#but instead i’m just. what if i fail. (again). and i’m already 25. and what if i fail and i’m alone. what if this doesn’t help at all

[hoot-h00t]

girl HELP

[joelsgoldrush]

“guilty pleasure” | 8.6k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: After saving Earth-10005 from impending disaster, Wade convinces Logan, the alcoholic and easily irritated mutant, to stick around for a while. He’s convinced that nothing good can come out of this experience, until he meets you: the charming bartender with a soft spot for swearing that matches his own. Suddenly, sticking around doesn’t seem so bad after all.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni - smut 18+ fluff. drinking. dirty talk. slow-burnish. grumpy!logan x sunshine!reader. reader is really kind but cracks a lot of jokes. age gap (25 vs 200 - they’re basically the same age). oral sex (f receiving). fingering. finger sucking. soft dom!logan. wade being the funniest asshole. logan calls reader "kiddo/kid”.

A/N: HI! first of all, i'd like to thank you for all the support you showed me on my recent post. let me just tell you that i’m LOVING writing for logan. but none of this would be possible without YOU, so yeah, i fucking love y’all.

** regarding this story, i was planning on making it even longer, but writing these two has been so much fun, and i didn’t want it to end just like that (i have attachment issues as you may infer from this note). therefore, i’ve made the decision to write a second part to this fic, which will contain fluff and other stuff (you already know the drill). i don’t know when i’ll be posting it, but i’m sure it won’t take me that long.

*** i’m also working on other one shots (purely fluff/domesticity because i want this man to cradle me in his arms). anyway, i don’t know if anyone’s going to read this, but still, all I have to say is THANK YOU FOR READING MY WORKS! i hope you really like this silly story i made up :)

**** english is not my first language so if you come across any mistakes don’t hesitate to tell me :)

special recognition to @zloshy who allowed me to rant about my own fic 😭 the sweetest human ever

The bar is far from packed, but then again, it never truly is.

Studying your regulars has become your favorite hobby. Soon you end up knowing their names, the drinks they like, and what time they come through the door. It’s what happens when standing on your own two feet and refilling glasses lose all their charm. A part of you thinks you also do it to make them feel safe. No matter how much you try to deny it, you truly care about their well-being.

Is this your dream job? Nope. Definitely not. You’re pretty sure that holding some stranger’s hair while they empty their insides wasn’t on your bingo card for this year. But sadly money doesn’t grow on trees, and university isn’t going to pay itself. Plus, this was the only job in which your resume was not immediately rejected. It should also be stressed that the drunks happen to love you. 

Perhaps this isn’t the life you had always imagined for yourself, but you were getting closer to it. You’d often talk to Adam, a retired psychologist in his seventies. He was without a doubt one of the most loyal clients you’d ever encountered. In the past, he’d even given you free advice on some of your failed hookups. You once told him that in less than two years, you’d be just like him when you got your degree in Psychology. To your surprise, he replied: “You’ll be much better than me, doll. I’m a mess, can’t you see it? You don’t wanna be like me,” his voice was hardly above a whisper as he continued. “I should be at my daughter’s birthday right now, but I didn’t get an invitation this year. Believe me, you don’t want to end up like this old man.” 

Like Adam, most of the men who frequented the bar day-to-day saw it as an opportunity to hide within the shadows. In comparison to the other pubs in the area, the one you work at doesn’t receive that much attention from the general public. A dimly lit place where only music from the 80s is allowed. You’re certain that if a health inspector ever came down here, you’d be in serious problems. But hey, you know what they say: do not worry about tomorrow; instead, live in the now.

The atmosphere of the bar shifts dramatically as the main door slams shut with a resounding thud, pulling you abruptly out of your daydreaming. You turn to see who’s arrived, but as soon as your eyes meet his, you’re compelled to look away. Nevertheless, the brief glance you catch of the stranger’s features is enough for you to unlock your phone and send a quick text to your best friend. 

You:

cutie patootie alert

there’s this really handsome guy at the bar

i don’t think i’ve ever seen him before

i think i’m in love with him

my night just got a 100% better

Allison:

age

what does he look like

is he bald?

You:

he looks like he could be in his early fifties??? it’s hard to tell UGH i wish you were here

brown hair, beard, 6’2 if i’m not wrong 

i didn’t stare at him for too long

otherwise that would’ve been very weird

and no he’s not fucking bald

that happened only once and i was not aware of that gentleman’s lack of hair 

Allison:

so you’re dating retired now

get it grandma!

You:

oh fuck you allison 

Allison: 

it’s okay girl we all have our flaws

just make sure it’s nobody’s father

wait it’s not mine right?

You:

nah your dad’s way hotter don’t you worry about it

Allison:

bitch 

Even with the music blasting through the speakers that are attached to the ceiling, you can still hear the low murmur and the whispers. The mysterious stranger seems to have attracted the attention of the other patrons, some of whom have even raised their phones to take photos. Your eyebrows draw together. Why would they do something like this, approaching the man as if he were a celebrity? Since curiosity never fails to kill the cat, you decide to get involved.

“Do I have somethin’ on my face?” you hear him ask the crowd, his raspy voice making your knees wobbly. He sounds enraged. You step on your tiptoes, trying to see what all the fuss is about, albeit it’s pretty hard considering how these men are caging him with their bodies.

The glow of a phone’s flashlight catches your attention, and suddenly, a chair is dragged without much elegance. “Enough of that, y’hear me?”

Enter you now. “Okay, gentlemen, I’m sorry. I’m gonna need you to make some space for me, alright?” you mumble as you gently push them aside. “Thank you, thank you. Y’all can be real sweethearts when you put your minds to it.”

Then you spot him, and it becomes clear why everyone is making such a fuss. 

Gary, your worst client ever, steps forward. His nasty breath clouds your senses as he rests one of his sweaty hands on your shoulder. “Doll, it’s the fucking Wolverine. Don’t ask him for a picture, though. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for that.”

The last thing you needed to see today was a fight (despite your knowledge of who would be the winner). You locate yourself amidst them, shaking your head like a disappointed mother, so as to add a tiny bit of drama to the situation.

“Guys, what you’re doing here is completely inappropriate. I thought I’d taught you better. Imagine if I were to pull this crap on you. You wouldn’t have it.”

Adam presses his lips together, flushing a bit. “She does have a point.” 

“Thank you, peanut. You’re still my favorite,” you flash him an honest smile. Scrutinizing the rest of the men, you continue with your speech. “You can still make up for it and fill my tip jar all the way to the top. Deal?” they all scoff, barking their disagreement. “Oh, you don’t like the sound of that? Then leave him alone, okay? Class dismissed! Back to your places,” you clap your hands repeatedly, signaling them to go away. “Chop chop. All this alcohol won’t be drinking itself.”

Just like that, everything goes back to normal in the blink of an eye. Wolverine sits back down in his chair, leaning closer to the table and resting both elbows on it. He examines you, lifting his chin while his brown eyes take in every inch of you.

“Thank you,” he utters, his eyes still trained on your features. 

“No need to. It’s what I’m here for,” you point to your work clothes, which consist of an antiqued apron and a silly sticker that has your name written on it. “Can I get you anything to drink? It’s also Burger Night. You can get one for half the usual price.”

(No. It’s not fucking Burger Night. You just happen to find yourself deeply attracted to him.)

He doesn’t seem too eager to hear you talk. “Not hungry at the moment. But I could use some whiskey.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, kid. Very sure.” Well, now he does look annoyed.

“Great. I’ll be back in a minute,” you move as if you were in a race, returning to him after a hot minute. Setting his glass down on the table, you fill it with some old whiskey you don’t even know the name of. Still, he omits that detail, gulping down two-fingers of whiskey as if it were water. “I see you’re thirsty.”

“Could you leave the bottle here?” those brown puppy eyes are begging you to do as he says, and although you’d be happy to oblige, rules are rules. 

“Actually, I can’t. The bottle stays on the counter. But you can always join me at the front,” your proposal doesn’t appear to have the desired effect on him. “I won’t talk to you if that’s what you want.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he rubs his neck, drawing a long breath as he stands up. 

You can feel many pairs of eyes searing into your soul. The others ask you for more drinks and you pour them, pricking up your ears when you hear them talking about him.

“What a weirdo. Didn’t you see it on TV? He’s not even from this universe,” Gary explains, looking for accomplices to hate on Wolverine. “Let me tell y’all something: he shouldn’t even be here. He’s fucking dead on this earth.”

Yeah… that you knew.

It had been all over the news for weeks. Some would even swear that he was back from the dead, but that was until the representatives from the TVA spoke their truth. If someone would’ve told you a month ago that multiple universes were a thing, you would’ve laughed in their face.

As if that weren’t already difficult to process, your mind does the job of reminding you that there’s a man with metal claws sitting a few meters away from you. Despite that, you can’t seem to be scared of him. There’s something magnetic about his personality and that don’t-come-near-me-or-there-will-be-consequences expression that he has. Why had you promised not to speak to him? Dammit.

“I can hear your thoughts,” a muscle in his jaw twitches after knocking back another glass of whiskey. He squeezes his eyes shut before tapping the table with two fingers, silently asking for a refill.

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk,” you raise one of your eyebrows, and you behold how the corners of his mouth turn up for an instant. “I can assure you your liver hates you.”

“Alcohol won’t kill me, so don’t be afraid. Keep ‘em coming.”

For nearly twenty minutes, he does nothing but drink. He attempts to light a cigar at some point, and you stop him. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“No special treatment?” he inquires, placing the cigar between his parted lips and tilting his head back. He’s so… dreamy. He has to know it.

“I saved your ass today. The least you can do is not cause me any trouble.”

His eyes widen at your words, blinking owlishly. “You saved my what?”

“Your goddamn ass. You were about to start a fight.”

“Blame the idiots you have for clients,” he says, jerking his thumb toward your direction. “I was just mindin’ my own business. They came for me, not the other way around.”

“Look, Wolvie. I–”

“Wolvie?” giving a bitter laugh, he rams a hand through his hair. “That’s the worst nickname I’ve heard in a long time,” he looks at you through his lashes, getting rid of his leather jacket. “It’s Logan.”

“Wow. Your name is very boybandish.”

You succeed in making him laugh once again. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to observe his face without feeling like you were just about to get caught. He has deep creases and worry lines etched between his eyebrows, a brown beard that perfectly frames his jaw, and a few white hairs scattered in his sideburns. Pearly teeth that go hand in hand with one of the most impeccable smiles you’ve ever seen, and a pair of brown eyes that make you feel weak in the knees. You know for a fact that he’s a lot older than you; his exact age remains a mystery, but his appearance is enough for you to start fantasizing.

Shit, you want him. You should feel sickened by the mere thought of being with him. He was born God knows when, has lived hundreds of years. Still, the idea of tracing his cheekbones with your fingers while lying on his chest doesn’t leave you. This is fucked up. You are fucked up. A fucked up Psychology student. The joke is pretty much self-explanatory.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, you preening slut. Can’t even bother to answer my calls now?”

The tension between you shatters like a glass dropped onto the floor. He doesn’t dare to look in the direction of the owner of that voice, not even as the seat next to him gets taken. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Wade, what the hell are you doin’ here?”

“It hasn’t been exactly easy, raising our kid on my own. I don’t even have money to hire a babysitter, Lo. I spent nine months carrying your child, and for what? You end up going after a bartender,” the masked man turns to you, giving a sly wink. “No offense, baby. You must be a real sweetheart. In fact, do you want my number? The name’s Wade, but you can call me whatever you like.”

“You dumb fuck. Are you flirtin’ with her?”

“No shit, smartass. You’re the future of this country.”

A soft giggle escapes you despite your attempt to hold it back. You take a step back, admiring the two men. “Well, aren’t you two a beautiful couple?”

“You should see our little munchkin. He’s got my eyes and Logan’s hair. His first word was gubernatorial.”

“Would you like to have a drink while you’re here?”

“A beer would be great. Thank you, sugarbear. You’re the cutest,” Wade sinks back into his chair, resting his chin on his palm. He jerks his head in Logan’s direction, bumping his shoulder. “She’s the cutest. Are you two together?”

Logan rubs his forehead, speaking through gritted teeth. “How did you find me?”

“It's the power of love, baby. I had It’s All Coming Back To Me Now on repeat for hours. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Handing Wade a cold beer, your eyes scan Logan’s face. “I didn’t know patience was your strongest suit.”

“Me neither.”

“Enough of that! I can’t stand not being included in a conversation,” Wade throws his hands in the air, and you look at him. “There you are. So, what about you? Are you even allowed to be here? Did bars change their policies?”

You can’t help but snort. “I’m 25.”

Wade looms closer, lowering his voice. “Now that I think about it, you could totally be Logan’s caretaker. He’s been having some issues recently, given his age. Do you… know anything about adult diapers?”

But then Logan’s face contorts, turning crimson. He rises from his seat, grabbing Wade’s arm. “That’s it. We’re leavin’,” his eyes lock on you for a moment. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”

The things you’re willing to do for a man, right? You should be ashamed of yourself.

(But you aren’t.)

His mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Kiddo, are you–”

“Completely sure,” you finish his sentence for him, bowing your head and clasping your arms behind your body. A tight-lipped smile takes over you. “Just don’t tell my boss.”

Wade shifts his gaze back and forth between Logan and you. “I usually don’t mind third-wheeling, but I sort of feel left out.”

“I’m gonna sew your mouth shut, Wade.”

“Oh, come on! I was just making small talk,” the masked man tries to excuse himself while Logan pushes him towards the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sunshine. I’m free on Thursdays. Hit me up if his whiskey dick fails to impress you! Mine’s way more agile and young!”

As you watch them leave the bar, you remain frozen in your place amidst the clamor of ongoing chatter and clinking glasses.

What the fuck had just happened?

“Patrick’s normally the first one to get wasted during weekends,” you explain to the blonde woman sitting in front of you, and she writes that information down in her notebook. “He can usually handle himself, but at some point, he’ll try to call his ex-wife, and that’s when you know you need to stop serving him.”

She clicks her tongue, the color draining out of her face. “This is… definitely a lot to remember. I think I already forgot half of what you said.”

You shake your head, shoving your hands in your pockets. “You’ll get used to it, believe me. I’ll be with you at all times, so if you have any doubts, just ask me.”

After a whole year of working solo at the bar, you finally get to have a coworker: Gwen, a mother of two teenagers in her forties. You had met her at the grocery store, and in the process of helping her find a specific brand of cookies, you found out that she had recently lost her job. One thing led to another, and now she’s your trainee.

Your savior complex strikes again!

It has been four days since your first encounter with Logan. The thought that he could show up at any moment makes your heart race and your hands sweat. Allison had received countless voice messages where you narrated the entire experience in full detail. 

Touching your arm softly, Gwen’s face lights up. “Another man came in. Is he a regular? I don’t think you told me about him.”

Fuck, it’s him. Manifesting does work wonders. He locks eyes with you and raises a hand in greeting.

“Leave this one to me,” you tell her as your feet take you to where Logan’s sitting, contemplating the way in which his leather jacket hugs his wide frame. “Long time no see.”

“Hey, kid,” he grins. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Nobody has puked yet, so that’s a good thing,” you crinkle your nose, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Whiskey?”

“You know me so well,” a smirk takes place in his lips, and he smiles cockily. “Though this time, I won’t be leavin’ without payin’.”

“We’ll see about that,” you go back to your usual spot behind the counter, looking for a glass. Your cheeks kind of hurt from smiling so hard. Next to you, Gwen studies your reaction to seeing Logan. “Is that your boyfriend?”

You almost drop the whiskey bottle. “God, no. He’s not my boyfriend. Barely know the guy.”

“It’s funny,” she says, raising her eyebrows with a knowing look, as if she knows something you don’t. “He hasn’t stopped looking at you since he arrived.”

“It’s probably because of this,” you reply, lifting the bottle in her direction before pouring a small amount into a glass. Just as you’re about to walk over to him, a girl slides into the sit beside him, her long blonde hair swept up in a ponytail. She’s wearing a stunning red dress and black heels. You wonder if she’s a model, because she certainly looks like one.

Her hand creeps up his arm, fingernails scraping against the worn leather. Although Logan’s expression is hard to read, he doesn’t even flinch.

“You know what? Here’s his drink– You take care of it. I’ll stay here,” you don’t give Gwen a chance to talk back, instead staying behind the bar, engaging in small talk with other clients. 

“Doll, are you okay?” Adam asks you after noticing you struggling to open a beer bottle. He takes it from your hands and opens it with ease. “There you go.”

“Thank you, Adam. I’m fine, never been better. Why you ask?

“You sure?”

“Affirmative.”

“You mixed up our drinks,” he explains in his most psychologist-like voice. “This never happens to you. Michael has my wine, and I’ve got his martini.”

“Fuck! I’m so sorry. I just— I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you chew on your bottom lip, rubbing your temples. “I feel stupid.”

“Oh, please. Don’t say that. You’re far from being stupid,” he sits up straight, reaching for your fingers and giving them an apologetic squeeze. “If you ask me, I think you’ve got your mind on someone else,” he must notice how you visibly get tense because he adds: “Remember: I know when you’re lying. You didn’t charge him the other day, which means that you must really like him,” taking a tentative sip of the martini he didn’t even ordered, Adam shrugs. “I’m a great observer. That’s all.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the blonde girl from before returning to where her friends are chatting. Logan is left alone, and you watch him grab his glass and head towards the counter.

“As I said, your mind’s somewhere else,” Adam sighs, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips. “Go get your man. I’ll survive.”

“Not my man. But thanks, older-and-wiser-version-of-cupid.”

Pretending not to have seen Logan, you continue with your work. He remains silent for some minutes before finally saying: “Hi.”

Hi? It sounds so out of character for him.

“Hey, claws,” you force a smile, still avoiding to meet his gaze. “Do you need anything?”

Logan points to his empty glass, like a toddler asking for more cereal. “I also wanted to talk to you.”

“I thought you were busy over there,” you say, surprisingly managing to sound nonchalant, despite the jealousy bubbling underneath your friendly tone. “Did you get her number?”

“What? No.”

“Why not? She’s cute.”

Yeah, maybe you don’t sound as collected as you think.

Whether Logan notices it or not, he chooses not to mention it. He folds his arms over his chest, fixing his brown eyes on you. “I’m not interested.”

“And what is it that interests you, champ?” your question elicits a low chuckle from him. Just as he opens his mouth to seemingly reply, Gwen appears out of nowhere to ask you about the price of a certain drink. Your gaze shifts between her and Logan, who remains focused on you while sipping his drink.

After that, Gwen leaves. The man in front of you goes poker-faced, pursing his lips, and his abrupt change in demeanor alarms you. “Wade wants to have dinner tomorrow at his apartment– well, our apartment. I live with him now. It’s complicated,” he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand, and you laugh. “Anyway, he asked me to tell you that you’re invited. I know we don’t know each other that much, but… he said you seem like someone worth havin’ around,” he mumbles awkwardly, eyes downcast. “I think the same as well.”

You could die at peace.

“You’re a lucky fucker because I don’t work on Sundays,” you quip, smiling. “I’d be more than happy to attend your feast.”

“Great. I thought you would turn down the invitation.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“‘Cause you barely know me– us,” he corrects himself rapidly. “Plus, Wade’s annoying as hell when he puts his mind to it. You’ll see.”

“Marital problems?” he actually in response. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Oh, I’ll bring the dessert.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I do want to,” you tilt your head in an effort to hide your longing for him.

“Just want to get under my skin, huh? I can see why Wade likes you,” Logan beams, reaching out to tuck a $100 bill into the pocket of your apron. “The tip’s included.”

“I don’t know how things work in your universe, but you’re giving me way more money than you’re supposed to. I can't accept this.”

“Oh, but you will,” his gravelly voice fucks your system up, and you’re glad he can’t see how you squeeze your legs together behind the bar.

He writes down Wade’s address on a random napkin, holding his breath as he stands up. “I should get goin’. See you tomorrow then.”

Before he walks out the door, you stop him. “Logan? You didn’t answer my other question.”

His back shakes momentarily with laughter. Turning around to face you, his stare leaves you even more confused. “Good night, doll.”

This is becoming a habit: every time he goes away, you feel as though you’ve just run a marathon with no water available. Your mouth is completely dry, your fingers are numb and there’s a knot in your stomach that’s becoming all too familiar.

“Would you mind telling me where you got him?” Gwen’s voice makes you almost jump out of your skin.

“He’s not from around here. I think he’s Canadian.”

You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.

Knocking softly on Wade’s door, you step back, the container holding the tiramisu cold to your touch. It’s your first time trying out this recipe, so you’re expecting it to at least not taste like shit.

Wade answers the apartment door, acting surprised when you remain silent. “Well, look what the wind blew in: if it isn’t my husband’s lover. How dare you? We’re still going to couples therapy.”

You show him the container, and he squints at it. “Tiramisu. You want it or not?”

“I hate twenty-somethings,” he says with a defeated sigh, stepping aside to let you into the apartment. 

Leaving your purse on the nearest surface, you scan the living room, wondering where Logan might be. There’s a small mirror beneath the couch, and you check yourself for the hundredth time tonight. “Don’t get too excited. He’s still showering,” Wade’s voice rings in your ears, and you turn to look at him, your eyebrows knitted. “Yeah. I noticed. You’re already drooling over that big piece of metal between his legs.”

“Keep quiet!” you cover his mouth with your palm, noticing the scarred state of his skin up close. “Wade, you fucking dog. Are you licking my hand?”

“Couldn’t help it. You taste like mascarpone cheese and espresso.”

Then Logan emerges from the bathroom, with only a white towel draped around his waist. Droplets of water fall from his wet hair, tracing the muscle of his abs, ending somewhere beneath his happy trail. Your eyes keep flickering between him and his torso until he clears his throat. “I thought you were comin’ later.”

“Me too, but I…,” you trail off, your brain struggling to catch up, “I didn’t know what else to do at my place.”

“It’s fine. Just– let me put on some clothes.”

“Please don’t,” Wade murmurs next to you, but Logan only scoffs. “I was just being honest. Communication is key.”

When Wade and you are alone again, he lets out a harsh breath. “That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. My pants are really tight right now.”

“Thin walls, buddy!” Logan shouts from his bedroom, earning a laugh from you. 

Like A Prayer starts playing. Wade moves his hips to the beat, getting lost in the melody. “Is that your phone?”

“Yeah, but I always take a few seconds to dance to it. Such a banger!” he says, then picks up his phone, accepting the call. “Hey, Ness! What´s up?” Wade covers the speaker before telling you: “It’s Vanessa. My ex-girlfriend. We fuck once a week, sometimes even twice.”

From behind, Logan nudges your arm with his, looking at you. ”Hey, kid.”

“No, I’m not busy at all,” Wade exclaims, grabbing his crotch and thrusting into the air. “I’ll be there in ten, cupcake. See you,” he spreads his arms wide and whistles. “Someone’s getting laid tonight!”

“You made me come all the way here… and now you’re leaving?”

“What? My friend Wolverine wanted to invite you over. I just had to provide the apartment,” in one quick movement, he presses a kiss to your cheek, then does the same to Logan. “Shave yourself, will you?”

“Go fuck yourself, will you?”

“Love you too, honey. Hope you two lovebirds have a good night, because I know I will!”

Wade throws a wink over his shoulder before heading out, the apartment going dead silent. Logan and you stand frozen, staring at each other, although he quickly drops his gaze, unable to maintain eye contact. A giggle threatens to escape you: he wanted to see you. Could he possibly enjoy your company as much as you enjoy his?

Logan watches the spot where Wave had just been. The absence of his chaotic energy makes the room feel strangely empty now. He coughs lightly, the sound awkwardly loud in the quiet room.

“So... I, uh, bought pizza,” he says, his voice a little too casual, as if trying to cover up his nervousness. Averting his eyes, he focuses on the pizza boxes on the table.

You catch the hesitation in his tone, your curiosity piqued by his discomfort. Tilting your head, a teasing smile forms on your lips. “Pizza, huh? You sure know how to impress a girl.”

Logan chuckles, the sound strained, as he scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I figured it was a safe choice. Didn’t want to ruin it, y’know?”

You move closer to the table, the warmth from the pizza boxes radiating against your hands as you open one of them. The rich smell of melted cheese and pepperoni fills the air, a comforting scent that makes your stomach growl softly. “Thank you. I’m a big fan of pizza.”

He sits in the chair across from you, taking a bite of his slice. You watch him quietly, your own thoughts churning. The truth of his origins had been a shock at first, but now, it just made you want to know more about the man. What was his life like in the other universe? Did he miss it? Was he happier here, or was he longing to return?

“Logan…,” you begin, your tone gentle but probing, “Can I ask you something?”

He glances up at you, eyes widening. There’s something in your eyes –an understanding, maybe– that makes him feel like you could see right through him. 

“Sure,” he replies, trying to sound more at ease than he really feels. “Ask away.”

You hesitate for a moment, not wanting to push too hard. “I was wondering... would it be okay if I asked you some questions? About, you know, your life. Where you're from.”

The bite of pizza suddenly feels heavy in his mouth. He hadn’t talked much about his world, not even with Wade. Partly because it was too painful, and partly because he wasn’t sure how to explain how things turned out for him. He nods slowly, setting his slice down. “Yeah, it's okay. I’ll answer what I can.”

“I just... I want to understand you better.”

“Well, first and foremost, I’m no hero. You should know that by now.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Kid, I’m the worst Logan. A complete failure. Of all the variants out there, Wade just had to pick the one despised by every living soul on his earth,” Logan looks away, his voice low and heavy. You’re wondering if doing this was a good idea. “I need a drink.”

He gets up and you follow him into the kitchen. He rummages through the fridge, in search of a cold beer. Meanwhile, you attempt to find the right words. “I don’t think–”

With a sharp flick of his wrist, three metal claws sprout from between his knuckles. A gasp catches in your throat as he uses his claws to pierce the beer can, drinking from the punctured holes. Once he’s done, he goes back to staring at you. Your gaze, on the other hand, is still glued to the now-empty beer can. “What?” he asks, exhaling slowly.

“That was completely unnecessary,” you mutter, and he lets out a bitter chuckle, tossing the can into the trash. “But, back to what you said before– I don’t think you’re the worst Logan.”

“You didn’t know me back then, darlin’. I fucked it up,” he leans against the counter, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Like the Logan from this universe, I once belonged to the X-Men too. I remember that Scott used to beg me to wear my suit. So did Jean, Storm, Beast– All of them,” his gaze grows more distant, and you can tell that memories are flooding his mind. “Wanted me to be part of the team, but I wouldn’t do it. Told them they looked fucking ridiculous.”

The pizza’s long forgotten. You take the risk and get a bit closer to him, your eyes never leaving his. 

Logan’s silence stretches for a moment before he speaks again. “One day, while I was off on my own, the humans came. They went mutant hunting.”

Your heart clenches at the pain in his voice. He still remembers everything as if it had happened yesterday. “I can guess the rest. You don’t have to–”

But he cuts you off. “No, let me say it. I need to say it,” he takes a deep breath, lowering his head. “By the time I stumbled home, shit-faced from the bar, it was too late. They were dead. They called after me and I walked away.”

Reaching out, your hand gently brushes against his. He doesn’t pull away, but instead searches for your eyes. “My suit's all I've got to remind me of who they were. What I did. I found them and they were… dead. I started killing, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I turned the whole world against the X-Men.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, knowing there’s nothing you can do to change how he feels. “You’re not a bad person, Logan,” he shakes his head, mumbling something you can’t quite catch. “I mean it. What happened back then doesn’t define you. You took the blame for their deaths upon yourself. I can tell you loved them deeply, and I’ll never fully understand the pain you feel. I wish I could. I wish I could take it away, make you forget somehow, but I can’t. That’s not how life works. But you got your second chance: you saved this world. My world,” gently cupping his face in your hands, you allow your fingers to caress his cheeks. He leans into your touch, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “You’re my hero. I’m your biggest fan– after Wade, obviously, which is a lot to say.”

He grins, letting out a laugh. “Easy there, bub.”

“Should I give you some space?”

That’s the last thing he wants from you right now. You already know that as he looks you up and down, placing his hands on the small of your back, his thumbs drawing small circles on your skin. There’s no turning back– The warmth between you feels almost like a fever dream. “For a long time, all I wanted was to disappear. I couldn’t stand waking up every morning, knowing that another day awaited me.”

“And what happened?” your breath mingles with his, his closeness becoming nearly intoxicating. “What changed?”

“I met a pretty girl at a pub, that’s what happened,” he murmurs, his dilated pupils flicking up to meet your gaze. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Do all your kisses come with a warning?”

“God, do you ever shut up?”

You don’t have time to respond because he kisses you there and then. His stubble scrapes your skin as your mouths meet again and again, needy hands that hold you as if you were prone to breaking. Logan licks into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours and swallowing every one of your whimpers.

“So this is what it takes to shut you up, huh?” he murmurs against your lips. You can feel him smiling, and it makes your heart skip a beat. 

“Keep talking and you won’t get a single bite of my tiramisu,” you tease him, kissing him again, the taste of beer numbing your senses. “I really like kissing you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, but now that you’ve mentioned that tiramisu…”

“Am I that easily replaced?”

“No. You’re just a pain in the ass.”

Jokes aside, you’re as happy as a clam.

Since that night you and Logan kissed, you’ve been living your best life. Like a freaking schoolgirl with a crush. Some things never seem to change.

He hasn’t been to the bar in three days. Yes, you’re counting them. No, you haven’t lost your mind. You want to see him, but there’s something about making the first move that gives you the chills. What would his reaction be if you showed outside of apartment?

It’s been a long time since you’ve been with anybody. On top of that, all the guys you’ve dated were your age. Being with someone that older than you certainly wasn’t no your plans. You’d be lying if you said that the mere idea of being with him in that way didn’t excite you.

Oh boy, you miss him. You miss his scruffy voice, his gorgeous hair. And you two aren’t even official yet. To be honest, you don’t even know what he wants from you. Is he even the type to be in a relationship?

“Nighty night, gentlemen,” you say to Gary and his friends as you find yourself in front of them, smoothing your apron. Gwen had called in sick tonight, so it’s just you at the bar babysitting a bunch of grown-men.

“What’s up, doll? You’ve forgotten about us. We miss you coming in here to chat,” Gary’s eating his burger at the same time he speaks, something you find repulsive, but you’ve seen worse. “Y’know, I’d love to take you out someday. I have a place you’d like.”

The other men laugh and punch him in the back, just boosting his ego. Pathetic. 

“I’ll let you know when I’m free,” you reply with the most polite smile you can offer, intending to go on. “What are you having tonight?”

“You always pull that shit, baby. I don’t think you’re so busy that you can’t accept a date.”

You hate the way he’s looking at you, as if you were wrong for not being interested. As if you didn’t know any better.

“You’re reading minds now? Shocking, Gary.”

“Oh, doll. That attitude of yours shows you’ve never been with a real man like me, that’s all,” he leans back in his chair, resting one of his arms on the table and the other one near his crotch, manspreading. “It’s alright. I like you bratty.”

“I’ll be back when you finally have something to order,” you attempt to turn around but he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer. Your eyes lock, and he seems to enjoy this: being in control. Like a predator hunting his prey. “Come on, Gary. I don’t want to have to kick you out.”

“It’s not that you don't like me, right? You’ve already got your mouth full.”

“Careful.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re not fucking that useless mutant. I see you like ‘em older. Pretty little things like you drive me wild.”

You laugh in his face, showing him your teeth. “It was never about your age, Gary. You’re right: I do like them older. I’m just not into bald, vertically-challenged pricks.”

His entourage of idiots goes silent after that. He looks up at you, eyes burning with hatred. His grip on your wrist tightens, probably leaving a mark. “Fucking bitch.”

“Get your hands off her.”

Logan’s voice forces the two of you to look in his direction. It seems that he’s just arrived at the pub, his jacket still on. 

“You joining us? We’re just getting started here, big boy.”

“Did you not hear me?” Logan lunges forward, his nose almost touching Gary’s. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Easy there, cowboy. I’m just having a chat with your girl. She’s one of the good ones, I’ll give you that,” arching a sly brow, his forehead puckers. “You don’t like sharing? We can even take turns.”

Logan clenches his jaw, lips set in a grim line. “Say one more word, and I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’ll give you a full sentence instead: can you even get it up?” 

The tension in the air is thick, every second stretching out as Logan's anger simmers dangerously close to the surface. Gary’s smug grin only makes it worse, pushing him to the edge. Before you can react, Logan’s fist swings forward, connecting with Gary’s jaw with a sickening crack. Gary staggers back, realising your wrist. Blood seeps from his nose, his white shirt becoming stained with it. “You fucker! You broke my nose!”

“We’re just getting started here, big boy,” Logan mocks him, repeating his previous words.

“Stop!” you shout, moving quickly to grab his arm, trying to pull him back. But he’s beyond hearing, his rage blinding him to everything else. He shakes you off, and with a fierce growl, drives another punch into Gary’s stomach. The latter doubles over, gasping for air, the wind knocked out of him. He then falls to the floor, curling into a ball. People start to gather around you, and soon your beloved bar becomes a box ring.

“That’s enough, Logan! He’s barely conscious,” you murmur under your breath, stepping between them, hands up in a desperate attempt to create some space. Logan pauses, chest heaving, fists still clenched, as he finally looks at you. The wildness in his eyes starts to fade, replaced by a dawning realization of what he’s done.

“He deserved it,” he nods vigorously to himself, as if trying to explain his point. “He was hurting you.”

“If you keep that up, you’re going to kill him. My bar is not a fucking cemetery,” your voice trembles a little bit, expecting to talk some sense into him. “I won’t let you do this.”

The room is quiet now, the only sound being Logan’s heavy breathing as he stands there, still tense, still processing. You turn to Gary’s friends, cold fury in your eyes. “Get him out of here,” you watch as they haul him up, practically dragging him to the door. The other clients continue to stare at Logan, their mouths hanging open. “Everybody out, right now! Go home. We’re closing earlier tonight.”

Adam is the last person to leave, slamming the door behind him. You rush to the counter, searching for a mop to clean the fresh blood off the floor. Still agitated, the images of Logan hitting Gary flash in your mind. He approaches you from behind, his fingers circling your forearm. “Bub–”

“Don’t. Now is not the time.”

“I was protecting you.”

“I told you to stop, and you didn’t. You just shook me off,” you snap, glancing at his knuckles which are not even bruised. Slamming your eyes shut, you get to your feet and wash your hands in the sink, the remaining water becoming reddish for a moment.

Logan moves closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. He wraps his arms lazily around your middle section. ”I’m sorry.”

You turn in his arms, your back flushed against the sink and your nose in the air. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“But– Jesus, Logan. You could’ve come sooner. I thought you regretted what happened the other day,” you say and the muscles in his face twitch, his body stiffening at your words. “Thought you no longer wanted me.”

“No, bub. I– I still want you. I want all of you, trust me,” he murmurs, and you allow him to press his body against yours, the scent of the cigar he must have smoked recently enveloping your senses. “I just… don’t know how to do this. I have a habit of ruining things, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to be with you without hurting you.”

“Pushing me away also hurts,” your eyes flick up to meet his gaze again, and he whispers under his breath. “I can’t read your mind. You need to tell me what’s going on in that ancient skull of yours.”

His face falters, flashing you a mischievous look. His hand creeps under the fabric of your shirt, fingernails scrapping against your spine. “I’m sorry, princess. I truly am.”

“You can’t just say ‘sorry’ with that voice and expect me to–”

You’re cut off by his lips crashing down onto yours. You melt into the kiss, unable to deny what your body has been craving for the past days. 

“I thought your kisses came with a warning,” you say, detaching your mouth from his, a smile spreading uncontrollably in your face as you see his toothy grin.

“Shut up and kiss me, will you?”

In a clash of tongues and teeth, your mouths meet once again. Tugging the hair at his nape, you feel him growl against your lips. His strong hands trace every curve of your body, kneading the flesh of your hips and undoing the knot at the back of your apron. You’re becoming one with the sink, but in a moment like this, you couldn’t care less. Logan’s hard on nudges your lower stomach, and he ruts against you like an animal.

“You said you wanted to know what’s on my mind, right?” his teeth nibble on the skin of your neck, syrupy voice going straight to your core. “Well, I’d love nothing more than to touch you right now.”

“Right here? On the counter?”

“Yeah, on the fucking counter,” he grabs you by your thighs, hosting you up and placing your body on top of the cold bar. He nudges your knees apart, his bulge meeting your clothed cunt deliciously. “Will you let me, baby? Can I make you come in here?”

“Please. I’m glad we have such a low budget. Camera installment is t–too expensive these days.”

“Do you always talk this much?” he slowly unbuttons your pants, and you help him to remove them.

“Yes. Next question,” your breath hitches in your throat as you feel the pad of his thumb circling your clit through your panties. Your eyelids drop, your head lolling back. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Logan hums, mesmerized with the way your hips roll into his hand, your whimpers sounding like music to his ears. “You have any idea how I felt when I saw him touching you? Wanted to rip his hands off you,” his eyes drift to your chest, how it rises and falls with impatience. “But it’s me who gets to have you like this. He can fantasize about you all he wants: I’m the only one who touches you, ain’t I right?” you sigh with content as his fingers graze your slit, aimlessly bucking your hips. He doesn’t go any further, and you tug at the collar of his flannel, needing more of his callousand hands on you. “Nuh-uh. You want something, you gotta use your words. Got it?”

“I w–want your fingers inside me,” you don’t even recognize your own voice at this point. The few guys you had slept with had never been very talkative during sex. But Logan isn’t like them. This is just the beginning and you’re already starting to realize that he has a dirty mouth, that expectant look on his face as he waits to see your reaction to his words. “Please, Logan. I want you so bad.”

“Oh, I know, bub. There’s something about me I don’t think you know,” he inserts one of his fingers in your cunt, your slick coating the palm of his hand. “These claws I have… they didn’t come on their own. Let’s just say my sense of smell is… pretty good,” Logan can almost see the gears turning in your head as you try to think coherently. He moves his middle finger in and out of you, stretching your walls. “And you… have been wet ever since the first time you saw me. Always nice to everybody, making sure they feel at ease,” you feel like you’re being stretched even further, another one of his fingers sinking into your warm pussy. “But you’re so needy, too. How long has it been since someone touched you like this?”

“Too long, f–fuck. Too long,” you’re squirming, a totally whiny mess. He retratcs his wet fingers and instead goes back to flicking your clit, this time with much less delicacy. His left hand squeezes your tits, and you hate the fact that you’re still wearing clothes. “Shit, Logan. I need you to fuck me. Please. Need your cock.”

His face comes to rest at your neck, and you feel lingering kisses and bites that keep you grounded to earth. “Not here. I need a bed to fuck you properly. You’re only getting my fingers now,” he positions them inches away from your entrance, testing your patience. “Tell me who owns this pussy.”

“L-logan–”

“Tell me and I’ll make you come,” his husky voice is making you dizzy, tears shimmering in your eyes. “Come on. Know you want it as much as I do.”

You succumb to the tentation, like divinity turned to sin. He kisses you roughly, and you struggle to find the correct words. “It’s you, Logan. You own my pussy. It’s f-fucking yours.”

With that, he goes back to nudging that spot that makes you see starts, that filthy squelching sound getting mixed up with your moans. The knot in your belly keeps growing tighter the more he pumps his fingers in and out of you. 

“I said you were only getting my fingers for now, but fuck… I need to gest a taste of this sweet cunt.”

He’s on his knees in an instant, urging your legs apart to make room for his body. Your thighs tighten around his face as he licks a hot stripe up your folds, tracing a heated path on your cunt, not wishing to waste a single second. Pleasure builds quickly, your breath hitching as your hands find their way into his hair, pulling him closer when your body begins to tremble. 

“I’m close,” you pant, breathing hard, grinding your hips against his face. “I’m so close.”

“That’s it. Come in my mouth like the good girl you are.”

Who had given him a damn script for this?

The release is explosive. Like the peak of a roller coaster: you go up up up, ascending higher. You think you almost see Jesus, but at some point, you also have to crash down with force. Your shoulders slump, your entire body cramping up; yet he doesn’t let you go that easily, his fingers still working, scissoring within you while you ride out the final waves of your high, drawing out every last moment of ecstasy.

Once you finally manage to open your eyes, there he is, staring down at you. He taps your lower lip with his fingers, and then mutters: “Open.”

And you do, because you’re just as messed up as he is. Your mouth parts, and he slides his fingers between your lips, dragging them smoothly across your tongue. His knuckles brush the back of your throat, and you gag around the intrusion, tasting yourself. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, clearly satisfied with the way you’ve cleaned them off.

“I think we should really pay a visit to your apartment,” he suggests, groaning in defeat, and you feel his bulge poking your hip. He must be painfully hard. “I meant what I said earlier. I need a bed if we’re going to fuck. My back’s hurting.”

You raise an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth curving into a smirk. “Why not go to yours?”

“Wade’s in there. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.”

You can’t help but laugh, pausing a moment to collect your thoughts, heat rising to your cheeks. “So we’re going rodeo?”

Aiming to silence up, Logan kisses you, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Only if you can handle it.”

part 2: “GIVE ME THE FIRST TASTE”

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

[latenightdaydreams]

Divorced!König x Reader (fem)

MDNI🔞

Master List✍🏽

>cw: fem/afab, divorced couple, fingering, oral, p in v, light angst/fluff

1.8k word count

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After a failed marriage, you ended up with a 75/25 custody agreement with König; you getting your son 75% of the time. In the two years since the divorce, communication with König has been next to nothing. He asks you to communicate through lawyers and you agree, not wanting to deal with his childish rage. Every drop off has been done with you and his assistant. He’s found any way to ice you out.

This weekend is his, but you already informed his people of a trip your mother paid for all her grandchildren. König agreed to let him go and just take the next weekend. That’s why it's so surprising when your doorbell rings late Friday night.

Dressed in baggy shirt and biker shorts, you walk from the kitchen with a glass of wine in your hand. When you poke your head out the window to see who it is, you notice König’s Audi outside. Why is he here?

You open the door to be greeted by his intense gaze, his pale eyes locking onto yours. He’s wearing an expensive black on black outfit with a freshly shaved face. A small smile on his thin scarred lips. Different from his typical military uniform and stoic expression.

“Hello?”

“Hallo, Schatz.” His eyes drift up and down your body, appreciating your cute loungewear.

“What are you doing here?” You ask confused, his wandering eyes causing you to feel self-conscious.

“I’m here for Elisa.”

“I told you he’s gone with my family. Remember, you agreed for next weekend instead?”

“Ah.” König says, looking around, not moving. “May I come in?”

“Uh—I guess, yeah.”

You step aside to let him in. König walks in and sees the place he paid for in the divorce for the first time. It smells like you, home, and it’s comforting. You close the door and walk to him awkwardly, not knowing what to say. The surrounding air both feels thick and it’s uncomfortable.

“The place looks nice; homey.” He says, combing his fingers through his short hair.

“Thank you. And thank you for helping me with it—”

“You don’t need to thank me. It’s what a man is supposed to do for the mother of his child.” He says, trying to act manly, but in all honesty it’s because he never stopped loving you. The dead air makes things more awkward before he speaks up again. “Cheap red?” He gestures to the glass of wine still in your hand.

“Yeah, my favorite.” You laugh softly and take another sip.

“May I have a glass?” His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, nervous of your rejection.

“Sure, yeah.”

König follows you close behind as you walk to the kitchen, silently cursing the baggy shirt you’re wearing for making it harder to check you out. There is light stubble covering your legs, making him smile; recalling what it felt like rubbing your legs late at night before bed. His eyes observe you as you open the bottle of wine and carefully pour it out. He can tell that he’s making you nervous and hopes it’s because you still feel butterflies with him.

You step forward and hand the glass to König, his large fingers graze your own causing his stomach to do a flip. His eyes lock with yours as you lean back against the counter. He brings the glass to his lips taking a small sip of the overly sweet cheap wine.

“Danke.”

“Yup.” You pour yourself more wine as you run through all the possibilities of what he might be here to talk about. Is he stopping spousal support? Asking for more days with Elias? Is he getting married? You turn to König once more. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been…well.” He takes a small sip of wine breaking eye contact. “You?”

“Same.”

“That’s good.” The same painful silence plagues the air. “The place looks nice.” He repeats himself.

“You said that already.” His eyes snap to yours.  “So why are you really here?”

“I- I.” He looks around the room trying to think of an excuse, he forgot his original one. “I just wanted to check up on you.”

“Why? We haven’t talked in…years.”

König’s face turns a light shade of pink as he feels the heavy guilt of just cutting you out. In all reality, when you filed for divorce, it shattered his heart. The only way he could move on is if he pretended you never existed, but that hasn’t worked.

“I’m sorry about that. I always just wonder how you are, so I decided to show up.”

“Why not call? Email?” You put your glass down on the countertop behind you. “That’s what a normal person would do. Why are you really here?”

“I’ve missed you.” His voice comes out in a broken whisper before clearing his throat.

König looks down at you with the softest puppy eyes, waiting for you to respond. He knows that his neglect in the marriage is what led to its downfall so he doesn’t have much room to ask anything of you. His ego was too big of him to ask you for a second chance then, but these years without you have proved he can’t do it.

“What?” You snap.

“I said—”

“No, I heard you. Why would I care? Did you get dumped?”

“I never had a girlfriend.”

You look at him for a moment before snapping again, bringing up every moment that you can think of when you asked him to work on the relationship. Reminding him that he is the one that cut all communication between the both of you. He has been the one to give up and leave so easily while you drowned in life alone.

König didn’t dare defend himself or interrupt you. Everything you’re saying is completely correct. He just stands with slumped shoulders and a face full of regret. His eyes drift to your lips as you speak, noticing the way your soft lips pout as your words grow more emotional. With each second that passes, he gradually approaches, one small step at a time until he ends up just inches away from you. His free hand reaches out and cups the side of your face. Without another word, König leans in and kisses you.

A rush of powerful emotions comes flooding back to you. Just feeling his lips against yours once more was enough to melt you. Your lips press back against his as your hand grabs the glass from his hand and sets it down.

König wraps his arms around your waist and hoist you up on to the counter. His tongue presses past your lips, tasting your sweet tongue as he swirls his around yours. The kiss only briefly broken as he pulls your shirt off, tossing it onto the kitchen floor as he looks down at your braless breasts; just as perfect as they were last time he saw them.

König’s lips meet your once more while his hands move up to cup your breasts. He twirls your nipples between his fingers, leaving a trail of wet kissing down your side of your neck to your breast. In slow motions König flicking his tongue over your nipples. His rock-hard cock twitches in his pants.

“König, maybe we shouldn’t.”

“I need you, please.”

His fingers trace over the elastic in your shorts, pulling them off when he feels you lift your hips. A soft hum leaves his lips when he sees the floral-patterned underwear concealing what he craves the most right now. He wraps his hands around your hips, pulling you closer to him as he drops to his knees in front of you.

The warmth radiates between your legs, he craves it. His lips press against the cotton fabric, taking a deep breath in to savor your scent. He kisses hungrily, feeling the small wet spot growing on the fabric. With two fingers he slips underneath the fabric of his panties and touch your folds. His eyes meet you as he slips them into you, studying the expression of pleasure riddled across your face.

You drop your head back, resting on the cabinets behind you. Soft moans leave your lips as his thick fingers curl up pressing against your g-spot. His teeth pull your underwear to the slide more, slipping his tongue up and down your glistening folds. Your fingers find their way combing through his short hair.

The loud desperate moans leaving you only encourage him. This feels like when you were both younger and spontaneous, before König pushed you aside for work. He feels your sweet arousal begin to drip down from his fingers to his palm, your pussy white and creamy. His name leaves your lips like fire as you orgasm. Once your body stops trembling, he slowly withdraws his fingers from you. With his tongue flat, he licks the thick cream off your thighs and from between your cheeks, making sure he cleans you up.

Your eyes meet him as he stands up, rushing to undo his pants. His cock springs free as his pants fall, he pulls his shirt over his head to discard along with the rest. The look in your eyes is dreamy, full of lust of love.

König leans in and kisses your forehead as he lines himself up between your thighs. It’s been so long since he’s had sex, the fact it’s you he has again feel so unreal to him. He will never throw away the privilege of having your body ever again. You’re so beautiful, every inch.

As his cock slips in your jaw drops, a stuck moan lingers until finally he presses in completely. His forehead is presses against yours as his eyes close, letting the warmth consume him. One arm snakes underneath your thigh and pulls you forward more.

His broad hips snap against yours, a mixed melody of you both moaning fills their space in the kitchen. Your feel his hot breath brush across your face, he looks down at you through half lidded eyes. The silky walls of your cunt hug his cock so perfectly, he’s forgotten just how tight you are.

“You feel so fucking good.” His voice is almost a whimper. “I love you. I love you so fucking much, y/n.”

Your hands caress his jawline, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss. König responds by thrusting harder into you. The sound of your creamy cunt and feeling of your soft lips push his body to the point of no return. His hips slow to attempt to prolong the pleasure, but he can’t. His cock throbs deep inside of you, cum slowly dripping out when he pulls slightly.

The both of you try to catch your breath, his hands not leaving you as he squeezes you tightly as if he’s scared to let go. König gently lifts you from the counter and walks to the couch. With gentle hands he rests you back against the soft fabric. Still not pulling out, he climbs on top of you and hugs you to his body. He hopes that this is a sign of reconciliation.

[sandcobangevent]

Missing you comes in waves (and tonight I'm drowning)

by @jonk-md and @glitterymumfriend

“Wait – wait, no, shit-” John scrambled for his phone, almost dropping it in his rush to activate the screen. Staring back at him was confirmation that it was 11:56am on Friday, 18th September.

His dad’s birthday was 17th September.

He’d forgotten his dad’s birthday.

He couldn’t believe it. He forgot. He forgot.

Distantly, he could hear Mariana calling his name, feel Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder. But he couldn’t do anything but stare at his phone screen until it went dark again, guilt pooling in the pit of his stomach.

He felt his lips moving, was vaguely aware of himself telling them he needed to call his mum. They might have said something in response, but John walked away in a daze, absently dialling Carol Watson’s phone number.

-

“Don’t be silly, Johnny love! It’s alright, I know how busy you are with that charming detective of yours.”

“I just- I’m really sorry, mum.”

“Nonsense! I was fine – I had a grand old time at the bingo with the girls, they kept me company. Speaking of, would you believe that Annie’s youngest has gotten herself engaged? Annie wouldn’t stop going off on one about the ring not being the right cut of diamond but frankly if that’s her only complaint it must have been a stunner, you know what she’s like-”

John hummed non-committally, shuffling things around his desk as he listened to his mum fill him in on all the gossip. Usually he’d have cut her off, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it this time.

He already felt like he’d failed her, once again.

After a while, she trailed off, wrapping up the tale of how Mr Prescott’s dog had gone for the milkman again. “You still there, love?”

“Yeah, yeah I- sorry. I’m still here. That sounds lovely, mum.”

She was silent for a moment, before he heard her sigh. “John, lovely, it’s OK. It’s been over 20 years since he passed on. You don’t need to check in on your old mum every year, I promise. I miss him – I always will – but I stopped grieving for him before you flew out to Afghanistan that first time. Was too busy worrying over you instead!” she joked. Her voice sounded a little wobbly, and John felt even worse.

He forced a chuckle in response, reaching out to idly run his fingers over the top of the framed photos on his desk.

“Don’t go fretting about it like you always do. I know how much you get stuck in that head of yours – don’t do it now. Go talk to Sherlock and Mariana, head out for a pint or something and enjoy your day.”

“Alright, mum. Take care.”

“You too, Johnny – love you!”

“Love you too.”

The line disconnected, and John dropped his phone on the desk with a sigh, slumping into the chair and placing his head in his hands. He did his best to focus on what his mum had said – that she was OK, that he shouldn’t worry himself – but he couldn’t shake the shame.

The feeling that he’d failed her. Failed both of them.

John Watson didn’t leave his room for some time.

-

He knew the others were concerned about him, but he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it. How did he admit to his two best friends that he’d completely forgotten his dead dad’s birthday, all because he was selfishly occupied with the podcast? That he’d not had the wherewithal to message his mum, even once, on the day?

That on top of all of the guilt and shame, he still missed his dad even after 25 years?

It was as if he’d plunged into an ice-cold lake the moment he’d seen the date. Like he’d been wandering along the surface, blissfully unaware until the once-solid floor had given way to murky water. He could make out the light from the surface above him, but everything felt distant and fuzzy, thoughts overruled by the fight-or-flight panic over an inability to breathe.

He doubted they’d be harsh with him – they were both far too good people to kick someone whilst they were down. But a small part of him, one that was surprised whenever people chose to stay, chose him, was too scared of risking it.

He played it off as tiredness, though he was fairly sure neither of them were convinced. But they were, as previously stated, good people, and didn’t push him on it. Instead they fussed from a distance, placing a cup of tea on the coffee table next to him without asking, or putting an old match re-run on in the background as they got on with their individual activities in the evening.

Hell, Sherlock had even complimented him about his idea of luring the murderers to 221B again.

As much as the quiet affection from the others warmed him, however, it was underpinned by a swell of guilt each time. That voice in the back of his mind told him that he didn’t deserve the care and attention. He’d been an awful son to both of his parents, and was wallowing in self-pity and keeping the truth of it a secret like a coward.

He tried to contest it – his mum had said herself that she was fine, and that he shouldn’t beat himself up over it. But every time he tried to remember that – to cling to it as if it were a rope – the self-loathing twined around his legs even further, pulling him deeper to the point where he was starting to lose sight of the surface.

He was almost relieved when he made it to bedtime and was able to hide away in his room again without being questioned. Perhaps he just needed a night to process things, and he’d be a bit more level-headed on how to resolve it all when he woke up?

He should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.

-

He was at his early 10th birthday again, and his dad was in goal. He aimed, kicked, and watched in excitement as the ball just skimmed past his dad into goal. He’d scored!

But when he turned his attention to his dad again to brag about it, something was wrong. His dad’s mouth was moving, but he… couldn’t hear it.

He couldn’t hear his dad’s voice.

What did it sound like again? Was his voice on the higher end of the register like his, or deeper like Sherlock’s? Was there an accent?

He couldn’t hear his dad’s voice.

His appearance was the next to go. Between one blink and the next, he couldn’t remember the colour of his dad’s eyes any more. His features started blurring, fading away one by one. His hair, the shirt he’d been wearing, how tall he’d been.

Panicked, John reached out, flinging himself forwards to grasp at the figure that had replaced his father between the goalposts. It was too late, however – as his hand went to make contact, it passed through as if cutting through smoke, the edges of it curling up and away from him.

The form of Harry Watson dissipated.

He was gone, and John had no memory to cling to.

A distant sobbing noise caught his attention, and he wheeled around to see his mother. Not as she’d been back then – how she’d looked when he’d last seen her. He tried to go to her, but she took a step back, her bloodshot eyes meeting his as she scowled at him.

“How could you?!” she screamed at him, cheeks soaked by tears and hands clenched to her chest, “How could you forget him? How could you leave me?”

“Mum-”

She didn’t hear him. Instead, she turned and stalked away, out of the garden and into the distance. He tried to follow her, but he couldn’t move his legs. He tried to call after her, but when he opened his mouth no sound escaped.

Like his father, Carol Watson faded away.

Like his mother, John Watson was abandoned.

He was alone.

-

He didn’t come to awareness with a yell, the way he often did with night terrors.

Instead, John woke quietly, tears streaming down his face onto the pillow and chest aching with loss.

Once he realised it had been a dream, he climbed out of bed, turning on the desk lamp and reaching for the photo of his dad. He stared at it, taking in every minute detail as the memory – his actual memory – flooded back again. His dad’s eyes were hazel, like his. He’d been wearing his Star Wars t-shirt and shorts on the day, and his voice when he’d praised John for his penalty skills had been warm and slightly nasal.

Overwhelmed by the sheer relief that he still remembered, John’s body shook as he began to sob. He hugged the photo frame to his chest, biting his lip in an attempt to be quiet so as not to disturb Sherlock the next room over.

He felt like he was still drowning in that ice-water lake, still trying to claw his way to the surface but unable to. The same trapped feeling from his nightmare bled into his waking mind, leaving him powerless to do anything but cry as his thoughts spiralled.

He’d remembered this time, but what if he woke up another night and didn’t? He didn’t have any videos of his dad – his mum had never been able to afford a video camera when he was younger, all they had were disposable camera photos.

And his mum – he knew she’d put on a brave face often enough when he was a kid, both when his dad had been deployed and after he’d passed. She’d been inconsolable when the news first reached them – the neighbours had come over to look after them both once they’d heard Harry Watson had died – but she’d fought to keep herself together for him in the weeks, months that followed.

What if she had been putting that mask back on again to protect his feelings when she’d told him she was OK? He was torn between the urge to take the next train to Swindon to see her and the worry that if he did so, his fear that she was actually suffering would be confirmed.

He felt exhausted, and curled back up on the bed with the photo frame still gripped tight. The murky depths of his emotions dragged him under, and he fell asleep feeling like he’d never be warm again.

-

His lack of proper sleep was impossible to hide that next morning, and the concern from the others was even more palpable. John could barely make himself respond to anything, unable to even try and muster up a laugh as Archie rolled off the sofa whilst asleep.

Eventually, Mariana couldn’t take it any longer.

“OK, that’s it – what’s going on, John? You called your mum yesterday - is she OK?”

John swallowed, equally relieved and anxious that the topic was coming up. He took a steadying breath before responding, trying to twitch his lips into a facsimile of a smile.

“Yeah, she’s fine,” he replied, “Talked my ear off about Tockenham’s hot goss , as usual.”

“Oh yeah? Any more news on Charlie’s mysterious beau?”

“Nah, they’ve kept pretty tight-lipped on- wait, hang on, how do you know about that?”

“We catch up pretty often, John. She asks me to give her updates on what you’re up to, given you won’t tell her any details yourself.” Mariana replied, smirking at him.

Usually, he’d sputter indignantly at the comment, but the mention of his usual avoidance made him feel even worse.

Mariana noticed, and her smirk disappeared quickly, replaced with a greater look of concern. She stepped forwards, leaning against the kitchen table he was sitting at and placing a hand against his arm. “Seriously, come on. What’s wrong?”

He sighed again, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling in order to avoid her gaze. “It’s stupid. It’s just… Thursday was dad’s birthday. And I was so distracted getting the episode uploaded, I didn’t realise the date. I forgot my dad’s birthday, Mariana.”

“Oh, John…” she bent forwards, pulling him into a hug.

“I’m so sorry.” she murmured against his temple, and John squeezed his eyes closed to avoid crying again. He pressed his head against her shoulder, taking deep breaths in order to try and calm himself.

“I usually call mum on the day, check in on her. Even when I was on my tours, I did my best to secure a video call on the day, or at least send an email.” he explained, absently processing the shuffling noise from the doorway indicating that Sherlock had just arrived in the kitchen, “Every year – and when I was home with her, I’d buy her some flowers or chocolate or something. But I didn’t this year. I didn’t think to, because I didn’t remember.”

“Was she disappointed? Is that why you’re feeling upset?” Mariana asked, letting go to lean against the table again and face him. He looked away, unable to meet her eyes.

“She says she’s OK, but-”

“But you don’t really believe her. Or, at least, your anxiety is telling you she’s lying.” Sherlock’s voice chimed in, finishing the thought. The detective circled around, taking the chair across the table from him, piercing eyes studying him intently.

Unable to speak through the lump in his throat, John nodded.

“Oh John, I’m sure she’s alright. It’s been over twenty years, right? And if you’re still feeling awful, maybe you could do something belated?” Mariana suggested, rubbing his arm soothingly.

Above his head, where the surface of the lake glittered faintly, a shape formed.

A life ring.

John reached for it, finding it to be just out of reach. But it was there .

“Do something…?” he rasped, turning to look at Mariana. She nodded, and the ring bobbed a little closer.

“You mentioned flowers – you know, I saw an advert the other day for a company that sends same-day delivery bouquets. You order one, and they’ll send the request to a local florist who can deliver them to the address you provide.”

This time, his fingertips brushed against the edge. Feeling slightly renewed, John kicked at the knot of doubts around his ankles, trying to free himself.

“She’s always loved dahlias,” he murmured, “do you think there’s a chance they’d have those?”

“They do generally bloom in Autumn,” Sherlock pointed out, “and whilst they have multiple meanings assigned to them within the language of flowers, one of those is ‘inner strength’. Sounds like a fitting choice.”

Something sliced through the vines around him, and his next kick brought him closer to the surface. And, as he searched on his phone and found an offer for a bouquet of mixed dahlias available for delivery in Wiltshire, his hand made contact with the ring and clung to it.

-

“Oh they’re absolutely gorgeous , sweetheart! Judy from across the road looked jealous as anything when that cute delivery lad came by with all these flowers for me! Bet she’ll be grumbling away at the next bake sale.”

“I’m glad you like them, mum.” he replied, breathing slightly easier at the happiness in her voice.

“I’d love anything from you, love, you could get me a £2 bouquet from Tesco and I’d be thrilled. But they really are beautiful.” she took a breath, before adding, “I’ve placed them in your dad’s favourite vase, on the kitchen table. Brightening up the room, as always. Oh! Speaking of brightening up, you’ll never guess...”

John listened to his mum chat away, somehow able to find even more things to talk to him about only one day later. Soon enough though, she said her goodbyes, explaining how she was meeting up with some of the book club for a couple of drinks.

“You tell Mariana and your Sherlock that I say hi, won’t you?”

“He’s not- I- alright, mum. Will do, I’m sure they say hi back. In fact, you know Mariana does, since apparently you two chat now!”

“Oh don’t worry too much, lovey, I’m keeping all the embarrassing childhood stories to a minimum! Toodles, love you!”

“Love you too- wait, what do you mean childhood- aaand she hung up.” he sighed in frustration, but aside from the concern that Mariana knew stories he’d wanted to keep buried he felt far more at ease than the last time he’d ended a call with his mum.

He wasn’t completely recovered yet – he was out of the lake, but the ice-water was still clinging to him, keeping him chilled. He was out of danger, though, and from the noises coming through the door to his room he suspected he’d be feeling even closer to normal by the end of the evening. Mariana had called an emergency movie night after his flower order had been placed, and had promptly ran out the door to gather supplies. He hadn’t seen her since – had spent most of the morning and early afternoon taking Archie for a long walk around the park – but he’d heard her shuffling around 221A as he’d climbed the stairs past her door.

Plugging his phone in to charge, he left to join the others in the living room.

He walked out to see bowls of popcorn on the table, pillows and cushions clearly raided from bedrooms scattered across the sofa and armchair, and the TV on, paused on-

“Is that Back To The Future ?”

“Yeah, seemed like a good choice for an impromptu film night.” Mariana confirmed, flopping into the armchair – her usual viewing spot – and tilting her head towards the sofa.

Sherlock had settled into his normal half of the sofa at the same time, and met John’s eyes from across the room. “You mentioned, once, that your father enjoyed the trilogy. That he’d watched them back-to-back a few times.”

John swallowed, taking a steadying breath at the rush of emotion that hit him. “Y-yeah, he-” he cleared his throat, working his jaw for a moment before carrying on, “he really loved sci-fi movies. Apparently he dreamed about getting a DeLorean for years after the movie came out. Mum says when I was born he’d argued the cause for me to be called Marty – Martin, legally, of course – but she shot that down pretty quickly.”

“Good thing, too – imagine being Martin “Marty” Watson!” Mariana teased, “You’d have been stuck with some stupid nickname like, I don’t know… Martian? MegaWats?”

“Hey! I’d have rocked the nickname MegaWats! Could have been known for my electric personality, eh?” he replied, grinning as he dodged the cushion Mariana flung at him whilst booing.

Sherlock sent them both an unimpressed look, but there was a barely-contained sparkle of humour in his eyes. The sight of it alone helped to ease some of the permafrost chill – he could feel his fingers again, and used them to retrieve the cushion from where it had landed.

The next moment, it hit Mariana with a satisfying ‘ thump ’. She squawked in mock-outrage, but before she could send it back Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Perhaps we can get on with watching the film now that we’re all gathered?”

Chuckling again, John settled onto the sofa and grabbed one of the bowls of popcorn. After some shuffling around, everyone was settled and Mariana hit ‘play’.

Mariana mentioned that she’d seen the movie once, years ago, but that she hadn’t really paid attention to the plot of it before. Sherlock appeared to be caught somewhere between bafflement and outrage at the storyline.

Now and again, John found himself pointing out something about the movie that reminded him of his dad – like how his childhood dog had been called ‘Einstein’ after the Doc’s dog. That had caused Mariana to demand to see photos of ‘Einstein Watson’, which John promised to find when he next went back to Tockenham.

Between those moments, however, John zoned out of the movie, having seen it so many times he didn’t need to focus on it. Instead, he switched between watching the screen and watching the other two.

These two people, who had known him less than a year and yet felt closer to him than any friends he’d made in the past. Who had listened to his worries and had put in the effort to try and support him. Who had remembered his dad’s favourite movie after one conversation, and had gone to the effort of setting up a movie night to watch it with him in the hopes he’d feel better.

And he did – he’d felt the tension leaving him as the movie progressed, breathing coming easier as he listened to Mariana laughing at the Doc’s antics, or Sherlock’s outrage at the idea a car would vanish into another point in time at just 88mph. A glowing warmth forming at his core, pressing outwards and chasing the chill he’d been trapped with since he’d first spotted the date on his phone.

As the movie came to its conclusion, with the DeLorean vanishing into the sky as the credits started to roll, Mariana sat up and stretched, yawning as she tiredly rubbed at her eyes with one hand.

“Right, I think I’ll leave you boys to it. Have a good night’s sleep, whenever you both eventually go.”

“Good night, Mariana – and thank you, again, for everything.”

She stepped over, ruffling his hair before bending down to press a light kiss to his forehead. “Of course, John. You’re one of my best friends, I wouldn’t leave you to suffer alone. I’m just glad you got around to telling us what was going on.”

“Yeah – sorry for worrying you. Have a good night!”

“You too. Night, Sherlock!”

“Mm, good night Mrs Hudson.”

The other two rolled their eyes at each other, before Mariana let herself out of the door. John heard her descend the steps, before the familiar sound of her flat’s door closing.

He knew he needed to call it a night – he hadn’t had all that much sleep the night before – but he couldn’t make himself get up.

“You’re avoiding going to bed. You’re still upset by something.”

John flinched, turning to face Sherlock. The other was studying him, looking concerned.

“I… what?”

Sherlock nodded towards his hands, drawing John’s attention to how he was picking at his nails. A nervous habit of his, and one that the consulting detective was well aware of.

He shrugged self-consciously. “It’s stupid, Sherlock. Don’t worry, I’ll get over it.”

“If it’s causing you enough upset to block you from going to bed when you’re clearly exhausted, it’s not ‘stupid’. What is it?” his gaze was zeroed on his face, now, kaleidoscopic eyes taking in every detail as if he was studying an elaborate painting.

Knowing it was futile trying to lie to him, he closed his eyes, trying to figure out how to explain.

“I just… worry, Sherlock. What if this is just the first sign that I’m starting to forget him? He’s my dad, he was the love of mum’s life, what if I start to forget more than just his birthday? What if I forget his face, or the sound of his voice, or all the other details I’ve tried so hard to keep hold of?”

A lightbulb seemed to go off in Sherlock’s head. “You had a nightmare last night. Not night terrors, not memories of the war or the bomb. It was about your father, about forgetting him.”

John sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, mate. I, uh… I dreamt that I forgot him, that everything I had stored in my head disappeared. As I said, it was stupid.”

“Yes, it was.”

John’s head shot up to stare at Sherlock, hurt by the comment. Sherlock met his gaze, however, and continued. “It was stupid, because it’s not something that would ever happen. Nightmares often are nonsensical – a culmination of negative images your psyche produces as it sorts through everything you’ve taken in. This one is no different.”

“How can you be so sure, though? I already forgot his birthday, who knows what will slip my mind next time?”

Sherlock’s gaze flickered over him, eyebrows drawn together in thought. After a moment, he seemed to reach the internal conclusion he was working towards, because he nodded slightly before meeting his eyes again.

“It’s not possible, because there are various behaviours and interests of yours that display the ways in which you remember your father. Would you like me to prove it?”

John’s heart skipped a beat, cautious hope forming. He trusted Sherlock, knew the detective never said something he did not mean. Not to him.

“Please.”

Sherlock nodded again, before looking away. His eyes flickered around the room, before focusing in on the muted TV, displaying an old re-run of Match of the Day.

“Your chosen support of Swindon Town is one indicator.” He began, eyes looking towards the screen but somewhat distant. John had seen this behaviour multiple times before when Sherlock had been processing things internally, figuring out how to vocalise his thoughts. He watched quietly, taking in how the light from the screen highlighted his features. After a pause, Sherlock found his words and continued.

“Whilst I don’t know a great deal in the way of sports teams, I know tat people will generally select their favourites for three key reasons. Either it’s their home town’s team, a team that is especially successful, or the individual grew up in a household where that team were already being supported.

“Your support of Swindon Town FC is a combination of the first and third reasons. From what I gather of the league tables – and your various outbursts of frustration – it is safe to rule out that Swindon’s team could be considered ‘successful’.”

“Oi!” John protested, jokingly. Sherlock glanced at him, flashing a boyish grin before continuing.

“So, focusing on those two reasons. Swindon is geographically the closest town with a larger, more well-known team, true, but Bristol isn’t too far away and both of their teams appear to be doing rather better in the league. So that would indicate the need for another reason.

“That other reason was something I noted when we visited your childhood home a few months ago. Amongst the various trinkets and wall decorations in the living room was a signed Swindon Town FC shirt, dated from 1985. Four years before you were born, and not something you brought with you to London, so not yours. No other visible team memorabilia around the house outside of your old room, so not Carol’s. Ergo, it belonged to your father. He was a Swindon Town supporter and, because of that, you grew up to be one, too.”

“What else?” John asked, “Supporting a football team doesn’t really seem that solid, if I’m honest.”

“Your music tastes,” Sherlock replied, shifting sideways on the sofa to face John more directly. John shuffled to match him.

“What about them?”

“In a similar vein to sports teams, many children will develop a fondness for music they heard growing up. Your taste is very eclectic – despite your tendency to sing that waterfall song whenever you’re brushing your teeth after a good day – but there’s a clear preference for the genres of rock and pop, often older tunes rather than the ones playing in the charts now.

“On days where the topic of parents arises – be that Mrs Hudson speaking to her father back in Spain, or a case that focuses on a parent-child relationship – you have a tendency to listen to certain artists and songs more often.

“Another observation I made in the home, past the football shirt, was the shelf of CDs above the sofa. Mostly bands and artists from an older time, based on the designs on the spines that I could see. A few names I recognised from the playlists you’ve shown me before. The CDs themselves haven’t moved in some time – the spines facing the room were clear, as was the shelf they’re on, but the tops of them were coated in a layer of dust. They’re in an awkward position, being above the sofa. When dusting, your mother runs the cloth along the shelf and the section she can easily reach, but does not make the extra effort to reach higher to dust the top.

“The CDs aren’t hers – they are your father’s collection. And on those days when you play certain tracks more often, those songs are from artists that appear on that shelf. You are thinking of Harry Watson, and listen to songs that remind you of him as a way to feel closer to him.”

They had drifted closer together without John realising. John took a shaky breath at the wash of emotions brought on by how much Sherlock had observed of him without him even realising. However, he still wasn’t convinced.

“A lot of people listen to the music they grew up with, though. That doesn’t necessarily make it about me remembering my dad.”

“A fair counterpoint – well-reasoned, well done Watson.” the detective replied, offering him another smile. “In that case, I’ll move on to something more specific. How about the way you hold cutlery?”

“What?”

“When using a knife and fork, you hold the knife in your left hand and the fork in your right. If it were only a fork you were using, it could be excused away, as it could be if you were left-handed or ambidextrous. But you aren’t – you’re right-handed.”

Sherlock reached across, taking John’s left hand between his own. One wrapped across the ends of his fingers, whilst the other took his wrist in a gentle grip, just below the tan-line from where his watch usually sat.

They’d held hands before, but this felt different – more tender, more intimate somehow. Sherlock’s fingers were cool, but points of heat emanated from every point of contact between them. He swallowed nervously, turning his attention back to Sherlock, whose eyes were still focused on his wrist.

“You wear your watch on your left wrist, and favour picking things up with your right hand – your dominant one. Carol is the same, from what I have seen of her, and appliances around your childhood home were in positions favoured by right-handed people. The handle of the kettle pointing to the right, for example. So, why do you hold cutlery with the technique often used by left-handed people? Because you grew up mimicking someone who was left-handed: Harry Watson.”

“How can you tell?” John asked, hushed. Sherlock’s thumb swept gently over the tan-line, and John’s breath hitched.

“In photos of your father, I could see a watch on his right wrist,” the detective explained, his thumb continuing to brush over the pulse of John’s wrist. “There was also a particular photo of him holding a rifle – a training session based on his uniform and the surroundings – which had his left pointer finger held against the trigger.

“Harry Watson was left-handed, and you learnt to copy him in the way you held cutlery, despite being right-handed like your mother. You still do it today. It’s a habit you share with him. One you aren’t doing consciously, meaning it’s written into your subconscious – something that’s very unlikely to change.”

Sherlock’s fingers squeezed around his own, and John squeezed back, before using his other hand to adjust their grip so that their palms were touching. He placed his free hand on top of Sherlock’s, their conjoined hands a source of heat that warmed him through.

“Then of course, there’s the photo on your desk.” the detective continued. His voice sounded slightly unsteady, and a light flush had started to form across his cheeks. John stared, entranced.

“You are a sentimental man, and have a few important photos in your room. But specifically, it’s the one of you and your father I want to bring up.

“It’s faded, the colour desaturated in parts but otherwise undamaged. Sunlight damage. Photographs can start to fade when exposed to sunlight, due to UV rays. Given the age of the photo and the state that it’s in – plus the fact that it’s current position on your desk avoids any sunlight reaching it – I can deduce it’s been out on display near-constantly since it was first developed.

“Your room in the house was covered in posters and photos, but only a few have made it to London with you. One is of your mother and people that I believe are your grandparents, based on similarities in features. One is the photo you have of us, Mrs Hudson and Archie from a few months ago. And the third is you and your father.”

Squeezing his hand again, Sherlock continued. “It’s a treasured photo, and one you clearly rely on. You think of your father often, and care deeply about the visual reminder. This leads me on to my final deduction.”

“Which is?” John breathed.

“You are not adept at remembering dates. In fact, you keep nearly every date that’s important to you on your calendar. Friends’ birthdays, anniversaries, special events. You have nearly all of them written down – to help you remember them. But not your parents’ birthdays.

“This is because they are so important to you that you have managed to remember them, unprompted, every single year. You said it yourself: this was the very first time you forgot your father’s birthday.”

Sherlock’s eyes locked with his, gaze intense and earnest. John felt like he was unable to breathe again, but this time the feeling didn’t scare him.

He was with Sherlock: he could never be truly scared of anything so long as he was there.

“Do you understand the importance of that?” Sherlock continued, “That fact, alongside all the others, combine to provide only one possible answer. You care deeply about your parents, especially your father, and his memory is so completely entwined with your day-to-day life that you will never be able to truly forget him.

“Mistakes happen, John, you’re human. But you resolved it as soon as you realised. A bad son would have stopped caring years ago, wouldn’t be so hung up on this that he suffered nightmares from it. You love them so much that you have continued to remember, even during some of the most stressful times of your life. You have faced so much pain, so many events that would make a weaker man crumble, and you have continued to think of your parents, remember them, and care .

“You’re a good son, John. You are a good man, and Harry Watson would be proud of you.”

Eyes stinging, John let go of Sherlock’s hands to pull him into a hug, ensuring to wrap his arms around the other’s upper back. He pressed his face against Sherlock’s neck, taking deep breaths to avoid crying. He felt Sherlock’s arms twine around him in return, pulling him closer.

With that final confirmation, all of the remaining despair left him, melting away under the blazing heat of Sherlock’s conviction. John doubted he’d ever feel cold again, so long as he was close to the man shining like the sun in his arms.

He pulled back after a while, but was reluctant to move away. Instead he studied his friend’s face. They were so close, he could feel the other’s breath against his cheek, could pick out the multitude of colours in his eyes.

“Sherlock…” he began, biting at his lip anxiously. Sherlock’s eyes flickered down, zoning in on his mouth, and he watched the detective swallow.

“ John. ”

Without thinking about it, one of John’s hands rose to gently cup his face. Sherlock’s breath stuttered, his eyes closing as he pressed into the touch. It was John’s turn to swallow, his thumb absently smoothing against the other’s cheekbone.

The signs were all there, but he had to be certain that he wasn’t reading into things.

Truthfully, John felt as though he and Sherlock had been circling around each other over the past few months. He’d become aware of it after he’d been shot by Abe Slaney, in the following weeks where Sherlock had hovered and fussed in his own way.

He noticed how they’d both hold onto each other perhaps a little longer than necessary, how they’d had more quiet, gentle conversations away from the recording on his microphone, how sometimes he’d stare at Sherlock only to realise he was staring back.

The emotional rollercoaster that had been seeing Carrie again had left him scared – scared that Carrie’s words would bring his myriad flaws to the surface and Sherlock would observe them and decide he wasn’t worth it.

However, Sherlock hadn’t seemed to pay it any mind. If anything, the lingering touches and quiet stares had increased, to the point where a day without coming into contact left John feeling unsettled.

Bringing himself back to the moment, John took a breath, and released it shakily.

He had to be certain, and for that he had to be brave.

“Sherlock,” he began again, pausing as the other’s eyes fluttered open again to meet his, “I want to be clear, you can say no. If you aren’t interested, or- or anything, say no and I won’t bring it up again.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed slightly, eyes darting across his face. After a moment, he blinked, eyes widening slightly in realisation. “Are you-”

Be brave, John.

“Can I… can I kiss you?” he asked, voice wobbling.

He watched, awed, as the other’s cheeks flushed red. As his pupils dilated, and he licked his lips before replying.

“ Please .”

The second that word had left Sherlock’s mouth, John closed the gap between them. His other hand rose up, joining the first in cradling the other’s face as if he were made of crystal. Sherlock kissed him back almost immediately, one hand curling against the nape of his neck as the other was placed between his shoulders.

John Watson had enjoyed his fair share of kisses in the past, but none of them held a candle to his first time kissing Sherlock Holmes.

After an indeterminate amount of time, John pulled away, pressing light kisses to Sherlock’s cheeks, his nose, his temple, before returning to his lips again. Sherlock hummed into the kiss, the hand at his nape pushing up to card through his hair whilst the other hand pulled the doctor closer to him.

Eventually needing to breathe, John pulled back again only to press his forehead against Sherlock’s, awed by the dazed expression on the other’s face. His hands slid down from his jaw to his shoulders, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into Sherlock’s collarbone.

“Was that- was that OK?” he found himself asking, a twist of nervousness in his gut despite everything.

Sherlock brushed their lips together again briefly in response, before rubbing his cheek against John’s in a way that absently reminded the doctor of a cat nuzzling. It was oddly endearing – something that John thought often about the consulting detective.

Opening his mouth to tell the detective as much, he was interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn. He felt Sherlock chuckling quietly at him and grumbled amicably.

“Alright, alright, it’s not that funny.”

“It rather is, I’m afraid. But it’s understandable, you’re already running on fewer hours sleep than your body is used to, and emotional stress can be exhausting.” Sherlock replied, pressing another gentle kiss against his temple before moving back. John missed the warmth almost immediately.

“But I don’t wanna go to bed, I’ve been wanting to kiss you for months!” he whined, too tired to be embarrassed by his own honesty. Another pretty flush formed over Sherlock’s face, and his expression flickered from surprise to amusement.

“I’ve wanted the same. But I promise you can kiss me again in the morning.”

John blinked, waking up a little at the implication. They hadn’t explicitly defined anything, but did that mean…?

“What about the day after? Do you promise I can kiss you then, too?”

Sherlock gave him a look that was so tender, so full of warmth and affection that he was worried he’d start crying again.

“I promise,” he vowed, quiet but emphatic, “tomorrow, the day after… as many days as you want.”

Well, in for a penny…

“All of them. I want all of them, if that’s what you want too.”

Another kiss, lingering.

“Nothing would make me happier, John.”

__________

Check it out on AO3 too!

[thedeaddrawsblog]

Okay can we talk about something for a moment???

(Warning: Spoilers for the new Thundermans movie)

The Thundermans have a LOT of things they introduced into the series but never touched in again.

…

So I made a list of things I want them to revive or at least expand on-

- Billy and Nora (or even Chloe) getting their thunder sense. They only mentioned it in season 1 episode 13, and literally never talked about it again (from what I remember.) I want to see them expand on, use it in battle, and more importantly, I want to know if it’s just a Thunderman trait or if other heroes have that trait. Do villains have that trait? After all, they did reveal in the movie that superheroes and villains get their powers from a plant.

- speaking of the plant, is there multiple plants? Why was the thunderman family chose to keep it safe? How many generations ago did people get powers? Why those people? What created the plant?

- also I’m just saying it now, I need Max and Phoebe to hang out with Billy and Nora. Like we barely see them interacting. I’d literally do ANYTHING for an episode of Max and Nora hanging out, Phoebe and Billy hanging out, vise versa… I know there was like one episode in the series, but that’s only one and Max was being a dick.

- I NEED to see an episode of what it would be like if Max did take over the world. Like how he did it. Did he become a superhero to get a bunch of secrets and feed them to Dark Mayhem? Or maybe it’s just an alternative au when Phoebe failed to turn him, and said the original uncut scene instead, where she asked him if he’d rather be a hero or a villain. Obviously we wouldn’t be able to see them as teens, but maybe they could explain it in the beginning. Like maybe Colosso is telling a story. Like clue style.

- OH. SPEAKING OF CLUE, maybe a murder mystery episode??? I think that would be awesome. Kinda like the blue bean episode where max turned blue. But like. ✨murder✨

- So… I can’t be the only one that wants at least a little queer rep, right…? And I’m not the only one who thinks Max is a little… fruity… (as long as Jack Griffo is okay with it) give him a boyfriend or something PLEASE 😭

- Because Max and Phoebe are I think like… 25…. I’d like to see them attempt being adults. Key word: attempt. (basically I just to see them get an apartment and what not, and obviously the Thundermans are sad, and their siblings find it hard not having their older siblings in the house.

- And I think maybe even Chloe not knowing much about cousin Blobbin, their pop-pop, or grandma (I forgot what they called her) would be interesting as well.

- also what happened to Blobbin???

- anyway

- I’m just kinda writing stuff out

- I think they were already thinking about expanding on it, but since several of the Thundermans friends +Wong have powers, I’d like to see how they deal with keeping it a secret or if they somehow get the powers removed. Like maybe they use that ball thing they used to trap Dark Mayhems powers. OH. WHAT IF THEY ACCIDENTALLY GAVE THEM MAYHEMS POWERS IN THE PROCESS OF TRYING TO TAKE THEIR POWERS?!

- Okay this kinda goes into Phoebe and Max becoming adults, but I wanna know if they went to college or if they are going to college.

- also, Max talks about having Evilgram in one episode (maybe a couple), and I’m curious if he kinda just forgot about it or deleted it. He probably deleted it, but I think it would be cool seeing Max find Evilgram on his old phone and miss that phase of his life. Maybe that could even tie in with an evil Max episode.

- ALSO I WANT TO SEE MAX USING HIS GADGETS IN BATTLE. HE SPENT SO MUCH TIME MAKING THEM IT’S UNFAIR IF HE CANT USE THEM.

I’m probably missing a lot of small moments but honestly I’m just going back and rewatching some of the episodes and I’ve been kinda jumping around so i do t remember all of them-

Anyhow I think it’s awesome that the Thundermans are coming back to life (that is if the movie gets good reviews. PLEASE LIE AND SAY IT WAS GOOD EVEN THOUGH THE CGI WAS CRAP. THE PLOT WAS ACTUALLY GOOD.)

[thatanimewriter]

DRAINED.

➳ request: hello <3 can I please ask for soma, akira, erina and ryo making their s/o cry on accident?

➳ character/s: yukihira soma, hayama akira, nakiri erina, kurokiba ryou

➳ warnings: swearing, hurt/comfort

➳ notes: ooft ok here we go! food wars characters bein accidental ASSHOLES. this is lengthy, apologies :))

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 / 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭  / 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 / 𝐰𝐢𝐩 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭  

── 𝐘𝐔𝐊𝐈𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐀.  

4/10 on the most likely to make you cry scale

he didn’t mean to snap at you

he was just super stressed

and he was going through it with him nearly being expelled

because central vs rebels isn’t an easy feat

and he knew you were only trying to help :((

you could already feel the tension walking into the kitchen

but you figured he could do with some help

even if it was just some small guidance

instead, you seemed to have soured his mood even further

because as you asked if he needed any help, he said

“i don’t need help from someone who couldn’t beat one of the elite 10. how would you be any help now that everyone’s expulsion is on the line?”

you averted your gaze to the ground at his call out, but tried again anyway

“it was just an offer...”

“i can do it. close the door on your way out, by the way.”

“right, of course.”

soma didn’t miss the strain in your voice, which alarmed him as he turned around just as you shut the door behind you

a soft pout came across his lips at the thought of upsetting you, but it only gave him more motivation to win

cause then he could save you from expulsion and apologise to you properly

even if he’d upset you, he did find your presence helpful

because now he knew what to cook against central

when he got to the arena, his determination grew tenfold

because seeing you sitting on the floor in that stupid fucking cage with your knees tucked under your chin really pissed him off

why are YOU his ONE AND ONLY in a CAGE??

you weren’t paying attention to the match, really

you quite enjoyed your spot in the corner of the cage

but soma had other plans

when you were released from the cage by the end of the day, you found yourself presented with a serving of your favourite food

and a very pouty soma with his own serving

“i’m sorry for making you cry, that was really shitty of me to be a dick to you. please forgive me, i can’t sleep at night. i need you to cuddle ;v;”

taking the food from him, you took a bite and a smile graced your lips

just the way you liked it

“can we finish this back on the train? i just want to cuddle in bed with food and talk...”

“YES WE CAN-”

pretty much launched towards you to give you a kiss and a hug

a clingy boi

won’t let you go for anything

if you need to pee, you can wait

or he’ll be super whiny about you leaving him

hogs you for like, a week

no one can contact you without him hovering over you

you wouldn’t be surprised if he starts hissing at people when they come near

── 𝐇𝐀𝐘𝐀𝐌𝐀 𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐑𝐀.  

8/10 on the most likely to make you cry scale

probably happened during his super angsty phase

he made it to the elite 10

he’s got longer hair now

that stupid fur jacket

and an annoying hyper fixation on beating soma

he’d barely made time for you the past few weeks

and you thought that maybe you could spend some time together

it had been ages since you last did spend some quality time together

when you knocked on the door, he swung it open very hastily

and that look of disdain he’d been giving everyone else was now turned on you

“what do you want?”

he didn’t notice the sharp inhale you took at his bluntness, but either way, you weren’t sure if that would’ve changed his answer

“to spend time with my boyfriend? it’s been weeks.”

“i don’t have time for trivial things like this, come back when it’s something worthwhile.”

your vision filled with tears as you hugged yourself and looked to the floor

“alright then. good night.”

to be honest, he probably didn’t acknowledge the slight tinge of guilt when you trudged away

but then SOMA HEARD ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED

and was very much ready to knock hayama down a peg :))

as well as jun after hayama and soma’s shokugeki

he very quickly realised what he actually said to you that night you tried to see him

and he swears he’s never run so fast in his life to find you

jun and soma know where you are, but they’re not gonna tell him-

when he found you, he nearly had a heart attack

you are out in the snow without a coat >:((

so here he comes

draping his stupid fur lined coat over your shoulders

and then hugging you from behind

“sorry for neglecting you these past few weeks, i should’ve made time for you, even if it was one night.”

“so, are you done being a little edge lord?”

“please never call it that again, but yes.”

turning around in his embrace, your returned it, chuckling to yourself when you heard his thumping heart

when you mentioned it, he pulled you tighter

at this point, after so long without you, he’d deal with the teasing

he just needs affection and he needs it now

if you don’t already

you smell of cinnamon

very strongly

and all his clothes are taken

because he wants them to smell like you so he keeps giving them to you

but because he’s been cuddling up to you it’s pretty counter productive

──  𝐍𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐑𝐈 𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐀.

7/10 on the most likely to make you cry scale

she’s not over her god tongue complex just yet

she’s trying ;v;

and normally you wouldn’t be that down about someone criticising your cooking

but it is erina

and she’s very picky

the thing that tipped you off to be upset is that you’d spent a week working on this dish

and it felt like all your efforts were wasted

because you seemingly couldn’t please erina either way

you were already nervous for her verdict

and rightfully so

“it’s... interesting.”

your lips pressed into a tight line at her unimpressed response, you could tell she was trying to soften the blow, but it didn’t help.

“you can just say it’s bad.”

“it’s not that it’s bad, it’s just... not the best you’ve made.”

you’ve never wanted to rip your eyes out more

“yeah, cause how could i ever compare to the god tongue?”

erina never got a chance to respond, as you’d already barged out the door

she was left with the dish you made

and instead of running after you, she took another bite

her training from her dad had really affected her ability to taste food for how it was

so, trying her best, she tried it again

ignoring her god tongue

she was curious though

could she make it as well as you?

probably not, because she wasn’t going to leave you upset for an entire fucking week

but she would try her best in such a short time span while you cooled down

and guess what?

she failed

there was something about the way you made it that wasn’t just the time taken to make it

gently knocking on your door, she poked her head in

you’re wrapped in blankets in the dark, scrolling on your phone

“hey... do you mind sharing the recipe from today, darling?”

“thought it wasn’t that good?”

erina pulled the blankets away from your face with an apologetic smile

“i’m sorry, i’m not past my god tongue days... i tried it again after you left and i actually think it was really special considering you spent so long on it.”

you gave her a look before sighing, rubbing your eyes as you sat up

“i can show you how to make it instead?”

erina is so cute, she grins very sweetly and nods enthusiastically

but for now

she’s stuck with you

she’s not complaining about cuddles though

── 𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐈𝐁𝐀 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐔.

10/10 on the most likely to make you cry scale

aggressive 25/8

and he’s not very in tune to people’s emotions

though you’d think maybe he’d be a little more aware of yours

but it seems not on this particular day

which you learnt the hard way

all you did was come into his room to ask if he’d eaten yet

which he yelled at you for

because he’s in the middle of working out and he’s been interrupted about thirty times in the past hour by alice

standing tall with a particularly intense glare, he turned to you

who was just standing by the door

“unless alice is dying, i don’t care for what you have to say right now.”

you frowned at his response

“so, alice is more important than your partner?”

“yep.”

“why don’t you just date her, then?”

ryou would’ve gotten angrier if he hadn’t caught your tear-filled eyes

and also the fact that you’d already left

to blow off steam, he continued his work out session

but he very quickly found that your upset form was burnt into his memory

and he’s pretty bad at hiding feelings, so alice caught on fast

“what’s up with you? you’re all depressed looking.”

ryou grumbled at her nosiness, and said nothing because he’s stubborn

“where’s [name]? they’ll cheer you up.”

at his silence, she asked him a question he didn’t really wanna think about

“did you guys break up or something? have they finally had enough of your asshole-ery?”

he frowned at her suggestion, not liking the idea of being apart from you for too long, even if he acted like he wasn’t that bothered

“DID YOU BREAK UP??”

“no, but i might’ve upset them... they were crying last time i saw them.”

“wha- YES YOU UPSET THEM >:((”

she brought him to you

and by brought, i mean dragged

and then demanded he apologise to you when he stood outside your dorm room before ditching him to deal with the mess he caused

he knocked on your door and called for you in possibly the softest voice you’d ever heard

you only opened the door because of that and you nearly laughed at how awkward he looked

“do you mind if i come in?”

when you opened the door, he immediately scoops you up into his arms

doesn’t let you protest it

“...sorry.”

it’s not the best, but you’ll cope for now

he owes you a lot though >:((

it’s ok, he’s willing to make it up to you, he’s a secret softie, even if he can’t admit it

[ontheshroom]

Ceo jack, Sucking off jack under the table when he’s in a virtual meeting

Smutmas day 1: On Mute

Jack Harlow x fem!reader

Smut

A/n: for the next 25 days I’m doing smut requests for Jack Harlow, Urban wyatt, and Rafe Cameron!🤍

******************************

Working from home wasn’t enjoyable for Jack until he began seeing you. Although his time off was meant to be just that, he could handle the one meeting out of the day if it meant he could peer from the top of the laptop screen and see you moving around his home.

He watches as you grab a cup from the kitchen cabinet, his shirt just barely exposing the crease of your ass as you reach for it. He could already feel his dick threatening to push against the fabric of his sweatpants.

“Right, Jim. But as I said, I’m not interested in that offer.” He tells one of his partners.

“Jack, it couldn’t do anything besides benefiting us.” Jim sighs.

“It’ll benefit us for the next three years and then drag us into a shit hole once we realize that the business we’re trying to buy is failing,” Jack explains.

You quietly fill your cup with water before sitting in front of Jack. The makeup you’d been wearing the previous night is smudged under your eyes. If you’d look in the mirror you might describe yourself as a mess, but to Jack, you looked even more irresistible. Maybe it was the fact that he knew the story behind how your makeup changed.

Your nipples create little tents in his shirt, driving him to want to touch them and admire them as your face softens in pleasure.

At this point Jack is sure all the blood in his body has rushed to his dick.

The things Jim is explaining are blurred and incoherent, he’s only thinking of more ways to ruin you.

Jack never thought that when the awkward nervous girl walked into his office a few months ago he’d end up being so spent over her, but now he’s wishing he was the cup you keep wrapping your lips around, even more, he wishes he was the water you were swallowing.

In a swift movement, Jack is muting his computer.

“Y/n.” He says, his voice dripping in arousal.

“Yes?” You hum, the teasing tone of your voice not going unnoticed by him.

“I want you under this table, sucking my dick until tears fall from your eyes,” Jack says, a smirk forming on his lips as your digest his words.

He expects you to argue, maybe to even deny the thought altogether, but instead, you nod and fall beneath the table.

The next thing he knows he feels you pulling down his sweatpants, your fingers dancing around his thighs.

“Your mouth, y/n.” He sighs.

“And be quiet, I’m taking myself off mute.” He smiles, knowing the thought of being caught now have you clenching your thighs together.

Jack takes himself off mute but is barely able to keep his eyes from shutting as you lightly suck on his tip. The swirls of your tongue threaten a breathy moan to fall from his lips. You gather up enough spit to lube him up enough to stroke whatever can’t fit in your mouth with your hand.

“Jack? What are your thoughts?” Mike, a coworker of Jack, inquires.

“I’m sorry, the connection must’ve been out. What do you need my thoughts on?” Jack asks, nearly breaking his speaking stride as you swallow more of him.

“What if we buy and flip the company?” Mike asks.

“Why would we buy a million-dollar company and sell it for a million dollars after we put more money into it? We’d gather no profit. This whole idea is bad and we need to trash it. Ask the Vergas family if they’d like to merge for 50% instead.” Jack shrugs.

You hum ever so lightly, not enough for it to be picked up by the mic but just enough that it sends goosebumps throughout Jack’s body.

“Call me tomorrow and let me know,” Jack says, leaving the call.

“Fuck you’re doing so good.” Jack groans, gathering as much of your hair as he could.

He just barely guides you, mostly holding your hair in dominance.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He announces.

You hum again before feeling him grow in your mouth. With only a couple more thrusts you feel his warm cum fill your mouth.

You look up at him as you swallow, even using your finger to gather what was missed and guide it back into your mouth.

“What a breakfast.” You smile.

“Now that you mention it, I think I’m hungry too.” Jack laughs, moving the table back so you could crawl from under it.

You don’t get too far from it before he has you sprawled on top of it though.

[corpsepng]

tell us all about your favorite sci-fi stories!!

!!!!! To be so honest I feel a little too under-read to talk specific stories as I’ve only recently started Reading reading again. But in this time of growing a (robust tbh) reading habit I’ve also (FINALLY) developed my taste and realized (after 25 years of life) I’m accidentally a sci-fi guy when before I was VEHEMENTLY opposed and convinced I was a staunch fantasy enjoyer lmao. So I think instead of rattling off stories I’ll describe WHAT I like the most in my sci-fi/my reading tastes (film included). AND. AND. If anyone has recs based on this let me know!

I like my sci-fi down to earth, because I have weird intrusi-qualms about secondary worlds that are supposed to make sense (fantasy gives me this reaction too now unless I change my headspace). (So far) I have found no one (the scavengers show on HBO excluded bc that impressed me) is making their alien worlds ALIEN enough for me!!! I like sci-fi that is near to home in both space and time, therefore believable. And with societies that don’t feel like archaic repeats of the past (could not even get 2 chapters into red rising). Some stuff like Dune just feels space fantasy to me. Yada yada space travel, where’s the science yk? All I see is magic. (So like the seep and annihilation and possessor, just weird enough to feel different but similar enough to feel real)

I also only like space travel if it talks about how horrific space travel is because the isolation should be the main character. The hopelessness and high stakes of failing should eclipse everything else. If they’re on a space ship I need people to die bc space should, logical, be 10 times as unfriendly as the sea. (Europa report, sunshine, that one with Sandra bullock hyperventilating for 2 hours)

And first contact!!!!!!! The three body problem, arrival, annihilation and the seep again!!! The many ways we can and might encounter and react to alien life but with very clear discussions about human nature, alien nature, and the nature of life itself. Can we really coexist? Are we really all that intelligent? What are the consequences of our hamfisted human choices? How can we ever hope to effectively communicate anything to anyone ever?????????????

And lastly. Lastly. horror. I think all sci-fi SHOULD be a little scary just like all fantasy should be a little scary. Horror is an essential element to every story regardless of genre, because fear is a cardinal human emotion. All animals know fear. SO. Take the scary out and the whole thing is defanged. I want body horror, existential horror, creature horror, isolation horror, tech horror. Alien and event horizon and I have no mouth but I must scream and annihilation (again) and three body problem (hill to die on) etcetera!!!!! The world is terrifying and science fiction is meant to examine the truth of that.

Tbh a lot of my fav HORROR has an element of sci-fi to it (ie lovecraftian work especially Caitlin Kiernan, sunshine, the genetically modified worms part of the troop, possessor!!!!!! All Time Faves) The science of horror AND the horror of science yk. We’re creating the monsters in laboratories if you will.

I’m also reading a lot of non fiction as well, but this is already too long so I’ll list my books and films in a reblog. Thank you for the excuse to write all this and PLEASE someone recommend me more books (and film)

🖤💙🦋🩵🩶🖤💙🦋🩵🩶🖤💙🦋🩵🩶

[garbagefarm]

Mutucule Farm #18

2023-06-12, session #18 of Mutucule Farm! Year 2, Summer 22 through Fall 1!

Cast:

me (@mothmute​)

Belle (@snacco​)

Cam (@amanitaspore​)

Erin (@salamand3rin​)

Highlights include, but are not limited to:

Pre-game:

getting stardewblasted, it’s been a while!

Belle emerging from her well to shame mankind

Summer 22:

Belle discusses “my husband”, or “musband”

Pompkin is in the field so he’s getting watered today

I will tell Belle why I wanted all that milk ... when we’re old and gray and I’m on grandpa’s shitty deathbed

I’m excited for Robin to show me her carpentry secrets, until she reveals it’s the drum and flute blocks; those things should stay secret

Cutscene where I’m given the (bad) choice to invite Linus to live on the farm; instead, I’m just pleased he’s doing well

TURBOCOWS

getting a big coop!

cleaned up my house a little bit so Penny can redecorate

Belle is out late talking to Clint, but I don’t know where Erin is— she “didn’t know there was a curfew” (there is no curfew)

Summer 23:

Belle gets mail calamari from Linus, and threatens to eat it in front of Pierre

Turbocows just needed more enrichment in their enclosure

Erin gets hat-surprised by my awful hat*, the worst kind of surprise (* - legally not a hat)

All of my pigs are grown! The reactor is online!

Pompkin sleeping in the kitchen? He do that sometimes.

Somebody sold a cherry bomb?? (how dare they)

Summer 24:

I wake up to a pirate themed house! (Penny takes her roleplaying too seriously)

She broke the sign with the prismatic jelly, though :(

Big coop! Increased bird capacity!

Pompkin likes the peppers

funny how the young pigs are sleek handsome lads, and then the adult pigs look like old mobsters

(Don’t investigate the pigs, you don’t wanna hurt their feelings)

Belle fills the extra hay capacity in the coop; Erin suggests it’s in case they get peckish

Cool hat party! I’m not invited :(

Slumber party! We gossip and do each other’s hair

Summer 25:

Lil Phil makes Cam crack a smile

Cam and Emily are engaged! There will be no wedding.

I really need to upgrade my axe, this one ... just isn’t cutting it.

awww yeah, three copper ore, my not-hat is paying off!

“Why grow trees in the desert instead of the quarry?” Well, where are we gonna grow our rocks?

So many truffles... I did brought this upon myself

Erin asked for a cactus and I delivered, I am so good at foraging

Erin didn’t make it to bed, RIP

(somewhere in here: comparing Sam to Bart Simpson)

Summer 26:

last night was a blur, apparently!

everybody gets oil, don’t ask what it’s for!

Birds get bird names, dinos get dino names! I don’t see what’s so hard to understand!

(somewhere in here: welcome, Utahraptor!)

Upgrading my axe...

Lewis comments on how slick the oil is......

oh hey, here’s the potato juice from when we failed to make enough for Pam!

I walk in on Dwarf and Krobus having a spat

I get an Iridium Sprinkler as a surprise for Erin but she ruins it by asking for one

(Belle can’t commit crimes if Cam is sitting down)

Summer 27:

house big!! I can have the babies!

truffle hidden behind the corn...

commissioned a fish pond; or “comfissioned", if you will

Abigail plays flute in the rain, Belle photobombs

little green guy is there in spirit; this is, actually, little green guy erasure

Emily and Haley threw out a perfectly good pufferfish

hey, five iron ore! suffering my not-a-hat is totally worth it!

Summer 28:

Five megabombs in a crate!

duck threw everything out of quack

axe is back!!

hogs are getting out of their jurisdiction

rest assured that they will be put on paid administrative leave

trash has already done been gone through!

Jelly night!! (see gallery)

Fall 1?:

There will be no wedding. (see gallery)

TO-DO:

??? idk farm stuff?

upgrade coop again?

upgrade tools?

upgrade houses?

other construction? (still need a slutch!)

full farm redesign waits ‘til winter

still gotta do bundles

Stardrops??

Gallery (courtesy of Erin):

Jelly night!!

This is a hallucination, there will be no wedding for Cam and Emily.

[valeriele3]

Note: If I accidentally put info that isn't to be known yet please tell me so I can remove it

After checking there seems to only be 3 static Twitter posts with two of them having an ALT text

One alt text is signed off by the “stigma of love” and the other is “stigma of heart”

Judging from the wording in the alt text it’s Aira that’s talking in Chapter 9 and I can I guess “confirm” that by comparing it with other chapters where Aira is always “Stigma of heart” and Kohaku is “Helter Spider” when clicking on the ALT text

I’m not sure who the “Stigma of love” is. I first thought it was Aira because of something being said like “You are love itself”. Or it could be an error where instead of “heart” “love” was typed/inserted instead

If stigma of love really isn’t Aira then maybe it’s Mayoi?

I don’t really see him as someone with the name “stigma of love” but maybe? Because I’m pretty sure Aira said he warns others when he’s coming or something but then again, Aira also said something along the lines of “you let to suffer my poor flower” in chapter 21 so does that mean that Mayoi didn’t warn MC or anyone in CH? Or did he mean that Mayoi didn’t eradicate them to not make them feel pain? Because Mayoi eradicating the world is causing pain to MC maybe that’s what Aira means by letting his flower suffer since MC always has to reset the world, try to save everyone, and then fail

Anyways, back to the static Twitter posts..

The first static post to appear was in Chapter 6 with the words “I wish I never let you go to that place why can’t I change anything..?? WHY DOES IT KEEP HAPPENING MC PLS DONT LEAVE PLS DONT DIE”

This has to be Aira right?? And the place he’s referring to is maybe the human world because that’s how MC and Kohaku met. They met when MC was falling in the sky and Aira isn’t really happy with the fact Kohaku loves MC and is trying to keep MC to himself

And now I’m wondering..What if Aira never sent Kohaku candies MC made? That means that Kohaku wouldn't know about MC right? Or maybe he will bc Aira talks about MC..

But what if..Aira never sent MC's candies or talked about MC to Kohaku? Would Kohaku still have a dream of catching someone falling from the sky a.k.a MC?

There's so many things going on in my head but at the same time nothing..

So, the oracle thingy from the old fae's is from a dream..MC has astral dreaming, Aira can use an ability of another him and MDD Aira has an ability relating to dreams which is most likely astral dreaming since he is able to control Aira from CH or like possess CH Aira's body. Then Kohaku with the power of Helter Spider can control dreams. We can see this power in effect with that dream world where Kohaku calls MC "omae" and they're married and there's Crazy:B members from different worlds.

So that's 3 people who has an ability relating with dreams..

I've already typed so much but I can't make sense of any of it..

All I know is that there's 3 main things I should focus on for now

Who is the one with the same ability a.k.a astral dreaming (I need to figure out who it is..MC, Aira, Kohaku, or maybe someone I missed?)

Figure out who exactly is talking in the static posts (Which is most likely Aira judging from the wording and the "Stigma of heart")

There's a loop

Aira and Kohaku is hot

Yeah, this whole thing doesn't make any sense at all and I uncovered no hidden truth T^T

If I want to find and understand more things I have to look and think in the characters' perspective. I need to look at things in their way

I am not a good theorist and my brain isn't working properly. It just keeps reciting the 25 elements I kinda memorized..I also lost track and started thinking about something else instead of focusing on like the static/glitched Twitter posts

Maybe I'll add or edit this in the future once my brain can finally function bc I haven't eaten anything since I woke up and its been 5 hours since then

[kuronekonerochan]

Publiquei 400 vezes em 2022

São mais 116 publicações do que em 2021!

19 publicações criadas (5%)

381 publicações reblogadas (95%)

Blogues que rebloguei mais vezes:

@insanityisfine

@scoundrels-in-love

@momo-de-avis

@kuronekonerochan

@cup-ah-jho

Marquei 302 das minhas publicações em 2022

Apenas 25% das minhas publicações não tinham marcadores

#tuga things – 35 publicações

#mood – 29 publicações

#pt stuff – 26 publicações

#cdrama – 24 publicações

#me in a nutshell – 20 publicações

#esc 2022 – 19 publicações

#kdrama – 16 publicações

#funny – 11 publicações

#capitalism – 11 publicações

#tumblr – 11 publicações

Longest Tag: 138 characters

#creatividade sobre pressão e stress intenso e só te dá pânico existencial seguido de exaustão qd acaba o turno e te sai o peso do mundo de

As minhas publicações mais populares em 2022:

N.º 5

Petition for 2022 to be the year kdramaland finally stops teasing and delivers on the promise of “filling the black holes” with “affectionate swords”

20 notas – Publicadas em 6 de fevereiro de 2022

N.º 4

Alchemy of Souls is just Wuxia Kdrama with terrible kpop idol hairstyles...and I love it.

23 notas – Publicadas em 28 de junho de 2022

N.º 3

Random Hanadan/BoF Shitpost

After hearing that Love in Flames of War, a republican era cdrama had Hana Yori Dango/Boys Over Flowers/ Meteor Garden/ F4 vibes... but eventually failed to deliver on that front I rambled at @dangermousie​ that, actually, we SHOULD have a Hanadan version of every genre of cdrama.

 No...wait...I’m joking...but also not. My reasoning for this is solid:

 1) No matter what you thing of Hanadan and all it’s objectively toxic and dated glory, you can’t deny it is a hallmark in the history of shoujo manga/anime/asian drama/ live action adaptation/remake pumping machine. It paved the way for all the ItaKiss, Fated to Love You, etc...and it is still to this day a nostalgia magnet for an easy cash grab with each remake (also the latest one might be the best lol).

 2) *Surrender by Cheaptricks plays in the background, talks in “there is no war in ba sing se” mode* There are no new ideas in media. Everything is a sequel, prequel, remake, reboot, retelling, soft reboot, parody, homage, the same thing over and over again but call it by another name (it’s still a rose, yeah Shakespeare, you’re a genius, congrats!).

 3) Let’s face it. Dramaland is going through the lowest of lows. Cdramas are bad and boring, Kdramas are scarce and boring and Jdramas are 10 ep cute little intros to the story you really wanna see that’s about to begin...at the end of ep10, last episode, no 2nd season. So, they might as well try Every Hanadan Set Everywhere all at Once.

 So, without further ado, introducing...every genre of Cdrama Hanadan (with crazy plot eggs for some and none for others bc I say so):

Starting with contemporary…

1)      Reverse hanadan where the fl is a rich asshole and the ml a poor little meow meow

2)      Time loop hanadan

3)      Modern Fantasy hanadan (sort of like the beginning of Bulgasal but more petty and less angsty lol)

4)      Transmigration low budget web drama romcom hanadan

5)      *barfs* modern office corporate romance hanadan

6)      *barfs again* gaming hanadan

7)      Sports hanadan (aka if HanaKimi wasn’t genderbender or cute but toxic instead)

8)      Coming of Age/ Youth to Adult Married life Hanadan 

Syke! Too late! There is already an OG classic toxic Hanadan of this Genre, it’s called Itazura na Kiss (and it’s my guilty pleasure, my personal hanadan lol)

9)      Ice sports hanadan....yesss...get gory with the bullying with ice skating blades muahahaha. The red card locks her on the ice rink and they oil the railings/plexiglass around it so she can't even climb out and she nearly freezes to death. They rope her to the back of a zamboni and drag her through the ice. While she is trapped on the ice rink, they rig a bucket of water to fall over her so she freezes faster.

Now for the period dramas…

10)   Republican Era hanadan

They could use the boat scene ending from the finale of the anime as a convenient plotpoint to escape the republican era without dying in the republican turmoil. "Oh, they just reunited dramatically on a boat post amnesia and went abroad together and missed all the political fatal shit and lived happily ever after. Their kids returned to China and lived happily under the great CCP rule (/s)!

11)   Palace hanadan

It’s hanadan meets legend of Ruyi where he is the Crown Prince but the Empress Dowager holds all the power and on some humiliation move has him take a barbarian slave as a concubine...and the red card is that it's open season on her from every noble or regular consort of his harem and his friends in the court...all is fair the only rule is she cannot be murdered, everything else is fair game. So she is beating to the brink of death, poisoned daily with agonizing pills only to be given antidotes at the last minute, drowned, flayed, etc.

12)   Wuxia hanadan. Similar. Dude is the leader of the jianghu, declares her a demon bc she offended him and has all the pretentious righteous sects go after her with agonizing Gus pushed on her body, plenty of chains, kebab her in multiple ways with stakes in torture chambers to cast out the evil.

13)   BL Wuxia hanadan. (this one is just here by popular demand. Mine. No, I will not elaborate on that).

14)   And at last…my personal favorite….drum rolls… Xianxia hanadan (here is the plot):

She spilled peach wine on his cloud robes once by accident before the Great Heaven's Ceremony so he scribed her name carelessly on the stone of the doomed as petty revenge hoping she'd get some bad karma. But at the time the Demon Overlord was fighting the Lord of Fate and the Dijun on Kunlun and as they made their final strike the demon overlord turned into a cloud of heavy miasma that swirled away swiftly for miles and landed on the stone of the doomed. Hence, for the next 10.000 years the calamities and heavenly tribulations of every god were transferred into the unlucky FL.

In the first 300 years, the gods were unsure of what was happening, but soon word spread of a small menial demigoddess who seemed to be getting an abnormal amount of calamities and trials and yet never ascended into a higher level god. But other gods were getting past their fated tribulations dates without experiencing the event itself but still ascending afterwards. Soon this bizarre phenomenon was being gossiped throughout all the heavenly realms and the gods were rushing to get their hands on every magical item capable of moving forward their tribulation dates... After all, who knew how long this free meal would last? So it follows that our female lead spent the next 10.000 overbooked from torturing calamity to the next without a break or a reward.

Our cloud cloaked protagonist came to learn of this business about 500 years into it. It was not his intention for the karmic payback to be that harsh...but then again it was his best cloud vest that the annoying, insignificant little demigoddess had ruined...and if the consequences had been that rough, who was he to question the Great Design. He soon forgot all about it, surely none of that pesky matter would come back to bother him...

10.000 later: Our fuming fl finally had enough...after experiencing every form of dismemberment as a human, for eons, though she didn't collect an ounce of heavenly grace to ascend to higher goddess....she sure damn well accumulated enough yin to form a monumental grudge...and she would use all of that energy into one single punch for a certain cloud clothed god that would send him so high the gods would finally know what lies above the heavenly realm...not that he'd get the opportunity to tell the tale.

Ver a publicação completa

29 notas – Publicadas em 20 de maio de 2022

N.º 2

Reset (cdrama)

Just finished Reset and it’s my fav cdrama of like...the whole of the plague years?! I haven’t even liked any cdramas this year, barely tolerated a few, but this? this was flawless. On every level. Better than most western dramas of its genre. They have a cool concept, keep it simple, add only necessary elements and the attention to detail, character building, etc is on point. The acting is good, the leads especially, subtle but detailed, their chemistry is great and it’s one of those dramas that keeps you on edge for every minute of it. Did I mention I love the main characters? smart and good people, yet not annoyingly perfect. They mess up (the whole drama is trial and error) sometimes in impulsive ways, but never in unbelievably dumb ways. Perfect length too (ok could have been 12eps instead of 15... but still, excellent runtime management coming from a cdrama!). And most of all...it doesn’t F*Ck it all up at the ending. Do you know how many of the few dramas I almost reaaally loved (not liked, not tolerated, actually loved) while airing turned out to have such a shitshow of an ending that ruined the whole thing? Probably 90% of them... it’s a thing, cdramas have terrible or mediocre endings by definition and then only a few miraculously escape that fate.

45 notas – Publicadas em 6 de fevereiro de 2022

A minha publicação número 1 de 2022

The bastard son & the devil himself

I predict the tumblr craze for the next weeks is Netflix's the bastard son and the devil himself. It's a story between two rival clans of witches that are brutal and try to kill each other (ones are sort of cannibal too, the others succeed in the genocide of their rivals from their country) and the mc is the son of a mass murderer for the other side, raised by the rival clan and constantly abused by his half sister who is a psycho who wants to kill him. Also along the way he runs away with the daughter of that clan's leader and they both fall in love with a bi wizard who helps them escape.

Supernatural+rivalry+gore+threesome mc relationship? This the the most tumblr thing ever.

49 notas – Publicadas em 3 de novembro de 2022

Vê agora o teu Ano em Revista de 2022 do Tumblr →

[daraoakwise]

This is 100% absolutely an alternate universe. There is too much different that can’t be attributed to the destruction of one starship 20 years earlier. Not a branch universe; it can’t be. (In my long story, they have an argument with … Well. It’s the Guardian of Forever, needing them to fix something. And they ask: why didn’t you have us fix Vulcan, Nero? And the Guardian says: that is what always did and will happen in your universe.)

Which means absolutely and completely, there was never a point when AOS Scotty and TOS Scotty were the same person or living the same life—not his first 11 years until the Kelvin supposed changed everything, or even 36 years until the destruction of Vulcan. Nope. They had a completely different life from the start.

(Which is an interesting idea. Somehow, despite what is literally DNA differences and wildly divergent life experience, somehow you still have the same person. Are we talking mind? soul? Something else that defines the essence of self. The how, and why … I wonder what their philosophers and priests and poets have to say about it?)

The age difference you point out is incredibly important too. We meet AOS Scotty in his mid-thirties, which is pretty much just when TOS Scotty would have become Chief engineer the Enterprise. And an incredibly important point that you recently taught me, that hadn’t even occurred to me, was that when we first meet him, TOS Scotty should have be moving toward retirement, if not there already. He’d put in his 20/25 years, including lengthy deep space deployments … time to go home. And then he doesn’t. And then he doesn’t again at the end of the five year mission. (He lived an extraordinary life. If someone asked me if I wanted an extraordinarily life, I would say “please, god, no.”) And by the movies, he’s given up on something. Something of self, of hope (for that ordinary life?) It’s real, but I don’t know what it is. I will look forward to the story you tell someday explaining that.

Anyhow, the age and career difference makes a huge difference in AOS’s Scotty’s connection, to a feeling of “crew as family” that doesn’t exist in TOS. To just … the willingness and desire to make the effort to connect.

AOS Scotty is, on the screen, more actual fuckup than TOS Scotty is. He can do amazing, groundbreaking things (three people beamed in from multiple places! Let’s escape a singularity! I’m going to look at an equation for less than half a second and immediately grasp its full implications!) And then he beams people onto a bridge instead of a cargo bay, ooops. Loses the dog. Overconfidence leading to mistakes, including derailing his career.

And the alcohol. Got to back up on that question into some headcannon backstory. In my backstory of AOS Scotty, there was every chance that he was headed into the abusive childhood of TOS Scotty. His mother was a severely bipolar, severely drug addicted person, who had a son and daughter with men who she couldn’t have pointed out if they walked past her on the street. (To the ‘TOS and AOS are half brothers’ point.) Whether in kindness or despair or indifference, she dropped them off with their grandmother, her mother, and it changes the course of his life. (AOS Scotty tells this entire story about his ‘wee granny,’ which is 100% more than TOS Scotty ever says about his family.)

So she stabilizes his childhood, although I suspect there is a sense of abandonment in him. His Granny loves him. Does she dote on him? Probably. However, she is also the person who badly failed her daughter. She tells herself she won’t fail her grandson. She’s strict. No messing around doing whatever frivolous/destructive thing that sucked her daughter in. He gets the best education. (He is pretty clearly more academic than TOS Scotty. Not smarter; they have equal minds. Just more credentials.) So he’s at the University of Edinburgh when he’s 16, doing groundbreaking things … just at the age when his mother’s demons become his.

Here’s this poor kid, who doesn’t know what’s happening to him, who is terrified of failing his Granny. Who knows about his mother, but doesn’t know her … but is terrified of becoming her. And he discovers that he can level out (or it feels that way) with alcohol and drugs. That poor damn kid, who undoubtedly has a massive, multi-faceted crisis at about 17 years old.

And although he largely shakes it off as an adult, it also means that when he gets tossed off the ship, he heads straight to a bar and gets entirely smashed in a self-destructive and self-pitying way that we don’t get out of TOS Scotty until Relics (when I really can’t blame him.)

In my opinion, although without textual support beyond just a better ease with people, TOS Scotty‘s romantic dumbassery doesn’t carry over to AOS Scotty. AOS Scotty is very aware of the emotions going on around him. So he’s good at people, at least on the surface. AOS Scotty will be the life of a party and end up in someone’s bed to finish off the evening. Actual fuckup is present again, however. The real guy is a gallant sweetheart. (TOS Scotty, obvious. For AOS Scotty, he is entirely gentle with Jaylah in Beyond. Nothing romantic there, but even though she is the badass ninja-type, he’s watching out for her battered heart.) I strongly suspect that the masking guy, or the struggling-with-mental-health guy uses unconnected sex like he uses alcohol, which is to say, unhealthily. (To say nothing of dangerous/destructive sex as a symptom during a manic episode.)

I really am convinced that he’s bipolar. We don’t see depression, but. It’s there. We do see mania. The dog thing, the overconfidence that leads to mistakes, expansive and grandiose, talking too much and too fast, bouncing off the walls, declaring the Enterprise ‘exciting’ in the middle of a fucking intergalactic disaster … the first movie is him entirely a manic episode (because he’s been trapped in a boring boring place and has stopped taking his meds!!!) He is way more centered in the later movies; back on the meds that do a good job at regulating him.

(I do hope you have the time/inclination to read my long story, because this is a huge part of what I explore. And midway through, he makes a particular decision that I’m honestly kind of dying to talk with you about—would TOS Scotty do the same? I go back and forth. It’s a decision 70,000 words in the making, and I won’t spoil it in case you’re going to read it, but if you’re pretty sure you’re not I’ll give you the TL;DR 😆)

I don’t think I’d be able to interpret AOS Scotty in that direction if it wasn’t present, at least as a possibility, in TOS Scotty. That way he starts to unravel. The propensity is there. It doesn’t fully manifest in TOS Scotty, but he’d recognize it for sure.

The self-sacrifice isn’t there in AOS Scotty, any more than it would be in any brave Starfleet officer. (He would have eventually reached the conclusion he had to go into the warp core, and he would have done it if Kirk hadn’t knocked him out, but going in isn’t his immediate reaction. (As opposed to “you’ll be killed man! I’ll do it Mr. Spock …” out of TOS Scotty.)

And the anger certainly isn’t there, any more than it would be in a person who gets riled up at idiots. And he does get riled up. He is furious at Starfleet for being reckless with his discoveries. Tells off Kirk for plopping a starship underwater, or taking it above a volcano. Downright belligerent about illegal and dangerous orders. But that undercurrent of rage? The guy who is genuinely terrifying when he suggests to a Klingon that he might want to take it back? No. Which makes sense because there isn’t anything to fuel it.

I have got to go back and read some of the older stories again. They are so gorgeous, and it’s been a while. Expect me in your notes.

Ok, you asked for it. Meta Part 1/1000. Who is Scotty?

For me, the biggest question is: how is it that in one universe, a person can be reservedly taciturn, and in the other, socially garrulous? The only answer I can come up with is that it isn’t a fundamental characteristic of self, it isn’t their nature, but a symptom of something else related to some differences in their lives.

Scotty in every universe has three layers: the mask, the damage, the actual person.

In TOS Scotty, the mask is that wall. Sure, he’s friendly enough, but most people don’t know him, and that is fine by him. He’ll give you the surface of himself, and you are going to think you know him, but it isn’t true. And that mask fits over the underlying damage that you have so aptly described in all your stories. The wolf, the survivor. (It gives him an iron backbone that, by the way, I think is missing in AOS Scotty.)

Then we have AOS Scotty. He’s openly gregarious, almost oversharing. He is good at reading people; in the movies he is reacting constantly to what people are feeling and thinking around him, actively tactile, touching them, reaching out, watching. I considered the possibility that he was just a non-trauma response Scotty, the way TOS Scotty might be with a gentler life, but I don’t think that’s true. My interpretation of AOS Scotty is in part informed by pretty much every significant Simon Pegg character: an easy going funny guy who is always masking mental illness, addiction, self-doubt, loneliness, even despair. But it isn’t just the actor. Textually, the broadly comic guy fades when he’s comfortable.

So he’s masking too. What is he masking? What coping technique is reading people that closely for? What is he using humor to cover, what doesn’t he want people poking? It’s not trauma; trauma would send him in TOS Scotty direction—because that’s how Scotty reacts to trauma.

After watching him, I’m convinced he has significant mental illness going on. They both clearly struggle with depression, but the first time we meet AOS Scotty he tells us this genuinely insane story about the dog and the transporter which is entirely about overconfidence, euphoric energy, a feeling of invincibility, lack of impulse control … it’s a manic episode. (Which, honest to god, I also think he has going throughout the entirety of the first movie.) He tells the story for comedy, what’s he covering? That dog could have just as easily have been a person. AOS Scotty is afraid of himself, of hurting people. He’s reading people because he’s using them as a stand in for his own judgment, which he doesn’t trust. Am I out of control? Am I scaring you?

Now, in both of them the mask and the damage causes some additional issues that overlap, but also some things that may be actual self. They share some arguable negative traits. Self destructive fuckup? Yep. Obsessive, addictive. Someone who people don’t actually know because the real person is generally buried under the mask. Irritable and grumpy. Stubborn. Pushback when someone is being an idiot. Can get emotional and riled up. Is that because they are masking and damaged, or is that part of who they are?

I’m convinced that the real person, underneath everything, is fundamentally the same in both universes. The sweetheart. Brilliant, serious. The reasonably-natural leader. (TOS Scotty is frequently badass; AOS Scotty takes control of the engineering deck instantly, with zero authority.) Prefers order but will let it go if he has to. Develops unusual relationships that aren’t easily classified. Lights up the room when he is genuinely happy. Drops truth bombs that people don’t always want to hear.

What do you think? The guy who won’t speak two words is the same person as the chatterbox who won’t shut up. Why?

I have put a TL;DR at the bottom as an apology for the length of this. >.>

Okay, so-- bearing in mind that everything I know about the AOS versions I've learned second-hand, either via that one spectacular RPer back in '09 or now you, and that I am an Opinionated Person--

My answer is that it was always a parallel universe, never a branch off. That Spock accidentally followed Nero sideways into an already-existent parallel, that they weren't creating something new, but interfering with something already there. That's legitimately the only way it makes sense to me; not only in terms of like actual characterization, but also in universal aesthetics. Jim Kirk having blue eyes, while Len McCoy has hazel, stuff like that. Apple store versus actual deep sea submarine. Cornfields versus geosynch orbit over San Fran. XD

It's always been, for me, that Pegg's Scotty is such a vastly different critter from Doohan's that I can't honestly ever see them having been the same person even in the past. And I think some of that is nature, and no small amount of that is nurture (or different kinds of lack thereof), and then just different formative experiences, too.

So, I've always operated on the theory that they're actually genetically half-brothers, because that does make actual perfect sense to me; that can also explain why I can see more easily where AOS Scotty could be related to Peter Preston (a fair-haired kid with lighter hazel eyes from what I can tell) whereas TOS Scotty is a bit more of a stretch there.

And that also means some variations on hows and how nots.

God, I dunno whether I should beg forgiveness or not for the length and rambling nature of this, but here goes:

All right, so I definitely write AotW with the aim of it being perfectly dovetailed to TOS canon (before Disco and SNW, though if they come up with something excellent that fits, I'll gleefully add it in), all the way to Relics (and beyond), occasionally yoinking a plot or two I like from the novels, or some other incidental and then asking lots and lots of deep questions. Like, "Excuse me, what was up with [insert event] at this [insert timestamp] that had that particular expression on your face?" and then writing, I dunno, 10K of backstory for it. LOL! OR, my god, this whole storyline was because I was chin-handing at Scotty (as one does or should) going, "But why did you buy a boat for retirement?" And then like, twenty-one years later, I've answered that one, but asked about a thousand more.

Digression aside, though. So, going on TOS canon, my take on the facets (caveat emptor, caveat lector):

1.) The mask he wears: Made of stereotypes and assumptions made by other people which he just doesn't correct or offer anything deeper to. Largely self-protective. He doesn't want to get too close to his crewmates, not because he doesn't care about them -- he very much does! -- but partly because personal trust does not come anything like naturally to him, it generally has to be earned and the only one I think who earned even some of that is Spock by that point.

But also partly because Scotty's already deep into his career? He's at the age where most career officers can retire, whether they choose to or not. Hell, he reached that age before Jim Kirk even took over. He's five years older than McCoy, and most of a decade or more older than the rest. So, he's already climbed to the peak of where he dearly wanted his career to go (Enterprise's Chief, Pike's Chief) and is actually, seriously contemplating retirement. Starfleet's changing around him some, he has definitely Been Through Some Shit, he has a family he wants to go back home to. Like, despite loving the Enterprise, and considering her half of his home, she's not all of it, and he does want to watch nieces and nephews grow up, he does want to try his hand at teaching on a larger scale, and hell, maybe he'll find a lad or lass who can live with him. (There are reasons he doesn't ultimately retire, but we won't get into those here.)

So, allowing himself to get too personally attached to his crewmates is a recipe for being kept in service past when he wants to be. It also, in my timeline, is because he lost one crew very traumatically and has lost crewmates otherwise, and loving people just so they can die on him trips allllll over his abandonment issues anyway. So, easier to keep them at arms length, care for them, protect them (even with his life), but never let them have pieces of himself that there's no getting back.

I think the mask is even more opaque in the movie era, too.

2.) Actual fuckup: Surprisingly not as much in evidence in TOS-era canon as one might expect. He only gets drunk onscreen once, and even then he wasn't doing it for fun, he was doing it for a purpose. I tend to write him with Jimmy in mind, who definitely drank (and got hammered), but who also regularly quit for long periods of time just to prove to himself that he wasn't his alcoholic father. At least in my stuff, in the TOS era and before it, Scotty only gets absolutely trashed when he's happy; he knows better than to drink when he's upset, so he doesn't. He doesn't like where his mind goes otherwise. And he knows what that can lead to, too.

There's a line in Torn that always sort of sticks with me:

He didn't like to fight, not like that. Not verbally, not physically. If confrontation could be avoided, Scott avoided it -- he didn't like the sick feeling that came with that kind of anger, the kind that boiled. He hated that feeling, knew too well what it could lead to if you got to like it too much. If you're too good at something and you like it too much, you'll do it. He didn't like it, but it seemed like he was always doing it anyway.

That kinda goes double for alcohol. So, he drinks on screen, but he's only shitfaced once in TOS, and even then under other circumstances. He drinks in the movie era, too, but I think we only see him mildly tossed in VI. And then Relics, but who the hell could blame him? (I personally think he drank as self-medication occasionally by then, hence me writing What Is Late. McCoy does get to see behind the mask, but -- tellingly -- can't actually do anything with what he can see to help in the deep ways that are needed there.)

So, the other actual fucking-up is mostly in crushing on exactly the wrong kind of people (women who need/want something he's just not) and losing his head trying to uphold a chivalrous ideal, only to land firmly on his face. Despite that dumbassery, though, he's not controlling or possessive, just protective and ridiculous.

I would label his propensity for being (a little frighteningly) willing to die in the line of duty under this, except I don't think that's actually much of a character flaw? Like, I don't think he devalues his life at least in that era? So much as it's just how he's wired. There's a scene I don't know if you've read, that I originally conceived of when I was first writing ONOW, believe it or not, but didn't have the nerve to write back then. Or the skill, honestly. Fairly shortly after Corry pulls Scotty out of the ocean. And I only just added it back when I did the most recent workover of that novel, and it kinda goes into it some:

Cor was gone when he woke up the time after, what felt like a fair piece of time after; he thought he was maybe delirious when he found himself looking at Sean Kelley, sitting with the chair back at the table.

“They’re pack animals, you know. Family animals,” Sean said, hitching Corry’s blue blanket up tighter around his shoulders, after a moment where they just stared at one another. “Wolves, I mean. I grew up in Montana; at dusk, you could hear them singing.”

It wasn’t a non sequitur, exactly. It was more than Scotty knew how to process. He took a deep breath -- aware again of what that felt like -- and let it out; felt how much it weighed to do that, too. “‘M nae sure ye’re ‘ere,” he said, mouth not wanting to work right; still, it seemed necessary to let Sean know that he might not actually be real.

Sean didn’t seem to care whether he was real or not.  “World War III was the best thing for them,” he said. “Even though Colonel Green’s army devastated Bozeman. And Livingston. Even with the radiation. They didn’t have to survive so many of us anymore.” He closed his eyes; in the soft light of the cabin, his face was shining with tears. “We go and pick up a tray from a cafeteria, but they have to fight every day to eat. Or for space to live. For everything.” There was a beat, then he opened his eyes and said, “I jumped.”

Scotty still wasn’t sure he wasn’t dreaming -- or hallucinating -- Sean sitting there.  But he said, “Me too.” Solidarity for a feeling, he thought.

“I know.” Sean freed his arm from the blanket and scrubbed his forearm across his face, voice tight. “It’s terrifying, isn’t it?  I don’t know how to even-- say how horrible it was. How lonely. You know?”

Scotty thought about the black, growling mountains of water.  “Aye,” he said, closing his eyes again; if Sean was the product of delirium, it probably didn’t matter so much anyway.

Sean was quiet for a moment, then said, “No one jumped after me.”

It didn’t sound like a lament; more like a man putting some kind of realization together.

“I woulda.” Scotty didn’t need to think about it; whatever bad blood had existed between them before just didn’t seem important now.  But it wouldn’t have ever, he knew.  He would have jumped after Sean, or anyone else; it would have never occurred to him not to.

This was, though, the first time that he realized that.  He didn't know what that changed, if anything.

Sean made a sound like a laugh, if a laugh could be that fractured. “I know you would have. I would have jumped for you, too. I guess I kind of did, in a way. I guess we both kind of did.  But that’s not what I meant.”

There was no understanding that right now; there would have to be a time later for it. Scotty hummed back something of an acknowledgment, even as the rocking of the Lady Grey and the tenuous sensation of being warm and too heavy to move was pulling him away again.

Right at the edge of gone, he heard Sean say, “Now I know why they call you Wolf.”

And like, that says it. At least my take on it. It's not so much that he wants to die or even wants to hurt himself (though that man absolutely does have the capacity to be incredibly self-punishing if pushed the wrong way), it's that where he places his values sometimes is at odds with continuing to breathe. Even if he is a survivor. Maybe especially because he's a survivor.

So. Onto mental health.

(I absolutely want to pick your brain about AOS!Scotty being bipolar, because wow, that is awesome insight and also a very good explanation for what I thought was a ridiculous tale -- Archer's beagle -- and also like, psychology is my thing, and also like, there is some evidence that if you pushed him in the right ways, TOS!Scotty could have gone that same route, right?? So, like, anything you wanna talk about backstory wise there, please do. For real, I will beg even. What environmental factors were at play there? What of that is genetic?)

But anyway, by the time TOS starts, Scotty's got his headspace pretty well under control. Predisposed to depression (that's one of the many things that happens when you're traumatized as young as he was), has been on rock bottom in his life, but he's also learned a lot of coping mechanisms that would have worked, if he had actually gone and retired when he was planning to. They aren't perfect coping mechanisms, but they do the job.

He's confident and knows his ship, he worked for years under a Captain who not only elevated his career, but built him up in ways that meant he could be comfortable in the center chair, or when everything is going nuts, and he is less prone to reckless courage (but still brave down to his last cell), and like-- I personally think the peak of Scotty's career in Starfleet was before we ever see him in that red shirt for the first time. Because for the rest of the universe, his greatest contributions happened later. But as to him, as a person, as a man who has Been Through Some Shit, I think his highest points were between '56-'65. And I think serving on Kirk's Enterprise, and all the sometimes insane chaos there -- including him being possessed and used as a murder weapon, including him being killed -- started putting some very real cracks in that otherwise solid place he'd clawed for.

And I mean, Season 1 Scotty really is the rock. Steady and calm for the most part; when he does get agitated, it's not really that manic kind that happens much more frequently later. Season 2 Scotty Goes Through More Shit and you can start to see where it's doing a number on him. Season 3 Scotty is just-- like, you can tell he is Not Exactly Okay. He's still smart as hell and competent, but still Not Exactly Okay. Movie!era Scotty is the same, but instead of wearing the mask, he's started pretty much being the mask; when you see behind it is vanishingly rare. And he also still Goes Through More Shit.

So, we get to Actual!Scotty. You say:

I’m convinced that the real person, underneath everything, is fundamentally the same in both universes. The sweetheart. Brilliant, serious. The reasonably-natural leader. (TOS Scotty is frequently badass; AOS Scotty takes control of the engineering deck instantly, with zero authority.) Prefers order but will let it go if he has to. Develops unusual relationships that aren’t easily classified. Lights up the room when he is genuinely happy. Drops truth bombs that people don’t always want to hear.

Agreed. XD On every point, too.

I think, though, that one thing TOS!Scotty has that AOS!Scotty doesn't -- at least as I write him -- is the foundation of his own anger. He swallows a lot of it as a kid. He takes a lot of suffering without biting back, at least at first. (So did his actor.) But that doesn't mean that rage isn't down there simmering.

And like, you've read Forty-Eight (and Give and Take, etc), so obviously there comes a point where he stops tolerating it. That point, I think, is well before that, but before then, he's mostly avoiding and staying away from the things that have hurt him. It's not until his mother drops dead and he almost does and then he gets horribly triggered by circumstances no one intended to be triggers that he starts biting back.

When you told me that AOS!Scotty kind of slumped off devastated when Kirk 'fired' him, that was what really jumped out. Like I said there, that mental image: TOS!Scotty woulda absolutely been lit up hot and loaded both barrels and he wouldn't have gone to drink his sorrows away, he would have gone after Jim Kirk's throat even if he really liked the guy because no one -- no one -- is ever going to hand him a beating again where he'll lay under a fist. Not ever.

So-- I don't know if I've given any answers here, but that's where I think the big differences are:

TL;DR: Different men altogether from the jump because different universes. And TOS!Scotty got that fire and spine and ability to snap back because he once was a battered child with no advocate, and even if he swallowed that anger back then, it still existed and eventually came back, and ultimately even helped him become the absolute badass we see later.

So. XD Thoughts?

[peralta-guaranteed]

One of my favorite things to imagine and think about is how Rosa and Jake met. Like here is this doofus looking white boy, and this badass scary Latina (who is honestly probs nervous for the academy). Rosa gets worried when he starts talking to her but he just talks about die hard and sour candy the whole time???? Is not racist or sexist??? Or hitting on her??? And she is,,,,, confused?? Like who is this straight white boy and why is he not being a dick?

Rosa canonly said it took her a couple of weeks to like him so I’m just imaging those weeks of her realizing she has this friend who is amazing and it warms my heart every time. I need more fics from Rosa’s POV of them meeting

Day 1 - everyone here sucks. As expected. At least it'll be over in 6 months and I can get to actual work. Day 2 - we were separated in groups and would you believe it, my whole group is nothing but white dudes, how wonderful. They already made 4 jokes about 'those latinos'. Day 3 - One of the dudes picked a fight with the latino jokers. Might not be the worst apple of the bunch. Day 4 - IS HE EVER GONNA SHUT UP Day 5 - he does not shut up Day 6-7 - weekend and peace, no noise. Definitely don't miss the constant background chatter about stupid things. Day 8 - Made the mistake of asking him how his weekend was. 3 hour chatter. Day 9 - he brought in donuts and offered me one, no thanks. Not gonna go down that flirting route. "They're for everyone" okay but he offered none to the others and ate them all himself. Day 10 - Donut holes this time. I ate one. Is this what you call someone's face "lighting up"? Gross. Day 11 - whole box of donut holes for him, whole box of donut holes for me. Wanted to throw them in his face telling him not to try any shit with me, I can see the random flirt / guilttrip coming. He turned it into a fucking game instead. Day 12 - I can't believe he caught that donuthole from seven rows down, actually impressive. Day 13-14 - weekend and peace again. Did not consider ordering donut holes during brunch. Day 15 - brought my own donut holes so there wouldn't be any misunderstandings about who owes who. He managed a double-wall-hit catch. Biggest grin after my thumbs up, that was probably a mistake. Day 16 - off-track training. He ate face 15 minutes in. Only helped him up so our team time wouldn't suffer. Did earn me good help during the next obstacle course. And a high five, which I refused. Day 17 - he did the off-track training without fail, he deserves that high five. Day 18 - apparently he's a huggy drunk. And even chattier. Not good. Note: watch out for his dad during graduation. Bring knife. Day 19 - he came in with a black eye and wouldn't explain. Finally did when I twisted his arm just right. Latino jokers took it too far yesterday. Note: do not leave bars before him. Day 20-21: weekend is too quiet. Does he have an icepack for his eye? Gonna text him to buy frozen peas. He definitely does not have vegetables anywhere in his place. Day 22: His eye looks better. Asked if I needed any peas for dinner. Day 23: One of the latino jokers is out of the class. Teach wouldn't explain why. Got a clear wink from his black eye, though. Does that mean I owe him now? Day 24: patrol training. Thought his chatter was bad? Try his radio singing. Day 25: patrol training again. Apparently we were meant to pick partners and switch around. Was not notified of that when he handed me our assignment. It's fine though. Day 26: patrol training. Fuck, can he run, though. Chased that decoy perp for 12 blocks, I recon. Then texted me he got lost. Day 27-28: weekend. Text for drinks. Did not leave bar before him because I had to bring him home. His place is horrible. Fixed the broken oven so now he can have 'the best frozen pizza in the world' again. Day 29: His mom called during lunch break. Adorable how his voice changes. But shit, he talked about this 'cool friend' he made. Day 30: mom called me, asked how I was doing. Seemed very happy I mentioned a new friend. Day 31: there was only one orange soda left at the bodega for lunch break. That and donut holes got me a hug. Feels weird. But good.

[daechwitatamic]

Chapter 5: Childish || KTH

(banner by @itaeewon)

Title: What Was Hidden (Masterpost)

Rating: explicit, minors DNI pls

Genre: college!au, angst, eventual smut, strangers -> friends -> lovers -> idiots -> lovers

Pairings: Taehyung x female reader, MYG x OC

Summary:  This is how it all starts: Taehyung is flunking Western Lit. You’re assigned to tutor him. His paper on Strindberg’s The Ghost Sonata could pass or fail him for the semester. As you and Taehyung slowly become friends, then more, you learn that there’s a lot more to him than you originally assumed. Together, you navigate your own experiences with the play’s themes: one’s “true self” versus one’s “shown self”, darkness behind the facade, and how people can be quite literally haunted - and it has nothing to do with ghosts.

//

In which you and Taehyung address what happened at movie night.

Chapter Warnings: language, kissing, bad rap lyrics… listen i tried my best ok

Word Count: 3.8k

Note: This is a duplicate of Chapter 5. Apologies if you already interacted with the first version - it wasn't showing up in searched tags. The Ghost Post for Chapter 5 is here.

I saw the sun and thought I saw what was hidden The Ghost Sonata | Scene III August Strindberg

Chapter 5: Childish

Sunday, November 18th

In the morning, Kiko’s bed is empty, so you text her, “Good morning???”

Instead of answering you with words, she sends you a Soundcloud link titled, Sirens [DEMO]  - MYG ft K!k0.

[9:02 AM] Kiko✌️: sry for bailing on the movie but we finished this

You scramble for your earpods, eagerly starting the track. The beat starts, fast and angry, and then Yoongi’s rapping starts.

All these months at sea have got me seeing shit I close my eyes and take an even bigger hit Your siren call has got my fucking guard up These last six months I’ve been so fucking hard up Snared by your beauty as you pass by Your siren song is just another goddamn lie I have heard you singing, each to each You’ve always been just outside my reach Part of me wants to let you drag me down Til human voices wake us and we fucking drown I’m powerless to fight it, I refuse to try Your siren song is just another goddamn lie

The chorus starts, and you hear Kiko for the first time. Her voice comes in sweet and steady, definitely her, haunting as it traverses the minor key.

“Holy shit,” you say out loud, pulling out your earpods and scrambling up the ladder to Bridget’s top bunk. She whines in complaint as you scoot in next to her, poking her arm.

“Wake up, you have to hear this,” you tell her. “Look at our baby go!”

[9:10 AM] You: omg omg omg that’s so good i literally woke b up to listen to it too

[9:11 AM] You: she hates me but she loves the track

[9:12 AM] You: your VOICE iasnfoiajefjef 

[9:14 AM] Kiko✌️: thaaaanks 🥺🥺🥺

[9:16 AM] You: if he gets famous w that hes gonna get a cease and desist letter from Eliot’s people lmaooo

[9:19 AM] Kiko✌️: ????

[9:20 AM] You: ts eliot? the poem?

[9:22 AM] You: ‘i have heard them singing, each to each’

[9:23 AM] You: ‘til human voices wake us and we drown’

[9:24 AM] You: they’re from that longass ts eliot poem idr the name of it

[9:25 AM] You: hold on im looking it up

You send her the link to The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and click your screen off. 

“You think he wrote that about her?” Bridget muses, eyes still closed.

“No way,” you say. “You’d have to have some serious audacity to ask a girl to feature vocals on a track you wrote about trying to resist her charms…”

“Maybe he has a lot of audacity,” she murmurs. 

You kick your way under her blankets - your feet are freezing - and put your earpods back in, turning your screen back on to listen to it again.

Monday, November 19th

Monday brings sunshine, even if it is freezing cold. You’re leaving your final class, your laptop bag heavy on your shoulder, when a phone call comes in from Bianca.

“Hey, Y/N,” she says when you pick up. “I figured this would be easier than emailing back and forth five times. I’m trying to reschedule your session with Taehyung. Are you feeling better?”

“Oh,” you say, stomach dropping. Good, now that you and Taehyung aren’t speaking you can spend an extra hour alone with him! “Yeah, I’m all better. Thanks.”

“Great,” she says. “Can you do tomorrow morning? I know it’s kind of late notice,” she says apologetically.

“I’d have to be done by ten for class,” you tell her. 

Bianca schedules you for nine the next morning, and tells you she’ll email you both to confirm. 

You’re at dinner with Bridget that night when Taehyung texts you about it.

[7:55 PM] Taehyung: hi. Would you be okay with doing tutoring at the coffee shop tmrw instead of the library

[7:56 PM] Taehyung: i have class at 10 and its closer to the academic buildings

You wave your foot around in discomfort. You hate knowing you hurt his feelings. He’s obviously upset, or this would’ve been a facetime call. 

[7:59 PM] You: yep. See you at 9.

He doesn’t answer.

Tuesday, November 20th

When you reach the cafe in the morning, Taehyung’s already in a booth, books open on the table. You pause at the edge of the table, and he looks up at you, but doesn’t say anything.

“Morning,” you said uneasily. “I’m gonna get in line and order my coffee, and then we can start?”

“Sure,” he says, and goes right back to highlighting the Strindberg text. 

You frown, crossing your arms. “Is this how it’s going to be for the whole hour? Are you even going to speak to me?”

“If I need help with the work,” he allows, eyes still on the text.

“Taehyung,” you say, frustrated, “don’t be childish -.”

“I’m being childish?” he echoes, eyebrows raising indignantly. “You started the cold shoulder shit just because I dared hang out with a friend when we -.”

When we… aren’t anything in the first place. You know that’s the end of the sentence. You know that’s the truth. There was nothing between you two but potential, but that had spoiled now. You don’t wait for the end of the sentence. You turn on your heel to leave.

“Wait,” he says quickly, and reaches for your hand, holding your fingers tightly. “I’m sorry. Don’t leave.”

You stand there, his fingers still clutching yours, frozen. His hand is warm on yours, his eyes intense, and you feel like he could just tug you right down there next to him with very little effort. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “Let’s just… I’ll work on the paper. Let’s just… work.”

You don’t really have a choice. You’re contracted for an hour. Pursing your lips, you set your bag on the empty bench. 

“I’m going to order my coffee,” you tell him quietly, and he nods, finally dropping your hand. When you return, you settle in and get your laptop running. 

“Okay,” you say, eager to put the arguing behind you and get to work. “What step of the paper are you on? Isn’t it due this week?”

“Yeah, by Friday at midnight,” he tells you. “I’m just done taking my notes for the disillusionment theme and then I can start typing it up.”

“How can I help today?” you ask.

He frowns, sliding the Strindberg text between you. “I was looking at his last little bit here,” he says, pointing with his capped highlighter. “I saw the sun and thought I saw what was hidden - I was going to write about the word thought - like, he thought he knew what was there, he thought he was seeing something hidden that was beautiful and good. Like, he saw the darkness behind the facade, but then the sun shone on this spot and he thought that behind the darkness there was still something good… but he was wrong.”

“Tae,” you say, quietly. 

He gives you a warning look. “Don’t,” he says. “Focus on the paper. Am I onto something worth putting in the paper?”

“Yeah,” you say, begrudgingly. “It’s good.”

He nods and writes something down in the notebook he has open next to the text. When he’s done, he opens his laptop and gets typing away. You drop your eyes, focus on your coffee. 

He types for about fifteen minutes and you don’t talk as he works. When you hear the sound of clicking keys stop, you glance up to see if he needs to be reminded to focus, as he asked.

But instead of looking distracted - out the window, or at his phone - he’s looking at you. He’s pouting, lips protruding, and it’s so fucking cute that it makes you feel angry.

“What?” you snap, but you’re fighting a smile. 

“I can’t stand that you’re mad at me,” he admits. “I should have told you I had a girl at the house, that it was a friend. I’m sorry. I know that we aren’t… y’know… but if I’d run into you with a guy like that I think I’d…” He trails off, half-formed thoughts tripping him up. “It would have felt bad. And I did not mean to make you feel bad.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine,” you tell him. “You can do whatever you want. You owe me nothing. I shouldn’t have gotten upset. I was trying to be chill about it and just… failing miserably.”

“You don’t send someone homemade soup and then show up with another girl,” he says, shaking his head. “I screwed up.”

“You didn’t,” you tell him gently. “It’s fine. I’d like it if we just… moved on.”

–

By the time your hour is up, Taehyung has finished typing most of the paper. You make him promise to finish it and send it to you to look over before your normal Wednesday morning session tomorrow.

You gather up your things and wait as Taehyung does the same. Once you’re both ready, you turn and walk towards the door; you both have class right after, and you’re in a bit of a hurry to make it on time. 

The line of students trying to grab a coffee before the ten o’clock classes start is quite long, reaching almost to the door. And at the end of it stands Davis.

You drop your eyes quickly, as if seeing him would make him more likely to see you. You scrunch down into your sweater, hiking your bag higher on your shoulder, and pick up your pace. 

Taehyung is suddenly beside you instead of behind you, his arm around your shoulders, pulling you tightly up against him as you walk side by side. He’s warm and solid against you, and you feel the tight fist that had been wrapping itself around your lungs release a little bit. It just feels instantly… safer. You keep your eyes down, but you feel Taehyung turn to look at Davis as you pass by. He reaches forward to open the door, and you step through together.

“Thanks,” you mutter, still watching the very fascinating pavement. 

“You have to stop running from him,” he tells you seriously. “He’s garbage, and you’re…”

You’re what?

He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t let him get to you like that,” he amends. 

You scuff your sneaker along the path. “Which way are you going?” you ask him. 

“Pastorino Building,” he tells you, pointing.

“Me too.”

When he holds out his hand for you, you take it. 

--

[11:44 AM] Taehyung: you finally took me off of read, huh?

[11:52 AM] You: ???

[11:54 AM] Taehyung: insta

[11:56 AM] You: lol oh

[11:57 AM] You: yeah u earned it i guess

[12:00 PM] Taehyung: “i guess” o ok then 🙄

--

[12:11 PM] Nina💕: y is ur new man messing with Davis????

[12:14 PM] You: 100% honesty, i have nooooo idea what ur talking abt

[12:16 PM] Nina💕: walking around campus giving him dirty looks nd shit, real mature

[12:19 PM] You: omfg. i need everyone to grow the fuck up pls. 

[12:20 PM] You: knowing davis and knowing taehyung, i’d guess they saw each other ONCE and if tae didn’t smile then davis went and cried like a fucking baby 

It’s almost twelve hours later, after you’re in bed working on getting sleepy, that you realize that Nina had said “your new man” and you’d done nothing to refute this.

Fuck.

Wednesday, November 21st

You’re - stupidly - excited for your tutoring hour on Wednesday morning. You don’t know what is starting with you and Taehyung, but something is. But when you arrive at eleven on the dot, he’s not there. He’s still not there five minutes later, and you shoot him a quick text - “we on for tutoring?” 

Two minutes later, he comes up behind you, practically panting, a paper travel mug in each hand.

“Sorry,” he says, “I was already running a minute or two late because the line was so long, and then I got here and I couldn’t open the door -.”

You crack up, reaching to take the cups from his hands and place them on the table. 

“Did you bring me coffee?” you ask accusingly, a smile creeping across your face.

“I’m still trying to make up for Saturday,” he says with a laugh, pulling out a chair on the other side of the table.

“You have already, and then some,” you tell him seriously.

“I hope I ordered it how you like it,” he says sheepishly.

“I’m not picky,” you assure him. “So, what are we working on today?”

“All business, huh? Even when I bring you coffee?” he teases, eyes crinkling. 

“I’m all business when I’m on the clock,” you agree. “Talk to me in fifty-three minutes and I can be more fun.”

“You’re fun anyway,” he says, eyeing you sideways as he takes out his laptop. “Anyway, I finished the paper last night. Can I send it to you now? Then I can start my Chekhov reading while you look it over?”

“That sounds perfect,” you tell him. “Chekhov, huh? Three Sisters?”

"Cherry Orchard," he corrects you.

“Oh, that’s a good one,” you tell him. “I’m excited to see what you think. I do like Three Sisters better, though, if I had to choose.”

“I don’t get to choose,” he says lightly. “I just sent you the paper, did you get it?”

“I’m surprised you even know how to use the school email,” you murmur without thinking, eyes on your screen, and you’re surprised when he laughs, one hand coming up to cover his mouth.

“Sorry,” you laugh. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“Oh, but it’s fine if you think it?” he challenges, raising one eyebrow. Something stirs in your stomach. 

“Shut up and do your reading,” you say, laughing, doing your best to ignore the flutter of attraction. 

When your hour is up, you walk together towards the cafeteria as you have on other Wednesday mornings. But instead of splitting up, Taehyung raises that eyebrow at you again, as if issuing a dare. 

“Want to sit together?” he asks.

You grin. “Yeah,” you say. “But you might have to deal with my roommates when they figure out I ditched them.”

Thursday, November 22nd

Thursday is cold, but the sun shines brightly, so you decide to walk at your trail between your morning class and your afternoon class. It’s too cold to sit on your bench for long, but at least the walk will give you some exercise, and some good thinking time. Your mind is disgustingly full of Taehyung - the easy back and forth you have, how shockingly different he is from your expectations, the fucking cute way he pouts as he eats, the sexy way he rolls his tshirt sleeves, the way his smile will start so tentatively and then blast full-wattage out of nowhere.  You walk quickly, the cold hitting you sharply, like a slap in the face, and you need it. It knocks some sense into you. You’re a fucking mess, and you feel a little out of control with it. 

You head back to your room to take a quick shower before your 2:30 class, opting to skip lunch. You haven’t eaten since breakfast, and you know you won’t be able to eat until tutoring ends at 7. You wonder if you’d be able to talk Taehyung into doing tutoring from the cafeteria.

You somehow manage to make it on time for Becky at 5:00, barely, but you’re starving by the time Taehyung plops down in the seat across from you.

You tell him hello absently, already digging in your bag for your wallet, ready to ask him if he’d mind doing tutoring somewhere with food.

“Oh, goddamn,” you murmur, shifting your laptop out of the way and scraping around the bottom of your bag.

“What’s wrong?” Taehyung asks, peering at you.

“I can’t find my wallet,” you tell him, starting to take things out of the bag one by one. Then suddenly you freeze, your wide eyes meeting his across the table. “Oh shit,” you utter. “I think I dropped it at the trail.”

“The trail?” he echoes.

“The walking trails over at the nature preserve,” you clarify, still horrified. “I went walking there before class and I had my wallet with me then, and now that I’m thinking about it, I didn’t have it when I packed my bag for class.”

Taehyung looks at you, calculating. Then he nods and says, “Okay, so let’s go get it.”

“What?” you say, sure you misheard him. “Now? It’s dark. And freezing.”

He shrugs. “We’ll bundle up. It’ll be fun, like a little adventure.”

“Trespassing on closed trails in the dark - in snow temperatures - does not sound like an adventure,” you tell him. 

“Come on,” he goads. “What else are you going to do? You’re in classes until it’s dark tomorrow, you won’t be able to go look.”

You frown at him. “How do you know my class schedule?”

“I pay attention,” he says, waving a hand at you, like this is insignificant. “So? We’ll use our phones and follow where you walked. It could still be there.” 

You stop to consider it. You could just consider it a loss - freeze your credit card, replace your drivers license. Or you could wait and see if anyone turned it into the police or campus security. Surely, this isn’t so pressing that you need to go now.

But.

But, going for a nighttime walk with Taehyung - even if it is fucking cold out - does sound kind of exciting. 

“What about tutoring?” you ask, resolve crumbling.

“We’ll talk about Ibsen the whole time,” he says, already starting to pack up his bag. “Come on, there’s a parking lot at the trailhead, I’ll drive us over.”

There are no other cars in the lot when you park - probably because the whole nature preserve closes at sundown, which was about three hours ago. Taehyung turns off the car and you both get out, turning the flashlights on your phones on. You guide him to the trail you took, and walk in silence for a few minutes, beams crisscrossing the trail as you go.

“I turned my paper in yesterday,” he tells you. You’re shivering a little, searching the edge of the path. “Two days early. Do I get extra points for being early?”

“No,” you tell him flatly. “But yours will be one of the first she grades. I’m excited to see her feedback.”

“She’ll probably think I cheated,” Taehyung laughs. 

“No,” you disagree. “It definitely still sounded like you wrote it. Your voice came through.”

He looks at you across the path, only a silhouette from your phones illuminating patches on the ground. In the dark, you can’t make out his face at all, can’t read his eyes or his expression. 

“You did a good job,” you reassure him again. “It was well written.”

“Thanks,” he says finally. 

You walk in silence a little longer. You can’t see anything except the small circle on the ground from your phone, and it’s eerie. You’re glad Taehyung is with you, but you’re half tempted to step closer to him, to walk in his wake instead of on your own. You shiver again, your face aching from the cold, your fingers going numb. 

This was probably a dumb idea. 

You reach your bench and you hurry over, sure that if your wallet fell out of your pocket it would have been while you were seated. Sure enough, you find it under the bench, in a small tuft of dead grass. It occurs to you that Taehyung is here in your most sacred thinking spot, but you’d never brought Davis here even though you’d been dating for almost two whole school years as students here.

“Got it!” you cheer, turning to find Taehyung by the location of his phone’s light.

He comes up next to you, putting his hands on your upper arms. You’re still shivering slightly.

“You cold?” he murmurs, and you’ve never heard that tone of voice on him before. It’s low, almost guttural, and your body responds to it immediately, the blood rushing away from your head. 

“Mhm,” you say, not trusting yourself to try and form words. 

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you in, and you lean in, soaking in his warmth. This is fine - this is nice - but then he moves a hand to gently tip your chin up and leans in to kiss you. His lips are soft against yours, but his kiss isn’t. As soon as he can feel you kissing him back, he reaches both arms around you again, tugging you tight against him as your lips crash together. 

You manage to sneak a hand out of his tight embrace and curl your fingers through the wavy hair at the nape of his neck; you tug just a little and his mouth opens for yours, a tiny groan escaping him as if against his will as his tongue touches yours for the first time.

Everything about the kiss is slow but purposeful, intense in its lack of frantic energy. He kisses you like he’s got his whole life to keep it up, like there’s no reason to rush when he can take it this slow and feel everything, notice everything, love everything that you do.

You bring one freezing hand up to touch his jaw, your thumb rubbing a gentle line along the bone, and he shivers under your touch. He moves to tangle one hand in your hair, and suddenly it’s an entirely different kiss, all the energy and aggression that he seemed to be holding back earlier now bursting forth.

You appreciate the variety.

You release his hand and clutch the front of his zippered winter coat, pulling him closer, though it doesn’t seem possible. You want him closer. You want him to kiss you for a hundred more hours. 

He nips your bottom lip and you whimper without meaning to; he groans again in response to this, moving to kiss a line down your jaw and down to your neck. The air is instantly freezing in the wake of his hot mouth, and you shudder in his hands. 

When he finally pulls away, leaning back to look at your flushed face, he asks, “How about now?”

You laugh, once, and whack him in the chest. “A little better,” you admit. 

He presses his forehead to yours and inhales deeply. “I would like to do that again without the puffy winter coats on,” he tells you.

You laugh again, stepping back a little bit. “Okay,” you tell him. “I think that can be arranged.” 

Next

Thank you so much for being here! I appreciate every single like, reblog, dm, ask, or reply!

As always, a million thanks to @kookstempo for being an expert turkey-wrangler and also for beta-ing!

[manekicatwriter]

hellooo! i was wondering if i could make a request for an modern au sbi x gn sibling reader where they’re around 17-19, and they’ve got depression. they’ve had to go away for a few weeks after a bad episode ended in an attempt and they were hospitalized and sent somewhere for rehabilitation and now they’re coming home and they’re all anxious and quiet and stuff- so the boys do their best to like comfort them and reassure them that they’re loved and they belong there? i’m sorry if that’s an awkward request, i was just recently discharged after a similar situation and honestly the comfort would be great. it’s totally your call if you chose to write it tho, i understand that this is a difficult and triggering subject and not everyone is comfortable with writing things like it. if you aren’t comfy please feel free to just ignore my ask! <3

you’re here, and that’s what matters.

TW: mentions of attempted suicide. please proceed with caution.

hey! i just wanted to let you know that i’ve been through a similar situation and understand how you feel (though my case was not as severe). i wish you a safe road to recovery.

note, i think you asked for their characters but it leant itself towards their rl versions. i have a feeling the dsmp versions would be too chaotic for this sensitive subject.

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!! please do not be afraid to send in an ask. ANON IS ON!!

Phil:

- phil was very scared about you being so gravely hurt, it kept him up for some nights. thankfully, you pulled through.

- he visited whenever he could. if he couldn’t, he was busy making sure coming home felt as comfortable for you as possible while also educating himself on how to take care of you.

- phil would listen to how you felt, and be understanding of your feelings.

- “You don’t have to tell me why you did it, I’m just glad you��re here,” pulling you in for a warm hug.

- when you got back home, he made sure he and the boys had prepared your favorite dinner and desserts.

It was the day you had just got home from rehabilitation, and you two were sitting on the couch. You hadn’t said much, you felt like you had nothing to say. Phil had asked for you to sit down so you two could talk, one on one.

You couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m sorry,” your voice started to crack. “For making you guys worry about me.” Tears started to form from your eyes and you wept into your hands.

Phil immediately reached over to you to hug you, letting you cry on his shoulder. “We don’t blame you. We don’t blame anybody. I just want you to be here safe with us. Let it all out.” He pat and rubbed your back soothingly as you kept crying. But it was a good cry. He was just glad you came home.

Tommy:

- even though many see tommy as a loud and obnoxious boy with a general disregard for others, we all know deep down that’s a persona. he will go out of his way to make other comfortable in his presence if he truly cares for them. which he does, for you of course.

- he wants to make you happy! when the time is right, he’ll crack jokes and offer to play minecraft with you.

- would tone down the yelling. not because you asked, but he’s afraid of triggering you. treats you like glass. if you notice he’s being quieter than usual and you don’t care, you tell him you don’t.

- if you’re feeling it, he’ll take you out to fun places and to eat. nothing that’s too outlandish like a theme park, but just enough to have a reason to get out of bed that day instead of sleeping in.

It had been a week since you had gotten home and Phil had instructed you to maintain somewhat of a schedule to upkeep yourself. Right now was your nightly routine, washing yourself, brushing your teeth, and finally sliding under the covers. It felt nice. The blanket of sleep consumes you easily…

…

Until you bedroom door opens you’re being aggressively shaken awake. You groan, shying away, but they’re persistent.

“Ey, wake up, it’s morning!” Tommy shakes you again.

You realize you didn’t dream, but think nothing of it. “Tommy please, what do you want.”

Finally, Tommy pulled your warm sheets from over you, making you flinch. “I wanted to go out to the park today! Feed the ducks! Yeesss!”

You sighed. If you didn’t comply now, Tommy will refuse to stop nagging you for the rest of the day. You rolled out of bed and into the bathroom. You could very clearly hear Tommy’s cheers.

You two had gotten ready, eaten breakfast, and said goodbye to the rest of your family so you could head over to the park. It was close enough that it wasn’t unbearable to walk to. Even if you weren’t completely yourself yet, you were glad Tommy was.

After the short walk you two finally reached the park. Tommy immediately bolted toward the pond and you jogged behind. He had already started throwing the ducks some seeds, and even threw it on a duck. It didn’t seem too pleased.

You two sat at the edge of the pond as you watched the ducks eat. “Hey.” You hear Tommy call to you, and you turn your head to him.

“Can we talk about what happened? With you? Is it okay?” You could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

“Go ahead, what is it?”

“When Techno found out what happened to you, and told us the news, I was scared shitless.” He let out a sad huff. “I thought we were going to lose you.” Tommy kept his eyes fixed at the pond in front of him. “I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t have brought this up. I’m just glad you’re okay.” He sighed.

You put a hand on his shoulder. “Oh Tommy…” You started, “I’m sorry for making you worry. You shouldn’t have to feel like that because of my actions.”

Tommy was lost in thought for a moment, before finally speaking up, “No, please don’t apologize. It’s not anybody’s fault this happened, right?” You nodded.

Tommy stood up, dusting his pants off from the grass. “Come on now, let’s go get some ice cream!” He pulled you up from the ground.

“Last one to get to the shop has to pay!”

Immediately, Tommy bolts in the direction to the ice cream shop, and you catch up to him. No matter the circumstance is, he never seems to fail at putting a smile on your face.

Wilbur:

- i HC wilbur being the oldest, being older than techno by 3 years and older than tommy by 8, like IRL. :]

- i think out of all of your siblings, wilbur exudes the most “protective older brother” energy, yeah?

- remember when tommy lied about his mother being in trouble and how worried and anxious wilbur got? turn that up to 11 with what happened with you.

- with wilbur being the oldest, he of course had the responsibility of taking care of everyone. but somehow you and him didn’t spend as much 1 on 1 time as much as wilbur did with his other siblings

- wilbur definitely was going to change that, realizing that and not wanting to make that mistake again.

- he decided that finding a new hobby with you wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

You were sitting at the dinner table, being the last one there. You were poking at your food for the most part, and Wilbur got home late from… whatever Wilbur thing he was doing. Phil cooked pasta for dinner tonight. Wilbur put down his bags at the door connected to the garage. “I’m home! What’s for dinner?”

“Pasta.”

“Mmm, I love some good ol’ pasta.” He said, already taking a plate out to serve himself. “Also, hey, I bought something I wanted to build with you. Do you mind?”

You finally looked up from your very interesting pasta. “Build..?” You had no idea where this was going.

Wilbur placed his plate on the table and approached the bags of groceries, going through them to find the bag he was looking for. He pulled out a LEGO set. More specifically, a LEGO City set from the looks of the box? “Wilbur, how much was that?”

He blinked at you innocently. “It was only, like, £25. And look! It’s got a little submarine we can make with a rock and ugly sea monster—“

“But why?”

“Why not? It wouldn’t hurt for you to do something new, yeah?” He smiled at you, shaking the LEGO box in front of him to show it off. You sighed, but smiled. “Alright. But maybe you and I should eat this pasta first before we start building.” Wilbur nodded.

“Speaking of water, don’t you think I could teach you how to swim or something?”

“Oh, fuck off with that!”

Technoblade:

- i think out of everyone in the family, he understands you the most in terms of how you feel.

- not suicidal, but just generally having depressive episodes due to his ADHD.

- techno’s generally closed off, but started to really open up to you because he wanted to show he cares, even if it meant going out of his comfort zone.

- techno suggested journaling. once a day or once per week, it didn’t really matter. just as long as you could write down your feelings somewhere.

- he didn’t explicitly say it, but he also bought a book for himself so he could do it along with you. although, he more often than not just forgets to write in it until you mention your own journal.

- if you want to be sad and quiet, you can be sad and quiet with him. his room is a safe space for you if you ever need it and you’re always welcome to come in, just as long as you knock first.

With one hand on your mouse scrolling through the internet, and another resting your head on it, you were safe to admit you were utterly and completely bored. Honestly, you thought about taking another nap after your last one, but a knock on your door stopped you right before you pulled the covers over yourself. “Can I come in?”

You rose from your bed. “Come in. Oh hey Techno.”

He gave a simple wave and his signature “Halloo.” He walked right over to you and handed a journal and a ballpoint pen. “I got this. For you.” His stare was sharp but you could sort of tell he was nervous.

“What for?”

“I dunno. Writin’ your feelings down or drawin’ or somethin’. Whatever helps you vent.” He scratched the back of his neck.

“Oh Techno, thank you. That’s very sweet of you.” You gave a slight smile, but saw that he still had another journal in his hand. “You have two journals?”

Techno raised his eyebrow in confusion before looking down at his hand. “Oh this? It’s for me. So we could do it together, I guess.”

You let out a happy hum. “That’s nice. Say, why don’t we go to your room? I want to see your new lava lamp and stuff.”

Techno shrugged. “Sure. I’ve got more stationary too if you want.” He waved his hand before letting himself out the door, with you following not far behind.

hi hope u enjoyed reading as much as i did writing it. this format was new for me but very fun!

[whentommymetalfie]

Home to you -chapter 27

-Crossroads-

Prologue//1//2//3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10/11/12/13/14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21/22/23/24/25/26

Pairing: Tommy/Alfie

Summary: Tensions rise at Arrow House, with disastrous consequences. 

Warnings: ptsd, injury, aftermath of forced hospitalization and medical malpractice, hallucinations, disordered eating, mentions of suspected non-con, mental breakdown, slurs

Wordcount: 4,6 K

Alfie knows things are truly dire when he’s the one who searches out Lizzie to talk, an overcast afternoon when everything feels particularly fucking hopeless. He finds her on the front steps, smoking and watching the kids playing with Cyril at the far edge of the lawn.

“We need to talk,” he tells her. “You me and the illustrious fucking Shelby siblings. Clear the air or something of the sort. For Tommy’s sake. He’s not doing well.” Which is the understatement of the fucking century and they both know it. Lizzie closes her eyes and lets out a stream smoke that sails towards the sky, heavy with rain clouds.

“Who’s with him now?” she asks.

“Ishmael’s keeping an eye on him. But he’s asleep, for now.”

Lizzie nods and looks towards the children, currently playing fetch with Cyril. Cyril, bless him, is currently looking for a ball lost in the bushes somewhere. Lizzie drops her cigarette and crushes it under her heal.

“Fine,” she sighs. “Let me just get Frances so she can keep an eye on the kids.”

Only a few minutes later they’re gathered in a parlor close to Tommy’s bedroom, but far enough away to avoid any potential shouting waking him up. And Alfie presumes there might be some of that. Considering what he’s about to tell them.

Arthur, sat in one of the sofas, has already downed two drinks, but when he reaches for the whiskey bottle again Ada takes it and ignores his scowl. She’s positioned herself strategically next to her brother, while Lizzie is occupying an armchair, already smoking another cigarette. Despite wanting to pace, Alfie is sat across from her, resting both hands on his cane.  

“Right, let’s clear the fucking air, then, shall we?” he says, breaking the silence. “Because whatever the fuck we’re doing right now is not helping Tommy. So, I’ve very graciously decided to sit down for a little chat rather than say, bashing a certain someone’s face in for completely failing to handle his terrified little brother and in fact making the whole situation worse.” Arthur sends him a withering look but for once keeps his mouth shut. “Which really is a whole thing of its own because you must’ve fucking known he wouldn’t contribute anything,” he says to Lizzie whose mouth draws into a tight line. “And should’ve fucking thought of that before bringing him here” Lizzie and Ada exchange looks.

“I already said shouldn’t have done it,” Lizzie says, jaw tight.

“Don’t tell me that, tell that to Tommy, who was already terrified of being back here to begin with,” Alfie says. “And now has to worry someone will crash through the door at any second. But that’s just part of the issue here, really. And let’s just cut to the fucking chase because I think you all realise that after the disaster that was yesterday, I’m taking him home.”

The reaction, predictably, is immediate. Arthur flies from his seat and might’ve socked him had it not been for his sister pulling him back down.

“You don’t have any fucking right to take him anywhere,” Arthur growls. “He belongs here, with his family.”

“Yeah? The family who landed him in an asylum?” Alfie asks and feels his blood beginning to boil at the mere thought. “Who neglected him as he lay alone in bed for weeks and weeks on end? Who stuck a fucking tube down his throat because they couldn’t get him to eat?” Lizzie looks straight at him, head held high. “I don’t even know what’s worse, thinking you were all so blind that you didn’t notice he was on the brink of shattering, or that you did notice but didn’t do shit to help. No, instead you just fucking let him wander off and put a bullet through his head. And left him bleeding out in a field because the one person who knew he was gone in the first place was too fucking drunk to go looking-“

This time, not even Ada can keep Arthur from flying out of his seat.

“This family needs him! He needs us.”

“This fucking family can go fuck itself,” Alfie snaps and gets to his feet with a bang of his cane against hard flooring. He gestures towards the walls with their dark paneling and empty grandeur. “This house, you, it’s all fucking killing him. He doesn’t eat. Barely drinks. He doesn’t sleep at night. Has begun wandering around the hallways again. Talking to ghosts and crows that aren’t there. For weeks he had more good days than bad, but since we came here it’s like he’s dropped right back into the fucking hole you left him in.”

At the end of the tirade, Lizzie has turned away, looking out the window. Arthur is panting like a fucking bull ready to charge. Ada is the one who breaks the silence, but her voice lacks its usual strength.

“But is it really that strange that he’s not doing well? He’s been in an asylum-“

“And was taken right back to another one,” Alfie interrupts her. “He can’t stay here. It’s going to kill him. And he can’t fucking give you anything because he’s got nothing left to give. If you care about him at all you’ll let him go. Let him heal. It’s the least you can do.”

Lizzie puts her cigarette out with a trembling hand just as it’s about to burn her.

“Why don’t you just fucking take him, then,” she says. “You’ve clearly already made up your mind?”

“God knows why, but he cares about you lot far more than you probably deserve. And unless he knows that you accept it, it’s going to hurt him,” Alfie says. “And he can’t bear any more fucking hurt now. Let him go home.”

At that, Arthur let’s out a loud snort.

“Of course you’d say that. You can’t fucking wait to have him all to yourself again, where he’s completely defenseless.”

Ada springing to her feet to get between them is the only thing keeping Alfie from knocking the scowl from Arthur’s face. Arthur’s hands clench into fists and his eyes look moments away from falling out of his skull. Alfie takes a slow breath. He’s got to focus on what matters. Arthur doesn’t fucking matter. None of them do. But he looks to Ada and Lizzie when he speaks, slowly, the gravity of the words weighing them down. “If you want him to live, you have to let him go. Or he’s going to fade more and more each day until there’s nothing left of him.”

And while Lizzie lowers her gaze and Ada’s distress is visible on her entire face, Arthur decides to once again let out one of those infuriating snorts.

“Bollocks. He needs us. He needs to get back to work. Live a normal fucking life. That should be the goal, not-“

And to avoid shoving his cane through Arthur’s left eye socket, Alfie turns on his heal and storms out of the room. That’s enough. Fuck this. Fuck them. Fuck all of it.

He strides through the hallway back to their room, tears the door open and

Finds it empty. No sign of Tommy anywhere except an empty spot between all the blankets. He checks the bathroom. With a dreadful sense of déjà vu he moves to the windows. Closed. Locked. Nothing -no one- on the ground far below. When he comes back into the hallway he’s met Ismael. He grabs him by the front of his shirt.

“Where the hell is Tommy?”

“In his room, Sir. He was still asleep when I last checked-“

“And when was that?”

Ishmael pulls out his pocket watch. “ ‘bout ten minutes ago. I didn’t want to wake him. Sometimes he does that. When I open the door. And he always gets scared-“

“And why weren’t you outside of the fucking door?”

“I think it makes him uneasy and I-“  

“You’re not supposed to fucking think, you’re supposed to follow orders!”

Alfie releases Ishmael and hurries back towards the parlor. He enters to find the Shelby siblings having a shouting match, Arthur crimson in the face and Ada’s eyes laced with steel. Lizzie is the only one who notes his entrance.

“Tommy is gone.”

They stop and stare at him.

“What?” Arthur says. The fucking moron.  

“You hard of hearing? He’s not in our room.”

“Does he have to ask for permission to leave your room?” Arthur grunts. “You got him on a leash too?”

“Shut up, Arthur,” Ada snaps, before turning to Alfie. “I’m sure it’s okay. He can’t have gone far.”

Lizzie is already marching out of the room and he follows. Arthur and Ada are close behind.

“I’m going upstairs to check the roof,” she says. “Ada and Arthur start with this floor and move downwards.”

Everything after the word ‘roof’ fades into a high pitched buzz. Alfie follows Lizzie in her tracks. Soon they’re running. Through hallways, up a flight of stairs, a door and yet another set of stairs, narrow and dark, creaking underneath their feet.

The roof is empty. They check behind the many chimneys, but find nothing. Then come to stand the edge, both still panting from the ascent. Lizzie clasps her hands on the top of her head, chest heaving. Then she wraps them around herself instead. Alfie puts his entire weight on his good leg.

“He went up here once,” Lizzie says quietly as she looks out over the grounds. “He’d just been lying in bed, hadn’t taken to wandering around the house at night yet. Then one morning the bed was empty. And the door to the stairs were open. And I thought he’d jumped.” She pauses and shivers as a gust of wind sweeps across the roof. “But he was just sitting there. Half frozen to death. Shaking like a leaf. And I tried to ask what he was doing out there, but of course he wouldn’t answer. We began locking all the windows after that. And the door up here. But on some nights we just had to lock the bedroom door instead.”

Alfie rests both hands on the low wall surrounding the roof and looks at anything but Lizzie. It’s no use asking questions because he doesn’t care to hear the answers. How could you fucking lock him up? Leave him alone all night? Leave him alone for even a second? An unpleasant memory resurfaces: of Tommy crying behind a closed bedroom door after Alfie locked him in there in what feels like another lifetime. He blinks the memory away. That was one time, one mistake, and he never did it again.

And right now it doesn’t matter what these people did, either. All that matters is finding Tommy.

The river in the distance catches his eye and his throat fills with bile. Lizzie notices and they share a look, a rare moment of understanding. Alfie shakes his head.

“He wouldn’t,” he says. “Not anymore.”

“It could’ve finally become too much. All of it.”

They leave the roof.

Downstairs, the entire house is in disarray. Alfie isn’t sure how there can be so many maids he didn’t know of but the building seems to be full of people searching. That’s what you get for living in a fucking castle. He and Lizzie pass all of them, heading for the front door. He passes Ishmael on the way, sprinting towards the kitchen. And he looks so fucking white in the face that Alfie could’ve almost felt sorry for him if he weren’t so fucking pissed.

The river looms in the distance like a bad omen and they head there, and Alfie’s heart sinks with every step. He can’t allow his mind to go there. Of course they’ll find him. Anything else is unthinkable. They’ll find him. Alive and well. Of course they will, God, please, he’ll do anything if he only finds him-

“Solomons!” They both turn at the sound of Ada’s voice. She comes running towards them across the lawn. Lizzie sets off at an impressive pace, and he forgets the aches and pains as he follows. Ada is panting, cheeks flushed.

“Arthur’s found him,” she says in between breaths and turns before either of them can ask any questions.

They reach the far edge of the large lawn, where the road begins, before Alfie sees them: Arthur trying to hold onto a violently struggling Tommy, barefoot and wild eyed. But alive.

“Tommy, it’s okay, calm down,” Arthur shouts to overpower the terrible sounds Tommy is making. When he sees them approaching, Alfie is sure he can see relief on his face. Tommy squirms and kicks and the useless struggle is clearly increasing his panic.

“Let go of him,” Lizzie calls and he understands the instinct, but for once he’s fucking glad that Arthur is there to act first and think later.

“I can’t, he’ll fucking bolt,” Arthur shouts back and barely avoids the back of Tommy’s head smacking into his nose. Finally, Alfie reaches them, lungs aching, heart pounding.

“Found him wandering down the road,” Arthur says. “He got spooked when he saw me.”

“Tommy, love, it’s okay. I’m here now,” Alfie says and reaches out to take Tommy into his arms, but Arthur won’t let go. Tommy’s eyes are wide, and completely glazed over.

“No, no, please-“ he gasps. “I don’t want to.”

“What do you not want, love?” he asks and tries to catch his gaze, make Tommy latch onto something in his eyes, but it’s useless.

“Please, it won’t happen again, please-“

Alfie closes the distance between them and takes his face between his hands. Tommy’s eyes finally snap to him. And some of the fear melts into confusion. He stops struggling. Looks between him, Ada and Lizzie. Arthur keeps him upright as he sways on his feet.

When Tommy reaches for him, Arthur reluctantly lets go and allows his little brother to fall into Alfie’s arms. Alfie wraps his arms tightly around Tommy’s small frame and buries his nose in his hair. The world around them fades.

“You’re here,” Tommy whispers.

“Of course I’m here, love. Where else would I be?”

“Home.”

“Well, as long as you’re here, this is where I’ll be.” Alfie kisses his temple “Is that where you were going, eh? Home?”

Tommy nods against his chest.

“I forgot.”

“That’s okay, darling. You just gave me a scare. But the important part is I found you, yeah? I’ve got you.”

“We should probably get you inside, Tommy,” Ada says. “You must be cold.”

Alfie suddenly becomes uncomfortably aware of the three sets of eyes watching them, but if Tommy can hear her, he doesn’t show it, choosing to stay with his face buried in Alfie’s chest. But Alfie sees the sense in what Ada is saying. Noting the way Tommy is leaning against him, he decides he can’t walk on his own and scoops him up to carry him.

To some extent it’s because he can’t bear the thought of having him anywhere but right there in his arms.

He sets off towards the house, leaving the others to follow. They do, but thankfully stay silent.

“I just followed the crow,” Tommy mutters suddenly and Alfie’s heart sinks.

“Sweetheart, the crow isn’t real. It-“

“I thought it had flown home. But it keeps pecking on the glass.” Tommy’s index finger taps against his chest. “I don’t know why. Grace knows, but she won’t tell me.” Alfie holds him tighter. “Maybe it’s cold. It’s not nice, being cold.”

“No, love, it’s not.”

“But it doesn’t want to be locked up either.

“Of course not.” Alfie swallows. “But the crow isn’t real, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

“No one wants to be locked up. But we only do what’s best for you. It’s not safe.”

“You’re safe with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

“They came anyway. You were there.”

The words make his throat seize up and he has to swallow several times before he can answer.

“I know, I know, love, and I’m so sorry,” he whispers into Tommy’s hair. “And whatever hell those bastards put you through I’m going to repay them tenfold. Yeah? I’m going to burn that place to the fucking ground. Every bloody asylum in this godforsaken country, if that’s what it takes to make you feel safe again.”

Tommy flinches and looks up towards the sky. Taps his finger against his chest. Then clenches his hand into the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re real.”

“You bet I am. Absolutely fucking real.”

Nodding slowly, Tommy lays his head back against his shoulder. His mouth moves, forming whispers so quiet that not even Alfie can make sense of them.

The rest of the way to the house, no one says a word. Eventually Tommy’s quiet mutters cease too, and he gazes into the distance, lashes fanned low over his eyes.

Somewhere along the way towards the bedroom they lose Ada, Lizzie and Arthur. Alfie sets Tommy down onto the bed. Tommy remains where he’s been laid without moving a muscle. He gazes listlessly towards the window, mumbling words Alfie can’t hear. And it’s when he sees the emptiness in those impossibly blue eyes, when Tommy won’t even fucking acknowledge his presence as he sits down and strokes his hair, that’s when he decides upon his next move. He’ll bear the consequences, whatever they may be.

…

Late that night, when the rest of the house is sleeping, Alfie sends Ishmael with their luggage out to the car, doctor Adelman following close behind. He’s not thrilled about this idea, but needs must. And at least he now agrees with Alfie on the most important aspect: they need to get Tommy home. Meanwhile, Alfie wraps Tommy into a blanket. He’s asleep, seemingly, but it’s hard to know these days. So often he’ll just lie awake, eyes closed. He picks him up, settling his head against his chest. Tommy remains still.

Alfie begins his journey through the empty hallways, moving as quickly as he can without jostling Tommy too much. May not be like him, stealing away in the dark rather than facing whatever needs to be faced. But right now, that doesn’t matter. He needs to get Tommy home. Whether Tommy himself or his family approves. He rounds the corner to the large staircase. Tommy stirs. His lashes flutter. Alfie stops. Rocks him slowly.

“Shh, shh, just sleep, love.”

Tommy opens his eyes and peers up at him.  

“Alfie?”

“Sure, sweetheart.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here because you are, love.”

One of Tommy’s hands untangles itself from the blanket to grab onto the front of his shirt.

“And you’re real?”

“Of course.” Alfie kisses his forehead. “But you just go ahead and keep sleeping. Got nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of everything.”  

And Tommy simply lays his head down on his shoulder again without a word of protest. It’s concerning, but at least makes the trip easier.

Alfie hurries down the stairs, ignoring the staring eyes of the portraits, through the grand fucking hallway that he hopes to never see again. Presses down the handle on the large door and shoulders it open.

Behind him, an all too familiar click echoes in the hallway. He turns and finds himself staring down the barrel of a gun, in the hand of Arthur Shelby.

With a sigh, he lets the door fall shut.

“Fucking hell, just one thing after another, innit,” he mutters and hoists Tommy up a little higher. Arthur’s face is red, even in the dark.

“I knew you were up to something,” he says. “Fucking knew it.”

“So you stayed awake like a good guard dog, eh?” Alfie snorts. “And now what? You gonna fucking shoot me, is that it?”

Arthur’s hand clenches hard around the weapon. His own gun is in its holster by his side, an old habit he’s had to pick back up since big brother showed up, but he can’t get it without letting go of Tommy. And tempting as it may be to shoot Arthur fucking Shelby in the face, that may not be the best option all things considered.

“Put him down, and get the fuck out,” Arthur says. “I’m not letting you take him.”

“Really, because I think that you will. Considering you don’t have any fucking options. See, you’re not going to shoot me, dear Arthur, because you know Tommy would never forgive you.”

Alfie turns, shouldering the door open again. The moment he does, Arthur fires the gun. Tommy jolts in his arms, enough to make him lose his grip and he barely manages to set him down safely on his feet. He does a quick onceover on himself, but finds no blood and all limbs intact. Arthur has put the bullet far above him in the doorframe. Tommy sways on his feet. Looks with wide, lost eyes between Arthur who still has his gun held high and Alfie. Alfie reaches for him.

“Touch him and the next one goes between your fucking eyes,” Arthur snaps. “Tommy, come here.”

He motions his little brother over but Tommy just stares at him. At the gun. Then to Alfie, reaching with trembling hands over his chest.

“It’s okay, love, hit nothing but the door, that one,” Alfie says and pulls him in despite Arthur’s ludicrous fucking threats. Shaking like a leaf again, he is. He feels the tremors when Tommy huddles closer, breaths coming in increasingly rapid beats against his chest.

“Tommy, he’s trying to take you away,” Arthur says. “From here. From us. Where you belong.”

“He needs to go home,” Alfie retorts and rubs Tommy’s back, trying to quell the panic to no avail. “It’s fucking killing him, being in this house. I mean I know you’re bloody thick but even you must see that?”

“What he needs is his family. What he needs is to get his normal life back-”

Voices and rapid footsteps coming from upstairs cut Arthur short, and isn’t that just what they fucking needed, more people? Alfie considers his options. Arthur won’t shoot him, he’s still fairly certain of that. But with Tommy here he can’t be taking any chances.

“Arthur, what the hell are you doing?” Ada shouts as she comes running down the stairs, still in her nightgown. Lizzie is stood at the top of the stairs, shooing away curious maids before following, the same steely expression on her face.

“That fucking bastard tried to disappear with Tommy without saying a word!” Arthur points the gun accusatorily at him and Tommy flinches at the harsh tone. Alfie tucks his head against his chest.

“I’m trying to keep him safe,” he says. “I’m trying to take care of him while there’s still something left to take care of. Fuck knows no one else is doing it.”

“For God’s sake stop waving that thing around,” Ada says and grabs Arthur’s arm. “You’re aiming it at your brother.”

Lizzie looks to Tommy, eyes soft.

“What about you, Tommy, do you want to leave?”

Tommy’s fingers clench tightly around the fabric of his shirtsleeve and his voice is nothing but a broken whisper. “I have to stay.”

“Hear that?” Arthur exclaims triumphantly. “He doesn’t fucking want to come with you.”

Tommy is shaking so hard that Alfie can hear his teeth chatter and his face has gone a ghostly shade of white. His eyes dart upwards. Then he tears himself out of Alfie’s grasp, puts more distance between himself and his family. And the only reason Alfie lets him is because it feels like he’ll break if he holds on any tighter.

“But do you want to, Tommy?” Lizzie asks softly. Tommy’s fingers shape into claws as he drags them over his arms.

“I have to. The kids- I-“

“It’ll do you good, Tommy,” Arthur says. “Getting back to life as it used to be. Now when you’re out of bed it’ll get easier.

Ada shoots her brother a furious glare. Alfie is busy focusing on Tommy, who squeezes his eyes shut and visibly shrinks before his eyes. He takes a step towards him but the way he flinches halts him.

“That’s all you need,” Arthur goes on. “Be reminded of what it’s like to fucking live. We’ll have you back to normal in no time.”

“Stop,” Tommy whimpers and covers his ears.

“Arthur-” Ada says and squeezes his shoulder but Arthur shrugs it off, looking at his sister with a shine of insanity in his eyes.

“He’s been cooped up way too long with that mad bastard, forced to do God knows what. He needs us. He needs to be with his family, not with a mad Jew, locked up in the middle of nowhere, being used-”

“Stop,” Tommy repeats, desperation cracking his voice.

“Arthur, for fucks sake, shut up,” Lizzie snaps. But Arthur seems oblivious to Tommy’s reaction.

“This is where he’s safe. This is where he belongs!”

When Alfie realises what is about to happen, it’s already too late. Fingers clawing into his skull, Tommy hunches over. And screams. His knees buckle and Alfie is too far away to catch him before he collapses and curls into himself, arms over his head and forehead pressed to the floor. The rest of them stare, and Arthur is finally fucking quiet, gun hanging uselessly by his side. Alfie kneels beside Tommy. Tries to lift him from the ground but the wounded howl stops him. Instead he wraps an arm across his back and leans over him. Tommy lets out a terrible, gagging sound, his whole body convulsing. As if the distress threatens to eat it from the inside. Alfie rubs his back. Holds him close as best he can.

“It’s okay,” he says, trying to make himself heard over the screams. “It’s okay, love, you don’t have to stay here. No one can make you. Shh, it’s okay.” But Tommy can’t hear him where he is now and Alfie fucking knows that and still he can’t keep himself from babbling useless reassurances, desperate to soothe him. Around him there’s movement. Voices.

“Tommy-“

“No, I think you’ve done enough.”

“But I-“

“Arthur, stay away from him.”

But none of it matters.

The screams turn into sobs, loud and heart wrenching. And Alfie can’t help it, he lifts Tommy off the floor, at least enough to cradle his upper body in his lap, and ignores the way the movement makes him flinch. Then he holds him tightly.

Sometimes when he holds his little broken bird on a bad night, he imagines that he’s fitting all the broken pieces back together.

Now, it’s not about trying to fit any pieces back together anymore.

Now, he’s just trying to keep the precious few that are left from falling out of his grasp.

“Shh, it’s just me, Tommy, I’m here, you’re safe,” he tells him. “I’ve got you.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Lizzie’s voice comes from above.

“Give him some fucking space,” Alfie snaps, without bothering to look up. “Go on, fuck off. All of you.”

If they protest, he doesn’t hear it. And if they give hostile looks he doesn’t notice. Because Tommy is crying his heart out in his arms, sobs echoing terribly between the high ceilings and walls of this godforsaken house. He leans over him, enveloping him completely to shield him from it. From everything. Even if it might be too late.