t, if you let it continue, if you dipped even deeper into that pool. So scared that it might start meaning more than what it already did, that you would put your heart on something that was bound to end anyways.

Because guys like Hangman… handsome guys, confident guys, guys that hang around bars with toothpicks in their mouths… guys like that break you apart without a second thought.

And you’re already broken enough.

“I’m fine,” you reiterate and finally open your menu, staring at the entrées without seeing a thing. “I’m glad things are over between Hangman and me. It’s better this way.”

Penny is quiet for a moment, then she says, “Sweetie, you need to talk to him.”

“No, I do not,” you answer immediately. This is not the first time you’ve had this conversation. “What could I possibly have to talk to him about?”

“Oh, just… maybe you could explain to him just why you decided to break both your hearts, I don’t know.”

You purse your lips. “Penny. Hangman doesn’t care. He said so himself. This didn’t mean anything to him.”

And it’s so stupid. But his words replay in your mind like a broken record, like an endless loop, again and again. This was nothing. The cold upward turn of his mouth as he said it. Calm, collected. Unfazed.

You’re an idiot. You spent a few weeks flirting with a guy who wanted to get into your pants, and you made it into something it never was - made it big, made it important, made it matter, when really, to him, it had only ever been a game from the very beginning.

And now he’s off, somewhere, flying his planes, living bigger than you ever will, dreaming better, and you’re left on the ground, scrambling to pick up the pieces of yourself.

It’s pathetic.

But Penny looks at you from across the edge of her menu and says, “Pete says he’s been fucking up majorly during training. He’s distracted.”

It gives you pause for a moment and your heart - that stupid, incorrigible thing that never learns, never lets go, that latches onto everything - stutters in your chest.

“Huh?” you ask eloquently.

Penny jerks her head. “This wasn’t nothing to him.”

The smiling waitress returns with a notepad, and Penny orders lasagna and a bottle of wine. You settle for some kind of risotto, mainly because it’s the first thing your eyes land on.

After she’s left, you take a deep breath.

“It…” You hesitate. It’s so difficult to say it, to admit it, but you think if you don’t get the words out now, you never will. “It didn’t, Penny. I’m not… I’m not really someone people remember. I’m just… I don’t know. I’m just me. This didn’t matter to him. I didn’t matter to him.”

And Penny’s face softens. All her irritation of the past few weeks, the constant nagging when you came over for the tutoring session, the stream of texts asking you to come over for drinks, when she knocked on your door earlier, uninvited, and forced you into the shower, into a dress, into her car, it all just melts away. There’s nothing there now, not even pity, nothing there but genuine, real compassion, and you think you’re going to cry right here, in the middle of this restaurant…

“Oh, sweetie,” she says, reaching across the table to cup both your hands in hers. “You’re worth so much more than you think. When will you finally realize that?”

And it’s like this: since your mother’s death, you’ve just been so horribly, achingly lonely. The sort of loneliness that goes bone deep, that burrows into your bloodstream. You’ve drifted through the world unmoored, untethered, not belonging anywhere. Sure, you met people, but they disappeared from your life as quickly as they entered it. You let yourself become invisible, see-through like cellophane.

But with Penny, it’s like she sees you. Really sees you. In a way you don’t think anybody except your mother ever did, right down to your insecurities and flaws.

And somehow, with Hangman, it was the same. He saw something there with you, saw what you needed and what you wanted before you even really knew it yourself. And you don’t know if that’s just something about him, something he can do with any girl, or if it’s something special, if he understood you, all you know is that it terrified you half to death.

There’s something reassuring about remaining in the dark.

It’s a good thing the waitress comes back with a bottle of wine and a bread basket because you’re pretty sure you would have started sobbing otherwise.

You think you’re going to thank Penny, eat your food, try and enjoy the evening, and then maybe crawl into bed at the end of the night and cry a little more. Just… make the best of it.

But Penny glances over your shoulder, and something mischievous passes over her features. Suddenly, you feel a little sick.

She rises from her seat, and by the time you’ve glanced over your shoulder, they’re already at your table.

“Hi, Pete,” Penny says, grinning. “Hi, Hangman.”

You’re doing your very, very best not to look at him. Your stomach is turning. Perspiration builds up lightning-quick on the inside of your palms.

“Hi, Penny,” the older pilot you’ve never talked to but have seen hanging around the bar several times echoes, giving her a soft smile. He greets you by name, and you’re so stunned, so excruciatingly uncomfortable, that you can’t even react.

Pete manhandles Hangman into Penny’s vacated chair with two hands on his shoulders, and then you don’t really have a choice but to stare at him. He’s right there, in your line of sight.

Hangman looks as shocked as you feel, but there’s something else, too. He’s still handsome, of course, still tanned and blond and perfect, but something seems to have shifted. His hair is just a little less tidy, the bags beneath his eyes a little more pronounced. For the first time ever, you see him in civilian clothes - a t-shirt and jeans, something softer around the edges that makes your insides clench.

All initial instincts of flight bleed right out of you. It’s half hope, half fear, that keeps you rooted to your chair.

“You said this was a lesson,” Hangman says to his superior, looking, for lack of a better word, desolate.

“It is,” Pete answers, patting his shoulder before withdrawing.

And Penny says, “Listen, I know the owner. If you guys leave before finishing your dinner, there’ll be hell to pay.”

She points at Hangman. “I know your boss.”

Then she points at you. “I am your boss.”

And that’s final. Penny has a way of getting what she wants.

Before she leaves, she leans down to hug you and whispers softly, “Sweetie, you don’t need to go out of this evening dating him. You don’t need to do anything you don’t want to. But I think he deserves an explanation, at the very least.”

She draws back, smiles at the two of you as if she’s just performed some great, benevolent act, and then disappears with Captain Mitchell.

You half expect Hangman to get up and leave the moment the two are out of earshot. You half expect yourself to do the same.

But you both stay where you are, at that table, actively avoiding the other’s eyes.

The waitress comes to drop off your food. Hangman pours both of you a glass of wine and then downs his in one go.

Finally, he sighs like he just lost some internal fight and says, “I can’t believe they totally just parent-trapped us.”

“Parent-trapped?” you repeat, a little dumbly.

“Yeah, like… tried to set us up. You know, like in the cinematic milestone with Lindsey Lohan?”

You nod.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. The gears in your head are turning on overdrive. You feel near frantic with nerves.

“Personally,” you say, your mouth moving before you’re really aware that you’re speaking, “my favorite bad matchmaker is Emma Woodhouse.”

Hangman frowns. “Who’s Emma Woodhouse?”

That has you gaping at him. 

“You don’t know Emma? By Jane Austen?”

“Jane Austen?” Hangman takes a sip of his water. “Is that the one with the Pride & Prepaid something? Where everybody goes to each other’s houses and just talks for hours?”

You’re going to have an aneurism. 

“Emma,” you say, now having trouble controlling your voice, “is one of the greatest pieces of literary fiction ever created. And you mean Pride & Prejudice.”

“Really?” He leans back and looks at you. “So what’s it about, then?”

“Well,” you launch into an explanation, jumping at the chance not just to fill this horrible silence but also to talk about one of your favorite books, and the words just seem to flow from you now, “Emma Woodhouse is this really pretty, really rich young Lady, yeah? And she decides that she’s not gonna get married, so instead, she tries to find a husband for her poor friend Harriet. So she wants to set her up with Mr. Elton, only it turns out Mr. Elton is actually into Emma, and at some point, they’re alone in a carriage, and he proposes marriage to her, and it’s super awkward, but then Emma thinks she’s in love with Frank Churchill who also turns out to not be for her and in the end, she realizes she’s really been in love with Mr. Knightley all along, who’s like a really close family friend, only now Harriet might be in love with Mr. Knightley, too, and they have a bit of a falling out and….”

Much too late, you stop yourself. The embarrassment comes belatedly, but it settles all the stronger.

Hangman is looking at you with a somewhat dazed expression. You can’t believe you just said all that.

You drag your fork through the mess on your plate, cheeks hot, and round it off by saying, “Anyway, it’s really about Emma realizing the errors of her ways and becoming more considerate of others, and it’s a commentary on class and privilege and all. It’s pretty good.”

“Okay,” Hangman says, and you have never wanted the powers of teleportation more than you do at this moment.

The embarrassment is going to eat you whole.

After another moment, Hangman says, “That just sounds like the plot of Clueless.”

You freeze, fork halfway to your mouth. 

“You… you know Clueless?”

One of Hangman’s eyebrows raises nearly to touch his hairline. “Do I know Clueless?” he repeats. “Is Cher Horowitz one of the best cinematic characters ever created? Of course, I know Clueless, I’m not a barbarian.”

You stare at him until a big blop of risotto rice lands on the tablecloth.

“Oh, I…” you stutter, moving to mop the spilled food up with your napkin. “Clueless is like, one of my favorite movies ever.”

“Yeah?” He grins, seemingly relaxing just a little bit. “Mine too. So, did Jane Austen steal the plot?”

You can’t help it - it punches a laugh out of you.

“No, it… Clueless was based on Emma. The novel came out like… 180 years earlier, I think.”

“Right.” Hangman nods. “Well, if it inspired Clueless, it must be a pretty good book then.”

You’re almost sure this is the longest conversation you’ve ever had without Hangman trying to get into your pants. It also might be the longest conversation you’ve ever had about your interests without someone shutting you down.

You’re developing a headache.

“Listen,” Hangman says suddenly, leaning forward in his chair. Something in his face has gone serious. “I understand what happened. I was pushing for something you didn’t want, and I pushed too hard, and you put a stop to it. That’s fine. It’s good, really. I respect it.”

And that’s not it at all. But you don’t know how to tell him that he’s got it all wrong, that it’s not that you didn’t want it. It’s that you wanted it too much. Wanted him so much it felt dangerously close to falling for him. Wanted him so much you knew you were giving him the power not just to see you, but to leave you.

He takes a deep breath.

“That doesn’t mean we have to avoid each other. Let’s just… let’s just be friends, okay?”

You feel like somebody punched you in the face.

“Friends?” you repeat softly.

“Friends,” Hangman confirms. He’s nodding his head.

Penny told you to explain it to him, made it seem like an imperative, but as you sit there, you realize she was wrong. You realize it doesn’t matter. Not to him, at least. Those words in the bar cross your mind again. It was nothing. His indifference to all that emotion you carry everywhere you go.

And you’re so angry with him, even if you know that you’re the one who brought this down on you, you’re the one who decided to end it. So angry you want to take him by the shoulders and shake him until that mask he carries finally slips off, until you get to see what lies beneath that.

Because the truth is, beneath the anger, beneath the frustration, you’ve spent the past week thinking of him. In bed, in the shower, at the gas station. And you missed him, even if that doesn’t make any sense.

And if you don’t tell him the truth, if you just let him believe his sexual advances were just a little too much for you instead of revealing the real depth of your feelings… well, then maybe you can at least preserve the last shreds of your dignity.

Besides… maybe, you think, it’s better to get any piece of him than nothing at all. Better to be friends than never to see him again. At least this way, you’d be safe.

“Yeah,” you say, and your voice sounds far away. “Yeah, friends. Okay.”

Hangman smiles, and it’s a real, genuine smile as opposed to his usual smirks. His eyes go all crinkly, and you clutch your fork tighter.

And after that, it’s… nice. You find out, to your own horror, that you actually do like Hangman. He’s funny and witty, and when he isn’t trying to fuck you, you realize you actually have things in common.

Together, you empty the bottle of wine and have another glass each, finish your meals, and share a plate of tiramisu that seems to melt on your tongue.

You squabble about the bill, but finally, Jake concedes and lets you pay, even though he looks like he’s about to start muttering in anger.

You like it. It kind of feels like finally being on even ground after weeks of fighting an uphill battle.

When you step out of the restaurant, leaving the Jazz and the smell of pasta behind, you pause. It’s a bit of an unsettling realization to come to, but you don’t want the night to end.

Hangman stops a pace or two behind you, tipping his head back into the breeze.

He looks younger like this, out of his uniform, with a blush painted on his cheeks by the wine, with the wind tousling his hair. All his edges blurred into something almost gentle. Boyish.

Calling him Hangman seems wrong.

Jake, you think, and something deep inside of you aches. Jake.

Smiling, he turns to you. “Do you need a ride home?”

You don’t trust your own voice, so you just nod.

“Alright.” He starts towards his car, then immediately stops. “Actually… do you mind taking a walk on the beach? I think I should sober up a little more.”

No, you don’t mind one bit, and that’s the danger of it all.

“Fine,” you agree. You mean for it to be clipped, but instead, it comes out like a squeak.

Jake, who doesn’t seem to notice your tone, smiles and leads the way down a trodden path that takes you by the restaurant’s trash cans and then onto the sand of the beach.

It’s colder here, enough that you wrap your arms around your torso to leech off your own body warmth.

Jake is already halfway out of his jacket before you begin protesting.

“Come on,” he says. “I know you don’t believe it, but my mother actually did raise me to be a gentleman. I keep telling you.”

So you let him drape the jacket over your shoulders, and suddenly you’re enveloped in his scent, and your mouth is dry, and your stomach clenches.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

You walk along the beach for a while in perfect silence. The wind dances through your hair, the air smells crisp and fresh and salty, and the waves roll in from the sea, white foam that nearly licks at your feet.

It’s peaceful. Serene. It’s dangerous because it feels so much like a date, and you want to hold Jake’s hand so bad, and he’s almost devastatingly handsome in this light, but you ignore it. Look straight ahead and pretend you’re not feeling it.

Finally, Jake stops and sits down in the sand. Hesitantly, you follow his example, pulling your knees up to your chest.

“What did you want to be when you were a kid?” Jake asks, staring out at the waves.

You frown. “Seriously?”

“What? That’s a normal question people ask their friends.”

You don’t know about that, but you do answer, “I don’t know. I don’t really remember?”

“Not at all?”

You pause. It’s almost too easy to be truthful with him, and with a start, you realize that you trust him.

God, you must be an idiot.

“I used to…” You clear your throat. “Well, there was this house on my street back in Seattle. A house with a blue door. I used to dream about buying it one day and living there with my husband, and my kids, and our dog.”

You half expect him to laugh at you, call you childish or naive, or a romantic. But he doesn’t. He just listens, face utterly void of judgment, and your stomach swoops.

“Do you still want that?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” you answer truthfully. “But it was the first real dream of my life. I don’t know if you ever really grow out of those.”

Jake nods. “Yeah, you probably don’t, right?” He’s quiet for a moment, and then he continues, “Mine was becoming spiderman. Honestly, I’d still give my right arm for it.”

And it actually makes you laugh. An honest, genuine sound that echoes across the beach.

Jake’s smile is brilliant in the night. 

“I like that sound,” he says softly. “Do it again.”

To cover up the feeling rising up in you - something you’d describe as bashfulness, if that wasn’t so disgustingly ridiculous, something that warms you inside out - you feign nonchalance, say, “Well, tell me something funny, then.”

“Something funny, yeah?” He leans back in the sand with a sigh as you nod, balancing his weight on his elbows, and turns his head up at the night sky like he’ll find inspiration up there. “I thought Star Wars was real for like… an embarrassingly long time.”

“What?”

“Yeah, like, full on.” He nods, face almost solemn. “I looked Han Solo up in history books and shit, I got so confused when I couldn’t find him. I was just like, do people know about this, like, they have to know about this, like about little green Yoda guys and….”

You can’t help it. You start dissolving into laughter halfway through, and Jake looks up at you, grinning.

“Are you serious?” you ask through your laughter. The thought of little Jake thumbing through history books frantically as he searches for Han Solo - who you just know was his childhood idol - is almost too much.

He shrugs. “That’ll be my secret. Did make you laugh, though.”

“Yeah, you did,” you admit, and then you let yourself fall into the sand beside him. It’s cool, grains catching in your hair, and you’re pretty sure you’ll spend the rest of your week trying to get them out again, but it’s worth it for the view. 

The night sky stretches endless above you. You’re close enough to the sea and far enough from San Diego that the light pollution has bled out here, that you can see the stars twinkling up there. A million miles away, yet so close you think you could pluck one if you just stretched out your arm.

“Maybe I should be a teacher,” you say, and then freeze up. Because, what the fuck? Where did that come from?

You’ve never even thought about that, but it just burst out of you, like something you’ve been carrying in your chest your whole life.

Awash in the surprise, you can do nothing but blink for a while.

“A teacher?” Jake repeats. “What subject?”

“English,” you say immediately. Okay, well. Guess we’re having epiphanies about ourselves then. “It’s just that… well, I… I like tutoring Amelia. It’s my favorite time of the week, I think. And I… I love all those books other people are forced to read. I even like Catcher in the Rye, can you believe it?”

“Even Catcher in the Rye?” Jake says, mocking you by letting out a scandalized gasp and slapping a hand over his mouth. You laugh and shove at his shoulder. 

Grinning, he says, “I think you’d be a great teacher.”

And your heart beats faster. “Yeah?”

He nods. “I think you’d be great at anything you put your mind to, really. But I saw you talk about that book earlier… it’s like you were glowing. You love that. People are always best when they do what they love.”

It’s unexpectedly wise. It knocks the wind right out of you.

You need to take a moment to collect yourself, avoid the intent gaze of his eyes that makes it feel almost like he knows you.

“Have you always wanted to be a pilot, then?” you ask.

Jake shrugs, a movement you feel more than see, his arm moving up where he’s pressed against yours, shoulder digging a deeper furrow into the sand.

“Maybe. I guess.” You think he won’t say anything else, but after another moment, he goes on, “My father is a general, you know? It’s sort of a family tradition.”

You didn’t know that, but it sort of makes sense. Another shade to color Jake Seresin in with.

“He must be really proud of you,” you say, thinking of your own father, who hasn’t called in months.

Jake is quiet for so long that you glance over to check that he hasn’t fallen asleep. His eyes are open, though, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

“Not really,” he says, finally. “My father always thought I was a disappointment. I remember one time in middle school, there was this boy… He was a real bully. He liked to slam me into lockers, and one time he broke my nose. My dad just said it was my own fault for not fighting back.”

His jaw moves as he grinds his teeth.

“Nothing I do ever really… is enough for him.”

There’s something in his voice you never thought Jake capable of: defeat.

Your chest aches with it.

“Not even when you graduated Top Gun?” you ask carefully. “You were top of your class, right?”

Jake shrugs again. “He didn’t come to the ceremony. Mom said he was sick, but… I don’t think that’s true.” He exhales, and it’s a shaky, fragile sound. “Sometimes… sometimes I think he’d only ever be proud of me if I got shot down. If I died in combat or something.”

Your reaction is visceral. Heart plummeting, stopping, arm jerking against him.

“Don’t…” you begin, then shake your head vehemently. “Don’t say that, please.”

He glances at you, looking almost surprised at your outburst.

“It’s not…” You hesitate. “It’s not worth it. Not if he doesn’t recognize it already.”

“Recognize what?” 

And Jake won’t take his eyes away from you. You feel like you’re going to fall apart.

“That you’re… that you’re a good pilot.”

You swallow, immediately embarrassed by your own words. You can’t even look him in the eyes.

Jake raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never even seen me fly.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, and mean every word, “I know.”

It’s not enough. It’s way too much.

It doesn’t say half of the things you want to tell him, at the same time as it reveals much more than you want it to.

And you remember: It was nothing. Shrugging off everything he made you feel. Laughing as if nothing had happened. Telling you without as many words that you were just another conquest, just another girl in a line of girls, nothing special about you, nothing important, nothing relevant.

You want to hate him, yet something about Jake makes it impossible. Something about him keeps drawing you back. Even after everything that’s happened, wanting him is like a bad habit you can’t shake.

You can’t explain that.

But Jake reaches out to you and slots his fingers into the spaces between your own. Squeezes once.

Your fear got in your way. Even now, it chokes all words from you.

But that’s fine. You think, somehow, Jake understands anyway.

He’s quiet for a while and then says, “Why are you here, then? In Fightertown, I mean.”

It’s a good question, one you don’t know how to answer. 

Finally, you say, “My mother died.” 

And then you freeze. It’s the first time you’ve ever said it out loud, and suddenly it’s real in a way it wasn’t before. 

Haltingly, almost shell-shocked by it, you continue, “And it… it made me realize that I’d built my whole life around her. And when she was gone… well, that life was gone, too. Like that dream about the house with the blue door… It didn’t seem to matter anymore. So I just left. I just… drove until I got to Fightertown, and then I decided to stay because… I don’t know. There was nowhere else to go, anyway.”

Tears pool in your eyes, and you concentrate hard to blink them away.

“And do you like it here?”

You’re so grateful. You’re so grateful he doesn’t tell you that he’s sorry about your mother, that he doesn’t judge you for not having had a life apart from her. That he doesn’t ask about your father or your friends. So grateful that somehow, again, he seems to understand what you need: Not the past, but the present.

“Yeah,” you say and are surprised to find you’re telling the truth. “Yeah, it’s not so bad.”

Then you glance at him. “Unless the most obnoxious naval aviator in the history of the world almost knocks you over in a bar, of course.”

Jake laughs, a carefree, bellowing sound that has you feeling a little bit like you’re soaring.

“Only because you’re so pretty, sweetheart,” he says, winking at you.

And it’s toeing the line. Not really friendly, not really platonic, but so Hangman, so Jake, that you don’t even mind.

You smile back, and then you turn your eyes up to that sky, to those stars, and listen to the whisper of the waves, holding tight to Jake’s hand.

+

The thing about fear is that it’s not a one-time situation. Overcoming it once doesn’t get rid of it - it just goes stagnant for a while, lulls you into a false sense of security, and then it pounces again.

So walking into the Hard Deck is a little easier, but the rest of it is just as hard. Reassuring yourself that you’re wanted here, that you’re not intruding, that nobody will look at you weirdly.

Hangman and Phoenix invited you. Separately, you tell yourself. You know the owner. You’re gonna be okay.

You can’t spot any familiar faces when you finally get the courage to make it from the front porch into the actual bar. It’s all just strangers mingling.

Mostly looking for a little bit of liquid courage and something to occupy your time with until the others arrive, you make your way to the bar and flag down one of the unfamiliar bartenders to order a cocktail.

After, you turn to people watch. They’re everywhere, laughing and flirting, people lining up shots in neat rows on bar tops, people knocking back shots, people playing darts and pools and footsie, people laughing with their friends or at their friends. It’s almost shocking, all that display of life. It makes you think of yourself, alone in your room for days, weeks, years. How much did you miss?

“Can I buy you another?”

The guy is handsome. That’s the first thing you notice. Not Hangman-level handsome, but… that’s not the sort of thoughts you should be having anyway. Curls, kind eyes, a dimple on his cheek. Cute. The kind of guy you might have stared at in the supermarket a few months ago, would have lost your mind over if he had smiled at you in the frozen foods section.

“Oh,” you say as he slides up to you, folding and bracing his arms on the tabletop. “Uhm…”

“No strings attached,” he promises, holding up his hands like he wants you to check that he’s not carrying any weapons. “You just looked lonely.”

You laugh, feeling a little bit out of your depth. “Did I really?”

He nods, eyes twinkling, and says, “Yep. I could tell all the way from the other end of the bar.”

That’s probably not a good sign, you think. Gotta start working on my poker face.

“I’m Jason, by the way,” the guy introduces himself, offering you a hand.

This feels a lot like a precipice.

Part of you knows you should give in. Let this guy buy you a drink, let him flirt with you, let him take you home. Get an ego boost and have a nice time. This, you think, was what Penny meant all the time she talked about getting the sexual frustration out of your system. 

Not whatever the fuck that twisted thing you and Hangman had going on was. Definitely not that, because it didn’t get a single thing out of your system. In fact, it only ended up injecting more into your system. More worries, more insecurities, more pain.

And it’s over, you know it is. He listened when you asked him to stop, and he’s made it abundantly clear he’s not interested in you, that you were less than a fling, that you were just a possibility that never came true. That you were nothing. And yet… you’re not ready to let it go. To let go of whatever sliver of hope you’ve held onto.

But then you think of Jake at the restaurant, how easily he’d brushed it all off, how he’d said friends. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it, not really. He’d just wanted to get it out of the way. And he’s so confident, so sure of what he wants, and if he wanted you… then he would have gone after you by now.

You know he would have.

So you smile and say, “Are you a naval aviator?”

Jason seems surprised by that, but he nods his head. “Yes, Ma’am. Just graduated Top Gun a few weeks ago.”

“Oh no,” you say. “That’s not good.”

Jason laughs. “Not the reaction I usually get. Are you not a big fan of pilots, then?”

“Not particularly,” you say. “I don’t think they’re good for my mental health. Or the environment.” 

And then he laughs, and his dimple distracts you, and it’s light and not heavy, and it feels simple in a way you’ve been missing.

So you let him buy you a drink. And you let him flirt with you. And you try, try, try your best to forget about the anxiety gnawing at your bones, about the voice telling you it’s wrong, about everything that’s holding you back.

You just want to be normal. You just want to have fun. You just want to be free of the ghosts haunting you.

And in a way, it’s easy. Jason isn’t aggressive like Jake was, isn’t so handsome it seems like a miracle he’s even looking at you. He’s nice and funny and a little bit boring, and that’s good, boring is good because boring is normal, it’s trivial, it’s safe.

Hesitantly, you place a hand on Jason’s arm and bask in the way it feels when he smiles at you.

And then the intrusive thought comes, unbidden, unstoppable, bleak: If Jake were here…

You banish the idea as soon as it crops up.

It was nothing.

If Jake were here, he would not care.

+

Jake is having an aneurism.

That’s the only logical explanation for any of this. He feels like somebody is peeling his skin off like he’s an orange.

“Yo, Hangman!” 

A hand starts wiping up and down through the air right in front of him rapidly, and Jake blinks against the blur of colors it leaves on his vision.

“There you are, dude,” Payback says, laughing. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for like 5 minutes.”

“Yeah, well,” Jake mutters, turning back to his friends. “You’re just not that interesting, Payback.”

Way less interesting than that scene unfolding near the bar, at least. But also decidedly less prone to provoke Jake into committing arson, so probably the safer choice.

“What are you looking at anyway?” Payback inquires, getting on his tippy-toes to look across everybody else’s heads.

Jake just manages to catch him by a shoulder and force him in the opposite direction. The last thing he needs is to get shit for this, too. He’s already got enough to deal with by just trying to untangle the thicket of his own emotions.

“I’m looking for Bob. We shouldn’t leave minors unaccompanied,” he lies, forcing a nonchalance he doesn’t feel into his voice.

From where she is leaning against the vintage Pacman machine, Phoenix gives him a look like she isn’t buying anything that he’s putting down. But she doesn’t point it out, and Jake sort of feels like weeping in gratitude.

He takes a seat at the table next to Coyote and starts playing with the label on his beer bottle, mainly so he doesn’t feel the urge to start looking for you in the mess of the crowd again. The paper is soaked through by the condensation, crumbling into tiny balls that stick between his fingers when he rubs too hard.

“So, day after tomorrow, huh?” Fanboy says. “Gonna know our fate. You nervous, Hangman?”

The worst part is, Hangman - Hangman, of all people, whose life for the past ten years has revolved around little more than the Navy, than his plane, than his performance up in the air - has pretty much forgotten that the day after tomorrow they’d announce who was about to go on the mission that could potentially become the most important of his career. It’s just that there are much more imminent, pressing things happening right here, right now. Like some dude chatting you up with what are probably the sleaziest lines you’ve ever heard just a few steps away.

He clears his throat. “Why would I be nervous?” he asks, but it lacks his usual edge. “I’m going anyways, no question about it.”

“I don’t know,” Rooster interjects. “You’ve been flying sort of shitty the past week.”

Jake’s fingers clench around the neck of the bottle.

“No shittier than you, Bradshaw. You fly like you’re trying to let senior citizens pass through traffic.”

Payback frowns. “You okay, Hang? That barely made any sense.”

Truthfully, Jake is so distracted he can’t even concentrate enough to come up with something that’ll really piss Rooster off. Not when you’re right there, and he’s not the one making you laugh. Not when he asked you to be friends while really all he can think about is you underneath him with that glazed look in your eyes he’s put there once before, you moaning his name, you in his shirt, you with your mouth wrapped around his…

“Hangman!” That’s Phoenix, now sitting next to Rooster, looking like she’s about an inch from slapping him over the head with her beer bottle. “I asked you a question.”

“Huh?”

Everybody’s staring at him. He’s still trying not to look at the bar.

“I said,” Phoenix repeats, speaking deliberately slow like she’s scared he won’t understand otherwise, “that I don��t want to see any physical fights. So we’re all going to accept the decision tomorrow. Get it, Bagman?”

He shrugs. Right now, he’s so decidedly uninterested in who goes on that mission he can’t imagine even getting upset about it.

“Fine by me,” he mutters and moves to take a sip of his beer. Only, when he tips his head back, it brings the bar right into his line of sight.

And there you are, sitting almost in the exact same spot you were the very first night he approached you. Back in one of those dresses, the ones that drive him insane, the ones playing much more prominent roles in his late-night fantasies than he’d ever like to admit. Legs crossed primly and tucked to the side, all that smooth, soft skin, and Jake can’t stop himself, can’t not imagine getting to run his mouth down the line of that leg, can’t not imagine taking that dress off you, can’t not imagine making you whimper for him, again and again and…

A pale hand lands on the small of your back, just half an inch from where the dress drops low to expose that skin he was just thinking about, and Jake feels like somebody sucker-punched him.

“Okay, somebody switch seats with me right now,” he says, and his voice has climbed to unprecedented heights. It just bursts out of him.

It startles Bob so much he almost drops his beer. Liquid goes sloshing all over Coyote’s lap, who yelps, jumps up, and dumps half his whiskey over Payback in the process. In the ensuing mayhem, everybody seems to forget about the culprit.

Everybody. Everybody, except Phoenix.

She looks at him with the sort of knowing, accusatory eyes that make him think he should be on his knees begging for forgiveness or something.

Discomfort makes him shift his weight in his seat.

And then a hand ghosts over his shoulder, fingernails painted a delicate pink, and for a second, he hopes, thinks he’s going to turn around and find you there, smiling at him, eyes shining, but it’s a different face that greets him. His heart, soaring for a moment, plummets to the ground.

He’s seen the girl around the bar a few times before. She’s pretty. The type he’d go for usually, the kind of pretty thing he’d fuck and leave and never think about again.

“Hi,” she says, smiling in a way that makes the corners of her painted mouth curl up like the lower half of a heart. “I’ve seen you around. Can I buy you a drink?”

It’s the sort of straightforward behavior he prefers usually. Hangman has never been much for playing it coy, for insecurity. He likes someone who goes after what they want, who knows what they want. At least he’s always thought he did.

For a second, he can see it: a little bit of flirting, some coy touches, letting her take him home, getting his rocks off, then disappearing forever.

But his heart just isn’t in it. The whole thing feels empty. Useless. Wrong.

So he shrugs her hand off, gives her a polite smile, and says, “Maybe some other time.”

The girl is drunk enough that she doesn’t care much, just shrugs and saunters off to find someone more accepting of her advances.

When Jake turns to face his friends again, Coyote is gaping at him with his mouth hanging open.

“What?” Jake asks, for the first time in his life actually uncomfortable with the amount of attention he’s receiving.

“Are you like… sick?”

“Why?”

“Cause you just…” Payback looks seriously concerned. “You just turned down a pretty girl, man. Are you feeling okay?”

And that’s when Jake realizes what just happened. With a dawning sort of horror, he sets his bottle down on the table and stares at the condensation rings, the crumpled napkins, the half-eaten bowl of peanuts. His head is spinning.

So, like… what the fuck?

Since Jake finally got to move out of his parent’s house, since he got out from under the gaze of his father - always judging, always finding him lacking - since he joined the Navy and found out that he’s one of the most talented pilots they’ve ever had, he’s had a pretty good idea of who he is.

Arrogant, sure. Cocky, even. Abrasive, at times, calculated, cunning. But with enough skill to back all of it up a hundred times. He knows he’s handsome, knows he can get any girl he wants, and he enjoys that. Basks in it. Based half his personality on it.

So Hangman knows who he is. Knew it perfectly well, right up until the moment he met you.

And just like that, he’s going not just after an inexperienced girl but a girl who might not even like him, and he keeps telling himself it’s just about the chase, just because you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, and there’s something exciting about getting someone who doesn’t make it easy, but it’s starting to sound like a bad excuse, because then why did he ask you to be friends just so he could stay close to you, why did he tell you things he’s never told a soul, why did he feel like the earth was shattering beneath him when you said he was a good pilot? Why can’t he stop thinking of you?

“Hangman, are you having a stroke?” 

Even Rooster sounds genuinely concerned, but Jake doesn’t hear him. Not really, at least.

Because up at the bar, the guy has leaned in even closer, leaned all the way into your space (and Jake just knows he stinks of beer and sweat, and his palms are probably damp where he’s groping your waist), and is whispering something into your ear and you’re giggling, and Jake sees full-on, deep, deep scarlet.

He’s out of his seat before he can register it, halfway through the bar before he remembers moving. Elbowing people out of the way and probably spilling more than one drink in his path. He doesn’t care. In fact, he doesn’t even notice.

All his attention is laser-focused on you and all the places that dirtbag is touching you.

“Alright,” he says much too forcefully when he finally reaches the bar and slaps his hands onto the countertop with a noise so loud it almost has you jumping out of your seat. “I think I told Penny all her drinks are on my tab. Like perpetually. Eternally. Whatever, pick one.”

The poor, unassuming bartender stares at him. “I… Who are you, Sir, like I…?”

Jake ignores him. He turns to face you and the douchebag, both of you staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Hi,” he says, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. Now he’s a little concerned his smile might look like a serial killer about to woo his newest victim.

“Uhm,” you say slowly, glancing at the guy behind you, “Hangman….”

“Sweetheart,” he interrupts before you can even get out a complete sentence, “I told you you can call me Jake.”

You pause. Then you start again, “Jake….”

“I don’t think we’ve met.” He leans around you, offering a hand. “I’m Hangman.”

The guy blinks. “Yeah, hi. Jason. Nice to meet you.”

Jake nods, shakes his hand, then turns to you. Bends down to press a kiss to your cheek, lingers for too long. Draws back and basks in the stunned look on your face, the wide eyes, just for a moment.

“You sleep well after last night?” he asks. “You must have been exhausted.”

And he’s laying it on thick, he knows he is. Leaves his hand resting on your shoulder for too long, lets his thumb stroke over your collarbone in a slow, drawn-out movement just for the hell of it.

He can’t explain it. It’s just… it’s just that he can’t forget the guy’s hands all over you. It’s just that he can’t forget your face last night, bathed in the moonlight, your laughter that made him think his chest was caving in. It’s just that he feels if somebody else makes you laugh like that, he may never be happy again.

“I don’t…” You blink up at him, face almost entirely blank. “What?”

One of his hands lands on your thigh, just above the knee, half on the fabric of your dress, half on the warm skin of your leg. And it’s pushing it, he knows that, but it’s not like he decided to touch you. It’s more of an instinct, a reassurance to himself. You’re there. You haven’t left.

Not yet, anyway.

He can see the way Jason looks at you. He knows that look, knows exactly what he wants to do, and it lights a fire inside of him, something pathetic and possessive and uncalled for.

And all he can think is: That guy won’t treat you right, I can do it better, I know what you like, I know it, I see it, I know you…

But apart from his own ego, apart from the cocky part of him that knows he’s got you pegged, knows he could set you off and have you coming on his tongue, his fingers, his cock quicker than you could make sense of, there’s something else there too. A strange, unfamiliar protectiveness. Something that makes him think: What if this guy hurts you?

Not because you’re fragile, not because you don’t know yourself, but because Jake knows you. Has seen you. 

Knows this runs deeper than anything else, even if he doesn’t know what that means. Even if it scares him shitless.

He can’t let some other guy take you home. He just can’t.

“Hangman,” Jason says, leaning across you and giving Jake a small, almost shy smile. “Man, you’re a legend.”

“I…” Jake was prepared to hit him with something else bordering on rude, but this throws him for a loop. “What?”

“At Top Gun. Everybody talks about you all the time. It’s an honor to meet you.” 

The guy’s eyes are positively glowing, his cheeks ruddy with alcohol and excitement. Jake, who was hellbent on hating him, suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Between them, you’ve gone very still.

“Oh,” Jake says, “well…”

“I’m sorry, by the way.” The guy - boy, some spiteful part of Jake things - gestures in your general direction. For a second, Jake feels indignant on your behalf before he realizes he’s the one responsible for this. “I didn’t realize this was your girl. Backing up right away. Sorry.”

With raised hands, he disappears into the crowd, blending seamlessly into the sea of uniforms.

Jake’s triumph is short-lived.

You’ve slid half out of your seat, gathering your bag from where you’ve draped it over the back of the chair by the strap.

“Where are you going, sweetheart?” he asks, reaching out to help you but withdrawing his hands immediately when you whirl to face him.

There’s something on your face, something he’s never seen before, and with his stomach dropping down to his knees, he wonders suddenly and belatedly if he may have miscalculated severely.

That night at the bar, when you’d walked up to him and told him to leave you alone, it had been a little like somebody had pulled the ground right from beneath his feet. Like that magic trick with the tablecloth, only this one had been bad and botched and bungled, all the china and the glasses and the cutlery falling and smashing.

And yet the way you’d looked at him… He could have sworn you weren’t telling the truth. 

Jake isn’t dumb, fuck what Phoenix says, and he’s been with enough girls to recognize desire when he sees it. So he was almost entirely sure you were lying when you told him to leave you alone.

But then… what if that had just been his own hope? Building nothing into something. Wanting you to want him the same way he wants you.

In the end, what he thought you wanted didn’t matter. All he had to go off were your words, and those were clear enough. The choice needed to be yours, or it meant nothing.

And Jake was a lot - bastard, asshole, fuckboy - but he wasn’t going to push you into something you didn’t want. Never.

So he’d let up. He’d listened to you. He’d tried to pull back. Even as it had hurt him in a way he could not explain. Even as it had broken him apart.

And then Maverick and Penny had to meddle, and he’d gotten to know you in a way he hadn’t planned for at all. Had learned that he didn’t just want you, he liked you. Wanted to keep listening to you as you rambled on and on in intelligible loops about books you liked. Wanted to read them, wanted to talk to you about them. Wanted to make those dreams come true: buy you that house with the blue door, give you that dog.

He can’t understand it. He can’t explain it. All he knows is he wants to be close to you.

But with the way you’re looking at him right now, pure, unadulterated anger on your face, he realizes you might not feel the same way at all.

“What the fuck, Hangman?”

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused. “What did I do?”

This is not his day at all. Or his week. In fact, he’s not sure it has been his month.

You frown at him for a moment, completely silent, and it unsettles Jake in a way he can’t explain. 

He’s always known who he is, has been so sure of it, but now, with you… It’s like you make him question everything.

“I’m going home,” you say, pushing past him and heading for the door.

He’s too dazed to move for a moment, and then he’s chasing after you, trying to recapture his earlier speed but failing. It’s gotten even more crowded in here, every available inch of space occupied with sweaty bodies. He calls your name, but you don’t turn.

By the time he catches up to you, you’re out in the parking lot.

“Sweetheart!” he calls.

You whirl on him with a murderous expression on your face. He stops dead in his tracks.

“Don’t call me that,” you say. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Since you first met, the two of you have been exchanging sharp remarks. You have teased, you have taunted, you have circled around each other like wild cats around prey. Always toeing the line between flirting and fighting. Always toeing the line between foreplay and sparring. A tightrope act.

But this tips the scales decidedly. There’s nothing coquettish about it, nothing good-natured. The words have teeth, have fangs, have claws. They sink into his heart with perfect precision.

“I…” he begins, but you don’t let him finish.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I was…” He clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. Tries to grin but thinks it might end up as more of a grimace. “I was saying hello.”

You shake your head before he’s finished his sentence. “No, you weren’t. You were ruining my night. You always… you always have to ruin my nights.”

And wow. Okay. That one hurt.

“I just…” Jake realizes he might have to explain this to you. Or at least attempt to, since he doesn’t even know what his explanation would be. “That’s not a good guy.”

You glance back at the bar, and an incredulous expression spreads across your face. 

“That?” you repeat, voice rising. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah!”

“You don’t even know him.”

“You don’t either!”

“So? I wasn’t… I wasn’t about to marry him.”

Jake’s chest feels tight. He’s breathless when he asks, “What were you going to do with him, then?”

“I was…” You shake your head suddenly, breaking off halfway through the sentence, changing course. “That’s none of your business!”

“Yeah, it is!” he protests, but he knows he’s in the wrong. Still, he can’t stop himself. “He’s not a good guy.”

“Oh my god!” You throw your hands into the air, and he’s never seen you so upset. Everything that came before now seems only like a crude imitation. This, though… this is true, genuine anger. “Stop it. He’s… he’s just a cocky pilot, you’re not that different….”

Somehow, the comparison has Jake clenching his teeth. He amends, “He’s not good for you, then.”

For a moment, your face goes slack, and he knows he’s just said the wrong thing.

“That is notyour decision,” you say, voice suddenly quiet and all the more dangerous for it. “That’s no one’s decision but my own.”

And God, if Jake doesn’t know that. 

You’ll always make your own choices. He hasn’t had a shred of an illusion to the opposite even for a moment, hasn’t even wanted it any other way. You will always go your own way.

You’re so much stronger than you realize. Going on after losing your mother. Giving up a whole life. Starting over a million miles away without family, without friends, without anything but yourself.

It’s what he admires. It’s what drives him insane.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he says because it’s the truth. “You’re my friend.”

Something on your face shatters. 

“Friend,” you whisper dispassionately. “Sure.”

You rub your hand over your face, and suddenly you look so tired. All he wants is to wrap you in his arms, tug you closer, take you home. Make sure you’re okay.

“Hangman,” you say softly, almost gently. “I think this was a mistake. I don’t think I can be your friend.”

And it’s fear coursing through him. Naked, unmistakable fear.

If he can’t see you again, what will he do? This new Jake, the one who’s unsure about everything unless he’s right next to you, that new Jake… what will he do?

How can he go back to how he used to be when it’s like slipping into a costume that doesn’t fit anymore?

“My name is Jake,” he says because he doesn’t know what else to do. Because he needs to hear you say it. “I want you to call me Jake.”

“Stop it!” Your voice is louder again, an edge of desperation creeping into it. “Everybody else calls you Hangman, who cares if I….”

“You’re not everybody else!” It just… slips out. And then it’s out in the open, and he can’t believe he said it, doesn’t know where it came from, only knows that it’s the truth. “Not to me.”

You’re staring at him. Chest rising and falling rapidly, fingers tangled in the straps of your bag.

And you’re so beautiful, even in this empty parking lot, even in the unflattering light of the street lamps. Even with the sweat pooling at your hairline and the anger in your eyes.

“Hangman,” you say, “don’t.”

But he’s shaking his head. He let you go once, but now… now he has to… he has to…

“You’re special,” he says, even as you’re shaking your head. “You are to me, sweetheart, you are, you….”

“You said it meant nothing,” you blurt out, then shut your mouth with an audible click of your teeth as if you wish you could clamp the words back in somehow.

Jake blinks. “What?”

He can see your throat move as you swallow.

You take a moment, teeth sinking into your lower lip, and then you say, “That night when I told you to leave me alone. You told Coyote that this… thing between us. That it was nothing.”

Jake inhales. Exhales. His mind is blank.

“I… I did?” he asks, words slow, sluggish, like he’s thrusting them forward through the mud.

Your face falls. You say, voice almost a whisper, “You don’t even remember, do you?”

He wants to say no, I do, of course, I do. He wants to protest.

But if there’s one thing he can’t do, it’s lie to you.

Truth is, he doesn’t know at all what he said. The moments after your confrontation in the bar are shrouded in a fog of confusion for him. He was just trying to make sense of what you’d said, untangle the mess of his mind. He was just trying to save face.

It’s not nothing, he should tell you. It was never nothing.

But then, if it’s not nothing… what is it? This thing between us, you’d called it.

Jake doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t even understand why he can’t just let you go the way he usually does. He could just turn around, go back inside, find some other pretty girl, but something keeps him rooted to the spot.

I think of you when I go to sleep and when I’m touching myself, and I can’t stop thinking about you. I carry you with me up into the plane, into the sky, into the clouds. I want to sit with you in bars and in restaurants and on beaches. I want to hold your hand. I want to kiss you. I want, I want, I want…

There’s pain on your face, something raw, something real.

Jake can’t breathe.

“I’m leaving,” you say, and then you just stand there for a moment, looking at him almost like you expect him to say something.

He seems to have lost all ability to speak. You purse your lips, your eyes waterlogged, and then you turn on your heel and walk to the car.

Jake stands in the gravel of the parking lot until the headlights of your car have faded into the dark of the night. Then he trots back into the bar blindly, finds their now mostly deserted table at the back, and slumps into a chair.

He feels empty.

Phoenix’s face appears in his vision after what could have been five minutes or five hours, almost comically large.

“I think I’m having a heart attack,” Jake says, but his voice sounds like a stranger’s.

Immediately, Phoenix squats down to look at him better. “What?”

He points at his chest, where it feels like a tiger is on a rampage. “It hurts.”

“What hurts?”

“My chest.” He’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, “Phoenix, I think I fucked up. Like… big time.”

Her face goes from mildly annoyed to honestly worried. She asks, a tinge of panic edging into her voice, “Did you drink too much? Hangman?”

He shakes his head. “I think I hurt her. I don’t know, I… I think I fucked it up.”

She searches his face for a moment, and then she’s straightening up, taking Hangman by the arm and pulling him out of his chair. Her grip is like a vice around his wrist, and he yelps.

“Alright,” she says, “you’re coming with me. Now.”

Jake would have protested, but the look Phoenix gives him shuts him right up. If there’s anybody he’s ever met capable of coldblooded homicide, it’s Natasha Trace.

So he lets himself be tugged into the last corner not yet wholly occupied by people past the halfway point to intoxication.

Phoenix lets go of his wrist in favor of stemming her hands into her hips. He’s pretty sure he’ll find bruises on his skin come morning.

“Don’t,” she says.

“Don’t what?” Jake asks, even though he has a pretty sure idea where this is going.

“Don’t… meddle, okay. You had your chance, you blew it. Let her move on.”

“It’s not…” He struggles. “It’s not like that. We’re friends.”

“Friends,” Phoenix repeats. God, she really is capable of violence, he knows it, and she’s not far from resorting to it. “Are you stupid, Hangman?”

He opens his mouth, but she’s already plowing on.

“Friends don’t look at each other like they’re about to rip their clothes off and go at it in crowded bars, Jacob.”

Jacob. The last time somebody called him that was when his mom caught him trying to sneak out of the window at sixteen to go see a band with his first girlfriend. He got grounded for three weeks.

Somehow, he thinks Phoenix won’t be that merciful.

“Like… obviously you have some kind of feelings for her, but….”

He doesn’t even hear the rest of what she says. Her mouth keeps moving, but none of her words reach his ears. All he can hear is a high, whistling noise cutting clean through his eardrums.

“Hold on,” he interrupts, “I don’t have feelings for her.”

Phoenix pauses for a moment, staring at him like he’s trying to convince her the earth is flat.

“Jake,” she says - not Hangman, not Bagman, not even Jacob, and hoooh boy, he’s in for it now - slowly, “don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” he says.

Phoenix blinks. Takes a moment. Another. Then she says, almost carefully, “Jake, you can’t be that stupid. Please tell me you’re not that stupid.”

It’s not the first time she’s called him stupid, but it might be the first time she actually means it.

And Jake would protest, only he feels pretty stupid right about now, too.

“Please…” She touches her forehead like she has a headache and exhales loudly, slowly. “Please tell me you’re not honestly stupid enough not to know.”

“Know what?” Jake asks, and he’s never felt less like himself.

He’s in control of things. He takes risks gladly, but they’re always calculated. Things don’t just… fly under his radar.

But right now, he feels like he missed something profound.

Phoenix looks at him with what could be either pity or actual hatred.

“Jake,” she says, enunciating each word with perfect precision, “you’re in love with her.”

“I don’t know her,” he says, almost automatically, and he’s so dizzy.

Phoenix waves his words away with a quick jerk of her hand. 

“There’s a difference between loving someone and being in love with someone, Jake,” she tells him. “When you’re with her, how do you feel?”

“I feel…” And he can’t believe he’s talking about this, but in a way, it makes sense. Maybe Phoenix is the only person he could ever tell this. Phoenix, who has always seen through him and all his bravado. “When I’m with her, it’s like… like I can just be myself, you know? And I want… I want to know her. Everything about her, even the bad things, but I want her to know me, too. Not just Hangman but… Jake. And I want to… I just want to be with her all the time. I want to tell her about, like, everything, even the little things that I’d never tell somebody else, and I…. When I’m with her, it doesn’t feel like I need to prove anything. It’s like I can just be. I’ve never… never felt that before.”

His voice trails off.

The irritation has bled out of Phoenix’s face, making way for something softer, smoother, something almost tender. She puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Bagman,” she says, voice halfway to affectionate, “you know what that means.”

For a few moments, he just breathes.

And yeah, he does. In a way, maybe he’s known for a while now, at least since the set-up, and he just didn’t want to admit it to himself. That it’s more than just wanting to fuck you. That it’s so much more than nothing. That it’s so much, it scares him.

It wasn’t quick, it wasn’t instantaneous. It crept up on him. You permeated his life in stages, and now you’re everywhere.

At first, he just thought you were pretty, thought he could get into your pants and out of your life in the span of a night. But you gave as good as you got, kept pushing back, and suddenly it was like a personal quest to get you to give in. You looked up at him on the beach behind the Hard Deck through eyes as scared as they were determined, and something shifted. Not profound yet, not significant, but the first domino to drop in a long, long, long line.

And somewhere, at some moment, he could no longer pinpoint, the game he’d played had ended, and he hadn’t even noticed. The last domino had toppled.

It was real now. Real and scary and over.

“I’m in love with her?” he says, almost a question with how his voice rises towards the tail-end of the sentence.

Phoenix nods, smiles gently at him. 

“Oh God,” he says. “Then I… then I really fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix agrees through a breathless laugh. “Yeah, I think you really did.”

+

It’s the hottest day of the year, and the aircon at the gas station breaks down.

The heat is unbearable. You stripped off your employee vest hours ago, but it barely helps. The single fan you found in the back oscillates stale air through the room.

You’re counting down the minutes until the end of your shift, until you can drive aimless circles through town just to bask in the cool of your car. Until you can drown in your own self-pity and another family-size serving of pasta and the dark thoughts swirling around you like storm clouds.

Your boss has disappeared into the back room, and it’s only five more minutes until you’re off, so you trek towards the cold drinks section and wonder if you should spend the few extra dollars on an iced tea. When the bell rings, announcing the arrival of a customer, you’re still standing undecided in front of the opened fridge, letting cool air caress your face.

Phoenix is in civilian clothes, her hair released from its tight bun for the first time. It falls in glossy waves down to her shoulder blades as she smiles at you warmly.

“Hi.”

“Oh.” The sight of her makes something in your stomach clench uncomfortably. Couldn’t she have come in five minutes later? You’d have been gone by then. “Hi…”

“Penny said you’d be here.”

You blink. “You… were you looking for me?”

Phoenix nods and steps up to the register to look at the cheap sunglasses on display.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she says casually.

The fear of it all creeps up on you, and then it envelopes you. You’ve been trying and failing to push it to the very back corners of your mind for the past day, keeping your hands busy in hopes it would keep your head idle. Pretending you weren’t constantly replaying last night in your head - the bar, the parking lot, the anger, and the ridiculousness of it all. Jake saying you’re special, and then not even remembering the moment he’d broken your heart. Looking helpless in a way you’d never seen before.

In the rearview mirror, growing rapidly smaller and further until he disappeared completely, Jake looked almost like a little child.

“You and Hangman had a fight,” Phoenix says, and it’s not even a question. Just a statement.

“Yeah,” you agree because it doesn’t feel like there’s much sense in arguing. And no reason to, either.

Phoenix nods and watches as you round the counter. For some reason, you feel it’s not a bad idea to get some distance between you and her for this conversation. The counter is like a barrier.

“Hangman is…” Phoenix hesitates. “Hangman is an idiot.”

“No, he isn’t.” The words are out before you can stop them, and then frustration almost makes you bite your tongue. “He… he’s actually a pretty smart guy.”

Phoenix raises an eyebrow. “I’ve been told you hate him.”

You swallow, look away. Shrug your shoulders. “No, I… I don’t know.”

None of this matters. After last night, you’re never going to see him again.

For a long, long while, Phoenix is silent. And then she says, “He’s in love with you.”

And it should be earth-shattering, world-stops-spinning, music-stars-playing. But they’re just words.

Your heart is racing.

“He…” You shake your head. It’s a cliff, the plummet beneath you, your fingers gripping the edge for dear life. You want to believe her so very, very badly, but your common sense tells you it can’t be true. “He barely knows me.”

“That’s what he said,” she says, chuckling, then shakes her head. “I know, but… you have to understand… This is something special. I mean, this is Hangman we’re talking about… he doesn’t open up to people.”

You think about sitting side by side out on the beach. Sharing secrets before you let the waves carry them out to sea. Spilling your heart into his hands and trusting him with it. Realizing, suddenly, that he had done the same.

“I think…” Phoenix’s voice has gone very gentle. “I think you’re very similar. You and him.”

A week ago, you would have laughed at her. Just five minutes ago, you wouldn’t have believed her. And now…

You fall.

When you think about it, it’s not so far-fetched. Jake, up in those clouds. You, down on the ground. In the end, you’re both lonely. In the end, you’re both afraid.

“Anyway.” She smiles at you and pushes off the register. “I just thought you might want to say goodbye.”

Something inside you stumbles. 

“Goodbye?” you repeat slowly.

“Yeah, we’re shipping out tomorrow morning.”

“Shipping…” Suddenly, it takes tremendous effort to breathe. “What?”

Phoenix pauses, furrows her eyebrows. “Didn’t Jake tell you? About the mission?”

“What mission?”

Phoenix groans, shaking her head. “See, I told you. He really is an idiot.”

+

Jake looks like he didn’t get a wink of sleep. The dark bags beneath his eyes have bloomed into purplish bruising overnight, and he blinks at you almost owlishly.

 “Why weren’t you going to say goodbye?”

That’s the first thing you say to him, and it’s not at all what you were planning in the car on the way here. It slips out the moment you see him, and your voice isn’t firm or strong at all, it’s a small, fragile thing. A teacup teetering on the edge of a moving tray, about to shatter.

He looks at you like you’re an apparition. “How did you get here?”

“It… Phoenix gave me your address.”

Jake has rented a place on the second floor of a modern apartment complex off base. It’s so much nicer than the house you’re living in, with stairs that don’t creak, no mildew in the hallway, and locks that look like they actually work.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, and you sound out of breath. It’s not even because of the stairs you just took two steps at a time. “Why weren’t you?”

Jake exhales audibly, nods once, and opens the door wider. “You wanna come inside?”

Only now do you notice that he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants slung almost as low as his swim trunks were that day on the beach. Hastily, you snap your eyes away, head already spinning.

You push past him and into the apartment, careful not to touch any of his skin. Who knows what other unhinged things that might drive you to do?

His apartment is neat, tidy, clean, but that doesn’t surprise you much. It’s also obviously a rental, lacking any personal touches except for a few shoes kicked off haphazardly by the door and his Top Gun diploma and plaque displayed on a dresser. Of course Jake travels with those, you think, almost grinning. He’d never miss out on a chance to show off.

There’s an aircon blasting somewhere, and you almost crumble to your feet with gratitude.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, heading towards what you suppose to be the kitchen. “I have… water? I’d offer to make you a Mojito, but I don’t think I have any limes. Or any rum. Or any mint, so…”

“Can you…” You falter and watch as he pauses in the doorway, one hand braced against the wood. “Can you just explain it to me?”

His shoulders lift and lower with his breaths. After a moment that feels endless, he turns to face you.

“Explain it to you?”

You nod. “Why you didn’t tell me. Why you weren’t going to say goodbye.”

He shrugs, unperturbed, but there’s something affective to the movement, something almost performative.

“After last night… I didn’t think you wanted to see me again.”

“That’s not what I mean.” You’re shaking your head, jaw clenching. “Why didn’t you tell me before then? That you’re about to go on some, some… stupid top-secret mission, that you might die, that….”

He interrupts you, “I didn’t tell you because it shouldn’t matter. I’m not…”

“Of course it matters!” Your voice is shaking. “It matters! It changes… everything.”

He squints at you. “How could it change anything?”

“It… it changes things because….” You stumble, try to find the words that elude you. “Because I thought we’d have more time.”

“More time?” Something about his voice is almost hopeful. “I thought you… I didn’t think you wanted to see me again.”

He’s right. You didn’t. At least you thought you didn’t. You thought the best thing you could possibly ever do for yourself, for him, was to stay as far away from Jake Seresin as possible. In a change-your-name-and-leave-the-country kind of way.

And then Phoenix walked into that gas station, and losing him had suddenly seemed so real, had gone from a distant fever dream to reality, and you didn’t have much choice anymore. All you wanted was to see him again. All you wanted was for him to call you sweetheart, smile and flirt and tease. Even if it drove you crazy. Even if it was the last time.

“Hangman…” You shake your head, correct yourself, “Jake, I… Do you like me?”

He looks at you, really looks at you, for the first time since you knocked at his door, and something in his expression changes. Without hesitation, without a slither of doubt in his words, he says, “Of course. Of course, I like you.”

You have to sink your fingernails into your palms to keep yourself grounded, to keep yourself from jumping several paces ahead. In your chest, your heart speeds up.

“And not just…” you pause, the word carnally already on your tongue. “It’s not that you just want to fuck me?”

He’s shaking his head before you’ve finished speaking. “No. Not at all. Yeah, sure, that’s what it was about in the beginning, but then… I just… It started changing, and I’d never felt that, and I… I think I got scared.”

“You got scared?” you ask, not unaware of the note of disbelief in your voice. It’s hard to imagine someone like Jake could ever be scared. Someone so confident, so brilliant.

He raises an eyebrow, and it’s a glimpse of the Jake you know, the one who drives you to the brink of insanity, “I’ll take that shock as a compliment.”

It’s a white-hot relief to find that he can still joke with you. That not all of the relationship you’ve built has washed away in the torrent of the last few weeks. 

“It’s just…” You look for a way to explain it. “I don’t know. You just always seemed like you had everything figured out.”

That makes him laugh, and you stare at his face scrunching up, his eyes shining. He says, “I’ve got nothing figured out. I haven’t even figured out what to eat for dinner tonight.”

You laugh. Even through all of it, he can still make you laugh. Even though nothing is resolved, even though you don’t understand any of it, he can always, always make you laugh. Even when you don’t want to. Even back when you still swore you hated him.

Jake settles down, and something darker crosses his expression. When he speaks next, his voice is almost hesitant.

“I’ve never… I’ve just never done something like this?”

“Like this?” you ask softly. 

Neither of you has ever defined this thing between you. You’re scared now, scared he has a different idea about it. Maybe you don’t want to hear his answer, want to live just a moment longer in this fantasy where Phoenix is right, where he likes you, where he wants you the same way you want him.

Carnally, romantically, wholly. Just… all of him. The good, the bad, the worst. The parts that drive you insane with anger and the ones that drive you insane with lust. The way he can break you apart and put you back together.

If he calls you his friend again now, if he says it was nothing… You don’t know if you can handle it. You don’t know that you won’t just break apart.

“Like this,” Jake repeats. “Something real.”

And your heart soars.

“Real?” you whisper, voice so quiet you think he can’t possibly have heard it.

Jake nods. “Real.”

“So it…” You trail off, shake your head, try again, “So it wasn’t nothing?”

He lets out a breathy, quiet laugh. And there’s none of his bravado, none of his cockiness. The armor is discarded, the mask is off, and there’s just Jake beneath it, not some hotshot pilot who’s got it all figured out, but a man, one who’s a dumbass at times and broken in so many ways and just as scared as you are.

You’ve never felt the way you feel about him before. Not once in your life.

“No,” he says, “it was never nothing to me. I’m sorry I said that. I know I hurt you, and it’s not an excuse, but I just… I just said it because I got scared. Because you dumped me, and honestly, I was hurt, and I liked you so much, I didn’t know what to do with myself, and I had all of these doubts, and I didn’t understand it, but… It was never nothing, sweetheart. It was… everything.”

He shrugs, something on his face that tells you he’s embarrassed by his own earnestness, uncomfortable with it, but your ears are ringing with that word. You can’t stop the smile from spreading on your face - broad and genuine and a relief after all these days in that prison of your room. Like stepping into the light after all the darkness. Like setting foot into airconditioned climates after hours out in the Californian heat.

And Jake smiles back, like a reflex, like a magnet. If you move, I move.

He’s made a step, and now it’s your turn.

So gather all your courage, that slithery, dodgy thing that’s been eluding you for months, and you grab it by the neck and thrust it forward, say, “Jake, I think I’m in love with you.”

His face goes completely blank, and with a sudden, horrid lurch, you think that maybe you’ve miscalculated, maybe it’s too much, maybe…

You backpedal, “I know it’s way too early, and I don’t really know you, and maybe in a month I find out you don’t like peanut butter, and I can never speak to you again, but this has never happened to me before, Jake, and I’m terrified, I’m so scared, but I just know I wanna be with you, I wanna figure it out together, and I hope you feel the same way, because, because I… I think I…”

“I like peanut butter,” Jake interrupts you. When you blink at him through the haze your rambling has plunged you into, he’s grinning from ear to ear. The sort of grin you have never seen him give to anyone but you.

“You.. you do?”

“A lot,” he confirms.

“Well, that’s… good then.”

“In fact,” he says, moving closer to you, “I love peanut butter.”

“Yeah?” 

Your voice is a little breathless.

He nods, hands going to cup your face. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, as you tip your face up, as your heart pounds, as your vision blurs, “I think I might be in love with you, too.”

And you don’t want to start crying, but you can’t help it. They just well up, like all those emotions you’ve been swallowing down for months now, longer than you’ve known him really, have finally ballooned into something too big for your body to hold, looking for any way out.

Jake frowns, wiping at a teardrop from your cheek like he’s trying to get an annoying stain off his laptop screen. Only like… a little gentler.

“It’s not that horrible, is it?”

You laugh, a water, bubbling sound. “No, it’s… it’s not… it’s fine.”

“Fine?” he asks, looking down at you with his eyebrows raised way too high for it to be anything than exaggerated. “I confess my love, and you think it’s fine? Jesus, romance really is dead.”

“Oh, shut up and kiss me already, Bagman, or I’m gonna strangle you, I swear I will, I’m not….”

You don’t get to finish.

Kissing Jake isn’t at all like you imagined. He’s soft but firm, and yet you can tell, underneath it all, that he’s almost nervous. Unsure. Like he doesn’t know at all how to proceed now that it’s actually real. That it means something.

All that cockiness melted away.

It’s so strange, but suddenly you realize that maybe, just for a moment, you’re going to have to take over. So you wrap your arms around his waist, draw him closer, draw him in, open your mouth beneath his and sigh into it all.

Jake comes willingly, follows your pace easily, smoothly, casually. The way he does everything. Ready to take anything you throw his way.

Finally, something inside of you seems to whisper. There’s an ache, a yearning, something that swells inside of you, grows bigger and stronger by the minute. You’ve never wanted someone this bad. It’s finally happening.

All that waiting, all that wishing and hoping and dreaming… It was worth it, you think. All of it.

His hands are warm on your cheeks, and they feel large, in a way that makes you clench your thighs. His lips are a little chapped, but he tastes sweet as if he’s been eating chocolate. He angles your face back a little more, his tongue running along the seam of your mouth, his fingers clenching into your hair, and your heart seizes as you think, suddenly, how close you came to losing this, to never having it at all, to missing out on it, and it’s so… it’s so…

You pull back when the intrusive thought inserts itself into the moment, when the anxiety makes your bones itch, look at him and say in a voice that seems to come from miles, worlds, universes away, “You’re not going to die, are you?”

It’s all you can think about - your mother fading away, flowers raining on an open grave, and being alone, alone, alone…

But Jake just smiles, rubs his thumb once along the line of your cheekbone, and says, “And miss out on getting to kiss you, sweetheart? Not a chance.”

And you haven’t belonged anywhere in so long. Have been so lonely, so broken, for so long you thought you’d never feel any different again. But here, right now, with him solid before you, with the knowledge that it’s real, it’s true, it’s not a game, and it’s not in your head, it doesn’t feel so horrible.

Because Jake knows you. Not just the pretty parts, but the ugly ones too.

How you push people away. How your fear paralyzes you sometimes, makes you mean and closed-off, and makes you lie. To him, to yourself, to everyone.

Jake has seen it, and he’s wanted you regardless.

And maybe that’s just it… how he can calm that anxiety with a word. Not banish it, not erase it, but silence that nagging, gnawing, horrible voice you’ve carried with you for so long. Make it bearable.

You’re going to die if you don’t have him. And yeah, maybe that’s dramatic, but who cares? If the past few weeks have shown anything, it’s that you and Jake aren’t just good with the dramatics… you excel at them.

“I did it,” you blurt out, and then immediately regret the words, clamp your mouth shut and feel the blood rush up into your cheeks.

Jake draws back a little to get a better look at you. “Done what?”

And you could kiss him for taking it all in stride. For not pushing you, for letting you set the pace.

Actually, you could kiss him just for… well, existing. But his ego is big enough already; he really doesn’t need to know all that.

“Well, what… what you asked.”

Jake stares at you blankly. 

“Care to be a little more specific, sweetheart?” he says gently. “I think we’ve established I don’t have the best memory.”

“I…” You hesitate, fingers going to trace a constellation of freckles on his shoulder, and there’s just so much of him, so much golden skin and so much muscle and so much confidence, and you’re going to fall apart, you know you are, you’re not going to survive this. “I touched myself. The way you asked.”

Your voice is barely more than a whisper, an exhale, but you know he heard you. Because the reaction is visceral - fingers tightening where they have slid from your face to your waist, chest undulating with the sharp intake of breath, shoulders stiffening.

Nerves make it impossible to look at him. What if he doesn’t like it, what if…

But, as always, somehow, Jake seems to know what you need. Seems to understand without ever having to say it that now, you want this to be something else. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, fingers hooking beneath your chin and turning it upwards, “look at me.”

And you do. It’s not like you have a choice, your body reacting before your mind even registers the words.

Right now, you think, Jake could tell you to jump off a bridge, and you’d go find the nearest one for a dive.

Somehow, his eyes have gone darker, hodded, an intent shining in them that scares you as much as it excites you.

“You touched yourself?” he asks quietly.

You nod, too scared your voice might fail you to try and use it.

“So, are you ready to answer my question, then?”

You know what he means right away, which is just a testament to your memory being decidedly better than his.

Instantly, the words ghost through your mind again, wrap around you like vapor. Have you been a good girl?

“I don’t…” You clear your throat as Jake steps even closer, walks you backward until your back hits the wall, until his hips are inches from yours, until he’s crowding against you like he wants to climb into your skin. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He’s so close now, and it’s different, the whole air is different. Charged now, darker. Hot even with the aircon running.

Maybe you’re going to faint. You feel like you’re going to faint.

“I think,” Jake says, voice lowered into a mumble, “you know exactly what I mean.”

He braces both hands on the wall by your head and cages you in. It’s so reminiscent of the night out behind the shack that you would have laughed if you hadn’t been scared to move even a muscle.

Not trusting your voice, you just shake your head. And it’s an act because by now, even you have understood that that’s half the fun in this game of power Jake and you have been playing from the very moment. But you also just want to hear him say it again, have been dreaming of those words on his lips for weeks now.

Jake hums, and his breath washes over your face. There’s barely an inch between the two of you now - you can’t even think anymore.

“I know you’re smarter than that, sweetheart.”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He smiles, just for a moment, and it’s sweet, a little dopey, and so decidedly out of place that you realize he knows just as well as you do that you’re pretending. That he appreciates it as much as you do.

“Alright,” he whispers finally, leans closer to run his mouth over the arch of your jaw, lips barely a whisper of a touch as you strain into it, breath catching in your throat. “Sweetheart… have you been a good girl for me?”

It’s the rasp in his voice and those words and the agonizing whisper of separation between your bodies. It’s the lack and the promise and that tight, hot coil of want that writhes in the pit of your stomach.

With a gasp, you clench your thighs together in search of relief.

“I don’t know,” you say because, truthfully, you don’t. You don’t even know your own name anymore.

Jake raises an eyebrow, and all your pretense shatters.

“Yes,” you say, immediately, voice almost a whine, head spinning, “yes, Jake, I’ve been a good girl for you.”

He acknowledges it with a nod, entirely unaffected, face blank as he moves to card a strand of hair behind your ear.

“What did you think about?”

He asks it almost casually like he’s asking about the weather or your shopping list and not just which sexual fantasies you got out of the spank bank the last time you got off.

“I…” And his hand begins tracing a long, long line from your cheekbone down to your mouth, dragging across your jaw and onto your jugular. And there, just once, he presses his thumb into your pulse point. It’s the barest hint of pressure, the illusion of the rest of his fingers wrapping around your throat, but your eyes almost roll into the back of your head. 

It draws the truth right out of you.

“You,” you gasp, “I thought about you.”

Jake acknowledges it with a nod, but there’s something to be said about his eyes flicking to your mouth, about the hand still braced against the wall by your head clenching.

“What part of me?”

You want to answer, but he leans forward to press his lips to the side of your throat where his hand had been just a moment ago, and for a second, you lose all ability to speak.

“I… Your mouth?”

“My mouth?” Jake repeats, words muffled against your skin.

Pressed flat against the wall, unable to move, with your heart pounding a patter against your ribcage, you can do nothing but nod. “Yeah.”

Jake hums, and the sound vibrates through your body. By now, you must be soaking through the front of your shorts, you think.

“And where did I put it?” he asks softly, drawing back to look at you.

And there’s such… hunger on his face, his pupils blown wide, his mouth slack, and it’s going to kill you, death on impact, you’re not going to make it.

But that’s fine. What a way to go, anyway.

“On… on me,” you whisper.

Jake laughs, and it’s so… mean. You like it.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he drawls. “Be specific.”

“I don’t know.” 

It’s all you can say. Who cares what you thought about that night? He’s here right now, so can’t you just do it for real instead of talking about your fantasy like this?

Jake clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

“You can do better than that,” he says. “You’re not that dumb.”

And it could be crossing a line - should cross a line, maybe. You never would have thought it possible that you could be into something like this, but you are. It sets you off in a way you wouldn’t have expected, makes you weak in the knees and dizzy, and you want him on you, want him everywhere, want him more than you’ve ever wanted him before.

Besides… you feel pretty dumb right about now.

When it came down to the wire, you know you’re the one with the finger on the lever anyway. The moment you say no, stop, he’ll listen. So you’ve always been the one with the final decision.

Maybe that’s why this whole thing works.

“I…” You have to close your eyes, swallow against the lump in your throat. “You put it between my legs.”

He squints.

“Here?” he asks, and his hand lands on the inside of your thigh, about two inches off from where you want him.

It startles you enough that you jump, a sound of surprise falling from your mouth. And then he applies pressure, squeezes the meat of your thigh once, and you’re moaning, eyes widening with the sensation of it all.

Jake grins.

Bastard, you think, but then that thought goes out the window too, disappears in the fog that has descended on you.

“You imagined my mouth here?”

You shake your head, whimper, tip your face back and open your mouth like you can compel him to kiss you just like that.

“Be a good girl and tell me, yeah?” he whispers, but there’s something strained to his voice, something glazed to his eyes.

“No, I…” But you can’t say it. Not like this. It’s still too much, and it frustrates you, makes your eyes burn, makes your breath hitch into a gasp like you can’t get enough oxygen into your lungs. You whimper, “Jake.”

“Shh,” he whispers, leaning forward to press a kiss to your cheek. “I got you, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”

And then finally, because in the end, he always does, Jake takes pity on you.

“Did I put it on your pussy?”

The sound that escapes you is pathetic, barely more than a whimper, and before you know it, you’re nodding as you slump against him.

“Tell me,” he says into your ear, hand still on your thigh, mouth still against your cheek, his breaths fast and loud, “I want her you say it.”

And if you weren’t sandwiched between him and the wall, if he weren’t holding you up, you know your legs would have given out.

“You…” You swallow and take a deep breath, stell yourself, say, “You put your mouth on my pussy.”

And he groans, a loud, sudden sound that seems to burst from him unbidden like he just couldn’t hold it back. 

You’re almost stunned by it, by the discovery that he’s just as affected by all this as you are, that he wants you, too, and it does your head in, makes the world spin, makes you clutch at him a little tighter.

“You like that?” he asks, something almost frantic to his words now. “Having your pussy eaten? Does that get you off, having a tongue in your tight little cunt?”

You can’t help it. You mewl, drop your head into the crook of his neck, and wish you could stay there. And you’re so wet, can feel it pooling in your panties, feel it soaking through the fabric. Every move has the seam of your denim shorts pressing against your cunt, sends shocks of lightning through you, but it’s not enough, not enough, never enough.

Your heart is beating in your throat, and the embarrassment takes a moment to set in amidst the chaos of your sensations, but it comes. Eventually, the way it always does.

“I…” You falter, squeeze your eyes shut, push your face further into his neck, so grateful he can’t see you, and then you whisper, as if speaking it out loud could somehow make it more real, “I’ve never… you know… no one’s ever….” 

Instantaneously, Jake’s fingers tighten against your thigh, and then they tangle in your hair, and he pulls your head back with enough force that you can feel it, that it travels in shock waves through your scalp, all the way down to your toes.

He’s looking at you like he wants to devour you.

“Honey,” he says, and there’s something serious to the word beneath all that desire.

And you have trouble concentrating because honey, he called me honey, and your chest is so full of that feeling you only get with him, the one that makes you feel that everything will be alright, that nothing will hurt you, that you’ll be just fine.

“Honey,” he repeats, “do you trust me?”

And you don’t pause. Don’t think about it. Not even for an instant.

“Yes,” you say, and mean it. Mean it like you’ve never meant anything.

And Jake smiles, smooths your hair back, rubs his nose against yours. And then he said, “Would you let me? Would you let me put my mouth on you, would you let me eat your pussy until your legs are shaking? Would you trust me with that, my gorgeous, gorgeous girl?”

You’re going to disintegrate. It can’t be possible for one person to want another so much. It just can’t be possible.

“Yes,” you exhale. “Okay. Jake.”

He makes a choked sound, and then he steps back suddenly, tugging you with him by your wrists, and you stumble against his chest, let him guide you through the apartment blindly. It’s a wonder your knees don’t give in as you stumble against him like a fawn, as he pulls you like a ragdoll.

“Where are we going?” you ask, head spinning in rapid circles. Like you just got off a merry-go-round.

“I’m not going to eat you out against a wall for the first time,” Jake says.

And it would be almost romantic if it weren’t so filthy, such a quick turn-around that it could give you whiplash.

“Oh.” You blink as he pulls you into his bedroom. “I thought the wall was sort of hot.”

He laughs. “Don’t I know it?”

But then he turns, lets go of your wrists, leans down to press a quick, soft kiss to your mouth that leaves you chasing after him.

Affectionately, he brushes his fingers over your cheek and says, “I’ll do it right, honey, I promise I’ll make it so good, you’ll wonder how you ever went without it. I’ll have you coming for days.”

The thing is… you don’t even doubt it.

Jake has always been able to back up all that talk. It’s one of the things you hate about him. It’s one of the things you love about him.

“Now,” he says, “take off your top.”

It’s so much harder when he makes you do things because that’s when the anxiety gets behind the wheel, when the doubt creeps in. But in the end, that strange instinct to listen to him, to trust him, always wins out.

You pull your shirt over your head, and you can’t look at him.

“Shorts, too,” he orders and then, almost like an afterthought, adds, “and your bra.”

Your hands are shaking so hard that you struggle with the clasp of the bra, the button on the shorts, but finally, you free yourself of both, and then you’re standing in the middle of his bedroom, naked except for a pair of panties so wet you think you’re probably gonna have to throw them out come morning, and you’re shaking even though you feel like you’re burning up, like a fever in your blood, like a yearning in your bones.

It’s exhilarating and terrifying, and you want to cover yourself, but you can’t move, can’t do anything but stand there as you feel his eyes on you like hot irons, as you stare at the cologne bottles on the dresser.

What if he doesn’t like me? you think, mouth dry. What if I’m ugly.

And then Jake says, “Sweetheart. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

You’re going to cry.

“Now get on the bed and spread your legs so I can get my mouth on that gorgeous cunt.”

You’re going to have a stroke, and then you’re going to cry.

You do as he says, scooting backward on the mattress until you’re far enough up the bed to put your head on one of the pillows. Jake’s sheets are a dark blue, soft cotton, and they smell like him, like his cologne. Cinnamon and spice. The scent wraps around you, envelopes you. You clench around nothing.

If this is what his smell alone does to you, how are you going to survive his mouth on you?

The mattress dips under his weight, but you can’t look at him, keep your head on the ceiling instead. It’s all too much. It’s not nearly enough.

And then his face appears above you, and his smile is almost goofy as he leans to kiss you once, twice, three times. They’re just soft pecks, but you open your mouth and pull him down to you until you’re chest to chest, until you can feel the weight of him.

He slides his tongue into your mouth with a groan, pulls you closer with a hand on your hip. And it’s skin to skin, his palm hot and heavy, and you want him all over you, want to cover yourself in him, every inch. It’s very wet, very warm, too much spit in both your mouths, but you don’t even care, not when his teeth nip at your lower lip, when he pants against you, when it makes you feel like you’re going to fall apart right here, right now.

Finally, you get your hands on him too, on all that skin, let them run across his chest because you’re so drunk on the feeling of it all you forget even to think if you’re allowed to do this. His heart is racing beneath your palm, just as quick as yours is, and that’s a reassuring thought, that he’s affected by it all too.

Jake does something with his tongue, something that has your insides twisting, clenching like a fist, and you moan into his mouth, wrap your legs around his waist and buck your hips up, desperate for some kind of friction, of relief, not above humping him if that’s what it takes.

You feel it immediately - Jake is rock hard against your center, against the quick but firm pressure of your cunt, and it makes you squeak the exact moment it makes him choke.

“Jesus,” he grunts, fingers wrapping around your wrists and pushing them back into the pillow, pulling you off him and forcing you down into the mattress with a force as gentle as it is firm. “Stop distracting me, sweetheart.”

He draws back until he kneels between your legs, looming above you. All the lamps are off, but the blinds aren’t drawn, and moonlight spills like liquid mercury across the bedroom floor, across his skin. Inevitably, you think of that night out on the beach behind the Hard Deck, the light tangled in his hair, a study in blue.

“I think I remember telling you to spread these,” he says casually, tapping a single finger against your kneecap.

You want to tease him, want to say something about how his memory seems to be working pretty well of a sudden, but your brain won’t cooperate.

Instead, you do as you’re told, even as you feel like it might kill you, and spread your legs further.

Immediately, Jake’s eyes go to what lies between them.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice gone husky, “you’re so wet, honey.”

If you look at him, you think your heart is going to fail, so you just keep your eyes on the ceiling. Unlike your own, it’s completely free of water stains, and that’s just about the last coherent thought you have.

Jake leans forward, maneuvering around until his chest is pressed to the mattress, one hand on your thigh, the other spread on the sheets, and then his mouth is on you.

And okay. No more teasing then. Straight to business.

Over the fabric of your panties, his tongue moves against your center, and you can’t do anything but close your eyes, open your mouth even as no sound escapes. He just mouths at you for a moment, inhales deeply like he’s trying to smell you, and the thought sets you off, has you clenching your teeth, curling your toes. Then he presses a kiss to your clit through your cotton, and you’re seeing stars. 

“Oh,” you say, and he laughs, moves away to hook his fingers beneath the elastic of the panties, pulls them off unceremoniously, helps you lift your hips. They become another piece of fabric added to the pile of your clothes when he throws them over his shoulder without looking, eyes focused only on your center.

And then he leans forward, and you’re bracing yourself, steeling yourself, but nothing could ever have prepared you for the first stroke of his tongue through your folds. It has your hips rising, hed rearing back into the pillow, mouth shaping a word that never escapes it.

Jake’s fingers tighten on your thigh, and he moans once, and then he really goes for it. Burying his whole face in it, opening his mouth like he wants to devour you, tongue wet and wide and hot on your cunt, teeth just grazing your clit as he licks broad stripes from your hole up to the apex. He sets a leisured, moderate pace like he’s got all the time in the world, but you’re pretty sure yours is running out. Five more minutes of this, and you’re a goner, and it’s all too much but not enough, and you want to get away at the same time that you want him closer, and your head is spinning, your heart stuttering, your fingers tightening in the sheets.

He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, and you all but keen, fingers flying to his hair, his shoulders, your stomach. You can’t settle, can’t stop jerking, have no control over your own body anymore. All over the place, all over him, mind a mess and heart a mess and body a mess, and you can’t believe nobody’s ever done this to you before, and how have you ever lived without the feeling of Jake’s mouth on your pussy and you’re going to rip your own heart out and…

And then he catches your wrists in one hand, forcing you to look at him where he’s barely lifted his head from between your thighs. And you freeze, all the world narrowing down to nothing but his face, his voice, just him, right there with you.

He says, “I got you. I’m taking care of you, pretty girl.”

Above the sheets, by your hips, he laces his fingers through yours.

When his mouth meets your cunt again, there’s no restraint left. He fucks his tongue inside of you shallowly, your eyes rolling back, your legs straining to spread even further, to the point of pain when your muscles protest, but you need him closer, deeper, harder, and you’re so empty, aching with it. The only thing grounding you are his hands, the only point of you that seems connected to reality as the rest goes floating into space, reduced to nothing but a conduit for pleasure, for want, for yearning.

His tongue goes from your hole to your clit, one hand untangling from your death grip so he can slide a finger into you. He’s gentle about it, careful almost, but there’s no point, you’re so wet he goes without resistance, not an ounce of tension in any of your muscles. You couldn’t tense up if you tried, everything gone liquid and loose and lax. 

And it’s good, so good, so…

Jake pulls off you for a moment, breath panting and hot against you, just to check, “Did you do this too? When you thought about me, did you fuck yourself on your fingers?”

And it takes you a moment because you can’t remember if you have a mouth, can’t remember how to use it, and when you finally do, anyways, your voice is like a foreign sound, something from a different planet.

“I… tried, but it… I can’t… angle’s all wrong, it doesn’t….” He crooks his finger, and you sob, moment of dubious coherency gone, and then there’s only one word left in you. “Jake.”

And he grins, always so cocky, always so sure, adds a second finger, and buries his face into your cunt again. You keen.

It’s so wet, all of it. Your pussy and his tongue and his fingers fucking through it, fucking in with squelching sounds that should be embarrassing but make you burn hotter instead, your bodies slick with sweat, and you’re pretty sure there’s saliva dripping from your mouth, but you can’t stop it, can’t help it, can’t do anything but hold on and take it. Everything he’s giving you.

And you remember your ex trying to finger you in that bedroom covered in Twilight posters, eons ago, nothing but discomfort and awkwardness, and god, if this is what it should have been like that you want a refund, you think you’re owed compensation from the universe because that’s not fair, people were feeling this while you were telling yourself five minutes of rutting against your own finger on your clit was enough to satisfy you?

“You taste so good,” Jake groans into your cunt, “could eat this pretty pussy all day. Could stay right here forever, with my tongue in my gorgeous girl.”

And it’s almost scary, the way it builds, how high it goes, how tight it winds you. The precipice gapes below you.

“Jake,” you whimper, gasp, thrash, “Jake, wait, I’m gonna….”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, pupils blown, cheeks flushed, voice vibrating down into the darkest parts of you. “I’m here, honey, you can let go now, come on, sweetheart, I wanna see, I wanna taste….”

And you’re crying, cheeks and chin and neck wet with the tears, and you feel pathetic, but you can’t help it, free hand going to tangle in his hair, holding where you want him as he moves his fingers just so, grazing something inside you, tongue circling around your clit with just enough speed, just enough pressure.

“Please,” you sob, terrified he’s going to change up, and it’s going to get away from you, terrified he’ll stop. “Please. Please.”

It becomes a mantra, a litany, and then he squeezes your hand and plunges his fingers deep, curls them, and you’re toppling over that edge, hurtling, spinning, falling.

It’s bone-deep. It curls around you, it breaks you apart. A rope snapping. A coil unraveling.

You feel it everywhere, in your core and your toes and your fingers. A tightening and then the breathless, heart-stopping release of it all racing through you. It has you arching off the mattress, fingers tightening in his hair, legs trembling with tremors you can’t control, howling his name.

It seems to go on forever, his fingers fucking you through it, his tongue stroking you through it, and there’s nothing in your head, nothing but that blinding, strung-out pleasure.

Jake just keeps going until you push his head away with force, overstimulated to the point that pain shoots up like tiny pinpricks. You try to close your legs, but he keeps them open.

“I don’t know who those guys who didn’t eat your pussy were, sweetheart,” he says from between your legs, mouth still slick with you, eyes still dark, voice still breathless, hands still on your thighs, “but they must have been the biggest idiots in the history of mankind to miss out on that.”

You can’t answer. You’re afraid you might never be able to speak ever again.

Jake crawls up the bed until he can stretch out beside you, and finally, you can close your legs, draw them up to almost to your stomach and angle them away. You’re still pulsing, clenching around nothing, more exhausted than you’ve ever been.

“You okay, honey?” he asks softly, leaning in to kiss you. You can’t even reciprocate, just stare at him.

“Uhm,” you say.

He laughs at you, and if you could move your arms, you’d hit him. As is, you just blink at him, dazed, confused, still caught up in the intensity of it.

“That good, huh?” He grins like the cat that got the cream and wraps an arm around you, pulls you against him. There’s something reassuring to the feel of him, the slight damp of his skin and the solid muscle against the mush of yourself.

And then, voice suddenly so much softer, he says, “You did so well, honey. My best girl.”

Maybe you shouldn’t like it so much, but you can’t help but beam, cling to him.

“Next time,” he says, voice back to the levity of his pride, “I think you should sit on my face.”

You can’t help it. You gape at him.

“Your… face?” you repeat, hesitantly, unsure if you’ve misheard.

Shameless, he nods. 

“Don’t worry about suffocating me or any of that shit, it’d be an honorable way to go down.” 

“Oh my god,” you say, and then you laugh, and he laughs with you, and it’s like somebody poured liquid sunlight into your chest.

But then you shift against him, trying to get comfortable, and suddenly you’re not just aware that you’re lying in a puddle of what is essentially your own slick and Jake’s spit, that you’re still completely naked, but even more pressingly that he’s still hard.

Almost immediately, something inside of you seizes up again.

“Oh,” you whisper.

Jake, who has stilled your movement with a hand on your hip, clears his throat. He has a look of pure concentration on his face.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll just… go to the bathroom.”

And he means it, is about to get out of bed when you hold onto him, wrap yourself around him like an octopus, shove your face into his chest, so you don’t have to look at him as you say, “No, I… I want it.”

Jake freezes.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, “you don’t have to….”

“I want to,” you interrupt. And it’s clumsy rather than sexy, but you reach for his sweatpants, palm at him through the fabric, breath catching when you notice the dark stain of pre-cum on the front. “I want you inside of me.”

It’s so much more forward than you’ve ever been, so out of character, but it feels good to be honest, to tell the truth, to articulate what you’ve been dreaming of for months.

Jake groans loudly as you begin to rub at his length, drops back against the mattress without any protest.

“You want it?” he asks, searching your face as if he’s looking for any trace of a lie, of hesitancy.

Well, he won’t find any.

You smile and nod.

“I want it,” you confirm.

Jake clenches his eyes shut for a moment, exhales a shaky breath, and then he nods, leans over to open a drawer on his nightstand, and gets out a condom.

And he’s saying, you’re driving me crazy, sweetheart, but you barely hear him.

Because there it is, right on his nightstand. Front cover up, a gas station receipt shoved as a bookmark between the pages about a quarter into it.

Emma by Jane Austen.

“You… you’re reading it?” you say, interrupting whatever other filth was pouring from it, and Jake blinks, follows your gaze, pauses.

And then he has the audacity to blush. 

“Well,” he says, “you said it was your favorite, and I wanted to… I don’t usually read much, so it’s… a lot, but I think I get it, why you like it I mean, and….”

You pull him into a kiss, and you pour all of yourself into it. All the gratitude and the longing and the love. Everything you feel for him, right there, condensed into the slide of your mouth over his.

When you pull away, his eyes have gone dark again.

“I like you,” he says, and it should be bumbling, awkward, but it’s beautiful instead. “So much.”

You giggle. 

“I like you too,” you say.

From the first moment, Jake and you were planets circling each other. And now, finally, you’ve locked into orbit.

Jake rolls over you, kisses you again, only it’s even filthier this time, reminiscent of what he did between your legs, and within moments it’s gathering in your stomach again, growing once more, and you’re wet and wanting and pliant beneath him.

He pulls back to finally get rid of his sweatpants - how weird that he was still wearing them this whole time, you think - moves to roll on the condom, and you look down at his cock, open your mouth and… falter.

“Jake,” you say, “that’s not going to fit.”

And the moment you’ve said the words, you regret them. God, you sound like somebody hired you for an extremely low-budget porno, but you’re just honestly concerned.

Jake laughs, and you can’t believe you just fueled that ego even further.

“We’ll work with what he can. But sweetheart…” And he leans down, presses the tip of his cock first to your clit, then your entrance in a way that makes your vision blur, and his voice drops to a whisper, right in your ear, “Personally, I think you can take it.”

You can’t even answer, can’t do anything, because he starts pushing inside of you. And it’s excruciating, so slow it’s almost impossible, the stretch just the right side of unbearable. Jake braces a hand by your head, face scrunched up in pleasure, mouth hanging open, one hand guiding himself. And you just tip your head back and moan, a sound that rips free from the very core of you.

“I’d like to think I did a pretty damn good job at warming you up,” he grounds out, jaw clenched with concentration, “but- god, you feel so fucking good - we’ll take it slow, yeah? Just… tell me if you want to stop, honey.”

Stopping is the last thing on your mind. You just want him in you, want more, more, more, had it once, and already you’re so greedy.

The slide seems almost endless, stretching your walls further than you thought possible, and you can’t hear anything, not even Jake’s voice spilling endless praise in loops that make no sense, not your own heartbeat hammering away, only the rushing of your blood in your ears.

And then finally, when you think you can’t take it anymore, he bottoms out with a grunt and just stays there for a moment, pelvis pressed to yours, breathing in the same rhythm.

“How you feeling, sweetheart?” he asks gently, one hand moving to brush the hair matted to your face with sweat away from your forehead.

“I…” And you can’t think, doesn’t he know that you can’t think, why does he keep asking you questions when all of your brain is currently occupied with reminding you to keep breathing. “… Full.”

Jake’s face crumbles like he’s in pain, and then he drops his head against your chest, his breath hot where it hits your skin, and moans. Inside you, his cock twitches, and you gasp.

“Sweetheart,” he grits out, “can’t just go around saying shit like that. So I’m trying my best to hold on here, yeah?”

And it makes you crazy, thinking that you’ve made him like this, that he’s riding that edge because he buried his face in your pussy, and you can’t help it, hook an ankle over his thigh and tug him forward, force him to move.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You sure.”

And you nod, so far gone you don’t care anymore, can’t even remember to be embarrassed. 

“Yeah. I want it, Jake, please, please.”

It really doesn’t take all that much. He immediately complies, moving back, drawing almost all the way out before plunging back in. And it’s more than you can take, and not enough, it’s too slow, and too fast, it’s too hard, it’s not hard enough, it’s everything at once, and above all else, it’s good, so good you can’t put it into words, can’t believe it’s real, can do nothing but hold onto him and hope you make it out at the other side.

Jake keeps it even, keeps it slow even as you can see the muscles in his stomach rippling with the effort of keeping still, even as his face is tight.

“Okay,” you whisper, looking him right in the eyes only to find he’s already looking back, “give it to me, Jake.”

It sets him off. He goes from measured, collected to focused, thrusting harder, reaching deeper, and your eyes roll back into your head. He’s fucking you with enough force that it rattles the headboard against the wall, that you feel it reverberate all along your bones.

“Jake,” you whimper, and he groans, grasps one of your thighs, and bends you nearly in half, and it should be uncomfortable, but like this, he reaches even deeper, grazes that spot that paints stars in your vision. You can’t describe the sound you make as anything but a strangled scream, and it should be embarrassing, maybe, but you can’t bring yourself to feel anything but the pleasure of it all.

“Fuck,” he whispers against your neck, “fuck, sweetheart, you’re so… fucking… wet….”

The sounds are obscene. His cock plunging into your wetness, the headboard slamming against the walls, your own whimpers, and Jake’s moans, all of it mixing into what could possibly result in a noise complaint from several neighbors. And you don’t care. Not one bit.

He leans down to kiss you, barely more than your mouths slotting together, breath on breath, then his hand wanders down toward your pussy, and the other clasps yours, fingers slotting together. He’s thumbing at your swollen, sensitive clit, and it throbs, and things get even wetter, and you make a sound like you’re going to die right now, wrap yourself around him, arch into him, tongue stroking against his, his moan slammed against your teeth.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, rubbing tight, concentrated, purposeful circles on your clit, “come for me, I wanna feel your pussy clench on me, you can give me that, yeah, honey, you can be a good girl for me, can’t you?”

It’s been pretty clear from the moment he slid inside that neither of you would last very long, but that undoes you.

You’re saying yeah yeah yeah please please please jake jake jake, and he sinks his teeth into the side of your neck, sends his tongue after to soothe, and then it barrels through you, more intense than the first because it’s closer to pain, fingernails digging into his back, his palm, mouth ripping open around a sound that would have been his name had you had the breath, that dies before it leaves your lips, world-shattering, ground falling out from under you, and if you didn’t know any better you’d swear you black our for a moment, everything fading away.

When you return to it, Jake is saying, “… fucking, I can’t, god, pussy so wet and tight, so pretty, my gorgeous girl, my best girl so good, and you’re so, you’re so….”

You never do find out what you are because he goes from focused to frantic, hips undulating wildly, fucking into you at a shallow, quick pace, and then suddenly he freezes, shudders, his cock jumps - and then he’s groaning, arching over you as he empties into the condom.

He tries to roll off you immediately, but you wrap both arms and legs around him and hold him to you, in you, stay like that with your hearts thundering against each other like they’re knocking up a storm against your ribcages in an effort to embrace. Even like this, you still wish you could get him closer.

If I could, you think, I’d live inside your chest.

That’s a stupid thought.

For a while, you just lie like that. You’ll have to get up and go pee in a minute, but you don’t want to think about it yet. For now, you just want to lie here.

After an eternity, Jake says, “When I leave tomorrow….”

There’s something like hesitancy in his voice. Worry.

Into your hair, Jake whispers, “Will you wait for me?”

And that’s the thing about Jake. He’s always, always given you a way out. The decision was always yours.

So you could still walk away. Turn your back on this and forget about it. Rebuilt those walls and go back to the routine of your life before him.

But his heartbeat is quick and uneven against your chest. His voice is familiar.

You think of that house with the blue door back in Seattle.

Maybe, you think, it was never so much about the house as what it stood for: Sitting with your mother on the couch and listening to the rain. Laughing in Penny’s kitchen with her and Amelia. Watching the waves roll in that night at the beach with Jake.

Home, you think and blink the tears away. I’ve finally come home.

“Yeah, I’ll wait for you,” you answer, tighten your arms around him, press your face into his chest. “In fact, I might never leave you again. You got air conditioning.”

+++

“Jake,” you say, “this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.”

“Wrong.” He turns the car left, and you hold onto the door handle for dear life. “The dumbest thing I’ve ever done was the time I almost let you go.”

“Jesus,” you mutter, “you’re getting so sappy.”

But when you stretch your hand palm-up over the middle console, and he takes it immediately, you’re smiling from ear to ear.

“Will you let me take this stupid blindfold off now?” you ask, the fingers of your free hand reaching up to trace along the line of the old bandana Jake tied over your eyes earlier before getting you into the car.

“Nope,” he says, sounding cheerful. “Don’t ruin the surprise, sweetheart.”

In reality, Jake isn’t the best at surprises. You’ve been together for four years now, and in all that time, you don’t think he’s managed to pull a single planned thing off. You knew about every surprise birthday party, every surprise anniversary dinner, every surprise homecoming. 

It’s a testament to his love for you, though - you’re the first person he wants to share things with, even the ones he should be keeping from you.

(And you indulge him, every time. Pretend to be shocked. Pretend he pulled it off. 

You’ll do it even when he finally decides to get out that ring box you found in his sock drawer last week. You know he’ll ask. Soon. 

You’ll wait.)

Maybe this one will actually work, though, because really, you have no idea where the hell he’s taking you.

“We’re here,” Jake says, and you hear the rhythmic thumping of the turn signal.

Jake parks the car, and you wait in silence until he’s back to open your door and help you out, one hand holding yours and the other on the small of your back. Then, carefully, he maneuvers you around.

The feeling in your chest catches somewhere between excitement and trepidation. God, you hope he didn’t do anything stupid.

Then, his voice is low in your ear as he says, “Ready, sweetheart?”

You’re not exactly sure if you are, but you say, “Ready.”

When he takes the blindfold off, you blink into the bright sunlight.

There’s a house in front of you. A beautiful place, the kind you always point out to him when you’re taking strolls through your neighborhood. White wood paneling, a front porch that wraps around the whole ground floor. Balconies with wrought-iron railings for the second stories. Flowerboxes before every window.

From behind you, Jake says, “It’s ours.”

Your heart is in your throat. Your eyes burn.

“Ours?” you repeat, voice so soft it almost gets carried off by the breeze.

Jake nods, then swallows and scrambles to say, “I didn’t sign the contract yet, of course, I’m not crazy enough to do something that big without talking to you first, you know that. But if you want it, then… it’s ours.”

The tears are hot on your face. You feel like your ribcage is going to splinter apart. Behind it, your heart has grown to three times its previous size.

“Oh,” Jake says, spotting your tears, and the hands that were wringing the bandana suddenly fall along with his face, “you don’t like it. That’s okay, we’ll just….”

“Shut up, Bagman,” you say, laughing even through the tears, a bubbling sound, fragile as glass, fragile as you feel, “I love it. Of course, I love it.”

He grins, eyes all crinkly and luminous, and fuck, you’re so in love, so far gone, it feels like you could hug the whole world. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“God, I’m so whipped,” he says, laughing like he’s trying to rival the sun, reaching for you. “My gorgeous, brilliant girl.”

He pulls you against his chest, and you wrap your arms around him and press your smile into his neck, and it’s 84 degrees in the shade, but you don’t mind because you love him, and he sees you, and you’re home, you’re home, you’re home.

The door to your new house is painted a tender baby blue. Kind of like the ocean. Kind of like the Californian sky. Kind of like your dream.

[pencopanko]

I was tagged by my dear friend who sadly lives way too far for me to send a whole box of mineral water (HAVE YOU DRUNK SOME TODAY) @fedecolombo to answer this questionnaire/interview thingy.

Now, I'm not so sure whether those who are tagged previously can tag anyone but as for today let's not tag anyone directly. I think a lot of us have gotten too full thanks to the God-forsaken 11-question hell (；・∀・)

Anyways, let's do this!

Let’s start easy. Favourite colour?

Definitely soft shades of pink! I actually love all colours but soft pink is my favourite.

Describe yourself?

I am a 20-year-old human being who is basically just BS-ing their way through life but is still trying their best because the thing is none of us know when Death will come knocking on one's door so yeah. I'm currently majoring in Japanese Studies and it's been fun for the most part! I also go with both "she/her" and "they/them" so pick whichever you feel rolls better off your tongue.

I also draw sometimes and I am in need of a nap. I also think instant mac and cheese is gross.

Ok, here’s another round with a slighlty different take on the previous question, what would your bio say? You can copy-paste it here if you already have one ready.

I am a 20-year-old person who draws things sometimes. I still need a nap.

Nickname/s? Explain the story behind it/them.

Here I go with Penco. But in real life I go with either Pen/P.N. or my actual first name, Putri. My nickname is based on my initials (P.N.) because if you say it fast enough it becomes "pen". Back in high school there was a girl who also went with that name (Putri is a very basic Indonesian name for girls) so in order for us to not get switched around I decided to use my initials as a nickname. It has stuck ever since.

I just added -co and the Japanese suffix -kun because I like the sound of them. Also because I think the suffix -chan is overrated.

What are your favourite films/shows? Do tell why.

Films: Coco (obviously), Mulan (she's a total badass and the soundtrack is awesome), Sherina's Adventure (a classic Indonesian musical starring Sherina Munaf and it's an absolute treat), Cinderella (my favourite classic Disney Princess movie because the colours are just so beautiful), Bambi (the character design and the music hooked me in), Lady & The Tramp (the movie has what I consider as the most realistic romance in any Disney movie), Sunny Boy & Dewdrop Girl (a very cute Japanese animated short-movie with amazing visuals), and In This Corner Of The World (it's rather slow-paced but the music, the story, and the characters are wonderful).

Shows: Steven Universe (the character design may not be consistent but it's still really good, the music is wonderful, and the characters are really interesting), Love Live! Sunshine!! (I prefer this over the previous series as the characters are more developed and the music is great too), Shouwa and Genroku-era Lover's Suicide Through Rakugo (easily my all-time favourite josei anime, this show got me hooked by the first episode with its voice-acting, super complex characters, music, and the rakugo performances), We Bare Bears (simple but very heartfelt and funny with great music to boot, these things are what make me feel happy whenever I watch it), Class of 3000 (THE MUSIC IS EXCELLENT PLEASE WATCH IT IF YOU LIKE FUNK), and so much more!

Since you’re obviously into Coco, tell me something about it.

How about a story?

Okay so mY FRIEND AND I WERE WATCHING IT AND WHEN THE TWIST CAME ON SCREEN SHE GRABBED MY LEFT ARM ＨＡＲＤ AND SHOOK IT AND IT HURT

Also because of that scene I legit had a nightmare where ERNESTO KIDNAPPED ME AND MY FAMILY ALONG WITH THE KIDS FROM STRANGER THINGS

The latter group escaped without helping us. I woke up in cold sweat because Ernesto found out that my mom and I were planning our escape. It felt like Iblis was watching me.

Anyway, the movie is an absolutely beautiful movie and I dare say it's Pixar's magnum opus so far. Although I am by no means Hispanic, I feel so happy to have Mexican culture to be represented so beautifully. I am definitely going to share my love for it to my future family.

Favourite me these too: musical instrument/sport/country/person/historical figure/animal.

Musical instruments: piano, melodica aka pianica aka blow-organ, recorder (if played right), violin, saxophone, trumpet, and guitar.

Sport: I'm pretty bad at sports but I do like playing badminton. I also like aikido but I have yet to go back to the dojo sooo

Person: Secret~ :3c Nah joke, I love my mom the most

Historical figure(s): Abu Hurairah (one of Prophet Muhammad's (pbuh) companions), Umar bin Khattab (the second Caliphate), Socrates, and Hasanuddin of Gowa. I forgot to add these: Anne Frank, Malala Yousafzai, and Cut Nyak Dien.

Do you prefer paper or digital books? Say why.

Easily physical books, especially for school books. It just feels nice to hold and it's always good to be able to write important notes and doodle on it. But digital books are convenient too!

What’s your dream job/life/more dreams?

I would like to have a job that allows me to stay at home to do my work so basically being a freelance illustrator. I don't think I would survive working an office job unless it's something I actually am interested in. It'd be nice to be a researcher of some sort too.

Let’s get down to business. How’s your type? If you want a type, that is.

A man who is kind and good with children, bonus props if he can cook and appreciate art and corny jokes. I already have someone in mind but I don't have the courage to tell since it might ruin both our reputations.

What’s your ideal first date scenario? And if you’d marry, what’s your ideal marriage proposal? And while we’re at it, would you want children from/in this marriage?

An ideal date will be just us having fun anywhere we go, really. Ideally at an amusement park but even a department store will do (we can grab cheap snacks along the way). A picnic is nice too! A movie date is also great, as long as the movie is interesting and is not a romance movie. Maybe trying new foods?

I prefer simple marriage proposals but if my future husband has something planned I won't mind as long as it doesn't hurts his wallet too much. But it'd be great if it later becomes a funny memory to look back on. That way we can joke about it too. And yes, I'd love to have children. But at the same time I'm scared of hurting them in any way. But you never know, right?

Let’s get deep. What are you looking for?

Some peace and quiet.

Do you believe in God/are you religious/have any beliefs? You might have noticed that I’m not sure how to put this question at all.

Yes, actually! I'm a Muslim and proud of it!

Given that I’m not even sure what people mean with “aesthetic”, what’s yours?

Everyday stuff: Soft bed with extra fluffy white pillows, non-alcoholic drinks whether they're hot or not, music of any genre (except loud EDM and metal), snacks, books and comics and stationeries scattered on the bed, white walls, paint stains on clothing, simple makeup, long hijab, a mix of pastel, natural, and dark/cool colours.

Outside: A green meadow, dandelions and coat buttons, clear blue skies, birds tweeting from a distance, and a camera filled with pictures of flowers and other things in nature.

What makes you happy/sad/angry/guilty/be over the moon?

Happy: A lot of things, really. They include things like a butterfly fluttering to and fro, a cat I see on the street, people being nice to each other, good music, good food, and genuine laughter.

Sad: A lot of things but I prefer not to talk about them.

Angry: Not much but usually bullies, people who ignore their families for the sake of work, and people who give up way too easily without even trying.

Over the moon: Finals being over, a surprise trip to Disneyland, being in a really fancy museum/art gallery/library, having time for myself, a perfect batch of cookies, and seeing people liking what I create.

What do you like the most and what do you hate the most about yourself?

I like that I can draw and like a good variety of music without sticking to one genre only.

I hate that I tend to fall in love with people easily at the most inconvenient of times, regardless of gender (but since I'm still a Muslim, I would rather marry a man so). It's extremely inconvenient to be having a crush on someone, especially if you have other more important things to worry about like school and a con you're supposed to attend.

What are you most grateful for?

Being alive, to be honest.

What’s your biggest fear?

I fear of hurting people in any way. I'm a person who forgives at the drop of a hat but whenever I get angry at somebody I suddenly have very violent thoughts and say extremely mean things. This is another reason why I don't have too many friends; the less people I know, the less people I hurt.

I also have a fear of sewer rats.

What’s the biggest achievement of your life so far?

Making it past twenty.

Are there people you’d like to meet?

Lots! I really want to meet the people I've gotten to know in the Coco fandom and I also want to meet my closest friends too!

Do you have a bucket list? Please elaborate.

The most important thing for me is to go to Mecca for Pilgrimage before I die.

To see a ballet recital/a (Broadway) musical at least once.

To finally become an illustrator.

To grow old enough to at least see my (great) grandchildren enter college.

What’s the biggest learning experience of your life?

Living in Hong Kong and seeing different cultures and knowing different people from different countries. That and also joining a national-level Muslim organization for two years.

What are you most excited about your life right now?

I don't know, really. I'm just excited to live, i guess.

Give me a secret? Or something funny, I don’t know. Give me something.

What do you call a fake musician who killed his friend and later travelled around the world by boat?

Ernesto de la Cruise

And lastly, what’s your spirit animal?

Definitely a cat. Just like cats I like taking naps.

Whew, we're done! This is a long post, indeed. But it's still fun nonetheless!

[bigmamag]

hi, i'm a longtime lurker of yours. i really loved everything you wrote in the star trek fandom. you're the reason i'm submerged in the spn fandom now. so many good fics, i don't know if i'll ever be able to finish everything i wanna read 😍 so i know you don't like spn anymore, but thank you anyway 😚

Aw, thank you!! I’ll always have a soft spot for spn, though I did quit after season 10. I’m sure I’ll catch up when the finale hits. I mean, when it was good, it was GOOD, and I am just distantly glad it’s still going because I remember joining the big campaign to get a season three because the fandom was WAY smaller and it might not have happened had it not been for the sheer ruthlessness of the fandom. And ah, star trek fandom. My magnum opus of all fandoms, the fandom that led me into writing long fics and making gifs. It’ll always be MY fandom. :D