#but if you don want it gone just? dont get it?

[corvid-ghost]

There should be a mod that removes sex from baldurs gate, like I get it can be a big part o the game but I wanna romance someone and not be terrified every option i choose will lead to something I do NOT wanna see

I don't even know if you can romance someone without it, i haven't gotten that far yet

Also im just incredibly uncomfortable every romance scene cause of this

But I like romancing the characters

[mira0000000-blog]

Ugh..narrator...

[todayisafridaynight]

arasawa 'but are they You Know' can be so funny check this out. literally any scenario involving ichiban being nosy

[ifwdominicfike]

you give inexperienced bsf!matt his first handjob

── .✦. ──

“are y’sure you’re ready baby? need to hear you say it.” you coo softly, poor boy could barely get a word out without whimpering. “y-yes.. please— just wan’ you to t-touch me!” his hips bucking up as you palm him through the thin layer of his sweatpants.

“kay’ sweet boy..” you begin to slide off his layers, the feeling of the fabric rubbing up against him makes him whine. hiding his face from embarrassment as he let out those sweet sounds you craved to hear. “dont hide from me baby, lemme see your face. yeah?” he slowly brings down his hand, opting to grip onto the bedsheets instead. “please y/n.. need y-your hand”

you smile at his desperation, once his sweats are gone you hook your fingers in his boxers and bring them down just enough to his mid thigh. you’re met with his hard cock, he twitches from the cool air exposed to him. “look at you.. mm— y’so big and pretty baby.” your hands slide up and down his thighs, purposely not touching him where he needs you most. “pl-pleaseee” he whines “please what? don’ know what you want unless you tell me baby..”

he squirms under your touch, growing more frustrated each second “pl- fuck! to-touch me, do anything! please i ne-need you” he pleads, trying his hardest not to do the job himself “good boy, s’proud of you sweet boy. just one more thing, kay?” your hand moves up to his mouth “spit baby, go ahead..” you coax him, a sweet smile adoring your face “y-yes ma’am”

after he does so you bring your hand down to his leaking cock “o-oh! fuck— ye-yes..” he groans, throwing his head back against the pillow “yeah? that feels good huh.. better than your own hand?” he vigorously nods his head, knuckles turning white due to his grip on the bed “f-faster baby.. please!” he breathes out “of course baby, can’t deny you when you sound like that..” your grip tightens around him and your pace quickens “oh- sh- shit! m’gonna fuck!” he hurriedly says.

“y’gonna what sweetheart? come on lemme hear that sweet voice” you tease “come! fuck- fuck! m’gonna come. d-don’ stop.. mmm” his hips moving up in rhythm with the thrusts of your hand “oohh look at you, soaking my hand like a slut. s’that what you are? just a greedy slut who needs nothing but attention, yeah?” your degrading words send him over the edge, thick ropes of white shoot out from him. “fuck! yes- yes, yes!”

“good boy, look at that.. all y’needed was a little bit of mean words and you’re a mess already.” you slowly removed your hand, looking over at matt all spent with his head thrown back and eyes shut from his previous orgasm. once he opens his eyes he’s met with the sight of you licking up the mess that he made.

“fuck..” his breathing heavy, shutting his eyes once more to help him calm down until he feels his overstimulated cock in your hold again. “oh you thought we were done baby?”

- avery’s note ˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆｡-

“WE LOVE YOU SUB!MATT” we all say in unison. i live for sub!matt idc i need that man whimpering and whining underneath me NOW. im surprised i wrote this IN ONE SITTING?? (if there’s errors, shhh) anyway, enjoy bye i love youu !!

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - @ellaapsworld @chrissv4mp @jetaimevous @mattsbrowser @submattenthusiast @flouvela

[pressureplus]

Can I request a sebastian x scene fem!reader? At first I was going to choose gyaru but someone already made it. Reader often visits Sebastian's shop to talk and Sebastian often asks about her scene style.

I got you brother, as a lover of the Scene/Gyaru styles myself, I'm gonna have some fun!

Your Name

Pairings: Sebastian Solace x Scene!Fem!Reader

Au: Classic

Warnings: Romance, Sebastian is bad at feelings

◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜

“Its you again.” His voice is smooth and calm, hands clasped together the way they always are everytime you wander into his shop. You manage to wiggle your hips right on through and finally crawl into his shop. God these vents are an uncomfortable squeeze sometimes. You stand up, running your hands through your hair in a weak attempt to fix the mess as you walk over to Sebastian.

“Yeah, hey. My bad I know I promised Id be here sooner but my hair has been a-”

“Let me.” He hums and swats your hands away gently, you two more than friendly enough for him to touch you. Even though he wasn't particularly an overly touchy man he still allowed himself to reach out for you every now and then. Plus he didn't just shoot or throw you whenever you reached out to touch him either. What was special about you? You had no idea. A part of you assumed it had something to do with his curiosity. It seems he had never really seen somebody with your style before. The fluffier and ‘weird’ hair, the multicolored charms and jewelry you had on. He’d found you strange to begin with but eventually grew very very curious. All his questions leading him to requesting you come back so you could answer more at a later date. Now you come in whenever you can, now that you think about it, maybe its the familiarity he likes?

“You really should be more careful- I don't exactly have hair ties and hairspray laying around. Expendable or not, don't be clumsy and stupid.” He notes as his hands comb through your hair. His touch is gentle as he tries not to accidentally claw your scalp while fixing it for you. You're certain the position he’s bent himself into to do this for you can't be comfortable. Still you allow it. For a while you both remain silent, the closeness leaving you a little pink, not that he seems to notice.

“Ah, Im trying my best, but I swear Pandemonium has it out for me.”

“That bastard again?” You can almost watch his eye twitch as he huffs. His hands finally moving away from your head to reach into his bags. He sort of messes around with the items in there before managing to pull out a hair tie. Odd how despite claiming he doesn’t have one, he has one available for you? You're half expecting him to hand it to you, but no. He spins you around himself to tie it up for you.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting your hair out of your face. You want to survive, don't you?”

“Of course I do, but I mean…why are you putting it up for me? I have hands you know.”

“Your bracelets get caught sometimes. Don't think I haven't noticed that.” You pause.

“Youve been paying attention to me?”

“Whenever you're in my shop? Yes. I've got to watch everyone's hands, Y/N.” You sit in a shaken silence. He seems quick to join you and for a moment his hands still. He’s gone and called you by your name. You're fairly certain, based on the sudden stillness, that he didn't want you to know he knew it. At the very least he hadn't meant to call you that. You'd gotten aggressively called Expendable since the moment you signed up for this job. Honestly, your own name sounded foreign on his tongue. He clears his throat and finishes up with tying your hair back.

“Its done, you can leave now.”

“No wait- Dont you have questions for me today?”

“Nope.” He turns his head away, face red. His arms quickly crossing over his chest. A silently defensive position you've grown accustomed to whenever you push one too many buttons.

“Oh come on, don't be shy just because you called me by my name. I'm not gonna tease you for it!”

“Dont care. Get out.”

“Sebastian, come on! You were so happy to learn about my belt collection back at home just yesterday!”

“And I'm not today. You may leave, escort yourself out, remove yourself from the premises, or whatever terms you want to use.”

“You know considering I never told you my name in the first place, and you never cared enough to ask, you must've been looking for it.”

“No-”

“Have you been trying to find out my name, Sebastian? Clearly you managed it. Is it safe to assume you like me?” You attempt to tease him and he’s quick to shift himself down to your height again. A hand grabbing you by the front of your gear and tugging you up towards his face. A low rumbling growl emanating from him, teeth bared.

“I didn't go looking for it, and I certainly don't like you. Remember who you're…talking…” He trails off. His eyes locked on yours. He can't help the almost doe eyed expression he makes, his teeth no longer fully exposed and his mouth slightly ajar. As though he’d entirely lost his train of thought. From this close you could see every little fleck of blue in his eyes individually. Even glowing you could see the slightest of color changes.

“You uh…you alright?” You mutter as he stares. He’s slow when he releases you, his face pulling away a bit. A silence settles between you two for a moment before he speaks up again.

“Your eyeliner.”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you uh, always do it like that?���

[somanyratsinthewalls]

Congratulations on 700!! May I request Magenta Rooster? Our lovely Corazon is so clumsy to begin with and I really wanna see how clumsy he can get during drunk/high sex (I'd love to see him high af tbh) some fluffy smut would just be 🤌🏼 chefs kiss

When I read this request from @firefistussy I screamed because it's the cutest thing I've ever heard in my life. As a stoner who loves dorks and high sex, this was the perfect set up.

Under The Influence (18+)

Pairing: Corazon x Fem!Reader

Prompt: Drunk/High Sex

WC: 2000

Warnings: I wrote this high on 20mg of edibles (I felt it was appropriate for this occasion, but sorry babes if it sucks ass) high sex, marijuana usage and mention, p in v sex, unprotected sex, OKAY JUST LIKE A BRIEF SECOND OF BUTT TO V BUT DONT DO THAT, ITS FUNNY FOR THE PLOT, fingering, creampie, breeding, clumsy idiot cora, awkward sex, cute cora tho.

— —

It was a hell of a day. 

From sun up you had been busy with paperwork and handling purchase orders for the Don Quixote family. You hated being associated with such an infamous family, but they always paid your salary on time and that was what mattered. Being a member of a notorious pirate family came with another perk… you never had to worry about running out of weed. The Don Quixote family was dealing in markets much darker than marijuana, so they had no problem keeping your supply full. 

All you wanted was a hot shower and to lay up on your couch with an obscenely large joint. And so, you made plans to do that after retiring to your quarters for the day. You rolled yourself the perfect marijuana cigarette and set it down on your pink mirrored tray (a “gift” from your boss) next to the lighter. Next, you stripped yourself of your sweaty clothes and started the shower. 

Once hot enough, you stepped through the foggy glass door and submerged yourself under the water. You let out a long sigh as the hot water soothed your tired body. You take the time to tenderly massage your scalp while you shampoo and condition your hair. Once the products were rinsed out, you lathered your body in the sweet vanilla scented body wash that the men around you always commented on. 

After your shower, you hopped out and dried off before you wrapped yourself in a short, black terrycloth robe. You towel off your hair and return to your bedroom where you flopped onto your loveseat and grabbed the lighter. You bring the joint to your lips and light it carefully so that it burned evenly. 

You throw your head back against your velvet throw pillow as the first clouds of smoke hit your lungs. You kick your feet up entirely so that you can recline on the couch as you continue to smoke. You weren’t sure how many minutes had gone by before you heard a gentle knock on your door. 

*tap tap*

“Come in…” You shout as you exhale smoke. 

The door opens but you don’t turn around. 

*thunk*

“Shit-“

You hear the lamp on your end table rattle. 

“How did you know I was up, Rosi?” You smile and take another hit off your joint, knowing exactly who it was without sitting up and turning your head.  

“The whole place can smell that you’re up. You’re not exactly discrete.” Corazon says with a smirk as he walks towards the couch. 

“I wasn’t trying to be.” You grin and tilt your head back on the pillow so you were looking up at his imposing figure upside down. You hold the joint straight up so that it was near Corazon’s face. “Come take a hit?” You asked. 

Corazon shook his head but didn’t back away. 

“I shouldn’t. I’m still on the clock.” 

“You’re always on the clock… with that monstrous brother of yours… come on, a few puffs won’t hurt.” You coo as you wiggle the marijuana closer to him. Corazon sighs before plucking the joint from your fingers. 

“You know I can’t say no to you…” He huffs as he sits opposite your reclining form on the loveseat. His large stature requires you to put your legs up and crossed on the back of the couch to make room for him, your robe riding up your nude thighs a bit. Corazon catches himself ogling your exposed skin and adjusts his gaze. He takes a long drag from your joint and you raise your eyebrows expectantly. 

He starts coughing immediately, violently.  

“Gods, Rosi take a drink.” You giggle as you hand him your glass of wine. He chugs several sips and then catches his breath. 

“It’s been awhile…” Corazon chuckles and tries to cover for his inexperience. 

“You’re so cute. Just shotgun it from me.” You smile and take the joint from his large, outstretched hand. His huge fingers made it look comically small. 

“Just… what…?” Corazon looks up at you with his brows furrowed. 

You laugh again and sit up to cross your legs in front of you on the couch facing the blonde man. 

“I’ll smoke, and blow it in your mouth. It’s less harsh for you that way. Come here.” You say as you straighten up and beckon him closer. 

Corazon looks nervous as he leans closer to your much smaller frame. 

You suck in a large hit and reach out to grab the back of his head and gently pull his mouth to yours. You breath the smoke out slowly into his open mouth, lips just barely ghosting each others. Corazon inhales the smoke and breathes it out much easier this time. 

He pulls back and smiles down at you. 

“That was better…” He laughs. 

“I liked it too… come here.” You whisper as you take another long drag. You pull Rosinante by his hair back to your lips, pressing them together lightly this time before exhaling the intoxicating smoke. 

“If I was speculating… I’d say you were trying to get me high, Miss y/n.” Corazon says as he breathes out another cloud of smoke in your face. 

“Hmmm and what would be so bad about that?” You muse as you prepare to give him another hit. You deliver the thick smoke straight to his lungs while darting out your tongue to swipe across his bottom lip, teasingly. “Afraid you might not be able to resist your subordinate with your guard down?” You whisper into his lips. You unfurl your legs and rest them on either side of Corazon’s body. 

Corazon blows out his smoke. He shifts his body so he’s hovering over you. 

“Who says I’m resisting?” Corazon smirks. 

“Kiss me, Rosi.” You softly plead in your dazed state. You drop the almost finished joint in the ashtray beside you. 

Wordlessly, Corazon presses his lips firmly onto yours as he cups your cheek gently with one hand, the difference in pressure sent your mind swimming. He tasted like both tobacco and marijuana. He slid his tongue past your lips to explore the rest of your mouth sensually. You sighed in approval and he slipped his hand up your bare thigh to rest at the juncture of your leg and body, squeezing your flesh teasingly. 

You buck your hips with need. 

“What do you want, y/n?” Your massive blonde lover asks you. 

“Touch me…” You say quietly as you spread your legs fully beneath him. 

“As you wish…” Corazon whispers as he moves his hand from your hip bone to swipe two fingers down your slit and back up, wetness from your hole coating his large digits. He circles your clit gently, and you whimper, the marijuana heightening every sensation. 

“M-more, Rosi.. w-want to feel you inside…” You plead as he teases your clit with soft pets. 

“You know how I feel about saying no to you…” Corazon smiles before plunging those two fingers into your quivering hole, a deep groan leaving you as he crooks them upwards immediately into your favorite spot. 

“Shit.. yes… just like that…” You say as you grip the blonde locks at the back of his head, bringing his head closer to your chest. Corazon uses his other hand to rip your robe open as he balances carefully on his knees, he then delves into your right breast with an eager mouth. He suckles desperately at your erect nipple as you melt into his touch. 

“Just a little more, yes, fuck Rosi!” You thrust your hips up into his palm so that it would rub against your clit while the pads of his fingers hammer into your g-spot. “Shit, right there… I’m gonna cum, fuck!” You pull harshly on Corazon’s hair as you see stars and gush all over his large hand. 

You breath heavily and loosen your grip on the back of Corazon’s scalp. You sooth over the patch that you pulled on with soft strokes of your hand. 

“Good, love?” Rosinante pulls away from you and asks. 

“Yes, just take me to bed now, please.” You demand with a wicked grin. 

Without needing another verbal reminder of how he’d always tell you yes, Corazon picks you up in his strong arms and carries you to the bed. 

“Fuck-“ Corazon huffs as he trips over your discarded high heels and flops the both of you onto your purple comforter unceremonious. 

You can’t help but giggle up at him, shocked he’d survived this long on earth with how clumsy he is. Choosing to ignore his misstep, Corazon attacks your neck with nips and bites, sending you immediately back into the mood. Your head was still so fuzzy from the weed and now the orgasm, that you shivered under his rough kisses. 

“Turn around for me, baby.” Corazon whispers into your skin.

You gladly obliged and sluggishly toss your robe off and position yourself on your hands and knees on the bed. It took far longer than it should, due to your inebriated state, but it gave Corazon the time to strip himself of his own shirt and pants. He comes up behind you wearing nothing but his pink love-heart printed boxer shorts. Swiftly, he tugs down his underwear and lets his painfully erect cock spring free and prod at your soft skin. Corazon’s head was swimming with intoxication and arousal as he smoothed one large hand over your spine and nudged the head of his cock into you with the other. 

“Fuck me, Rosinante…” You coo as you push you ass back into him. 

“Yes, mama… Anything you want…” Corazon pushes his hard member into you and sinks about two inches in before you yelp and push your hands back against his abs. 

“Cora! Wrong fucking hole!” You grit out as you whip your head around at him. 

“Gods! Sorry! Fuck!” Corazon jumps back in surprise and pulls himself out of your ass, even though he had just dipped his tip in. 

“Lower!” You hiss out. 

“Right, shit, sorry baby…” Cora grips his hard cock and shifts it lower and finds your drooling hole without any more difficulty. 

“Yesssss…” You moan out as Corazon bottoms out inside your wet walls. 

“Fuuuuck…” Corazon groans as he begins to thrust his hips against yours, lost in the feeling of your pussy sucking him in. 

“Harder! Fuck, Rosi, harder!” You yell as your eyes roll into the back of your head. 

“Anything for you… OOF-“ Rosinante grunts as he loses his balance on top of you and ends up pinning you to the mattress on your stomach, slipping out of you in the process. 

Frustrated, you groan. 

“Get on your fucking back.” You push him by the shoulders and flip his body over. You straddle his waist and align his weeping cock up with your clenching hole. 

“Please give it to me, mama…” Corazon whines at you. 

It was such a beautiful sight, high out of his mind, drooling on himself trying his best not to slam his hips up into you. You oblige and sink yourself down on his massive cock. You grin stupidly as your pelvis reaches his, his public bone tickling your clit. 

You brace your hands on Corazon’s massive torso as you begin to grind yourself back and forth on top of him, making sure his length was rubbing against your g-spot with every movement. You couldn’t help but moan as you begin to get closer and closer to your second peak of the evening. You grunt like an animal as you grind yourself to the edge of another orgasm.

“I can feel you getting close…” Corazon whispers out as he grips your ass with one hand and wraps the other gently around your throat. “I’m close too… want you to cum so you can milk me dry, baby… just let go… use me…” 

With those filthy words you finally snap and release all over Corazon’s thighs and abdomen. 

“Fuck!” You cry out and throw your head back. 

“There it is, stay there and take all of it…” Corazon grips you by your shoulders and pushes you impossibly far down on his cock, causing you to whine at how it pushes against your cervix. 

“So… full…” You sigh as you collapse into Corazon’s shoulder. 

You can hear laughter rumble from your lover’s chest. 

“I’m tired, too.” Corazon says. “Best we go to sleep before we raid the kitchen.” 

You immediately pick your head up from the crook of his neck. 

“Oooh, kitchen?” Your eyebrows raise. 

Corazon rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll fix you a snack.” 

— — 

Hope you enjoyed!

Xx Mo 

[lethalchiralium]

All I Ask | Simon “Ghost” Riley x Wife!Reader

a/n: hi. PLEASE GIVE ME REQUESTS FOR THIS IM RUNNING OUT OF IDEAS AND I DONT WANT TO START THE ANGST ARC YET PLEASE

warnings: TALKING ABOUT SIMON’S TRAUMA (which includes physical abuse)

summary: Simon tells you why he feels ashamed, plus Mellie decides to be a comforting little baby.

PREVIOUS << | >> NEXT | SERIES MASTERLIST

Simon could not get you to slow down, it was worrying him. He had taken the night to just sleep, fighting nightmares and waking up just as tired as he was when his head hit the pillow. He got up, took a shower without having to let Mellie into the bathroom to play, got dressed and made his way downstairs to find you.

The TV was on, the stupid show about those blue dogs playing that Simon secretly enjoyed, Mellie bouncing around in her little walker as you sat on the couch; Winnie’s hair between your fingers, making much prettier braids than he ever has. Though, Winnie has never complained; she said that he braids her hair ‘nicer’, whatever that meant - but it meant everything to him.

The baby in the bright yellow walker looked to him, her hand in her mouth as she smiled and began to coo at him - her free hand making grabbing signals. He smiled, walking straight to her and plucking her from the walker, settled her on his arm while both of her hands gripped his shirt. Her little head rested on his collarbone, a happy little giggle leaving her lips as he turned to his wife and oldest daughter.

Winnie shoveled fistfuls of Cheerios out of the box and into her mouth, infatuated with the blue and orange dogs while you smiled to him, radiant. He almost took a step back, in disbelief of how content you looked.

“You okay?” You spoke, looking back to Winnie’s hair. He gazed down at Mellie, her face looking at the TV too.

“Fine.” He answered, moving towards the couch to sit beside you. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder before draping his free arm on the back of the couch, eyes falling on the TV. “You doin’ okay?”

“I’m more worried about you than I am me.” Your answer made him frown a bit as you looked back to Winnie’s hair.

He looked to your hair, wishing he could see you beautiful face. “You don’t need to worry ‘bout me.”

“I always worry about you.” You murmured, fingers slowing as you continued the one of two Dutch braids. He opened his mouth to say a rebuttal, but you continued, “But this is a whole different kind of worry. This is really hard, and I need to make sure that you’re going to be okay. And that I can help you in any way you need.”

“I should be saying that to you.” His baby tugged on his shirt while the hand not on Mellie settled on your closest shoulder, the girl cuddled on his chest began to coo again. He looked down to her, noticing that she wasn’t even looking at him - she was looking at you.

You turned your head to kiss the hand on your shoulder before turning back to your daughter’s hair. “Did a lot of thinking. A lot of crying.” A moment of laughter came from the TV, his eyes flickered to it. He watched the show just for a second before you began again, his eyes went back to you. “Families don’t go according to plan. When I was a kid, wanting two girls and two boys of my own and a loving husband was my plan; but then you crashed the party and you stomped all over it with the most wonderful little girl I’ve ever met.” You leaned forwards a kissed Winnie’s hair, to which she grumbled as the cereal box kept rustling with her grubby little hands digging out Cheerios. “Nothing I planned for my whole life has ever gone as planned. Adopting my daughter and hoping I’m raising her how her birth mother wants wasn’t a part of my plan. Having a surprise baby while you’re off protecting the world wasn’t a part of the plan.” He squeezed your shoulder. “We wanted another, but it just wasn’t in the cards. We drew a bad hand.”

“Wise girl.” He smiled, moving forwards to press a kiss to the back of your head. “I’ll be fine.”

“You say that.” You murmured. “I don’t want to push you, Si, but I want you to actually be okay. And it’s not an overnight decision-“

“I had a dream about my mum.”

You looked surprised. He has never told you about his dreams, even when she’s waking him from the nightmares which had him screaming.

The weight in his chest was lifted because of that dream, even if he knew she wasn’t real. His mom was dead, but he dreamt and talked to her as if she wasn’t. He couldn’t tell you what he had told his mother in his dream.

“I hope you were able to bring yourself comfort.” Your voice broke him from the memory, head still faced forwards towards Winnie. “There’s no reason to feel ashamed about missing your mom. I miss mine all the time.”

Mellie’s hand gripped what little stubble he had on his chin, he looked down at her. Her eyes that matched his, wide and warm and accompanied by her two toothed smile. His hand gently pushed back her barely their hair that looked like yours, the girl cooed.

“She’s supposed to be talking soon, right?” He mumbled, her little baby nails dug into his chin but he didn’t care. “Keep forgetting to get her to talk.”

“She will when she’s ready.”

Mellie smacked his chin, he frowned at her. She giggled back, the sleeve of her blue onesie riding up her arm.

“Say Dada.” He whispered, the baby furrowed her eyebrows. “Dada.”

“Simon Riley, don’t you be turning her on me.” Your voice held warning, but full of playfulness. He glanced to you, you still faced away. “Her first word is gonna be ‘Mama’ and there will be hell to pay if it isn’t.”

He looked back to the baby on his chest, a sudden clench of his heart made his smile drop. The little baby was looking to you now since she heard your voice.

“I didn’t want him.”

His free hand gently patted his baby’s back, she kept her eyes on her mom.

“I didn’t want our son and I don’t know why.”

There was a moment of silence, save for the TV, where neither of you said a word. He couldn’t look at you.

“Winnie, baby, can you go eat in the dining room for me?” Your voice was soft, Winnie hopped off of the couch, loudly crunching on her Cheerios as she passed by Simon - her hair in two neat little braids. He kept his gaze on his baby, watching as her little smile grew bigger as you turned to look at him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your hand was gentle when it rested on his chest, Mellie’s grip disappeared from his chin, moving to your fingers. The little chunky hands grabbed your pointer finger, trying to pull it to her mouth.

His words failed him as he watched Mellie begin to chew on your finger, you were completely unfazed. How could he have told you? It would’ve only hurt you.

“You don’t have to tell me.” Your head then rested on his shoulder, his hand still patted Mellie’s back. “I don’t need to know, I’m just trying to help you.”

The tears weren’t purposeful, yet they still fell - just short of Mellie’s head. The girl looked up to him, her little eyes widened and she immediately pulled your hand from her sharp teeth. Her little baby hands then smacked themselves onto his face, directly in the way of the streaks of his tears.

“Daddy’s okay, baby.” He whispered, his other hand tried to move her hands from his face, but she let out a grunt in disapproval. “It’s alright.”

You curled your body into his side, arms wrapped around his left arm - head nestled on his shoulder. Silence fell again, his daughter staring directly into his eyes and refusing to move her hands as he silently cried. Her little fingers curled uncurled against his cheeks, little nails scuffing up his face but he didn’t care. He could stay like this forever.

Mellie blinked at him, cooing a little as the tears began to stop. Her eyes grew tired, her hands moved from his face and to his chest, keeping herself sitting up so she could stare at him. She scrunched her nose just like her sister, and without warning, slammed her head into his collarbone. He winced in pain, his only free hand coming to cradle her head.

He’d be lying if he said that he wanted time to keep moving, so he could watch his daughters grow. He just wanted to stay like this, his baby cradled on his chest and just as sassy as her older sister.

“My father,” His voice was quiet, just above a whisper. “He hated that he had boys. Hated that he had children in the first place, never once told me that he loved me. Always told me that he never wanted me.”

Your hands squeezed his arm.

“And I know I told you that I would be okay with a boy, but I don’t think I could look my own son in the face. All I’d see is me, that little boy who was so terrified of his father that he hid in the cabinets for days. The little boy who was forced to watch his father beat his mother.” He took a short breath. “I couldn’t look a carbon copy of myself in the face and act like I loved him, because he would be a reminder of how I failed my family. That I would end up like my father.”

“You’ll never be that fucking bastard.” Your voice was certain, he knew you were looking up at him but he couldn’t move his eyes from Mellie as her little face turned to look at you. “Simon, please, look at me.”

He couldn’t deny you a thing - not in this lifetime, or the next. His head turned, his face looking to you - his heart shattered. There were tears in your eyes, your hands squeezing his arm.

“You never will be like your father,” Hands gripped around his arm, you pulled his arm even further into your chest. “That girl on your chest has never been anything but love from you. Winnie has only ever been loved by you. Have you hit her?”

He stared at you. “No.”

“Would you? Has the thought ever crossed your mind?”

“No.”

“You’re already miles better than him.” Your voice grew softer, your hand moved to rest on his cheek. “And I know you’d never think of hurting me.” The tears stung his eyes, the tiredness that welled in his shoulders began to hurt as you whispered to him, “I know you’re scared of becoming him, but I doubt you ever will. You have so much love to give, Simon. From what I’ve heard, your father only had hurt to give.”

“I don’t ever want to hurt you.” His eyes fluttered closed, leaning his head forward to settle his forehead against yours. “I don’t want to hurt my girls, I just want to love all three of you.”

“That’s all I ask for.”

A little hand smacked his cheek, he opened an eye to look in the direction of Mellie. He opened both of his eyes, pressing a kiss to your forehead before looking to his baby.

“Say Mama.” He spoke, the little baby scrunched her nose again. He smiled through his tears, his eyes flickered up when he saw Winnie creep into view. Her little green bear settled in her arms, she rubbed the back of her hand into her eye. “C’mon, Winnie.”

The chestnut haired little girl instantly climbed her way onto his lap, narrowly avoiding the baby on his chest and plopping in between him and you. You instantly moved your arm around her, grabbing the blanket that was set on the arm of the couch. He helped you with his free hand, pulling the blanket to cover his family.

“I’m proud of you, Si.” You spoke, hand resting on his chest as your arm laid on Winnie’s side. His oldest daughter’s head settled just under yours, you placed a kiss on her head.

Those words made him smile, the tears falling down his face - Mellie looked back up to him after curiously watching you and him cover everyone with the blanket. He pressed a kiss to her face before leaning his head back onto the back of the couch, closing his eyes. You moved one leg over his lap, sleep began to gnaw at his head.

“Daddy.”

“Yeah, Winnie?” He answered.

“That wasn’t me.” He heard Winnie as clear as day, his head shot up to look down at Mellie, who still kept herself sitting up and looking at him - a smile on her little face. He could instantly feel your head pop up from his shoulder.

“Mama.” He said, hushed, “You say Mama, Mellie. Not Daddy.”

“Daddy.” The little baby on his chest cooed, louder this time. “Dada.”

“She said her first word.” You whispered, hand squeezing his arm. “I’m so mad at you for being first.”

“I was rooting for her to say mama too,” He whispered, his hand gently patting Mellie’s back.

“Say Mama, Mellie.” The baby looked to you as soon as you spoke, she stared at you. “She has your staring problem.”

“I know. I kind of feel bad.” He commented as he watched Winnie’s hand reach out to pet her sister’s head, the baby cooed again. Mellie looked back to Simon, her little hand reached back for his face. He pressed a kiss to her hand before letting her grab his stubble again, almost wincing as she pulled on it. “Gentle, Bug.”

“Dada.” Mellie answered, then let go of his chin - settling her head gently on his chest this time.

“I love you, Bug.” He whispered, kissing her head before moving to Winnie, placing a kiss on her head too as he said, “I love you, Duckling.”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek before he could get to you. “I love you.”

He wasn’t sure he could ever live without you.

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Copyright © 2023 lethalchiralium. All rights reserved.

[oscconfessions]

i dont get people's obsession with book making up with/forgiving people from her past because is her whole arc in tpot not about moving on from the past and finding new friends. idk people really want her and ice cube or match or pencil or taco or you get the point to make up and i don't see the point. let her have new friends. let her move on. not everything has to end with everybody being happy and silly together. they can be on bad terms/not talking/literally not friends. it's ok guys. I Really Just Want Them To Move On From Each Other and for people to stop forcing her back into toxic environments from her past

i think book confronting her past is important and i personally feel that she's been avoiding it (her lack of objection towards ice cube leaving her in tpot 1 and her dreading having to deal with it in tpot 10) so obviously it shouldn't just be swept under the rug but i Do Not feel like book owes match or pencil (especially pencil because match has been shown to at least be trying to improve. iirc i don tremember like anytihn gfrom bfb LOL) forgiveness. She shouldn't have to be forced to suck up and go back with people who hurt her. i genuinely think it's best that they go their seperate ways.

^ i also feel like the whole "they should just go their seperate ways" thing applies to icebook. their relationship in bfb was mutually toxic and both of them hurt the other with a lack of proper communication and whatnot. soooooo many people want ice cube and book to make up and be friends again it tpot but they're Not Good For Each Other!!! also book hasn't proven that she's grown enough from her time in bfb to even handle being around ice cube again without repeating her same mistakes towards her. ice cube has no reason to not dislike her right now because she's just acting the same as she did in bfb towards her in tpot 12. if book wants to have a chance at being with ice cube again she needs to realize /what/ she did wrong; book and ice cube's boundaries were always a mess and a big problem in their relationship was that constant pushing of boundaries by book, something that she saw no issue with because ice cube never spoke up about it until it got to an extreme point.

i fear if book and ice cube become friends again in tpot they'll A. just repeat their same mistakes or B. have all of those mistakes conveniently disappear so book faces no consequences for her mistakes in bfb which is like Not Good

i get wanting your fav friendships to interact again but *insert nerd emoji here* it makes no sense for her character and the arc they're trying to give her this season acshually

book needs to accept that her past doesn't define her so she can move on from that and move on from her past friendships. she needs to accept that those people are gone for a reason instead of chasing after them. She Needs To Actually Learn A Lesson And Change, Tpot Writers

vaguely related but dont get me wrong i love icebook (peep the blog lol) but maaaaaaaaaan i don't like seeing it portrayed all fluffy and happy and wholesome. you do you but GAFHGFDGFDKG there's so much interesting stuff about the flsaws in their relationship and just how disgustingly attached book is to ice cube and how ice cube allows this to happen until it's too much for her to handle and how book focuses so much more on ice cube than herself and they're so awfully codepdendent and they suck at communication and boundaries and they were honestly always doomed to fail They Won't Work Out Together they're tied by fate and can't live without each other even if it's hurting them and AND AND AND make their relationship uglier it won't hurt to have ship content that's not 100% happy fluffy all the time no flaws ever fix-it fic material (obligatory you do you i don't care that much this is my opinion you are allowed to do whatever you want)

.

[popculturebuffet]

Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck Retrospective: The Empire Builder from Callisota: "No Scrooge McDuck once had everything. Now all he has is Money and What Money Can Buy" (Patreon Review for WeirdKev27)

Hello all you happy people and welcome back to my look at The Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck. After a long hiatus, it's almost over. Just two chapters left.

We've also got one I forgot..was banned. Yeah turns out a year ago Disney contacted rosa, told him this story was was banned and weren't really up to discussing it. As for why... well you can look above and get a pretty good idea. This story features Bombie the Zombie and Foola Zoola, characters Barks created... and characters who are entirely racist carcatures in their original form. Rosa DID do his best to give Foola depth, taking him from a one note villian to someone who didn't want a colonizer taking his land. Bombie.. really coudln't as he was a zombie and all that, but you can see from above why Disney wouldn't be crazy about reprinting Bombie and... I fully agree. As seen above, I can see WHY disney would choose to not want to print this story in it's orignal form as while Rosa did his best to fix the designs... Bombie still dosen't look that great.

The problems are twofold. The first is with Disney itself, who is unwilling to let anyone talk about it, is content to bury the story at at most suggested having people edit Rosa's art, something he's against. And I do get it: letting someone else walk all over something you carefully made.. isn't fair. I dont' agree with him on refusing to edit it due to being asked, as while as he says himself

“The Dream of a Lifetime” has only THREE panels of its 25 pages in which Bombie appears. Rather than ban this entire story forever due actually to only TWO of those three panels, the publishers suggested that I allow them to have Bombie redrawn. I would not allow art-tampering if my name is on the book. (I can tamper with my own art in reprints if I made some error, but I won’t allow changes forced on me.)

Look, I do think they should allow Rosa, if he's able as I know drawing is hard for him these days, to draw it and I do think just saying outright "you have to" instead of opening up an actual talk with him over the issue is scummy. Disney is being dicks and their possible "solution" of just removing the story is stupid. This is an integral part of life and tims and editing it is the better part. (As noted with dream of the life time it's only three panels).

That said while I love Don Rosa.. he should redraw it. He shoudlnt' of had his hand forced, again he deserves more respect and it's clear Disney is fairly hands off when it comes to it's comics. if he can't, then I do understand. But Rosa does have to understand.. this IS necessary. This WAS an error on his part as while he did do his best to make the characters look less racist and in Zoola's case an actual character, and was horrified by this chapter in Barks history in his commentary.. he has to understand times have changed. And while he considers the Don Rosa Library just for adults.. that's simply not the case. Jason Aaron , who wrote the recent Uncle Scrooge and the Infnity Dime, read these stories with his kids. Other people will do the same. And black children.. deserve to not have to see a racist caracture. I'm not saying ther eisn' ta market to have an unedited version with a warning label on it, Scrooge has adult readers, but I am saying these comics , while written smartly and fitting everyone.. are all ages and always will be. I'd rather the story be edited slightly to be updated than gone all together.

Let's be fair though: While I do think Rosa is being stubborn, Disney.. is still the worst and still shoudl've given him a more resonable chat than this. Disney clearly dosen't give one iota of a shit about these stories or how important they are to comics as a whole and while this chapter could use an update, it's callous to chuck it in a bin as some racist artifact when while the art.. again could use a slight touchup, maybe make bombie a full on green zombie like the 2017 cartoon.. the story itself.. isn't racist. Rosa took a racist old tale and made it a story of collonalism and scrooge's worst moment. The worst thing he ever did.. was forcibly take land from the people already living there and that's worth telling and Disney is fucking stupid for not getting that.

Lucky for me I own the story already, but I can't say that for everyone and hopefully at some point Disney gets their head and finger out of their ass and compromises with rosa while he's still around to compromise with.

For now the story itself.. and this is the one I was dreading. Not for all the above, i'd happily forgotten that till I went to get the image then had to dig into it a bit. Thank you reddit. No.. this is the sad one. See when we first met Scrooge.. Barks hadn't quite worked out who he was. He was always a bastard but he wasn't the layered bastard we know, one who will undersell his nephews but also do the right thing in a pinch. As a result he entered the story a frail old recluse donald hadn't met yet with Night on Bear Mountain, and earlier stories had him more as an antagonist before Barks took a shine to him and found out just how well the old man fit the adventure stories that he'd been telling with donald.

One of those early stories... was a massive headache for Rosa. Voodoo Hodoo, the story with the racist carcatures mentioned above, one where Scrooge gleefully admits to tearing down an african villiage and getting cursed as a result.

Like me Rosa had dreaded this part as how the hell would this fit: he coudln't ignore it due to his pride, trying to weave everything in, but it was incredibly hard to parse that with who scrooge became.. till it hit him: USE the fact it was horribly out of character for Scrooge. Have it be the one moment that in rosa's words "he became flintheart glomgold" that one moment of weakeness where he became his worst self for just one day, succumbed to every bad instinct he had did something truly unforgivable... and have it have consequences. Have his worst moment, his one bad day, be the reason his family left and he didn't reunite with them till inviting donald and the boys for christmas all those many decades later. It's why I dreaded this chapter: it's the one where Scrooge gains everything he ever wanted.. and looses what he had in the process. It's one of the hardest chapters to read and it's under the cut.

So we open with Matilda closing her scrapbook. Up to this point her scrap book had been the opening page, tracking her brother's journey.. but now she and her sisters are adults working for their brother, staying at the office while he travels the world and the seven seas building his empire and slowly filling his bin. It's a nice bit of symbolisim considering what's about to happen.

Scrooge returns as you'd expect.. inside a canon as he refused to pay extra shipping to ship himself. He could, as Hortense points out let someone else run the show.. but he refuses. No one else has his grit and while he dosen't say it... no one else simply has his stubborness. When mugged and having his hat shot he runs down the new generation of mcvipers in a flashback simply because they shot up his hat and cost him money. The man DOES need a better work life ballance.. but he isn't wrong. Scrooge is simply at his best when he's doing some of the work himself. His 2017 self does delegate more.. but truly thrives when his nephew and niece and later passel of nephews and daughter he never knew he had remind him of adventure. He dosen't always turn a tidy profit.. but the experince is well worth it and for every loss there's a gain.

This mindset makes a LOT of sense in story: We've seen scrooge struggle and scrape to get this far. Fight every minute as he will not settle for a life he does not deserve nor feels his family dosen't. Every time he seemingly got up the mountain and won... something shoved him back down with only a small handful of cash as progress, enoguh to get to the next adventure. Over that, with Rockerduck and Roosevelt's help, he learned he just.. loved the chase. He's in a comfy enough place where he can still keep going on the chase.. but every small loss isn't a gutting reminder he hasn't gotten anything but experince. He can take risks. He sometimes dosen't because he's a cheap old bastard, but he can adventure.. because he can afford it. Before it was just to survive.. now it's because it's what he WANTS to do. He wants to be richer than god, to keep going keep growing his empire and he was taught the only way to get that far is to do the hardest work yourself and maybe let others come to you for money once you got it.

Case in point Scrooge really didnt' see the need for a larger office staff, leaving only his sisters to run it.. and thus hilariously passes out when he finds they hired Ms Quackfaster. For those more familiar with Ducktales 2017 Quackfaster here is more timid, put upon back when it was entirely okay to abuse your secretary/office assitant. Ah the 40's.. please stay 50 feet away at all times thank you. He goes catatonic at finding out they have a full staff, but Hortsens is unphased throwing a whole cup of coffe in his face and making it clear that A) They couldn't do this with two people ya jackass and B) we're comnig with you.. ya jackass.

The girls have brought quackmore to office manage so they can go globetrotting something scrooge is suprisingly happy with.

Sadly this is about as light hearted as this adventure gets as we head into the congo.. where

The story strangely dosen't say, which is uncarctrastic for Rosa. This story has that racist habit a lot of stories do of just saying "Africa' instead of "what country exactly on the largest continent in the world". Which is not great when he was far more specific when we did the previous jaunt to south africa. Yeah... some oft his story has not aged well and Rosa can and should have done better. He does through research but here just... plunks a very plot importnat villiage int he middle of a giant continent.

Scrooge is intent to impress his sisters.. but instead shows them, and us, how far he's fallen: Scrooge does one of the oldest tricks in the colonalist playbook, offering the cheif a quarter for the land rights since the man genuinely DOSEN'T know he's getting screwed over. This trope is.. awful, that old "Oh stupid indgenious peoples they'll belivie anything. So it's not great.. but it is softend a bit as the chief offered a tiny war drum something sacred to him, something not worth money, but worth a lot to their small community.. and scrooge faked that gesture while really screwing the poor guy over. While the optics are sketchy.. the intent works: Scrooge has sunken so low that rather than make his money square and returning a heartfelt gesture of someones cutlure sincerly.. he tricks the person for his own ends.

The sisters call him out for this... and it's a scene I forgot.. but boy does it hit

Seeing Scrooge fallen this low.. is hard. While it's not the man gut punch of the comic, Don Rosa's not even close to done working the body, it still hits to see how much he's changed. It was to the point I THOUGHT this was a bit abrubt, that while it's been a while since the last chapter, it surely can't of been THAT long.

Thinking back though... this was set up most of the story. Scrooge's dark side has always been part of his character, especially in the comics: Even in the better days ahead in the prime of the barks and rosa eras.. he's still rageful, barely pays his family or workers, petty and often wont' do things he easily could simply to be a selfish dick. Christmas for Shacktown has him refuse to help pay for christmas for orphans even when Donald put in the hard work to get 25 dollars.. which is, to my shock 294 dollars and 17 cents in today money. So yeah donald gathered nearly 300 dollars in charity.. that scrooge refused to repay. I'd say he's the worst evil billonare in fiction but his competition is pretty stiff

Point is part of Scrooge's charm is he COULD be an asshole... it thankfully got toned down with time and Ducktales and ESPECIALLY 2017 Ducktales toned it the fuck down, the latter having what I consdier to be my faviorite version, but he's still some form of bastard, and his need to grow as a person or suprising bits of depth and humanity are what make him so fascinating. He's a dick.. but he has a lot of layers to him and a moral code.

This chapter shows just what thin ice that code is on: how it wouldn't take too much for him to tip over the line and become an even worse glomgold. While that darkness isn't there in the early chapters, as younger scrooge is both a tad more naive and way more kind and trusting it slowly builds: in Raider of the Copper Hill he nearly goes mad with power at just the THOUGHT of his newfound fortune and only having to sell his newfound wealth immediatly for pennies snaps him out of it. The Terror of Transval breaks his trust in most people completely, thanks flinty. In King of The Klondike while still sympathetic you can see his harder shell having fully formed, how he avoids other people, is rude to just about everyone and later in the next chapter, is fairly cold to people.It's been bubbling faster and faster: In the billionare of dismal downs, he snaps at the townspeople threanting to leave them all homeless out of petty spite. And finally in the previous chapter, he kicks those boy scouts out rather rudely, which bites him in the ass when they assume he's a foreign spy. The last part is just them being dummies, but there's this harsh sharp edge we simply don't fully notice forming.. because it's who scrooge is even after he takes about ten percent off. The guy is mean.

But Barks uses this opportunity to show why he's a hero.. by showing him, for one shameful moment, as a villian. As a pure monster who gladly tricks an indigenous person out of their land and his response to being called out on it by his anchors, the thing noticably able to snap him out of his worst insincts... is to say "i'm done playing fair."

Scrooge is often honest.. because he's got people around to curb his worst insincts. His family keep him grounded: having the goal of helping provide for them kept him honest, his dad kept pushing him away from his worst instincts and his sisters and mom kept doing the same.

The problem is.. slowly but surely.. he's just about lost everyone: His mentors are long gone or in the white house. He dosen't trust anyone enough to have actual friends. And as for his family.. h'es slowly lost them: His Uncles have passed by now, he lost his mom and found out in the worst way possible, and he just lost his dad. He has his sisters.. but like Donald and the Boys later, he's on an uneven enough playing field with them to ignore them if he wants. After all he provided for them, he gave them a home in america, what fucks should he give they don't care. Their the last tether he has to his humanity and he's kept them at arms length, keeping them at home whlie he journied and letting himself get more and more corrupt. Without the humanizing aspects of his goal to gain wealth, having saved his ancestral castle, given his sisters a good life and become rich, all that's left is gaining more and more money whatever it takes. Scrooge may be unscrupoious on a good day.. but he has enough honor to do the right thing, to be honest about his money. Without that is just the monster barely contianed under the surface and the last thing locking it out.. is about to go away.

So Scrooge confronts the Voodoo Part of the tribe, which while... once again about as researched as Tintin in Africa, is one of the better parts. Again Barks casual racisim.. shows a bit. It's something I didn't notice on previous readings but is kinda.. obvious now as the man just didn't bother ot put in the research he did for white legends and locations. He's not always racist, he put true effort into researching the dreamtime for the Dreamtime Duck of Never Never, but it's clear when it comes to africa he didn't really give a shit.

That said while he has issues I WILL give Rosa credit for how he redid Foola. The racist aspects are gone aside from fangs for teeth.. and characterzation wise he's treated not as some cheap villian.. but as a man who puts on scare tactics because he's used to men like scrooge: Greedy white assholes who try to take everything they can from his sacred land. Foola is unimpressed by this colonizing asshole and it's a part of the story that, unlike most of the other villiage stuff, holds up very well: Barks clearly respects Vodoo even going on one of his signature "old man yells at cloud" rants about how "traditional" zombies are nothing like the ones we know now. Foola is only in the story for a short while but makes a hell of an impression, being one of the few characters to truly best scrooge

Now Scrooge probably woudln't of takent his well in any form at any time. The diffrence is the scrooge later could at least be talked down by the nephews or would've barged back in solo to fight Foola. He also never would've done the racist offering a quarter shit to him or the chief. This scrooge.. does easily the worst thing Scrooge McDuck has EVER done in any medium.

I love the heavy shadows over his face in this scene, just the pure.. evil radiating off scrooge for a moment. Anger, malice.. we've seen it.. but we've never seen him as a complete and utter monster destroying people's lives and homes all for his greed and every minute of it is painful, seeing just how... Broken matilda is by it. You can see just how sad she is to see her brother not only tear her apart for no good reason but tear innocent people apart.. while Hortense.. prepares to pack.

Somehow scrooge manages to do MORE horrible shit, pretending to be someone else to get foola to sign the contract. Foola swears his revenge... and Scrooge returns not to his sisters forgiving him and gladly taking the money as he expected... but a letter

While dishonesty is kinda underselling it, it's a truly painful moment. It's also an awesome one as the whole time Scrooge has ignored what they've had to say.. and now he can't. All he can do is gripe about WHY he's sunk this low: that if the world isn't honest why shoud he be? It's a problem that feels extra relevant these days: if the world is a dumpster fire... why shouldn't I be one too? If nothing we do matters, what does anything matter?

I'd forgotten this scene.. but damn it hits. The one thing that gets through to him.. is his dad. He can lie to himself.. but he can't lie to his dad. And the answer to that hypothetical above was simple: to be true to yourself, to respect yourself enough not to sink to tohers levels.

This does convince scrooge to go reunite with his family.. but first he has bigger issues. Foola's back..a nd he's brougth bombie. And bombie's design isn't great, but Barks reimagines him well: more as an unstoppable juggernaught than a mildly racist zombie. Thankfully Rosa also needed to retcon something else: Scrooge looked like a young donald in the flashback, something that didn't really stack up with later versions, so in not ignoring this story, Rosa found a clever way to deal with that; his earlier disguise looked like donald, so bombie only goes after him when he has a hat on.

The next section is kinda weak, if understadanbly so: Rosa had to cover DECADES of Scrooge's life this time around, so we follow him as he doe ssome buisnessy buieness buienss and outwits bombie, along the way picking up a candy striped ruby. IT's all pretty standard though the climax of it.. is fucking amazing. Bombie follows Scrooge to the titanic. Where Scrooge dosen't notice the boat sinking because he's busy with bombie. It's a sequence I just kinda eyed over in past readings but in this one.. hot damn is it fun.

After he beats bombie we then get a montage as Scrooge makes a global empire, mostly nods to various barks stories I don't think i've read yet, like the gilded man of el dorado.. who then runs in fear as he forgets who he's dealing with. Nothing bad but it feels like it's there more to cover all the gaps in scrooge's history left before the finale than tell a story for the most part. There is one exception though: after he gets shoved off a cliff.. he finds he's picked up a new ability, one of his most famous

Also props to rosa for explaining the "how he can swim through coins" thing: As ducktales 2017 put it it's a hard won skill and just diving in would kill anyone else. Rosa like barks takes this seriously, as while this world has fantastical stuff in it he grounds it in the logical explanation, ones that don't feel like nitpicky fan wankery, but a logical reason why Scrooge can do the thing people know him for.

Turns out Bombie wasn't lost in the titanic... which makes sense: If James Cameron the Bravest Pioneer didn't find him while taking underwater footage of it, he must've been gone. The Chief of an Island scrooge is negotating with takes the ruby in exchange for binding Bombie for 30 years and Scrooge is sur ehe'll NEVER see him again.

Some time ,more finagaling and proftering later, Scrooge FINALLY returns home to a warm reception.. an ddickilsh bashes the mayor with the key to the city

Sadly his return to his office.. means our ending. And it's one of the hardest things i've had to write about. And I had to write about frasier mowing down the ACLU a few weeks back.

No this ending is simple but crushing: His sisters decided to let bygones be bygones, enough time had passed. Sadly.. Scrooge taking the long way round.. meant he just.. dosen't care. He brushes them off, storms into his office and when Hortense storms in.. he angrily tells them they didn't care when he was abroad all that time supporting them before. What he misses.. is that things changed. Two, when he started his trip, small children with no real agency seeing their brother off versus two grown women who simply want him to acknowledge them.. is diffrent. They don't need him anymore.. and Hortense tells him if he shoes them away NOW, it's over. And sadly.. Scrooge pushes them away. While before it was due to his darkest hour.. this time.. it's just due to who he is. Scrooge is a prideful old bastard who can't accept weakness and sees his emotoinal ties as just that. IT's why it takes him so long to actually admit, and rarely to their faces, he cares about Donald and the nephews.. and his sisters need and deserve that. THey deserve to be acknowleged. Donald and the Boys did.

Speaking of Donald he and Della were here and whiel Della was only a character enough at this point to get a cameo Donald... gets the last shot in.

Bout sums up their relationship really.. but it's also oddly sweet.. donald kicks scrooge's ass, literally and desrevedly.. because he made his momma cry.

Scrooge has a chance, to reconcile, to fix this.. but sadly instead...

God that last panel, his sisters sadly resigned to letting him go as the Bin towers over everything, showing off just how lonely he is and forever will be. Even if this story as a whole has a happy ending, this ending... guts you.

And somehow.. I found a way it guts me even more on a second reading. This.. is the last time Scrooge talks to hortense that we're aware of. He DOES see Matilda again, a story we'll certainly get to someday, and one of Rosa's finest.. but it's heavily implied Hortense and Quackmore are gone by the time Donald and Della are adults as we never see them and unlike Della, we never got an explination in the comics. Scrooge's last time seeing his sister was a terrible argument and him turning his back on his family out of pride. He lost so much time with her, her children and his family.. all for nothing.

The Richest Duck in the World is a good story.. if an uneven one. Parts of it are mildly racist, with Rosa again not having cared enough to do actual research this time and that's damming from a guy who prides himself on it, and it drags for a bit as Rosa has to stitch together decades of noodle incidents in Barks work. The titanic scene is great but most of it is pretty much fanservice and while I am a fan of Barks work, i'm not the super student Rosa is, so I don't get nearly as much out of it. I'm fine with fanservice, but the rest of the comic does a better job threading it in naturally.

That said while the chapter is uneven.. the parts it nails.. it really NAILS. Scrooge's darkest hour is truly chilling, a monsterous act that is truly horrifying to watch and the ending just hits like a truck. While we get a SLIGHT breather with Donald kicking his ass, it ends on a gut punch that reminds us Scrooge.. lost his family. The very thing he set out to help... he lost.

Thankfully.. this isn't the end. While this is the climax.. i'ts not the ending. So

Next Time: We end this trek as Scrooge gets to know his nephews and has to deal with an old foe. Till then thanks for reading

[thebruno65]

Danganronpa 2: DLC. How it could potentially go

A while ago, i made a post on a fake dr2 DLC with Ryota and Sato and didnt think much of it. But ive been recently coming back to it. So yeah, dr2 but sato replaces hajime and ryota replaces chiaki, heres how i would make it go, btw, this ISNT a what if, its how i eould see it.

Chapter 1:

the prologue + most of chapter 1 daily life can go the same. The moment it starts to change the timeline is when they were about to do their usual stick-thingy draw, when Sato just reluctantly chooses to do the work instead, seeing as she thought that draw game was kinda stupid.

This kinda screwed Nagitos plan, so he thought about having 2 ppl clean, the same thing happens and Nagito is chosen. When they're cleaning, he changes his target over to Sato, doing the same he did to canon Teru, only this time she isnt willing to do it. Teru eventually stumbles into the scene and sato tells him about Nagito, foiling his plan.

In the end Nagito would have to fully change his plan to something else, deciding to have Akane as the blackened as he somehow finds out about her siblings at home. Akane kills him and then gets executed.

Chapter 2

The motive this time is way more interesting, as now the killer herself is here alive and well. So instead of messaging Mahiru, he does to Sato, she eventually plays and finds out about the game, but unlike Mahiru, she doesnt go. So it eventually retargets back to Mahiru.

The reason as to why Fuyu kills her instwad of peko usually could target back on the fact that his og target didnt show up, making him even angrier and peko just doesnt have time to interfeer.

In the trial, peko would obviously try and divert the trial to think it was her, but eventually the truth is revealed and fuyu is bye-gone

Chapter 3

The party can now be directed to Peko as she tried to interfeer in fuyus execition this time and failed. Nekomaru would still turn into a robot not because of akane, but because of Sato herself, you can have her truly get sick and mad that Mahiru died and all that so she confronts monokuma. Only to get slashed in the arm, aka the same place were she got slashed before.

The ones with the despair disease could be:

Akane -> Sato

Ibuki -> Ibuki

Nagito -> Gundham (?)

And the people taking care of them would be:

Mikan

Peko

Impostor

So the rest would be staying at the motel, those being:

Ryota

Hiyoko

Sonia

Kazuichi

Teruteru

Hiyoko one night would sneak in to sato's room, why? So she could tie her kimono. After Mahiru's death, they were both severly affected by it, also sato was the other person mahiru trusted so thats why she came to her and not someone else.

Dont know how the murder would occur, just know that those 3 die.

Chapter 4

Nekomaru finally comes back in his robot form much to everyones shock. When the 4th island opens up, they do the stupid rollecoaster and get the book of the fiarst killing game. Since Byakuya is surpisingly there, they question the supposed byakuya who responds about not knowing anything or remebering.

When they get in the strawberry hourse, the trios are as follow:

Sato - Nekomaru - Hiyoko

Ryota - Mikan - Impostor

Peko - Gundham - Teruteru

Sato would apologize to nekomaru about what happened to him, and in true nekomaru fashion he forgives her and doesnt hold her accountable, but he does wish she could apologize to Peko instead of him. She tries to argue back by reminding him what they did to Mahiru, but he claps back with reminding her that she killed their sister. Sato contemplates and decides to think about it.

When it comes to choosing the straw and grape rooms, the most logical solution would be to have the 5 males on the grape side and the 4 females on the strawberry house, but since Sato isnt exactly ready to be near peko yet, her and Ryota swap.

Dont know how this murder plan would go, but i still want to include the whole split group, woth Sato in grape and Mikan on straw. But this time, satos group is barely able to get anything done as their also the ones locked out of the crime scene, so well have to play as mikan for most of the time.

So it would also be Mikan that enters the final death room, now it would be changed sp ot doesnt require bs luck, mikan finds the book and her personality does a 180, she becoemes cold blunt and rude to everyone. She tells her sato abt the reserve course and yada-yada.

Trial time, and impostor is guilty. He has a similar motive to gundham in canon, only this time he intended to truly have everyone survive over him, and the trial is to try and convince everyone is him. Especially Ryota, who him and imppstor grew very fond of.

In the end, he reveals he is an impostor and gives a motivatory speech to everyone, after that, Sato finally gains the courage to forgive and apologize herself to peko. And while they both arent necesarily on the best of terms, she does still forgive her.

Chapter 5

Mikan does a nagito, idk how but she does. And Ryota is îthe traitor. He is still part of the Future Foundation and was put on the virtual world as a method to overlook the situation. Yeah not much else here.

Chapter 6

Kinda just the same as canon tbh, wouldnt change much.

And that's how i feel like a Dr2: DLC could go! If you have any questions or any other ideas/different ways it could go, leave it in the comments.

[multisstuff]

My own sleeping beauty (Chrollo-Fluff)

Today is just a day where you don´t want to leave your bed, where simply getting out of bed is a horrible task, where brushing your teeth seems impossible, where the thought of eating breakfast makes you sick because you'd have to get out of bed first.

And you know you have to get up because it´s not healthy to let your depression wash all over you again and chain you to your bed to rot. But you just can't help it. You really can't. So to tune your negative thoughts off, you simply turn to the other side and shut your eyes for another dreamless nap. You already know that it´ll leave you even more exhausted than now.

After some time, you´re being woken up by your boyfriend, who is gently stroking your hair and calling your name. Lazily, you turn to your back to look at him while mentally scolding yourself for spending the whole day sleeping.

"Good morning, my dear," he chuckles. "Or should I say good evening?" You can´t help but feel guilty for doing nothing productive today. Starting to hate yourself for being like this then hating on yourself again for feeling so much hate for your own brain, which is a never ending cycle of growing hate towards you.

"Sorry, I should have made dinner for us since you´ve been working this whole week while I´ve been at home doing nothing." You slowly sit yourself up and try to rub the sleep out of your eyes, feeling ashamed. "I just don´t know what´s wrong with me. I can´t even say that I´ve rested well," you feel the tears welling in your eyes as you explain yourself to your boyfriend, "I dont know why this keeps happening to me like last week I've been doing so well but now I have this urge to isolate myself and rot away in my bed... I'm sorry."

Chrollo knows that you sometimes struggle with your mental health which worries him a lot when he's not with you. Thinking and researching of ways to help you like buying you a nice bullet journal for to-do lists or hiding little self-written poems so that when you do something like cooking you'd find it inbetween the plates. But even those are sometimes not enough.

Now that you´re sitting he lets his hand slide down to cup your cheek and says"My love, there is nothing to feel guilty about. I won´t judge you for you are only human too" He then grabs you gently by your waist and pulls you onto his lap so that he can embrace you. "Even if you were to sleep all year long I´d not leave your side," he whispers while rubbing your back. "You are like my own sleeping beauty, who only awakens with the gentle touch of true love".

His words never fail to fluster you, leaving you wondering how he can still be in love with you even though you can be such a mess sometimes. Overwhelmed by his statement, you can´t find the right words to say something back, so you just sigh and lean your head in the crook of his neck.

Suddenly he stands up with you in his arms "How does a bath together sound to you, my dear?" Without waiting for your answer he proceeds to walk to your shared bathroom and put you down on the closed toilet so that he can prepare the bath. While the tub is filling up with water, Chrollo gives you a gentle kiss on your forehead and instructs you to wait there for him.

While he was gone, you forced yourself to stand up and brush your teeth then to throw a bath ball into the now full tub. Chrollo enters the bathroom again with fresh clothes for you and him in his hand and smiles lovingly as he sees you. He puts the clothes on the washing machine and helps you out of your pajama.

After helping you into the bathtub he takes off his outfit as well and puts it with your clothes in the basket. Chrollo then sits down behind you in the bathtub while grabbing the sponge and gently cleaning your back. "My beloved, I´m so proud of you" he whispers, "Despite your own mind turning against you, you have not given up. And I admire you for that, my love," he puts the sponge away and starts washing your hair with soft and gentle motions.

"For most people, waking up with energy and self-love is a given. But not for you - you have to struggle with your own thoughts and mind everyday." He takes your jaw into his hand and slightly turns it to him so that he can give you a soft kiss on the temple, "But my dear, you are still standing strong and fighting. So I can´t help but be proud of you, my precious angel."

♡♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡♡

[jolalibrary]

ix. not his place. not your place.

javier peña x dea f!reader | chapter nine of nowhere to run

chapter warnings: season three narcos spoilers. no use of y/n. use of a nickname. mentions of smut. feelings. angst. anxiety. ptsd. love thoughts. word count: 6.5k.

AN: sorry for the wait, I got really in my head about it all, but thank you to @yeyinde who listens to me ramble about my writing woes and also to the brilliant @guyfieriii who tells me things my brain won't let me believe.

dedication: i dont normally do dedications, but a special one to @thelightsandtheroses because her love for this has made me want to keep chipping away, even if i lost my way. thank you for being such a light.

You’d love to say that you'd been his the moment you had stood in his office. 

But you hadn’t. 

You fought losing yourself in his brown eyes more times than you’d like to count. 

Somewhere between his face being between your thighs and you riding him, you’d been sucked in—like a moth to a flame. 

You’d been able to peel back the thrown-up walls, while he’d been assessing how to take down yours. Until the two of you are both standing in rubble, staring at one another more bare than you have been in bed. 

“You have to work with Don Berna?” 

He’s looking at you, swiping his tongue across his teeth. Your heart falling in your chest. 

“Shit…”

“Indeed.”

The house of cards is floating down, haphazardly falling, ready to land and squash those who don’t get on the right side of it. You’re never sure if he is on the right side—not because of his past, but because they’re always one step behind. 

Chasing something, anything—everything. 

One thing away from finishing it, from drawing a red cross over another photo. 

It’s why you gnaw your lip, why your nail polish is picked off from your index, middle and thumb on the one hand, and one hand only. It’s what made you begin unravelling: the sight of your undoing evidence each time you stapled or picked up the phone. 

Because… you like him. 

Truly, like him. Could even, possibly, maybe love him. 

And it makes you want to plead. Beg him to move closer, at least. Close the gap. Let you clutch him. So much said, without words being spoken. A soft glance, warm eyes and a kind smile—both given and returned. 

“Don’t…”

But he does. 

Taking soft strides to close the gap, hand reaching up to take hold of your cheek. You know he can see the fear shimmering in your eyes. It sitting in the pools that you try to blink away. Hiding your anxiety, how much you want to protest but choose not to. 

You knew that was the thing with love, you could fight it, attempt to bury it, smother it in sex, whiskey and other destructive decisions, but it always cracked through. Always rose, standing in its flaming glory like a reborn phoenix. 

“Javi. Please…. Please don’t….” Die. Leave me.

“Not a fucking chance.” 

You let his forehead press to yours, eyes closing, managing to choke out, “Good.”

At some point along the way, before he’d gone to Cali, he had handed you a key to his place, and you had told him where your spare was. 

Easy, convenient. Practical. 

Those were the words you chose and the ones he leaned on. The two of you allowed them to be the reason you took the step, not because it made sense or felt right. 

Doing so allowed the two of you less rigid plans when it came to meeting. It allowed you not to rush as he sat outside your place, not needing to tap his steering wheel as you flicked lights on and off, dashing across your windows. It meant you didn’t have to wait to begin showering or cooking when it was time to be at yours. 

It also meant the two of you didn’t need to look in his mirror—just in case someone saw. Something he’s thankful for now, more than ever since your friends are back. 

In the days before the attempt to take down Miguel, it felt right to be in your possession for many reasons. Leaving his pocket—all heavy and meaningful—and finding a home in your palm. 

Because it also stood for something else. 

Just in case. 

The words linger, heavy and pulsing in the air. In case you need me for anything or shit hits the fan. 

Both of them are things they should keep an eye on and consider. It’s in the air, how dangerously close they all were—how things were in place, yet no clear direction paving its way. 

Then there was you. 

You who has shared all that you have with him, but won’t answer him truthfully when he asks if you’re okay. You save that for your nightmares. 

It’s another reason he handed you the key: a gesture, a promise: I’m here. So much so he hadn’t been sure how you’d react, watching you stare at it for a second before your fingers closed around it, and he felt able to breathe. 

Then you’d smirked. Is this in case I need your signature, sir? 

If his name hadn’t been shouted, he’d have congratulated you for it—slipped his tongue past your lips and tasted the coffee on your tongue. 

Instead, he spent the evening signing his name against you. First, your neck, then your collarbone, before he wrote over and over with his tongue between your slit—carving each letter, gripping your hips, controlling them as they tried to meet him. One of his palms flat on your stomach, making you wait—

Paciencia, he whispered. 

Blowing cool air over your soaked core, watching you write to wriggle, twisting yourself to meet him. Little pleas and begs leaving your lips, the same one that is more wit than honest. 

It was different. The way you two fucked. 

It had been for a little while, but that night it was noticeable, a shift ever present in the room—words sitting on the edge of his tongue as he captured kisses and swallowed your moans. 

He missed it when your nails didn’t slide down his back; he craved the way you looked at him before you let go. 

Things he hadn’t focussed on before, not with you or anyone else. 

Then, there’s the morning when he wakes to find you next to him. Sometimes asleep, sometimes just waking the same as him—sleep-filled eyes washing him in beauty, warmth, and a future that feels like he could have it. 

Though, Javi hadn’t expected to hear from you tonight—never mind seeing you. 

Had assumed that you’d be catching up with Van Ness, the two of you have clung to one another in the office—some part of you visibly snapping back into place before him. He’d have been jealous if not for how you iced out Fiestl—a smugness sitting behind his teeth as he nodded at the three of you before faking a reason to hide in his office. 

Your voice was barely a whisper when he picked up the phone, softly asking if you could come around—or whether he could come over. 

Something you never ask, which is why he’s there in record time, finding your spare and sliding it in. 

For saying usually, your door has a petulance for letting him in, the lock turns in with ease, greeting him with the darkness inside—all shadowed ornaments and streams of light from cars passing your window. Your curtains are limp, undrawn—not perfectly slid into their place as usual. 

Nothing seems as it should be, not even how your place makes him feel. Usually, it wraps warmth around him, all hopeful—swamped with happiness. Your home feels cold and withdrawn tonight—like it’s at a loss. 

The door clicks with a finality, placing the key inside the glass bowl with a chime, yet he doesn’t hear you call. Not a Javi, not a Peña. 

With each heavy step he takes, he expects light to blind him—your hand over the light switch, smirk so broad that his mind automatically takes a photo of it. It never happens. His hand moves for his phone, the other motioning for his gun as he passes the open kitchen, living room and bathroom door. 

His mind goes into overdrive, wondering if anything seemed out of place, if your voice had given anything away as he pauses outside the only one shut: your bedroom.

“Cariño…?” 

He considers knocking, tapping knuckles against wood as a warning, as a sign when he hears silence. But he twists the metal door knob in hand instead, opening it, expecting to find emptiness—made bed, cushions placed at the head. 

Javi finds none of that, removing his gun from his waistband to put on the side table—his phone following suit. 

Because what he finds instead is lit by the occasional headlight and the weak stream of the streetlight. Cold ochre shimmering across balled-up sheets, used tissues and the broken mess of a person at the centre. 

At first, he can’t tell if your eyes are open until a car slowly drives past—light reflecting from the walls and hitting your open irises. 

He says your name uneasily, each letting falling consciously from his tongue as he moves close to the bed. Only receiving the lowest hum back from the duvet and destruction.

The mattress dips, your body unmoving still as his fingers find the string of your bedside lamp. 

“I’m turning the light on—just need to see you.” 

He wishes he hadn’t. 

Black stains against usually manicured cheeks, tired, empty eyes staring into him—all forbidding as they wince and then land on him.

Javi knows shattered pieces typically cut skin, but his hand finds your exposed shoulder—coldness greeting him, sliding down the pads of his touch to his wrist and bones.

“Cariño.”

He says it differently, more a calling than questioning.

You blink, trying to erase your distress and pain—but it hangs all the same, like a banner, there all for him to see. 

“You came…”

His chest tightens, something falling from within as he releases a feeble breath. He knew, suspected it for a while, that you weren’t okay. Not pushing, not knowing if his words could be ones that could heal you. So he said nothing, let silence do its thing between the two of you, as his thumb brushed your cheek. Wiping across spilt grief and fresh tears.

“What…” 

You swallow it loud in the quiet—eyes furrowing before widening, as though hearing his words repeatedly.

He smiles, knuckles resting on your cheek, thumb stroking the edge of a smile he misses. 

“Talk to me, cariño. Please?”

More fall from your eyes, sliding down like rain droplets against dry cheeks and a sorrowful stare. If he could, he’d take it all from you. Urge the ball that clogs your throat to shrink—the one that lives inside you and has gotten matted with your soul. He’d do whatever you needed him to do. 

Your eyes fall from him, landing on a spot—darkness blooming over the colour as they unfocus. 

“I thought once you knew, it would feel easier. The same way I thought I’d be okay with seeing him back, Chris. Thought the distance would mean I didn’t hate him, but then I saw him and…” 

More fall in single file, orderly. 

Something tugging at the corner of his lips, because only you would have tears that fall in unison—that march down your cheeks and cut across your misery. 

“Did you know that I didn’t have a nickname before her? Luna—the moon. Said it was because I only came alive at night. The name was just for us—that name. Threatened to punch someone back in the States for using it.” 

Smirking, he watches as you blink. A river, cloudy with memory, scales down your face, tracing the outer edges of your nose and hanging expertly on your cupid bow. 

It catches—whatever comes next. 

Clings to the back of your teeth—rots on the tip of your tongue as he continues his ministrations on your cheek. Watching, studying—waiting for a cue, a mark. A sign. 

“…I don’t mind some, but there’s something about him using it that way.” 

You pause, the smallest of laughs slipping from your tight lips. “I wish you could have met her. She’d like you. You think I’m witty, but she was so much better at it. Barely needed to think. Always a retort—both in English and Spanish, always ready...”  

The last word hangs, syllables dancing until they run out of steam and are swallowed by silence. His knuckles pausing on your jaw, clearing his throat, finding your eyes flick up to him. 

They smother him in heaviness, so much so, it almost makes him crumble. The edges of him weakening, the knot in his chest that needs to make you smile constricting, wrapping further around his oesophagus— 

“She sounds wonderful,” he manages to say. 

Your face scrunching, a mix of agreement and anguish fighting in battle on who should show first—should prevail. 

“She was.” 

It wounds him to hold your stare, for the stinging edges of your grief to dig further into his spirit. Injecting more cause into his blood, more reason to keep fighting, pushing—hunting injustice until bars surround it.

When he blinks, he’s freed. Temporarily, but enough to think. To rest his palm under your chin, keep your eyes upon him.

“You think you can let me in, cariño?” 

His eyes flick down to the sheets, the duvet wrapped around you, trapped under limbs. 

It takes a second, one which spreads across space for far too long, but you nod. Shuffling awkwardly so a corner emerges—one he can lift and slide in. 

Your blouse is gone, but the rest of your work clothes still adorn your frame. Javi’s shirt rustles as he seeks to bring you comfort—to find a way to pull you close without forcing you to flee. 

“This okay?” 

It’s tinged with nerves—draping between you as he finds you still watching him. 

He'd have missed your nod if you were almost shoulder to shoulder. Only catching how the edges of white teeth bite down your bottom lip. Spotting the tremble before he sees the unmissable wobble as your eyes fill until they’re shimmering with a new wave that’ll crash down and coat them. 

“Cariño—“

“Lune.” 

He looks at you, takes it in. The look in your eyes, the way they burn unspoken emotions into him. 

“French, I know. She had to make an adjustment, claim it back before we left. She didn’t let anyone, not even Ch….him. But, I think she’d let you call it me,” you whisper, all hiccuped and difficult. 

Something unlodges inside of him, a thing which is determined to rid those two words. Because he suspects you’re thanking him because you don’t get this. Usually pushed, nudged to the edge until you devastate.

He kisses your hairline instead. Feeling you curl into him, head against his chest—and then he braces for the first shake, the eruption of shudders ripple from you to him. 

And he clings, clutching to root you here—to him, with him.  

“Javi…” 

His fingers continue sliding up and down, feeling soft skin as your breath flutters across his cheek. 

“Thank… thank you for coming over.” 

He smiles, spreading over his lips before he can hold it back, opening his eyes to face you. “I’ll always come, cariño.”

“Prometes?”

“Promesa, baby.”

Javi rarely dreams of the after. But he has begun to. 

You’ve stayed over at his place more often as of late. Easier, you’d tried to protest, and he never complained. 

The thoughts the dreams leave behind knock on him more frequently, especially when the darkness slides over the two of you, when you’ve gone quiet before soft shallow breaths fill the space in his room. It there, sitting on his tongue, wanting to ask:

What are you gonna do when it’s all over? 

A question which festers and burns—eroding a hole in his mouth and the back of his brain. It throbs more when he feels you curl against him, craving some form of touch before the two of you have to rise and pretend all over again. 

It’s why he likes it when you stay. When he can start the day with his palm on your cheek, lips slotted over yours. Pulling you flush against him as you whisper his name into the air—not tired of him, not even close. 

Because after it’s rushed, you need to do this or do that. The pretence needing to be kept up—him rushing to get in before you, more so now your friends are back. Fingers shakily doing his tie until you spot him in his kitchen, half-dressed, barely ready for the day, and your fingers smooth over his. Helping, shifting your hips against him as you loop his tie and knot it: the definition of a multitasker. 

Letting his eyes take you in, he lowers his hands to your hips. “You keep doing that, cariño, and we’ll undo your handiwork in a moment.” 

He likes the way you smile around him. 

How soft it is, the sharp edge you’d once purposefully wrapped it in, now gone. Faded. Vanished. 

“I could fuck you with your tie on, Peña.”

Javi knows that. Almost lets you prove it. Mouth opening to find words to say—

“You have a meeting, remember.” 

Gritting his teeth, jaw sliding to the side, he nods. 

Your fingers drop from the fabric as something sits in your eyes—a set of words that roll around that pretty head of yours he’s yet to decipher. 

“You think you’ll come here tonight?” 

Javi asks, hopeful. Not wanting to assume—not even with his spare on your keychain and most of your things in his bathroom. A smug look crosses your lips, making him leave ahead of you even harder. 

“I’ll be here. Prefer your water pressure than I do mine and the hands that come with it.”

He tortures himself by sitting in your lingering perfume on the commute. 

Fingers tapping on the wheel, thumb and index brushing in tight circles over and over as he parks his car, trying not to think of bubbles, water dripping down, you against the tiles. 

Like most mornings, he notes how dull the place is when you’re not around before he picks up the metaphorical weights he carries. The ones stuffed with expectations, getting it done—passing the board with the photos he can see when he blinks. 

Each minute until you arrive, the weight digs in. In the same way, it did before the night, he took you back—only being removed from his shoulders by your fingers and yours alone. 

It’s the relief you provide that makes him flick his eyes up as he hears someone arrive, casting a glance through the blinds—all on edge until he sees you. Until he knows you’re safe—something prickling, pecking at him that you’re not. 

It’s worsened since you told him everything. Since he saw you in the centre of your bed, all broken and at a loss. A part of him was angry with himself that he hadn't tried to take the weight from your shoulders, hadn’t noticed how close you had woven yourself, how unspooled you’d become. 

Worst of all, Javi wonders if there’s still a target on your back. Your face stuck up on some wall like the Godfathers are stuck on theirs, a thought easier to silence when you’re in sight. 

He knows it’s because he cares, feels things. It creeps into his chest, unwrapping, unfurling—spreading its vines until they loop around his muscles and bones. Making him feel so much it burns a hole in his tongue, in his heart—

“Morning,” you say, file in hand. 

His eyes lifting from the paper, watching you smile—body relaxing. 

Your words linger in the air, all innocent, airy as though you hadn’t said it to him already two hours ago. Fingers in his hair, nails scraping along his jaw as he rocked his hips into you, filling the air with breathy mornings and right there. 

He smirks, taking the file from you as you step into his office, beginning your usual morning rundown of his day, who has left messages, and what he hasn't done that needs handling. 

It’s not until you begin talking about having a meeting yourself, that he forces his head to look up from the file, does he take you in. Eyes dropping down your frame, not able to help himself, until—

“—so I have to go—“

“Is that my shirt?”

You pause, words dying on your tongue before you softly begin to smile. “How would I be wearing your shirt, sir?”

“Are you wearing my shirt, cariño?” 

Folding your arms, you shift your weight on the spot. His eyes scan behind you, spotting and noting that no one is within ear reach. Working out the probability of whether he has time to hook his finger in one of the belt loops of your trousers, pull you to him, shut the blinds and kiss you until your lips are swollen before duty calls. 

“If I were wearing your shirt, it would be because I ran out of time this morning to iron my shirt because someone needed assistance with their tie. So if this was yours, it’s merely being borrowed.” 

He swallows—something stirring inside of him. 

Because you’re wearing him, here. Out in the open, around their colleagues. He’d be able to look out of his window and see you dressed in him, marked in him. 

You’ve buttoned half of it, tucked it into the band of your trousers. His fingers want to trace the vest underneath the open buttons—take you in for a second, admire the way it’s styled so it looks less like him, and more like something new you’re trying with a pair of your trousers and heels. 

Your confidence falters; he watches it—how it wrinkles out over your face. “Wait…Javi, do you mind?” 

“Fuck no,” he says, more gruff. “Not one fucking bit. It’s just…”

“Just what?” 

He shifts his jaw, staring at you, tracing his eyes up and down your body—knowing how each curve feels, how your skin tastes. “I’m not going to be able to fucking concentrate.” 

“Wh… Javier Peña, do you like women wearing your clothes?”

“Not women. You.” 

You pull a face, smirking. “Well, that’s good to know.” His brow arches, watching something glimmer in your eyes. “Because you have quite an impressive shirt collection, and guess what I like?”

Tracing his bottom lip with his thumb, he tries to stop himself from tracing his eyes up and down you. Hearing people come in, the office slowly springs to life behind you. 

“What’s that, cariño?” 

You lean forward, allowing you to drop your voice. “Knowing to take it back, you’ll have to take it off of me—once I get to yours, tonight, that is,” you whisper, soft and breathy, a hint of silk to each of your words as they slide into his ears. “Have a good day, sir.” 

Failure was something he was being served more and more frequently.

This time, it was dealt to him when he’d allowed a part of himself to relax—to feel like they were close to a win—having gone from panicked to relieved when he felt Jurado’s wife against him.

Her all curled up, trembling. The scent of mud, sweat and something he assumed had once been perfume rotted into his nose as the jungle faded from view. 

It’s why he allowed her the comfort she so desperately needed, giving himself the chance to feel the joy that he had managed to fix the mess he’d caused by not thinking of every single option. 

Then, like grey clouds holding back her storm, there was a clap of thunder—Christina's eyes were then full of sorrow and fury, digging into him as though they were made of knives. Yet, it had been her words that did the slicing. 

It hadn’t meant a damn thing, not accounting for a single thing. All of it, from listening in on her and Jurado to now, a giant waste of fucking time. The phone call confirmed it.

He was dead. All that chasing, the jungle—

Javi had intended to cool down before he headed back to the office. It had all boiled inside of him, unable to think straight, that was until his eyes landed on you. 

Finding you at your usual spot, bent over, the low light making you squint. Your head lifts to glance at your screen before back down to the files on your desk, fingers rubbing at that spot on the side of your forehead—your tick, your tell. 

Then you lean back, hand brushing over your face before landing your eyes on him. At first, he watches you relax, relief flooding your expression—likely due to the fact that he’s safe. You'd been forthcoming with how much you'd been worrying.

Then, a smile. One that is quickly swallowed by concern. It amazes him how quick and astute you are—lifting yourself, grabbing something without taking your eyes off him as he approaches, nodding to Stoddard as you clear your throat. 

“Could—can I talk to you about a lead?” 

He nods, swallowing. He gestures for you to lead the way as he follows you into his office. It isn’t until the door closes, wrapping his arm across himself and playing with his other elbow, does he see you throw the file on the desk. 

“There’s no lead. I just… you looked like you needed to talk.” 

It's instant, the way he softens. Looking down, letting himself feel the calming wave you cast over him without knowing you even do it. 

The airport. The jungle. The call. 

He’s not even sure where to begin.

“She thinks I’m a piece of shit. That’s… that’s what she called me.”

Slowly, you move to the mini-table-turned-bar as you pour a glass—one for you, one for him.

“And maybe, I am…” You extend the glass, his hand taking it as he nods, running his thumb over the top. “I mean, I get tunnel vision—and I just have to….” 

He sighs, feeling you watching him, before it all comes out.

From the moment they reached the jungle to the airport. Your eyes not leaving him, likely seeing how easy it is for him to undo—how he’s coming apart, crumbling, pieces of him snapping off. The words keep coming and coming, the stress releasing a hold on his chest but doubling on his shoulders simultaneously.

It isn’t until he’s done, your silence, thick and loaded, does he even feel he needs to ask:  

“Y'agree with her?”

He has to ask, watching as you undo the thought. 

Studying your expression as he coats his tongue and lips in deep amber and misery. He used to drink to celebrate. Somewhere between Colombian takedowns and Escobar, it began as a way to stop himself thinking. Now, he’s unsure if it calms him, deafens things or just numbs him—or better, a concoction of the two. 

You lean against the wall, wrestling with your thoughts. He can see it—the thin line that appears between your brow and the way your fingers dance along the crystal glass. 

“I can… see why she’d think you were one.”

He takes a large sip, raising his brow. “Well... fuck, thanks.”

“You don’t—this doesn't work because I lie to you. We work because I’m great at feeding that self-deprecation you’re carrying around.” 

He smirks, snorting into the glass as he watches you take your first sip. Not hissing or scrunching—sipping it like it’s water. Suspiciously so.

He hears you step forward, closing the gap, placing your hand on his shoulder, nudging him to turn entirely towards you. “You’re a good person. The only time you’re a piece of shit is when you don’t do that thing with your tongue to me. She's hurt, Javi. Understandably, so.” 

He smiles, and you brush the sides of it with your thumb. 

Because he knows he’s experienced in non-committal fucking. Well-versed, almost excelling at it, until you. You who he wants the opinion of, the person who makes his world splinter and crack in the best way—more so when you dig your nails in, and he paints your walls in ropes of white. You are different. 

He's thought it since the beginning, when you barged in, all confident and smug. Now, it’s so much harder to ignore, to bury—to smother in other problems and issues. 

All of the realisation snapping inside of him, the walls he’s built coming down with ease, as your palm remains on his cheek—all intimate and full of care. 

“Starting to think you like me.”

“Get rid of that thought, sir. I merely tolerate you.”

“Liar.”

You blink, dropping your hand.

Holding your eyes steady, Javi lets the seconds add up, sliding into a minute. The air tightens with understanding as it rises like a slow tide threatening to pull you both under and drown you. Realisation twists and gnaws in your chest, not able to blink, not able to turn. 

He sighs, knowing it too. Releasing you, watching your head tilt before you roll your eyes, and then you’re moving to close the blinds—the office slowly fading from view before you approach the last turning so all he can see is you.

You who is looking at him with a mixed expression he hasn’t got the energy to decipher. Thoughts, suspicions, all rolling around his head, mixing horribly with the expression of Christina Jurado staring at him as he ended that call. 

“You do matter to me.” 

“Tell me you like me, baby,” he says, likely knowing that you're struggling for breath. 

Him doing the unspeakable—making a move, so off the board, he’s confirming neither of you is playing. Likely haven’t been for weeks. The signs were all there if you really looked, really focused on it. 

You smirk, shaking your head as you step back. “I like you, you know I do.” 

Hand slowly spinning the glass in your hand as you sink into the chair opposite his desk. Eyes staring into it, the amber sloshing from side to side. 

“I just…”

“Cariño…” your eyes look up, meeting him. “It’s different for me too.” 

You nod, biting the inside of your mouth as you rest your head on your palm—elbow digging into the arm of the chair. 

“What now?”

“What do you mean?” 

You scoff. “Well, do we stop?”

“Do you want to stop?”

“I want you to answer a goddamn question without asking another question. Because this is humiliating as it is.” 

“Having feelings for me that bad, huh?”

You smile, barely—but he notices it. “No. But, I—I’m not good at it—being with someone. Being in a relationship. I'll fuck up. I’m broken and…. without even fucking meaning to I'll—”

Sighing, he swallows. “Bonita… I don’t care.” His hand grips your cheek, tilting your eyes up to him. “I’m no good either. You deserve—fuck, you deserve far better than me, but I’m selfish, a piece of shit. So, I can’t let you go, so let's just call this what it is.” 

“You don’t know—“

“I do, cariño. I do.” 

Your eyes fill with tears, staring at him, unsure if you’re going to agree or push him away. That is, until your hand comes over his wrist, holding him—just like you usually do. 

Then, you turn him, so his frame hides you. Your lips press to his, kissing him as though you didn’t care. The two of you are now experts with both your tongues than words—able to articulate full-blown sentences with your mouths pressed against each other. 

Now, you're in his arms after all the sheer determination—after doing nothing but fighting him. The low light from the lamp casts a soft glow over you both, offering comfort, hiding how everything else around the two of you is burning. 

“I hate how good your cock is.”

He laughs, pressing his forehead against yours. “Yeah, I can see how that would be a problem.”

Strumming his fingers up and down your side, he smiles against the top of your hair. Letting the moment settle, the confessions being filed in a happy place in his mind. 

“Are you okay?”

“Now?” he asks, fingers toying with your hip. “I’m better.” 

For a moment, he just watches—takes you in. 

It goes back to the night in the bar when half of your face had been shrouded in mystery, and the two of you had gotten off on the wrong foot. If Murphy were here, he’d say it was typical Peña—somehow managing to fuck the woman who hates him. 

But then, you’d never really hated him, just like he hadn’t really ever found you difficult. 

“Let's sit,” you say, joining him on the sofa, the leather creaking under you. 

The silence is an odd comfort—so used to cracking under quiet, yet with you, he settles. 

No one to disturb it, the peace. No one was ringing or asking for him. 

Even the office outside has gone quiet. 

That one thought, which has been hammering and hammering, rises—bubbling at the top of the sea of shit he has to undo, answer for and deal with. 

“If you weren’t doing this, what would you be doing?”

It’s likely too deep for such a day. Knowing he should take the win that the two of you have agreed to be something more concrete than convenient fucking, but it falls from his tongue quicker than he can say I’m okay or let’s go. 

You think, eyes sliding to the corner as an array of expressions flash across your face. A frown to a relaxed smile, a shift of your lips to a soft sigh. 

“Not sure. Maybe run a coffee shop? A cafe. Want it to be a local place, lots of gossip.”

Watching you lick your lips, he lets himself take you in. A mental photo snapped, locked away in the vault he’s drafted just for you. 

“One of those places where either the coffee is good, but the cakes are bad, or the cakes are good, but the coffee is bad. Because I’m one person, y’know? I’m not fucking superwoman.” 

His fingers tease the edges of yours—wanting to keep you here, in this moment. Not step back out into the sound of phone calls and typing.  

“There would be this will-they-won’t-they with a local guy. He’d come in, and everyone would study our interactions and gossip about how long he stood at the counter.”

Smirking, you turn your head, confronting him with a wicked smile—a sight that makes his heart beat. 

“What about you?” 

Shrugging, he laces his fingers in yours. “Probably be on the ranch. With my dad. Helping. Do the good son thing, for a bit at least.” 

“Well, you can only do the good son thing if you’re good.”

Nudging you with his knee, he shakes his head. “Hey. I’m a fine, good rancher.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He sneers. “Come see it, baby. I’ll show you all my moves.” 

You smile, and like this—after today—it’s something more stunning than he can find the words for. Not sure he’d ever be able to describe it, what it does to him—how it feels like an arrow has been shot into his chest, inflating his heart, making it grow twice as big. 

Licking his lips, he smiles wider—almost allowing it to spread to his eyes. “You open your cafe in my town. We’d be the talk of it.” 

“Because you already tried the buns.” 

“First thing I’d talk up.”

You laugh. Sweet and weightless. It flushes through him, easing the stress from his muscles. Basking in it, the momentary pause on the job, the mission—the reason. 

“I’d make sure a Catrina or a Mary would have overheard me telling people you’re good with a whip. Let them gossip.” 

“Oh, there’s actually three Marys, and I’m sure there’s at least two Catrinas.” 

Shrugging, you wink. “See, I’m fitting in already.” 

“Texas would love you.” 

“Texas would be quaking in its cowboy boots.”

“That too.” 

The two of you go silent.

All comfortable and nice. No thoughts rushing through him, no darkness ebbing in the corners—it’s like it is in the mornings. Where he can pretend the world outside isn’t Colombia but Texas. That his responsibilities are to make you smile and make sure a cow doesn’t crush his pop. 

You tap your fingers over his. “You okay?” 

“I don’t even fucking know.” 

“It’s okay if you’re not.” 

Turning his head, he meets your eyes, a little smile so effortlessly falling over your face. “I know.”

He moves, shifting so he’s closer, and you subconsciously move closer, letting your head find his shoulder as you take a deeper breath. 

“We could. I could.” 

You slowly look up at him, watching him stare off before glancing down. 

“It's not a lot, but you could make lemonade, and I could help my Pops do ranch shit. Live out our days in the field and between one another’s thighs.” 

“You’d get bored…”

“Of you?” he asks, shaking his head. “Never. I’m never tired of you, not even when you’re frustrating and annoying.” 

“You crave danger, Peña.”

He moves you closer, wrapping his arm around you to pin you close, dropping his mouth to your ear. “Guess we’ll have to begin fucking outdoors, see how far we go until we’re arrested for public indecency.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” 

His hand slides up your forearm, spreading warmth back through you. 

“Think about it, cariño. Yeah?” 

You swallow, nodding. “Would you wear a cowboy hat?”

He laughs, rich, light. “For you? Yeah.”

“Alright, I’ll think about it, sir.” 

It’s you who interlocks your fingers with his, squeezing—like a version of a signature on a contract. 

“I didn’t ask. How’s your day been?” 

You snort, not moving—not even to look up or find his eyes, thumb sliding over his hand. “Why?”

“You always hiss when you first have a sip of whiskey. You didn’t earlier.” 

Then you move—eyes finding his, something in them he can’t read—a look he can’t place. Your own moving from one eye to the other as you swallow. 

“I may have helped myself to a glass… or two.” 

Placing his fingers under your chin, he lifts your face. “Talk to me.” 

“Just a bad day, that’s all.” 

“Cariño.” 

Rolling your lips, you sigh. “Can we just go home?” 

Nodding, he drops his hand from his nose, taking the glance balancing precariously on his knee as he drains it. It’s only when he feels the loss of you, hearing you mumble about getting your coat—and your bag, that you need to nip to a store on the way—does it come back to him. 

Home. 

You’d said home. 

Not his place. Not your place. 

His teeth bite down on the inside of his cheek, the softest twitch of his lips. One, that on another day, where it hadn’t felt like a complete fuck up, he suspects would be a smile, a real one. 

Fingers tap on your desk—hands you used to know, once upon a time. Lifting your chin, you stare at him. Chris. 

His face was all a mixture of annoyance and pleading, a sight you suspected didn’t mean good things for you. 

“You thought about it? Helping me.”

Your fingers pause on the keys. “If it involves me leaving this building, there best be a good reason you’ve even brought this to me. The shit I could get into—”

“I wouldn’t ask.”

You tilt your head. “Yes, you would.” 

“It’s for Van Ness, too.” 

Narrowing your eyes, you slowly stand. “We need a meeting room or a quiet space. I need—I need what you have. Photo, information.”

Chris nods, furiously so. “So, you in?”

Your head turns, glancing at the empty office—the one you’ve been staring at the entire time he’s been out of it. “I’m in for the debrief. That’s all I’m committing to for now.” 

AN: hope it was worth it!

[stargirlie25]

Just saw this.....

Before i say anything let me say i truly want everybody to pay attention to this post and the information inside especially if you agree with the post above.

How little do you know about Elain Archeron?

Let me tell you she has done these things but this person stretched out everything making Elain seem as a person she is not. You seriously think Elain would like anybody who talks about her like this? You think she would be flattered? These are all the people who claim they are Elain stans and change her character left and right.

What's true about what this person said is that she drinks whisky,stabbed the king of hybern,gives airplane gifts,found the suriel, and said ´´I hope they all burn in hell´´. Everything else is false and so disrespectful to her character.

Firstly Elain is seen to be a kind soul who owns up to her mistakes and is thankful for anybody ´s kindness and will remember it forever. That being said, Rhysand was seen once flying Elain to and from The house of wind so she can see her sister. She loves her sister and wants to see her and Rhys is taking her. Do you think she would like that her ´´stans´´ are saying he is her ´´little flying lackey´´ No. She would find you an unpleasant person who lacks respect.

´´Made a 500 year old obsession without even trying´´ You are right. Elain did nothing to have that. It is just because her sisters got with Azriels brothers and the dear shadowsinger formed an idea that Elain is rightfully supposed to be his because you know what, her sisters are with his brothers and that is enough logic. If its an obsession of any sorts, it is an unhealthy one.

Just some reasons:

He feels unworthy to taint her with his presence and hides a part of him (shadows) and hates another (hands) in regards to Elain.

For two years straight all he did was Pump himself and he said himself that he certainly had not gone far with his planning other than his fantasies.

He loved Mor for centuries and after the almost kiss with Elain, he refuses to disclose his feelings for mor. Even in ACOSF it represents he still feels for her.

He says its best to Kill greyson (Elain´s ex lover) even though Elain forbid feyre and others from doing anything to him.

He gets angry at the thought of Elain doing at least something and underestimates her -which is the only canon proof of what he could be thinking so don´t even try. Elain even calls out Nesta who had the same reaction and same reasoning. We have both Nesta and Feyre calling out how they do not like territorial traits from a man.

❗❗❗❗HOSAB SPOILERS❗❗❗❗

He gives credit to Nesta for beheading the king ´´Herself´´ which is a direct parallel to Lucien crediting Elain for her bravery. Before you guys yap about how its factually correct on what he said, do you realise how easy it could have been for sarah to say something like

Azriel said,´´Her sister stabbed the king of hybern,´´ A look towards truthteller and back at bryce and she could have sworn pride swarmed his eyes ´´Nesta beheaded the king of hybern herself´´

Dont bully me i have no idea how to write books but SJM could have put something even more tone down and it would still be an nice Elnotreal moment. Instead she made a direct parallel with what Lucien once said in ACOWAR.

∴ His ´´obsession´´ is super unhealthy.

Anyways whats next?

´´Had the shadowsinger running around´´ I mean go ahead make Elain seem like fricking b**tch. She is so sweet and kind and for some reason you want to take that away to make her seem strong? You have to put down multiple characters to uplift Elain? YOU have to. Not Elain. I can see from people who agree with the statement above (the picture) are simply blind to what Elain offers. There is a strength in her kindness,generosity, manner and feminism. When i see how kind Elain is, i see her strength. I see HER power. She respects all those around her and if i stan her why would i change that narrative?

That being said, Elain would continue to thank everybody who shows her kindness and if you think not than do not even bother saying you are pro Elain.

Same thing with saying she forbid everyone from eating. Elnotreals are seriously taking the forbidden love idea too far. All jokes aside she literally canonically said that they should not wait for her and go ahead and eat. Even if she did say that, no offense to my girl but they would all laugh their a$$ off and continue to eat.

Although Elain distances herself from Lucien, based on her character she would be offended if someone said she does not gaf.

Even this creator would. Imagine i made a anti Elain post saying something along the lines of

´´I hate Elain because she practically does not gaf about the mating bond with lucien and she sucks because of it´´

In this circumstance, you guys would pounce right away and start listing off the reason on why it isn´t the fact she does not gaf its because of _______ etc.

Although you are using it to make her seems as though she is a Girlboss for it? I´m not blaming her because i literally 100% believe it is not the fact she does not care, it's deeper.

´´uglified herself´´ There you go again, disrespecting Elains family, friends. First of all, no one needed Elain to be there, they needed Nesta. They did not choose Elain. They chose Nesta because of her dancing so she could seduce Eris. It was Elains choice to come although no one needed her. Mor always prefers to wear red and she did wear it the court of nightmares. Elain chose to wear black to match as the High Ladys sister in order to match. She herself looks prefers lilaks,blues,pinks but probably told herself she needed to be someone else to fit in. Something Cass and Rhysand has noted. Why are you calling her ugly when her current state is ´´Life being sucked from her´´

You just love disrespecting my girl acting like its a praise. tsk, tsk

Why am i making this post? What if its just a joke?

Its not just that. Many people use this information to uplift Elain while they casually ignore her own choices and personality. So what if this is a joke? On the bottom it says

´´You sure she is not developed enough?´´

Meaning what she wrote is development for Elain. No its not. Its erasing her character and morphing a new one in her place. I could go on and on of other reasons as to why Elain is developed and it is none of those reasons. Most of her development would happen in her own book and from her own pov instead of other characters just like Nesta.

Anyways my hole point is that you dont have to make Elain seem like she runs the ic, or she dominates everybody, or is a mastermind.

Let me get this straight

Feyre is a highlady: STRONG

Nesta is a warrior: STRONG

Elain is a gardener: STRONG

In my opinion it could be stronger. Maybe because im just like her haha but in a world of warrior women or tongue lasher women, she remain her perfect self, Elain Archeron and she would let no man or no ´´stan´´ change that.

[forsakenmissives]

inspired by @izzyspussy’s prompt. hope u dont mind?? lol also tw for mention of james tartt. yknow how it is — also im thinking this takes place around the start of the season after the show ends 💚 but also (thanks nonny!) just pretend eras tour came out 2021 and barbie came out 2022 and not. now LOL

It starts as less than a handful of Tweets. Honestly, Jamie laughs at the first one, then scrolls by and completely misses the rest. And then he sees a group of lads donning West Ham merch pointing at him while on his morning run (sans Roy, who had to bow out due to a cold, the dick . . . Jamie's planning on picking him up breakfast) and whispering — but not quiet enough — that the Barbie has escaped his box. The Tweets (and comments and replies and DMs) appear more frequently after that.

The pictures of him in his pink tracksuit, tied to Roy’s bike, are passed around again. This time not by his loyal fans who begged for proper HD pics from him and thought he looked good as hell, but by the ones who call him Barbie and think his hair is blond and dumb and that he is just a dumb blond who isn’t even that good at football. At least that last bit could be easily refuted by his stats. He’s damn good at his job, and he knows it.

He doesn’t say anything about it, however, until they’re in the locker room after training, and Isaac huffs at something while looking at his phone. Jamie glances over to see him angling the screen toward him. “They’re callin’ you Barbie, bruv.”

Isaac is a really good friend, like, the best a guy could ask for. But Jamie kind of doesn’t want to think about this. “Yeah, I saw. It’s a compliment, innit? And kind of fittin’. I’m perfect, I’m everything. I am Barbie, ain’t I?”

At his easy dismissal, Isaac brightens up, grinning, and Jamie grins back. He finds the Tweet he was shown and posts a good selfie he took a few days ago, captioning it, I am everything. You wanna be Ken? It’s a bit stupid, but the insult is stupid too, so he thinks he’s allowed it.

The thing is — he wants to be unbothered by the nickname. The Barbie movie was fucking awesome, and though he’s still on thin ice with Keeley, even after their strictly-business trip to Brazil, they put aside their differences . . . that is, they put aside Jamie’s fuck-up to go and watch one of the screenings together. Yeah. It was fucking awesome. And he loves women. Like, major respect.

But the condemnations of the word are a knife’s edge away from a whiskey-tinged voice hissing soft and little bitch in his ear, and Jamie really can’t fucking deal with that right now. And he had gone and seen James in rehab, just for a couple hours, and he doesn’t regret going and seeing him, and he actually thinks it’s fucking mint the man’s getting help. He even enjoyed going through the old photos of his grandparents and James as a baby and even some of his own photos, when his mum looked a little less tired and he wasn’t afraid to smile too brightly. And in rehab, James is given limited Internet time, so the chances of him seeing the insults, seeing Jamie being called a girls’ toy, something pretty and pink, are small, and even if he does see, what can he do? They won’t just let him leave while obviously on some rampage.

It’s not like Jamie plans on going back to the man any time soon anyway. He’s not James Tartt’s anything. They just share a name. So what?

Jamie jumps at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. He pockets his phone (his Quote Tweet is now at twenty thousand likes and counting), and when he turns, it’s Roy, staring at him with those impossibly dark eyes and wild brows that make them even darker.

“Hi, coach,” he says with a grin.

Roy grunts back.

Jamie stays still for another second before blinking. “Got any wisdom for me?”

The other guys have begun to clear out, and now it’s just them and Beard still in the coaches’ office. And Will, who seems to be some metaphor for God, the way he’s always around, not even lurking, just . . . around.

Finally, Roy says, “Good pass. Don’t be late tomorrow.”

It’s so unbearably Roy that it makes Jamie sick. It also suggests there’s more he’s not saying, but Jamie isn’t sure what. He doesn’t push, however, just salutes him. “‘Course, coach,” he leans back on his heels, “dark and early, yeah?”

Roy nods, then pivots and mechanically goes back to the office. Jamie watches him go before turning and gathering his things. As he packs, he can practically feel Roy’s eyes on his back, but he knows when he turns, both him and Beard will be staring down at things on their desks. Whatever.

Jamie doesn’t run into anyone on his way out, and he’s grateful, taking a breath when he gets in his car then speeding off. He feels itchy under his skin, like when his foot falls asleep but the sensation is all over his body, and he kind of regrets leaving Nelson Road because he thinks running a few extra laps up and down the pitch would soothe him, if only a little bit. Despite this, when he gets home, he just gets out of his car and goes inside. It’s not that he’s worried about a repeat of his solo jog that one morning. It’s just really hot outside, what with it being late July and all, and he just showered, like, thirty minutes ago.

Every time a notification goes off on his phone, his stomach flips in a really awful way. Jamie turns off his phone.

Maybe now that he’s said something, it’ll die down. Since he’s made it clear he’s not bothered by it, that he can take whatever they give, they’ll stop.

And then, the first match of the season, Jamie walks onto the pitch, and a familiar song starts up. It’s not his song — but it’s certainly for him.

“Are they singing . . . ‘Barbie Girl’?” Colin asks from behind him.

“And changing the pronoun to ‘he’,” Jan adds, helpful as ever.

Jamie catches sight of one of the cameras recording the match, grins and sticks out his tongue, and when he looks to the opposing fans’ side, he even gives a little bow. Just for them. He thinks about something Lasso said to him once about bullying, after he stopped being a dick to Nate and asked why Ted never stepped in. Acknowledging it almost always makes it worse. Sorry that Jamie had believed in the ‘almost’.

;

After getting booted from Keeley’s and after a dinner at a kebab place that Jamie knows is good because Roy didn’t actually make him sit and watch — he picked bits of lamb from the skewer and placed them on the napkin i​​n front of Jamie without a word — it’s not unusual for him and Roy to get dinner together. Sometimes it’s just them at Roy’s, who’s a better cook than his mum but not better than Simon, and sometimes it’ll be at a pub, and sometimes they’ll go to a restaurant. It was with ruddy cheeks that Roy admitted the kebab shop was like his church, but Jamie wasn’t judging. He thinks he understood the ecstasy of St Theresa after a bite of that lamb.

Tonight, however, Roy drops Jamie off at his place, and then parks the car and follows him in.

“Uh,” Jamie says when Roy stands in the entryway, a hand behind his back, posture stiff, “can I help you?”

“Go to your room,” Roy replies, and Jamie’s eyes go wide, and he says, “O-kay, Daddy,” before he backtracks, but Roy is backtracking too. “I mean, go somewhere that isn’t behind me or the kitchen.”

Jamie’s mouth drops into an ‘o’. “Right. Okay. I’ll just go to the living room, then.”

Roy nods, and Jamie walks slowly to the couch, backwards so he can watch Roy watching him.

He manages to sit still on his couch for a good two minutes, listening to Roy clattering about his kitchen, before he hops up and goes to sit at his dining table instead. It’s there that he sees a paper bag, and it takes everything in him not to peek into it. At the sound of the chair scraping against the floor, Roy leans back from where he’d had his head stuck in Jamie’s fridge, and he turns to look back at Jamie, who smiles innocently at him. He even waggles his fingers in a wave for good measure.

Roy rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, so Jamie thinks it’s fine, and he doesn’t think about how good it feels to be the one behind Roy Kent’s smile. Roy goes back to rummaging through the fridge.

Eventually, Jamie gets roped into helping out, but all his complaints are customary, and he thinks if he had allowed himself — if he had been allowed — to dream about domesticity, this is exactly how it would’ve been. Right down to the celebrity footballer. It’s kind of perfect.

Then, Jamie’s phone goes off.

It’s his news app, which he keeps forgetting to turn off the notifications for, and it irritates him every time, but especially when he actually clicks the notification ‘cause the story looks interesting, only to find out he’s somehow already used up his articles for the month, and would he please be willing to spare a few pounds every month for more? In theory, yes, he is willing. In practice . . . he has other places to put his money.

That being said, the irritation he feels then is nothing compared to the humiliation he feels now, reading the headline: This Barbie is a Footballer: AFC Richmond Jamie Tartt’s new song.

Roy is turned the other way, so luckily, he can’t see the way Jamie’s smile immediately drops from his face. This shit isn’t even important! It’s just some stupid fan war mess, the opponents’ fans trying to get in his head, and it’s not fucking working, alright? He doesn’t care. He’s just embarrassed that it’s apparently made the news. It’s really not a big deal.

When he looks up from his phone, Roy is looking at him. Jamie swallows.

“It’s nothin’,” he tells him. “Just some politician, saying some stupid thing. Sam sent it to me to rant.”

Roy nods, but he looks like he doesn’t believe him. Jamie’s voice had wavered in the middle, so he doesn’t believe himself either. But he still doesn’t budge, just leans back against the counter and waits for Roy to either turn away or say something in return. Roy turns away. Over his shoulder, he says, “I have something for you after we eat.”

“Whatever’s in the bag?” Jamie asks. Roy grunts. “Is it concert tickets? Am I goin’ to see Taylor fucking Swift? The bag’s just to throw me off, obviously.”

“Fuck no,” Roy’s response is, pun intended, swift and immediate. Jamie grins. “You’ll see later. Just . . . wait.”

Jamie groans. “Fine. But it better be good, since you got me all excited for the concert.”

Roy gives him a stern glare. Jamie puts his hands up, then gets back to washing the dishes they’re done using.

All throughout their meal, Jamie struggles to sit still, and his eyes, without fail, return to the bag. It becomes enough of a problem that Roy takes the bag and hides it in his lap, but Jamie’s no coward, so his gaze still wanders to — well.

“The quicker you finish eating, the sooner you get to see it,” Roy growls out around his own mouthful of salmon and quinoa (Jamie was surprised he had those things in his freezer and cupboard too, but it made a damn good meal, so he’s not complaining).

Jamie grows a lot more focussed after that, and he’s done within minutes — nay, seconds. Roy raises his eyebrows in approval. Jamie licks the leftover glaze for the salmon off his fork for good measure. Roy looks down at his plate.

Once Roy finishes eating, the paper bag makes its triumphant return, Roy setting it between them. He nods his head at it, and Jamie takes it quickly, before the other can change his mind and take it back.

He doesn’t expect what he pulls out, but he feels like he should. He looks between the Barbie and Roy, who’s staring at Jamie with a gaze so intense Jamie worries he might burn up from it. If this had been bestowed to him any time the year before, especially from Roy, he’d think it a continuation of the insult. But all he feels right now is laughter, the weight in his stomach turning into something bubbly and light that works its way up his throat and past his lips. Slowly — because he’s out of practice, the old fart — Roy begins to smile back.

The stupid fucking made-to-move soccer Barbie is even wearing an England kit, and when Jamie turns her around, he grins at the number and name on the back.

“You fucking dick,” he says, the words coming out as a hiss through his teeth, that’s how hard he’s grinning.

“You’re Jamie fucking Tartt,” Roy replies, and Jamie wishes he had a word to describe the look the other was sending him, but the best he can do is say how it makes him feel — really fucking good; like nothing could ever hurt him; like there is no one else in the world but the two of them; like he could go win the World Cup, the FA Cup, all the Leagues, every award in the football world, and not break a single sweat. It makes him feel a lot like he’s in love.

Roy’s not done: “You are everything. Who gives a shit if some pricks call you Barbie? You fucking own it, Jamie. You are every-fucking-thing, and they’re not even Ken.”

And Jamie will make fun of him for it later, that he’s more than aware of the movie’s tagline, but at the moment, he’s clutching the Barbie to his chest like a lifeline, and he feels a sting behind his eyes, like tears are threatening to spill, and his cheeks hurt with how hard he’s smiling.

Roy clears his throat. “Phoebe said there are ways you can change the hair, but . . . don’t use heat. It’s plastic. You can cut it or dye it fucking . . . walnut haze or whatever.”

Jamie doesn’t even correct him that it’s walnut mist. He’s close enough.

He gives the doll one last squeeze. “Thanks, Roy, I mean it.”

Roy doesn’t reply, just gives a grunt and nods his head. That’s alright too. Jamie looks down at the doll again, then leans back in his seat. He holds it up to his face, angles her head so they’re cheek-to-cheek more or less.

“Like twins, ain’t we?”

And Jamie wonders if maybe there were something in the food, or maybe in their drinks, because it seems like Roy can’t stop smiling either.

;

The opposing fans are at it again. Jamie sees Roy glance back at him and grins. He considers mouthing all good, coach, but he’s more interested in using one arm to wave and the other to hold his Barbie up the same way he had when it was just him and Roy, teeth bared all the while. The crowd goes wild, of course.

He’s Jamie fucking Tartt. He’s everything. Of course no one is going to think of him as just Ken — that’s just ridiculous.

in case you can’t tell “condemnations” is supposed to be “connotations”. ily jamieisms 💚 also i wrote this rly fast on my phone so sorry & now on ao3 if u'd prefer to read it there ✌️

[bucketspammer4life]

☆Punch Out Misc Headcanons 2: Electric Bogaloo ☆

You bet your ass im gonna spew top tier shitpost worthy "headcanons" (i simply throw things onto them that i find funny)

- dont try to speak on your phone if aran ryan is near, hes gonna tell yell shit like "PASS THE WEED" and most importantly "THE DRUGS & HOOKERS ARE HERE"

- mac got duct taped to the wall when bald bull had to look after him for a while

- Joe has robbed a supermarket when he was 17, nobody knows it was him, and nobody will know, hopefully

- doc sometimes likes to do a dramatic eyebrow raise when anyone says something dumb

- Macho man keeps getting stuff thrown at him, not only by his fans but by everyone, its kinda tradition now

- don flamenco & bald bull accidentally ran over some guy with a car, both of them will take this to the grave, do not ask them what happened on November 2nd, 2013, 03:21

- bear hugger uses Facebook on a daily basis, Will post fish, cooking and whatever he wants in general

- great tiger sometimes fights his clones for no reason, his biggest enemy is himself, literally

- sandman had a pet snail named sandman II once,it died from natural causes, he held a funeral for it & sometimes visits his snail's memorial, may sandman II rest in peace

- aran ryan had a skater boy era, everyone keeps pulling up pictures of him during that just to torture him

- soda popinski will never admit but he likes pretending people have something on their face and going like "its still there, no not there its there!" And say "its gone now" whenever they pull out a mirror and check for themselves

- von kaiser has been the victim of too many little german boy jokes (no little german boy, dont teach boxing! oh mein gotten, these kinder are full of punchenkicken!)

- piston hondo has eerily good hearing, talk shit about him and he'll hear it from 200 miles away

- narcis sends selfies & pictures of himself flexing if you try to confront or argue him

[shit-talk-turner]

Prev. message board anon here. Managed to dig out some old screenshots. I've copied and pasted them here as don't want to come off anon. These are mainly related to Alex and were posted by the sound engineer (I think). They're just random messages, not in any sort of order. Enjoy!

matt kinda says hi (he's half asleep, poor guy) ive managed to survive another night with the guys, and sucessfully cooked dinner. as a reward they took me to the pub...nice one

theyre more like extended family. (al's gone home, jammie's still on't playstation with my bro and matts curled up asleep in my room, he looks like a cat) FINALLY I HAVE SOME PEACE AND QUIET!!!!!!!! yay!!! *me doing a little dance in joy*

if that happened, hed prolly try n find you a chair (he's kind like that) and then hed stand there and panic about what to do.

yeah. it was bad wasnt it. got to the stage where we were all making fun, leaving little post-its with "get a haircut" written on, and generally begging him to get a haircut. he did it eventually, and now he looks hot again and less like a scarecrow. thank god!

alex update: he is wondering what to have for lunch.

no. not yet. hes having a gingerbreadman while he thinks about it.

hes gone off to find timm to find out what time were having dinner (because our schedule for the days changed). he said if he knows when dinner is, then he can make a proper decision on lunch - whether he wants a snack or a whole meal......

alex update: him n jammie are sat on the edge of the stage looking at the choice of songs theyve been given for their performance on Radio 1's Live Lounge on monday. theyre gonna do brianstorm, and they have to pick one of the four songs theyve been given to cover. theyre choosing now...

alex update: he's scurrying about looking for a cd he lost. to be honest it could be anywhere. its not very tidy at the moment.... and i think someone mentioned watching anchorman later.....

alex update: reading a book (well hes trying to, but matt keeps distracting him....) and hes trying to think what the best sandwich in teh world is (thats matts question of the day)

alex update: he's sat in't corner writing summat and on the phone. im always curious when i see him writing, cuz i automatically assume that hes writing lyrics - and then i start thinking about what he's done today to think what the song might be about and then i really, really, really want to hear how it would go......all this, and then i ask him what he's writing and he shows me that he's either doing a crossword, or writing a cd shopping list, or summat dissapointing....

alex update: seemed quite happy when we last saw him. think he's gone to change. and i think he's coming out later. not sure if he'll be out with us though. he doesnt really know mal and cookies mates. they were in the year above us at school...

alex update: he's all packed and sat on the sofa reading the article about AM in this weeks NME. by his facial expressions, i can't work out what he thinks about it..... :S

alex update: ............ there are no words to describe him today.

he's sat out in the sun with everyone, and he's the most relaxed and normal that i've seen him in soooo very long i think he's so relieved that the album did well and people like it. he just looks relaxed and, dare i say it............. HAPPY. :) he deserves it.

alex update: he's most defniatly asleep. he had a busy night last night, and last time i saw him the poor thing was asleep on his feet...

alex update - the only one of the fab four that i can see at the mo. i asked him what he's doing so i could report on it, and he said "dont just say im lying on the floor waiting for the microwave. that sounds reet boring. say 'im reclining on the carpet in a relaxed fashion, clasping a piece of toast waiting for my beans to be done , and im donning my shades in a classy way' ....yeah, that makes it sound a bit better. or do i just sound like a knobhead? okay, cut that bit out. just say....just say im eating. again. im always eating when youre typing......hmmm"

and that was all i could get from the fascinating Mr Turner, before the microwave "pinged"....

alex update: he's chilling with miles and some friends, havign a drink and watching some bands.

after the set, we all got a little bi too drunk, met up with James Ford (producer, and from simian mobile disco), james + simon (klaxons), lily allen, lovefoxx, a kook and some others (there was about 20 of us) and we wanted to go out at night to Lost Vague-ness (the most random field at glastonbury) but they didnt want to be noticed and harrassed, so we hired these random costumes. alex was a dinosaur, james was a swan, there was a chicken, a moose, me and lily were mushrooms...... was truley hilarious.

[its not really "news" but we just had a fight. a proper standing in the rain, shouting ourselves hoarse, having to be separated argument. thats the only problem with me and al, were too similar. SO stubborn, and a tendency to take things too personally and get a bit irrational. the basics, i was trying to be a good friend and tell him summat, he wasnt listening, we both said things we prolly shouldn't have, and then were taken away to calm down. it'll all be fine by the morning, thats just how we roll. but for tonight, im not gonna pretend were okay.]

the internet was once such a wild and lawless place