#but it's supposed to be the house they live in after they retire and settle down.

[zylphiacrowley]

Old man yaoi

[hargreeves-duncan]

I saw your requests were open and because I'm very hurt/comfort I would like reader to be fives spouse and then the subway happens like the after of everyone learning about it at the house and having to bring up what happened with not only Diego but us as well who thought we [Five and spouse] were happy??? Immaculate. Also I hope you're doing well stay hydrated!

a/n: thank you so much for your request, i am super hydrated, thank you :)) i really loved writing this (even if it is a little angsty) and i hope you love it just as much

summary: you thought you were happy together - if only you knew how wrong you were.

warnings: mentions of canon compliant violence, cheating (obviously), lila x five😬

word count: 2.1k

pt. 2

Christmas Eve would always be a time of joy and merriment for many, and the same had been true for you for all of your life. Even when you’d spent a few decades working as a trained killer for The Commission, the holidays were always a normality and a comfort that you could fall back on, without fail. In between snapping necks and pulling triggers, you’d seen the snow covered hills of Lapland and the warm festivities of Munich’s Christmas Markets and now that you were retired, you could enjoy it all with your family.

The family that your husband, Five, had brought you into. Whilst there was some initial shock from the Hargreeves’ siblings as they found out that not only had their brother aged forty-five years without them on a post-apocalyptic Earth but that he had actually gotten engaged in that time, slowly but surely, they had let you in. They were chaotic, at the best of times, but you loved them all the same and you knew that you’d do anything to protect them now. They were your family, just as much as Five was.

You’d met Five at the commission, when he was worn down by a lengthy four decades of solidarity and you’d pieced him back together. You’d shown him that living wasn’t just a means to an end and that it could be good and loving. You’d joked at the time how silly it was, that the two of you had found love at an organisation designed to kill, for the most part, innocent people. He’d said he’d do it a thousand times over if it meant he’d get to you.

After spending the last few years trying and failing to stop the apocalypse, you weren’t quite those people anymore. Instead, you had grown and evolved but you’d never had the luxury of waiting around for the two of you to settle down and retire like you’d both hoped for. So, when you’d come to this timeline, Five powerless, you hadn’t looked back. You’d gotten married, whilst you knew you still could and you’d lived the last six years in bliss. Five had softened now that there wasn’t the weight of impending doom on his back and you both got to be enveloped in the love you’d worked so hard for without consequence.

Tonight, you had gone over to Diego and Lila’s place to spend the evening with your extended family. At some point in the evening, Five and Lila had reappeared from whatever they’d spent the day doing and since he’d got back, Five had been unsettled. His eyes kept flickering over to Diego and Lila, constantly. He looked seething. Your husband had never been one for public displays of affection and Diego’s increasingly wandering hands must’ve been beginning to anger him, you thought. Five frowned, how was he supposed to enjoy his evening with that sitting across from him? 

Noticing his restlessness, you slipped your hand over his comfortingly, feeling the cool metal of his wedding ring slide over your palm, “You okay?”

Five glanced back at you. He cleared his throat and nodded, smiling gently at you, “I’m alright, love.”

Occasionally, Lila would look over at him. She looked shy and timid under Diego’s touch, a look you’d never seen on her before. Lila’s love had always been performative and outlandish. Her affection was everywhere and to see her look so strained in his company was strange. It was entirely foreign to watch it play out and it didn’t match the Lila Hargreeves you’d come to know. Diego noticed too.

Even Luther noticed the tension in the room. He watched as Five rolled his shoulders for the hundredth evening, “What is with you tonight? You’ve barely said a word, Five, when does that ever happen?”

So, it wasn’t just you then? You thought to yourself. A ball of anxiety began to develop in your stomach. You searched Five’s face for the root of the problem. Five sighed and adjusted himself, “It’s called thinking, Luther. You should try it sometime.”

A flurry of shock and distaste shot up from everyone as he said that and you shrank slightly in your seat. Five bristled as you got closer. You frowned.

“I do think, I think you’re an asshole.” Luther clapped back, pouting as he leaned back against the couch. At this moment, you happened to agree. Five didn’t brush you away, physically, but he kept his eyes forward, anywhere but down at you. You felt dread in the pit of your stomach.

Five continued to avoid your gaze as Allison sighed, brushing her hair from her face, “Okay, can we not do this right now?” Her eyes drifted pointedly to Claire, Grace and the twins in the corner of the room, happily occupying themselves with toys and the tv which displayed a graceful ballerina one of the girls was currently trying to imitate.

“No, let’s. Let’s do this now.” Five said, smiling bitterly at her as he stood from the couch and dropped your hand.

You sighed, sitting forward, “Five-”

“Five, it’s gonna be okay.” Lila interrupted, smiling reassuringly from where she sat. Your head swivelled around to her, in time with Diego’s, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Before you had the chance to question Lila, Five smiled sarcastically at you all, moving his hand to cut her off, “No, it’s not gonna be okay.”

Diego shot from his seat, chuckling, “Hey, come on, man. Don’t talk to my wife like that. Not tonight. Not on Christmas.”

Five squares up to him, broadening his shoulders and raising his eyebrows at his brother, “You going to do something about it, fuckface?”

An uproar of protests from all of the others. Your eyes widen as things begin to escalate and you stand up, reaching for his arm, “Five!”

He glances back at you. Diego scoffs and steps closer, prodding Five’s chest, “Yeah, I’m gonna K-I-C-K your A-S-S, man.”

“Oh wow, somebody’s passed the first grade.” Five says sarcastically, still not backing down. 

“Five.” You say again, more forcefully as you step up to them. Lila gets up and steps between them, putting her hands on each of their chests and pushing them away from one another. Your eyes flare as you watch her fingers skim Five’s chest. They follow her hand up to her wrist and-

“What is that?” You ask, reaching for her wrist. A silver bracelet, woven like vines, dangles from her arm. You roll your sleeve back, looking at your own bracelet. The one that Five had given you on some anniversary or other, he’d had it made especially for you - strung together with gold, because silver was too trivial for someone like you, he’d said.

The bracelet felt trivial altogether as you looked at its pattern now, beside Lila’s - practically identical to your own. Cheaper, yes, but still like yours, “What’s what?” Lila asked innocently, taking her wrist back.

“That thing on your wrist.” Diego’s eyebrows furrow as he takes Lila’s wrist and he glances between your wrist and Lila’s, “You hate bracelets. You traded the one that I got you for Valentine’s last year to the pawn shop. What…”

“Where did you get it?” You demand, looking her in the eye with a determination that you haven’t felt in years. Lila stands there guiltily, leaning in Five’s direction and your heart sinks. Diego watches, the dots connecting in his mind.

“Did you give her that?” He asks, stepping closer to Five. Lila reaches out for him and he shrugs her off, “No, answer the question, Five. Did you give her that?”

“I made it.” Five answers, hands slipping into his pockets. He’s casual, as if it means nothing, and that only makes it hurt so much more because if this gift to Lila means nothing, then you must mean even less.

“You made it… for her?” You say, hurt and grief for the life you’ve had together seeping into your voice. And just when you think he can’t get any more cruel…

“Who does it look like I made it for?” He says, looking over at you, and your heart shrivels up painfully. A dull ache blooms in your chest and you can’t even form a response because he’s being so cutting and it’s something you’ve never had from him before.

Diego steps up, pressing a hand to your arm and giving it a gentle squeeze as he pushes you back. He takes a breath and looks between Lila and Five, biting his lip, “Is there something going on between you two?”

The two stare silently for a moment and Lila’s voice grows soft as she looks at her husband, “Diego-”

Diego holds his hands up and turns away, “Holy shit… Holy shit, I was right!” He says, pointing at them both, his voice a mix of anger and disappointment in the people he’d trusted.

“Book club, a- all this time, you- you were cheating on me with…” He can’t even get the words out properly as he looks at them, his stutter resurfacing as his emotions get the better of him. He looks over at you, your eyes widen further, if that’s even possible as you realise things for yourself.

“Oh my god… oh my god, I am a complete and utter fool.” You say, laughing in shock as you mentally take a step back from the last few months.

This is what you got for letting your guard down, you supposed, “I can’t believe you… why did I never… you were never doing research, were you? You were off with her.”

“Now, just wait-” Five starts, holding his hands up and trying to approach you at the same time that Lila says, “No, we weren’t cheating on you. At least, not when you thought we were…”

“What? What is that supposed to mean?” You ask, scoffing and folding your arms over your chest.

“It means that, for us, it’s been seven years. I blinked us to the subway and we got stuck down there.” Five said, stepping forward.

“Please, tell me you’re joking.” You say, shoulders dropping as your heart clenches, all of your defences falling.

“Love, I wish I was.” He says tenderly, stepping closer to you again. He takes a deep breath, “We were lost for seven years, Y/N.”

Seven years. He’d spent almost as much time with her as he had with you. Were you really that disposable? You’d thought that things were good between the two of you, great even, but the moment he’d been out of your sights, he’d done this…

Breaking down, you sit back on the couch, putting your head in your hands as you blink back tears. Five sighs, sitting beside you, “We went through a lot of timelines and I promise, I never stopped trying to get home, you know I never would, but… I got tired. Tired of failing over and over and I had to stop.”

“I wouldn’t have given up.” You say, drying your eyes as you look up at him again. Five smiles tiredly, shaking his head.

“You can’t know that.” He says, looking over at you. His eyes are soft, but it doesn’t stop the harsh sting of what he says. 

“I can, because I love you, it’s as simple as that.” You protest, looking at him brokenly, “You wouldn’t have stopped looking if you loved me the way that I love you.”

He rubs his thumb over his clenched knuckles, sighing, “Don’t say that. You know that I love you.”

“Of course. And her? What about Lila? Do you love her too?” You challenge, eyes flitting over every pore in his face, seeking an answer or an apology, anything that isn’t going to confirm what you so deeply fear; that he doesn’t love you anymore.

Lila perks up from where she’s standing beside Diego. Diego’s face drops and all either of you can do is watch as your partners lock eyes with one another instead of you. Five sighs, glancing back at you, “Y/N, now is really not the time for-”

“Do you love her?” You ask again.

He glances between the two of you and sighs again. It feels like that’s all he’s capable of doing right now, sighing. You want to scream or yell or cry because that isn’t fair, he doesn’t get to be frustrated or hurt when this is his fault and you shouldn’t be feeling bad for him when he looks so defeated but you just can’t help it because it’s Five, your Five, and you’ve never known anything else but wanting what’s best for him.

He parts his lips, about to speak, before Claire interrupts from where she’s sat on the floor, “Hey, grown-ups! Look at the TV! Isn’t that Uncle Ben?”

Five stands up to look with the other Hargreeves and you steady yourself. This is okay, you think, you can let things go on as normal. Just for a little longer.

[laura1633]

Here are all the lovely fics , I would be so grateful if you could give these fics a read and leave some nice comments for the authors who took the time to write them. 💕

It's been a great gun fight (You drew blood, I set myself on fire) by LeonSolo There will be one religion in Italy, Charles Leclerc. On his knees, he will pray to a God he was supposed to kill.

Red Light at Dawn by LuciThornz Five months ago Max was kidnapped by pirates. Miraculously he was found safe, and now his father has arranged for him to start courting the Governor’s son. But it’s not that simple, Max hasn’t told anyone the whole story of what happened at sea, getting captured was never part of the plan, neither was falling in love. Now Max has a plan to get back on the open ocean and find the pirate he fell in love with before it’s too late. The funny thing about plans is they never do go smoothly.

The Tortured Driver's Department by Shadow_reads Prompt Fill for Lestappen Birthday Challenge:  Charles said he'd love to have his own F1 team in the future, and Max already has Verstappen.com. Max is also experienced and is most suited to being a team principal. Their shared retirement arc is where they own a team together: Charles handles the press conferences and media, while Max focuses on the data and strategy.

Forever Love by stealmysunshine Charles isn’t going to wait around for Max to pop the question. Who says that there is a preordained question popper? There are two people in this relationship and Charles has every right to show Max just how precious he is and make him feel loved.

(k)not in public by bananasomg When Max accidentally invites friends to tag along on his and Charles' holiday to Greece (which Charles has coined their mating oasis trip), Charles isn't phased, and Max is easily convinced. Hallowed Ground by crimsonmidnight When an FIA racing law forces Omega Charles to take part in a mandatory mating hunt after getting the Sauber seat, Alpha Max vows to do everything it takes to claim him as his own.

The Wait Is Worth It by crimsonmidnight Max Verstappen's adventures in purchasing a fucking machine and using it when Charles gets an attitude.

Sutures by jadesaturn After years of grueling battles, academic rivals Max and Charles part ways upon graduating from medical school until they meet again as surgical interns at the same hospital. Their age-old feud continues, as expected. Grey’s Anatomy Enemies to Lovers but make it Formula 1.

A taste of the divine by (anonymous on ao3) female!Charles ends up losing her virginity to Max and he is going through it.

i'd wanna hold you (just for a while) by Kashoot Charles doesn't normally want to regress, choosing to ignore his needs in favor of keeping busy with all his other obligations. "I'm a racing driver, Max, not a baby!" Max knows better.

Preloved by LaurawritingF1 After getting caught up in another scandal, Charles, the crown prince of Monaco, is sent to an 'Omega Establishment' to find himself an omega in the hopes it will settle him down. Charles is not at all interested in picking out a pretty housewife for himself and is intending to return home empty handed until he meets Max, an omega housed up in the 'Preloved' section of the establishment and clutching hold of his pup tightly.

Everything Changes, Yet Nothing Does by Shadow_Reads The sun was setting over Monaco, casting a warm golden glow over the city. The gentle sound of waves lapping against the shore provided a serene backdrop, contrasting with the turbulent emotions swirling within Charles. Tonight was the night he would ask Max to spend the rest of their lives together.

how you get the boy(s) by amelielacy In which world-famous streamer Max falls in love with artsy single dad Charles.

Hunting Love by himmywimmy Charles becomes an unwilling participant in the pack’s annual mating run and to protect himself, he asks his alpha friend, Carlos, to catch him. But as the night of the mating run unfolds, another alpha seemed to be on the hunt for him.

5 moments of chaos and +1 moment of peace by LaurawritingF1 Charles and Max are retired and dealing with the chaos of looking after their children during the summer vacation. Jimmy, Sassy and Leo also make appearances. Them the breaks, they don’t come gently by imamessofawriter “They just announced that Charles is retiring.” Charles suddenly announces his retirement and then appears to disappear completely.

[awritesthings1]

Things That Go Bump in the Night

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Wife Reader

Summary: You ask your husband Tommy if he believes in ghosts. The answer might surprise you.

Warnings: dark, angst, spooky.

ao3 link

-

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

It was near the end of winter, and another autumn of earl grey teas and tireless raking of crunchy leaves was fast approaching Arrow House. Tommy’s peaky cap lived on the coat hanger by the front door, dusted in the faint smell of smog. Gone was the silver razor; the Shelby’s were much too respectable for that anymore. In came the monogram initials, all of which had been carefully handstitched onto cuffs and collars to match golden cufflinks, and out came the fine woolen overcoats.

The weather lay thickly that year over the English countryside, enough to invoke a ghostly mist around the trimmed hedges and shorn grass. A stillness crept in as sly as a cat when the fog came down, covering all life with a sheer dew. The garden retired into a dull combination of cool greens and toe-curling crystal air.

It was at this time of year that the monsters came out to play in their ominously shaped shadows and faint howls. Where there was a tick of movement, an airy silence and childhood fear followed. Tommy would have teased you endlessly for your paranoia if he hadn’t suffered through the same fate after the war. You supposed he had more of a right than you because his fears came from a very real place, and yours were out of superstition.

“Spirits,” Tommy clarified. “Yes, it’s in my blood.”

“But have you ever seen one?”

Tommy turns his head to look at you, squeezing you closer to his chest from where you both lay under the covers.

“Why’d you ask?” His accent was thicker in the morning.

If anyone knew anything about spirits, it would be your husband. He was more superstitious than you due to his gypsy blood. The things he told you about the community were nothing short of witchcraft—charming dogs, telling fortunes, and cursing wrong'uns. It puzzled you at first that your seemingly pragmatic, calculating husband believed nothing short of Madame Boswell’s words as nothing but gospel.

You stared out the window, attempting to conjure up the right words, but shivered instead when his fingers ghosted across your back.

“Well… I don’t know. I don’t think I would believe in something until I saw it for sure with my own two eyes.”

He hummed and smiled lazily. “Why do people believe in God, hm?”

You pressed your lips together and shrugged as best you could in his embrace.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Eh?”

“Have you ever seen a spirit?"

Tommy’s eyes glazed over in thought. It was the answer you dreaded.

“Yes.”

“Were you scared?”

He blinked out of the daze.

“No.”

Your hand moved to rest on the cusp of his cheek.

“What happened?”

He cleared his throat and laced his hand with yours there on his face.

“I was nine. Madame Lovell’s nephew drowned in a lake the day before, and then on the day of the funeral, it rained. I was running back from over the hill when I saw him. He stood there staring at me through the spray of rain.”

Your thumb swiped over the tops of Tommy’s cheekbones.

“You’re certain? Maybe the rain got in your eye, and what you saw was a shadow or maybe even an eyelash in your eye. That happens to me sometimes.”

“I know what I saw.”

You hummed in acknowledgement, then tried to picture the scene for yourself. You stood atop some grassy hill, peering down into the valley. Dark plumes of smoke rose from a small coffin stationed at the bottom of the hill, slivering up through the wildflowers and tree branches to where you stood. Then there, through the smoke and rainfall that blinded your eyes, was the boy who drowned.

“Was he scared?”

A pause, then: “no.”

That night, you settled by your vanity, combing out knots and patting lotion onto your skin. The haunted look of that boy Tommy said he saw lingered in the back of your mind, and every vague shape or shadow shifted in the corner of your eye. Paranoia—that's all it was. You didn’t want to be caught staring at a dark corner like some half-mad crook. Tommy would be crossing the threshold into your room any moment now. Maybe if his last-minute business hadn’t held him up in his office, he would be here with you now, and you wouldn’t be glancing over at that suspicious coat hanging up by the wardrobe. The lamps that were lit didn’t stretch far enough to illuminate the monsters from their hiding spots.

It was a trick of the brain, that’s all.

And surely enough, Tommy’s footsteps were heard down the hall. Your shoulders slumped in relief. The autumn season was only one for the dramatics.

Your hand cream pot clattered onto the vanity, swirling in circles until it came to a stop just as you heard Tommy outside the door. But when you stood to greet him with a kiss, the door to your bedroom remained closed, and the doorhandle remained still.

“You can come in!" You laughed, but a sort of coldness seized your heart with terror when you wondered why Tommy was just standing there on the other side.

“Tommy?” You inquired after a painfully thin stretch of silence.

Again, nothing.

You reached for your comb, holding the long, sharp piece you used to part your hair out like a knife. You weren’t naïve. Tommy had enemies, opportunistic ones, too.

And so you stood there, straining to hear any noise beyond your heartbeat that thundered in your ears. You tried slowing your breathing to hear better, but your eyes then began to water from the strain and your refusal to blink. Then it happened, as abruptly as you imagined. The door burst open. Tommy rushed in, slammed the door shut behind him, and stormed over to the closet without so much a look in your direction.

“Tommy?” You squawked, still seized in terror.

He grunted, shrugging on his overcoat and snatching his leather gloves from the tallboy.

“What’s going on?”

Finally, he paused. His eyes were bloodshot and far away. You feared he looked through you rather than at you. He came closer then, pulling you into his arms and laying a warm kiss on your temple.

“Everything’s ok, darling.”

“Where are you going?” Your voice broke. “Did something happen?”

“No…” He hushed. “No.”

“Then where are you going? It’s still dark outside!”

He sighed into your disheveled hair, then pulled away.

“I need to check on one of the horses. Get into bed; I’ll be back soon.”

You clutched his lapels in protest. “No!”

He said your name sternly: “I really need to go. Frances is in her room if you need anything.”

“Tommy, I heard something!” Then, you lowered your voice so only he could hear, “I think someone’s in the house.”

He pulled you in by the scruff of your neck. “No one’s here, love. It’s just us and Frances.”

His boots thud severely against the wooden floor to the door. “I’ll be back soon.”

Begrudgingly, you let him leave and confined yourself to the bed, pulling the covers over your face like a small child afraid of the dark. You left all the lights on, determined to let any intruders know that yes, you were home, and yes, you would see them coming. Tommy would be back soon, and if Tommy didn’t suspect anything amiss, he was probably right.

But the grandfather clock in the other room kept ticking, tick tick tick, and little fairies scampered about in the garden below. The moon’s solemn gaze glared judgingly through the windows, past the squinting shutters, and onto your skin. Ink from family portraits bled into one horrifying mess of shadows. You threw back the hungry covers, which seemed to be swallowing you whole, and knocked your shoulder into the jaw of the door (you had mistaken it for being further than it really was). A teacup flew off a shelf, but you dodged it with one ugly turn of your ankle.

Then you ran down the winding stairs, through the narrowing hallway, and out the chattering front doors of Arrow House. A lustrous mist had fallen over the land, thick enough that your arms whipped around senselessly, blinded by the clouded night, in your attempt to trek to the stables.

The stable gates were banging back and forth by the time you reached them. They whack your behind when you pass them, and you would’ve cried if it weren’t for the airy atmosphere peeling the moisture from your eyes.

“Tommy!”

A clack of hooves answered you.

Your feet burned despite the bitter cold, swelling with each step. Still in your nightgown, the elements worked together, clawing, scratching, and biting at your bare skin. The swell of a draft caught the tip of your nose, and you whipped around just in time to see a coat disappearing around the back of the stable where the paddock was.

Fear acted like a glaze of sweltering iron, hissing the rhythm out of your heart.

“I can see you!” You tried to warn as if you were the hunter and not the hunted.

Leather hands wrapped around your shoulders from behind.

“Are you insane, eh?” Tommy’s gruff voice scolded in your ear.

You turned around to crumple into his embrace.

“Tommy, something’s not right about this house.”

“Is that why you’re out here? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

It could have been a ghost, a careful soulless thing—a soundless haunting memory with no cause for action, warping around the edges of reality. It was then a great whipping lash of winter lakes and violent snowflakes cut into the lines of your knuckles and sliced beneath your skin.

Your lips moved sometime after that, or maybe it was before; you couldn’t remember. Nothing seemed to make sense. The man in the moon wound away your surroundings one by one, like a fisherman with his catch on a hook.

“What?”

“You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what, Tommy?”

Silence held a knife to your neck.

“Out in the paddock..." His dark, long eyelashes brushed earnestly along his high-cut cheekbones, and you feared the thought that had seemingly paralyzed your husband from saying any more. If it weren’t already dark, a shadow might’ve passed over his features.

A fountain of words prepared to gush out, but you slipped on a puddle that appeared around your feet. You stepped back with a gasp. It wasn’t raining.

“I’m sorry, my love. I should’ve listened to you.”

The puddle kept growing. Words turned into water.

“What the fuck is happening, Tommy?"

His thumb brushed the apple of your cheek.

“I’ll avenge you. I will.”

You cried.

“Shhh, don’t be afraid, darling." Tommy kissed your ice-cold forehead.

You choked. Water: water pooled out of your mouth and suffocated your lungs. You couldn't breathe.

���Go back to bed for me, eh?”

All over your nightgown—water, water, water.

The horse trough out in the paddock, the goldfish swimming past your cheek, straw in your teeth, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, no response, no one, the weight of a hand tangling in your hair, air, air, air, no air.

Drip, drip, drip.

Water in your eyes, ears, nose, mouth—

You never saw them coming.

“I promise, love. I’ll get the bastards that…”

He choked as if he were also choking on water, water, water.

“I never saw them coming, Tommy,” you hiccupped, but it was all water, water, water—

“I know.”

Gurgling.

“I just wanted to find you.”

“I know, I know.”

They pinned your arms back.

“The fucking water trough, Tommy!”

He swallowed painfully.

You couldn’t see him anymore. His face had washed away in your straw, goldfish, blood, water, water, water, tears. Blindly, you traced under his eyes and felt his salty, grief, widowed, water tears.

There’s so much tears and sorrow there in that stable that it begins pouring from outside and through the roof. Most days it was in the paddock, but tonight it was here.

Frances, the housekeeper, watched from her window. On these types of nights, when Arrow House became entrapped in a spell and rain drizzled over the countryside, Thomas Shelby would squelch across the overgrown grass to the paddock behind the stable before disappearing. Where he went, she didn’t know. The hazy sheet of mist left much to the imagination. What he saw out there? She didn’t know either. The poor bastard probably just missed his wife.

Frances briefly left her room to peer into Mr. Shelby’s. Letting out a sigh of relief, the room appeared untouched, still frozen in the state Mrs. Shelby left it when she went out to find her husband that tragic night. The sheets were still tossed aside, the teacup still shattered on the ground, her comb still waiting on the bedside table.

Satisfied with her findings, she turned to leave when—

What’s that?

A puddle.

There must be a leak somewhere.

Oh well, she’ll see to it in the morning.

With that, she quietly crept away to her room and fell back asleep, undisturbed by the chattering shutters or creaking floorboards. Not even the ghostly cries down the hall woke her.

After all, there was no such thing as ghosts, only things that went bump in the night.

-

Taglist: @maliceofwonderland , @fairytale07 , @goblinjnr , @ilovepeoplesdads , @multidimensionalslut , @blogforficslol

[ohworm-writes]

Just thinking about veteran and or retired neighbor Price right now *sighs dreamily while twirling my hair*

Like, okay - imagine having a house next door to Price situated in a small, cozy village up somewhere in Northern England, surrounded by nothing but green, grassy plains and dense forests with a stream that runs through the small village. I see him living somewhere cozy... quiet. Away from the loud, noisy environments that he'd been so used to, finding somewhere calm to settle down.

I see him having a pet. Maybe a lazy dog or a farm cat, something that'll follow him around and take a nap with him after a long day, either laid across his body or beside him. But, at the same time, maybe he'd like a pet that has a bit of energy - you can take a man out of the military, but you can't take the military out of a man. He still has so many traits and habits he's picked up from the military, and if you know anything about older, retired men, it's that they always need something to do and busy themselves with.

RANDOM THOUGHT but I feel like he wouldn't retire unless Laswell grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and forced him out of the military, likely for his own good. If it were up to him, he'd stay in the fight until he died, so I'd think that him getting close to it was what pushed for the decision to be made for him to retire - maybe he was injured to an extent that it wouldn't be smart for him to keep going or something of the like - I could totally see him with an amputation of sorts (like, twinning with Alex lol).

I think he'd like to keep to himself for as much as he could. I don't see him as one of those super friendly, "oh, let me help you with that" type of neighbors unless the situation is right, or, rather, unless he's called upon for help. Like, he's grumpy and stoic, but only until somebody comes to him asking "hey, sorry to bother, but can you help me with something" and he'd soften up - begrudgingly, it seems, but, really, he's happy to offer some assistance. It makes him feel useful.

God, imagine moving in next door to him and struggling to unload your car of all the boxes and things that are haphazardly packed inside of it, and him walking out of his house, seeing the way that you're struggling, and letting out a heavy sigh - just like "welp, suppose I know how I'm spendin' my mornin' now" and coming over to offer his assistance, a little awkward at first, but that quickly melts away as he settles into comfortable conversation with you.

*slamming fist against the table repetitively* BRINGING HIM FOOD OR TREATS AS A MEANS OF THANKING HIM FOR HIS HELP! A little reusable container held between your hands, to your chest, walking over to his place and knocking on the door, outstretching it towards him and being like "thank you - for your help... I wanted to show my appreciation, you know? so, I made you this" and giving the container to him.

AND WHO IS HE TO SAY NO??? (He tries, believe me, but that sweet, eager look on your face, wordlessly begging for him to take it... he can't deny you). AND HIM RETURNING TO YOUR PLACE A FEW DAYS LATER WITH THE CONTAINER IN HAND, BEING ALL GREATFUL AND STUFF. God, someone let him be real, pleaseee.

Becoming comfortable neighbors with him, spending rainy afternoons over at his house, or, in contrast, him at yours, sat on the front porch with a cup of tea or coffee or hot chocolate in hand, gossiping about some of the neighbors that live within the houses along the street, the both of you sharing your own life stories here and there, him divulging about his time in the military without shame.

Okay, I know a lot of people like to think that he wouldn't ever share or talk about it, but I can't see that. It's not like he's ashamed of his time - he's proud of the work he did, if anything, and it's all behind him now, so why should he be shy to share about the things he did? Of course, I don't think he'd go into gruesome detail about it or share about everything he's seen, but he'd totally be like "yeah, I've been all over the world - did a few OPs in X, Y and Z countries, took down terrorists, et cetera" and answer any questions with pride.

Him totally being The Man™ who you can go to if you need help with anything. Need help with a leaky sink? Give him a few minutes and he'll be over with a toolbox. Want to do an oil change on your car but have no clue where to start? Don't worry, he's got an oil pan, jack and a few rags around somewhere, he's sure - he'll be over in a few. Want some simple, good ol' company? He's outside the door already.

He'd be more than happy to give you a tour of the village if you ask, pointing out which neighbors to trust and which to be wary of, telling you about his favorite pub that's posed all the way on the far side of the town, but he promises you that the food, drinks and atmosphere are like nothing else. Walking with you down the stone pathways, footsteps clacking against them, taking in the sights with you and answering every question you may have, or, simply settling into a comfortable silence with you. At peace. Comfortable.

I'm so *laying on my bed on my stomach and kicking my feet slowly in the air behind me* I need him.

[starryevermore]

the house of snow (24) ✧ coriolanus snow

the house of snow ✧ a royal coryo au | pinterest board| ao3

pairing: king!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

series summary: the king of panem is in search of a bride. and, for reasons you can never understand, coriolanus snow has set his sights on you. it would never be a happy marriage, you’re sure of that. but none of that matters, because when snow decides he wants something, he will do everything in his power to ensure it is his. 

chapter summary: coriolanus becomes obsessive.

word count: 1,033

series warnings?: 18+ MINORS DNI, royal au, regency au, arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, obsessive!coryo, jealous!coryo, protective!coryo, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, more tags to be added later

chapter warnings?: a little angsty, pet name (petal), not proofread

There was seldom a day that Coriolanus didn’t go to consult your physician. He was supposed he was lucky that the physician was being quite handsomely, and the fact that he was King, because any ordinary man would have been turned away long ago with the frequency of Coriolanus’s visits. He couldn’t help himself. HIs stomach had been twisted into knots since your condition became known, and it had only grown worse since you had asked to give birth to the babe at the Snow family cottage. Coriolanus required near-constant reassurances that you, and the babe, would be well. 

You must have thought that Coriolanus was married to the physician himself with how often he frequented the physician’s chambers.

Coriolanus regretted how little time he was able to spend with you as a result. That never stopped him, however, from his obsessive tendency. He refused to let anything happen to you. Coriolanus would not be able to live with himself if he could have done something to prevent the loss of you and failed. If the visits were the only thing he could do, if the only aid he could provide was consulting the best physician in all of Panem, he would do it every hour if he could. 

Still yet, his heart ached at the distance between you and him. You did not come to the office much anymore. The morning sickness had wrecked you for many weeks and, by the time it finally subsided, you were so tired that you would rather sit curled up by your favorite window in the library than begin to think about the political obligations the Crown placed upon you. The most Coriolanus saw of you was during meal times and when you both would retire to your shared chambers. 

It was not enough. 

He wished he could burrow himself under your skin. He wished he could take the burden of pregnancy from you and give it to someone else. He wished he could stop himself from spiraling at the mere thought of not having you by his side. Did you know how mad you drove him? Did you have even the faintest idea what he was willing to do for you? You knew his love, but did you know how deep the well went? Coriolanus had not known love before you, and he would not know it after you. 

“You will be well,” he whispered.

You slept against his chest, arms wrapped around him. There would not be many more nights like this in the coming months as your bump grew with your babe. So he took the time to cherish it now, memorizing the feeling of your weight on top of him. How your soft snores blew air against his chest. The rise and fall of your body at each breath you took. Oh, he took special care to memorize that. You may have promised to let him be the one to go first, but you and he both knew there was no way to guarantee that. And if he did lose you in a few months time, he wanted to remember what it was like when you still breathed.

“I will not allow harm to fall your way.” Coriolanus carded his fingers through your hair, scratched his nails against your scalp. A satisfied noise escaped your lips. “I would take all your pain if you would let me.”

The weight of the bed shifted slightly as Coriolanus the Cat jumped onto the bed. He moved up the mattress and settled on the pillow closest to you. Coriolanus looked at the furry beast, who only offered a quiet mew before focusing its entire attention on you. At least the cat understood. 

“Our son would, too,” Coriolanus continued. “We love you so much. Remember that if Lady Death comes to take you away. Remember what you would leave behind.”

Coriolanus the Cat mew’d in agreement. 

“I love you, petal.”

As Coriolanus fell asleep, he dreamed of a day where the babe was born, safely bundled up in your arms. You were the picture of perfect health, as was the babe. He dreamt of a sweet girl, who had your beauty and your wits. He would spoil her as much as he did you. His princess and his Queen, perfectly safe in his arms. 

By the time morning came, he was filled with renewed vigor to ensure such dreams would become reality. The sun had only just began to rise, and you were still fast asleep, but neither stopped him from slipping out of bed. Coriolanus dressed himself as quickly and as quietly as he could manage without waking you. Before he left, he pressed a kiss to your forehead. If he would not be there when you woke, at least you would still feel his love. 

The physician was already awake when Coriolanus knocked on his door. The man barely regarded him as he opened the door. 

“I have come to update you on my wife’s condition,” Coriolanus said.

The physician eyed him warily. “Your Majesty, I have told you, I do not require these daily updates, nor do I require multiple ones a day. You may rest assured that my scheduled appointments with Her Majesty will suffice.”

Coriolanus straightened, his eyes narrowing at the man. “Is it a crime to wish my wife have a safe pregnancy?”

“Of course not, Your Majesty.”

“Good. Then we shall continue as we have been.”

A sigh loosed from the physician’s lips. 

“What?” Coriolanus demanded. Ire rose up in his chest, strangling his heart. Did the physician know something he didn’t? Was the physician aware that this was all a lost cause? Was he only humoring a man sick with love?

“I am a physician, Your Majesty, not a miracle worker. I have learned and I have trained to do my work. But if death comes to take my patient, there is only so much I can do. No matter how many updates you wish to give me, no matter how carefully I monitor Her Majesty’s condition, if it is her time to go, I cannot always prevent it.”

Coriolanus grabbed the doorknob and slammed the door shut.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Steve Rogers: In Queerness, Time, & Loneliness

I think about being queer and how that intersects with my perception and experience of time a lot. I think about how we, as queer people, live the same length of time when untouched by cruel violence of ignorance (re: hate crimes) or brutal disease compounded into something worse at the fault of human stigma (re: the AIDs crisis), but how it can feel different even though it is the same objectively. With the same length of time, queer people don't typically--in my experience--follow the assumed cishet trajectory of Western life with these particular scripted milestones. Get an education. Get a steady job. Fall in love. Settle down. Be married. Buy a house. Have children. Grow old. Retire. And die surrounded by your spouse, children, and grandchildren. It isn't always that exact order but, usually, those milestones are hit in one order or another, rather, they're expected to be hit.

How isolating must it be then for Steve Rogers? The isolation of pure time in so many ways. Steve who thought that maybe he wanted a spouse and family, and that typical cishet life, only to meet tragedy head-on without time to grieve unconsolidated dreams.

He blinks and finds all of his friends have done those things. They're on the way to completing the list--those friends he was supposed to age alongside and have peaks and valleys with are dying now. They have complete families. There are generations with children and grandchildren.

And I think it strikes Steve as a feeling of incompleteness in himself, even if he's not sure if that's what he wants in this new era. A strange longing for something he can't(?) have, something he doesn't even want(?).

Steve just doesn't have the same sense of time anymore, post-ice. It's as if his internal clock has been altered and warped by the serum right alongside his very bone and flesh. He is in purgatory. The markers of his life, the one he was assumed to want, to have unfulfilled and waiting for him after the war, haven't come. He's missing so many milestones that should've come and gone already. Are they gone? Are they still ahead of him? How old is he really? Does he deserve the typical life, if he finds the want for one in himself, buried underneath this crushing loneliness that presses on his lungs and makes it hard to breathe air? Air that's the same. His lungs are the same. He is no different, but it seems that everyone else has changed and the rhythm of their breathing leaves Steve out of sync.

If Steve ignores the typical life, deeming it already too far gone, what can he shape his own life into? What is the life of someone who isn't heterosexual in the time he's been woken to? A life of secret would've awaited him in the 40s if he hadn't been chasing a pre-prescribed life with a family and children and social acceptance. Now, he needn't hide. What does being unhidden look like when he has no connections, though? He feels invisible in plain sight.

His life feels unscripted and he needn't know what comes next. And in an attempt to catch up and cure some of his deep loneliness so he's on the same page as all the people around him, Steve consumes pop culture, right?

I assume that includes some updates in social acceptance with regards to the LGBTQIA+ community. And when he finds those stories, he must encounter the trope, again and again, of queer people claiming that their life only began when they came out. Steve doesn't know what that means to himself. Is that why time feels the way it does? Not existent and yet so utterly constricting? How has he lived such a life that people tell him about all the great, incredible things he's done, but his life--his real life--has yet to begin? Where is he in his life? Is he supposed to be making mistakes and finding out about what it means to actually stand on his own two feet as an emerging adult in his mid-twenties? Is he supposed to be sucking oxygen through a tube from a tank with rattling breaths as he dies, aging out of life? Where is he? What time is it? Is he alive? Is he dead? Who can he talk to? Who would understand? Would anyone understand?

When won't he be so lonely and unmapped? Straddling two worlds. Time: between the 1940s to the 2010s. Identity: his sexuality as well as his life goals. Both time and identity seem equally tearing and isolating.

Who does he become, a man out of time?

gif credit @/theavengers

[siriusleee]

a better year

a/n: i linked this one to ao3 a week or so ago, but i figured i'd do it now i'm procrastinating the next chapter to adamantine chains lmao this is my take on the bookstore au tags: mentions of sex but nothing explicit, cursing, signs of ptsd, , original female character, retirement from the military, bookstore au 6.7k words summary: He takes her shoes off of her while she insists she can do that herself. He slips the right one off when the fireworks go off outside; the entire town is bathed in their light. "Midnight," she says as Simon rises up on one knee in front of her, ready to tell her goodbye and good night. She kisses him over the mask. She doesn't mention it the next day.

The official order rolled in on plain white paper, an unceremonious carrier of his future. He was the first to go: a sign that the team was being unraveled slowly. After all, they're not young men anymore. 

"You'll receive your pension; it's enough that you shouldn't have to work again. And we've made sure that you have an official background. It's not much, but it's what we can do."

Laswell doesn't move her eyes from his, her fingers clutching a pen so hard her knuckles are white. 

"It's for the best Simon," she says, setting the pen down carefully on her desk, "and if it makes you feel better: everyone will be released soon. I'm sorry."

He's not dumb; he knows these things only last so long. Forced retirement is something to be celebrated - celebrated that he lived long enough to have one, celebrated that his body isn't rotting in some foreign country, a home for worms. Celebrated that the 141 made it out mostly intact. Mostly together. 

Johnny claps him on the back and promises that when Laswell brings him that paper when Johnny gets his own forced retirement, he'll come to find Simon. 

Simon doesn't stay in England - he doesn't like the way the gray settles around him. He leaves the apartment Laswell set up for him untouched, a note for Johnny for where to find him. 

He finds a small house to rent somewhere in the American Southwest, spitting distance of Alejandro's territory. It crosses his mind more than once to make the trip across the border, to see how Alejandro's doing; to see if Rudy is still scared of fantasmas . 

But he isn't a fantasma anymore; he's just Simon Riley.

And it's just Simon Riley who paces the aisles of her bookstore, trying to find something to take his mind off of the fact that he is utterly and completely bored. 

"This is the third time you've been here this month. I'm not putting you into debt am I?"

Her accent is different from everyone else's in town - still decidedly American, just not from here American. Simon ignores her, his eyes focused on the row of books in front of him. She sighs heavily, but drops it, leaving him behind to stock the end cap. Last week's murder mysteries replaced by this week's contemporary romances. 

"I need to lock up you know - I can't stay here all night." She speaks as if it's not odd that Simon only comes in on Thursday nights - the only night of the week she stays open late to rearrange the end cap displays, to vacuum the floors to perfection. 

"You haven't even cleaned the windows yet," Simon replies, pulling a fantasy book from the shelf: something about a world full of malicious fairies and a secret world beneath New York. It's something new. 

"For your information, I did that before you got here," she says, pushing herself up from the floor with a groan. "And I have a life. I can't sit here all night and wait for you to pick a random book off the shelf."

"I never said you didn't."

Simon places the book as she dips behind the counter, a lukewarm cup of coffee left beside the cash register. She drinks from it, wincing at the taste as she rings the book up.

"That'll be seventeen forty-five."

Simon gives her a twenty and she breaks the change, counting out how many pennies he's supposed to have on her fingers. 

"You going to be back next week?"

"Why?"

"I want to close early next Thursday; I need to know if my best customer is going to be here or not."

Simon doesn't speak as he takes the plastic bag from her hands. She waits for him, eyes never leaving his as she sips her coffee, waiting on him to answer. 

"I can come by Friday instead."

"I'm closed Fridays."

"What about Wednesday?"

"I can stay late Wednesday."

He leaves her with just a crinkle of the plastic bag and the chime above the door.

***

He spends too much time at the gym ignoring Johnny's text messages. Johnny tells him Price was next - swearing that he was going to retire to the countryside where he can smoke his cigars in peace. Maybe find himself a nice girl to cook him dinner every now and then.

His fingers hover over the buttons, almost messaging Price to tell him congratulations. But Simon's not sure it really is. 

He's alone at night; no one's in the gym at two in the morning. No one's there to watch the way he slams the weights down when he's done or hear the way he gasps for breath after lifting too heavy - the tear in his chest that never quite healed right burning him from the inside. 

The walk home is quick; the stars shine brighter than anything he'd ever seen in England. The closest he ever got to seeing them like this was in the Middle East, but he hardly noticed the stars then. He wasn't expecting to be left looking up.

He sits in the shower at home. He can't stand the way the water hits his skin, but can't stand the idea of sitting in the water either. So he stays huddled in the corner of the bathtub, the water barely touching him. 

Simon Riley thinks about death. 

He thinks about what would happen if he died right now. 

He thinks about what it's like to die twice. 

***

The door is locked when he comes by Wednesday; he feels foolish standing there with his hand still pulling on the door, knowing it won't open beneath his touch. Foolish to think that she would-

Foolish when his heart ticks a beat as she comes around the corner. Foolish when he steps inside just a second after she unlocks the door.

"Sorry, my last employee must have locked the door on their way out. So did you like last week's book?"

"It was alright."

The silence is almost awkward as she locks the door behind him.

"Let me know when you're ready. I just made coffee in that pot behind the counter; you can have some if you want. I shouldn't drink it all myself."

She leaves him behind to disappear into the store room. He paces the aisles aimlessly, waiting for something to jump out at him. It's quiet tonight; the music that's usually playing softly over the speakers is absent. Simon can hear her through the storeroom wall moving boxes around, the sound of a box cutter piercing the quiet every so often. 

She reappears, a box in her arms that she drops heavily onto the counter. Simon watches her over the bookshelf of non-fiction works as she pulls each book out, scans it into the computer, and stacks them on the counter 

When the box is empty, she breaks it down and leaves it on the counter. She looks up, almost catching Simon staring at her. He ducks away, taking a book on the Korean War with him. At the counter, she can barely see him over the stack of books in front of her. 

"Last week was fantasy and this week is the Korean War? You certainly have varied tastes."

Simon hands over the fifteen twenty-two he owes her, her hands linger in the distance between them. 

"Do you have a job?"

"What?"

Simon's taken aback at her candor. I used to have a job he thinks, as he pockets his change. 

"No, I don't."

"Do you want one? I need a weekend worker. It's just me on Saturdays and Sundays now my other guy quit to go to college. I can't pay you a ton, but I kind of get the feeling you don't need it."

He falters for a moment; that's all it takes. If he's being honest with himself, he misses taking orders, missing feeling useful to someone.

"I can do that." 

"Can you start this Saturday?"

"I can do that."

She's locked the door behind him before he realizes they don't even know each other's names. 

***

Her name's Billy.

"What's your name; I probably should have asked that before I hired you."

Simon doesn't answer, placing the box down slowly before he answers. It's odd, telling someone his name. His real name. 

"It's Simon. Simon Riley."

She looks him over, elbows resting on the counter. 

"What?"' He asks, uncomfortable under her x-ray analysis of him.

"Just didn't peg you for a Simon. You know with your general countenance; the mask and all that."

She doesn't ask why he has the mask on. Simon gets the feeling that she never will. 

She works him like a dog; he's moving some of the shelves around when he thinks that this is probably the reason her last employee quit. It's like being ordered around by Price again, but this time his enemy is the dust. He doesn't stop moving until well after noon; sweat gathering in the small of his back. In her office, Billy is on the phone, yelling indistinctly at the person on the other line.

He doesn't have to watch her to know she's angry when she slams the phone down. He expects her to storm out of her office, to slam the door shut behind her. But she doesn't. When she comes out she's calm.

On Sunday she shows him how the books are organized, and she has him switch around the genres.

"Romance sells best during the spring, and mystery best in the fall and winter. So we need to pull the mystery books up to this front aisle and move the romance towards the back. These shelves roll so they're easier to move."

She's meticulous; Simon moves the same shelf four times before it's lined up exactly where she wants it. His constellation prize: cash wages handed to him at the end of the day.

"No paycheck?"

Her nails tap against the counter, the white paint chipped.

"I haven't processed your paperwork yet. I can take the money back if you want."

Simon pockets it.

They lock up together. It's warm outside, but she still tugs a hoodie over herself whenever she finishes, tucking her keys into the pocket.

It's a complete coincidence that they set off in the same direction. 

Simon wants a cigarette; his fingers itch for the pack in his pocket. But she'd said earlier in the day that the smell was disgusting and she couldn't breathe whenever someone with cigarette smoke on them passed her by.

They split up two blocks away from the bookstore. She motions up to the upstairs apartment of a shitty duplex. It's not the kind of place he expected her to be in.

"This is me. I'll see you next Saturday right?"

"I'll be there."

"Good night Simon."

She doesn't wait for him to say anything; not that he would have known what to say. She's up the stairs and inside (she didn't unlock the door; he has to restrain himself from going upstairs to tell her to lock it next time) before he can think of anything to say.

He smokes a cigarette at the bottom of her stairs; watches the outline of her against the curtains in her window. A fat black cat peers down at him, peers down at the cherry of Simon's cigarette in the darkness. The street lamp is burnt out, the shadows dark. He stubs the cigarette out on the sole of his boot and throws the cigarette butt out in the street. 

He's almost certain she'd chide him for that - the same way she did a kid who had the audacity to throw a cigarette down in front of her shop. 

His apartment is extra cold when he gets home.

***

"Maybe Price has it right: a life in the countryside. A pretty girl to cook you a few meals. Maybe a dog to curl up at your feet," Johnny drones on the other end of the line. Simon doesn't answer, his focus on cutting the potatoes in front of him into meticulous cubes. Johnny doesn't need him to speak. 

"What about you L.T.? What have you been up to?"

"I'm not a lieutenant anymore Johnny."

"You'll always be L.T. to me. And don't ignore the question."

Simon drops the potatoes into a pot, waiting on the answer to unstick from the back of his throat.

"Not much. I go to the gym a lot."

He doesn't tell Johnny how he has to break his gun down and put it back together three times each night before he can sleep.

"That it?"

"I'm working at a bookstore."

"A bookstore! A few months out and you're domesticated."

"Watch it, Johnny."

A pause.

"I have to go L.T.. Gaz is yelling at me."

Their goodbye is the silence that follows. 

***

Billy's arguing with a customer when he arrives Saturday morning.

"Listen, dude, I don't care what price you want to pay. This is my business and I set the prices. If you don't like it, you're not being forced to come here."

The customer drops it when Simon steps behind the counter. 

"I hate that guy," Billy tells him as she hands him a box cutter. "He comes in every week and tries to get me to lower my prices. It's a bookstore; I'm not getting rich off of this. I can't afford that. Anyway-" 

She sweeps her hair behind her shoulders. Simon catches a hint of a tattoo behind her right ear and a glint of cold chain disappearing beneath her shirt.

"Finals are coming up for the local community college so I had two different study groups book the tables in here today. They're usually pretty good, we just have to make sure to keep the coffee pot refilled for them because they'll drink it dry. It's $5 if they want coffee - per person don't let them try to swindle us - but they can refill it as much as they want."

Her fingers tap against the counter. Her nails are blue this week.

"If they ask about selling us their textbooks, tell them to come back next week. I have a shipment of children's books coming in - you can sign for it if I'm busy. Do I need to show you how to use the cash register or can you figure it out?"

"I can figure it out."

"Ok. The code is 4532. For now, do you mind breaking down the boxes in the back room and taking them to the dumpster? It's hard for me to reach to open up the dumpster lid."

She doesn't wait for him to answer before she disappears into the back room.

This Saturday is busy. 

Simon's about to snap at a kid who won't shut up about how the comic section is too small when Billy appears beside him. 

"I'll take over here Simon. There's lunch in the back room."

He's thankful for her in that moment.

He's more thankful when the storeroom shuts behind him and locks. The table has a small bag with his name written on it. A sandwich from the deli across the street and a bottle of water inside.

There are no tomatoes on the sandwich.

Just like he always orders it.

***

He smokes a cigarette again outside her apartment. But this time he tucks the butt back into the pack. He'll throw it away at home.

***

"I want to put a coffee shop in here," Billy tells him when the store is slow. She traces the right side of the store with her fingers.

"And I want to open the shop up earlier and stay open later."

"Why don't you?" Simon asks without looking up from his task of the day: putting 'half-priced' stickers on books that aren't selling well.

"I'm not making enough money. I have just enough to pay you and my weekday employee and the overhead cost of this place, plus pay myself. There's not any extra coming in. The bank-," she pauses, red nails scraping at a piece of tape on the counter, "the bank is willing to give me a loan on the coffee shop stuff - the machines and all that - but I don't have the money for the renovations. My contractor told me he'd have to build the cabinets, open up the drywall and put an extension on our water pipe. A water filter needs to be installed. It's just - it's just a lot."

She slides the stack of books he's already put stickers on off of the counter and into her arms.

"Maybe next year."

***

The next time Johnny calls, Simon can hear the strain in his voice. 

"It's my turn L.T.. Laswell said I failed the psychological and I can't stay."

"You going to keep good on your promise to come to be my annoying neighbor Johnny."

"Not yet. I want to go home to my mom for a little bit. Maybe next year L.T.."

"Next year's going to be a big year I guess," Simon says more to himself. 

"What's that L.T.?"

"Nothing Johnny. We should be happy we made it out."

Simon knows Johnny's not happy: not happy he never received the rank he wanted, not happy he has to go back home and take care of his mom again.

"You're right L.T.. I'll call you again when I'm home. How's the bookstore thing?"

"It's going alright. Bye, Johnny."

"Bye."

In the silence after the call, Simon thinks he should get a cat. Something to make the apartment less quiet; something to give him purpose when he's there.

Something that won't crawl all over him at the end of the day.

***

He needs something to do with his hands.

That's what he tells Billy when she arrives at the store on Saturday morning and Simon's ripping up a portion of the carpet, a stack of flooring waiting to be installed.

"So you have to do it when I'll have customers here?"

"Tell them it's a new addition; they'll be alright."

"I'm not paying you extra for this."

"I didn't ask you to."

Billy looks at him, one foot tapping a sharp staccato muffled by the carpet. 

"Fine."

She pauses for a moment, Simon's knife running down the carpet to separate it from the floor beneath. She picks up one of the pieces of flooring, turning it over in her hand.

"What is this?"

"It's vinyl. It's waterproof in case you spill something."

Billy drops the plank back onto the stack and leaves to unlock the front door.

Simon revels in the way his shoulders burn at the work, the way the rough concrete scratches his knuckles once everything is pulled off the floor and he has to start laying down the underflooring. He revels in the way his back cramps as he's bent over.

In the way he feels useful.

It takes him all day to get half the flooring down.

Billy doesn't speak to him about it, doesn't ask where he got the money from, or why he's suddenly doing free renovations on the place. 

Simon knows she appreciates it by the way she drops down his lunch - no tomatoes, just a water to drink- beside him without expecting a thank you. By the way, she chides the little kids who come over to ask him a million and one questions, he doesn't know how to answer and brushes them away from him. 

She catches him smoking in the back alley on his break. She's polite enough to turn back when she realizes he has his mask down and keeps her back turned to him.

"That shit's going to kill you."

"It can only hope." 

Simon can tell she's giving him a withering look at him from her position half inside the doorway.

"If you come in smelling like that cancerous poison I'm not going to talk to you for the rest of the day."

He must smell because she doesn't speak to him for the rest of the day, not even saying goodbye when they depart at her apartment.

Simon hides the cigarettes in a drawer when he gets home.

***

It's Price that reaches out to him first, a quick phone call, a holdover from their days in the field.

"Are you holding up?"

Not "how are you holding up?", but "are you holding up?" The difference between three letters is so vast Simon doesn't know how to cross it.

"I'm doing fine."

"Johnny told me you've got a job?"

"Just something to keep me occupied."

"Is that all you've got?"

"What more do I need?"

The receiver is filled with the sound of Price inhaling a cigar; Simon can almost smell him through the receiver.

"You're not Ghost anymore Simon. It takes more than that to survive this."

Survive this . As if this is the most dangerous mission Simon's ever been on as if being forcibly retired has some sort of great mortality rate. 

"Understood."

He listens to Price's dial tone for five minutes before he hangs up.

Maybe it does.

***

He paces the town at night. Once the gym doesn't become enough to wear him out, doesn't help his brain relax, he walks the streets. 

He thinks more than once that someone is going to call the cops on him and report him for being suspicious. 

But Simon Riley isn't Ghost anymore. Simon Riley is someone not worth noticing. 

It's almost surprising how well the little town sleeps with the remnants of Ghost stalking through it; how now one seems to have any idea of what he was once - and still is - capable of.

He steals a lot of time sitting on people's steps, on the stoops of little houses, picking the petals off of the flowers in big pots, and lining up the shoes and toys that were left disarrayed in the chaos of the daytime. He wonders if someone is going to catch him on their security camera and name him the town freak, but no one does.

He keeps up at it enough that he can feel the shift in the air, feel winter creeping in. He notices it in the way more and more boots are left outside, by the plants with plastic coverings over them, protecting them.

He finds himself, more often than not, taking the long way around to stop at the bottom stairs of Billy's apartment. Most nights the lights are off, and the window open. He wants to tell her to stop doing that, to lock the window, but he doesn't know how to say it without giving away his nights. So instead he keeps watch, hands buried in his pockets as he counts the moths in the streetlights. 

Sometimes though the lights are on and he can hear the sound of her house through the open window. Sometimes the cat peers down at him as if prepared to leap through the window screen at him - sometimes she grabs the cat, never looking down at Simon; more often than not the cat curls up in the windowsill without budging. 

A few times he could hear her talking to someone, the conversation muffled from above. He wondered about who she could be talking to so late at night. Why she was up in the middle of the night to talk to someone? 

He makes his way home as the town starts to wake up.

***

He moves once - to a tiny house in the middle of town, just enough to have a yard big enough to cross in two strides.

He tells Johnny it's because he was tired of the noises of the neighbors. 

He tells Johnny it's because he's taken up woodworking and needs a spot for the tools.

"What are you building you old bastard?"

"Some cabinets."

"For what?"

"Mind your own business, Johnny."

It takes weeks to get them perfect. Eventually, though, they're good enough to put in the back of a rented truck. 

He does it on a Friday when no one is around. He tells himself that it's easier that way, no one walking underfoot. 

That night he lets himself admit - just for a moment as he sits on the shower floor - that he didn't want to see her face if she's disappointed by it.

***

She refuses to open the door for him the next day, opting to yell at him through the glass instead.

"You cannot keep making renovations to my store without asking me!"

"It's no big deal; open the door."

"No big deal: you put a floor down, you handbuild cabinets, and you broke into my store to install them!"

"You gave me a key."

"Not for that!"

It's a stalemate: Simon poised with his hand on the door handle, her hands tucked into the pocket of her jacket.

"I still have to do the plumbing."

She massages her eyes before leaning forward to turn the lock. Simon steps inside with the biting wind.

"You're fucking irritating, Simon Riley."

I know .

She makes him put up the Christmas tree - a fucking monstrosity that takes up the entire front window. It takes him all day to get the decorations to her standard; her yelling through the store at him to move something incrementally to the left or right.

Billy leans on the counter, shuffling through official-looking papers and refusing to look at Simon when he's finished.

"Thanks to you," she says, never looking up at him, "I have to start getting the paperwork processed to be able to serve food and drinks here."

"Is it difficult?"

"It's not easy."

Their conversation pauses just long enough for her to check out a customer. She turns back to Simon as soon as the door shuts.

"Why are you doing all this Simon?"

He doesn't answer, and he realizes as he stands there, hands folded behind his back and spine rigid that he needs to tell her something, but all he notices is the black ink mark on her cheek. She doesn't pressure him to answer, but she doesn't let her eyes leave him.

Simon breaks first, eyes cast down to the floor.

"Ok," Billy whispers under her breath, "you don't have to answer, but just let me know when you're going to do something else. Can you text me next time before you start?"

"I don't have your number."

She doesn't ask for his phone, instead, she tears a corner of a piece of paper off and scribbles her number on it. Her hands don't shake when she holds the paper out to Simon, but his shake when he takes it. Simon can tell Billy notices. He stuffs the paper into his pocket, pushing it past his keys and his phone. 

"Hey, Simon," Billy chews on her lip.

"What?"

"Are you busy tomorrow night?"

***

Johnny's chatting his ear off, Simon's barely paying attention to him as he stares at the shirts thrown out on his bed.

"- L.T.? Simon?"

"What? Johnny, what?"

"Are you even listening?"

"No, Johnny. I'm not."

The static of Johnny's disapproval.

"What could be distracting you from my wonderful conversation?"

"I'm busy Johnny."

"With what?"

"Nothing Johnny. I just have somewhere to be later - I'm trying to get ready for dinner."

"Dinner? Like with someone else?"

Simon hangs up on him.

***

Simon wants to pretend that he doesn't have the path to her house memorized; doesn't have each step calculated to know when exactly to stand on the bottom step at 6:59 so that he can knock on her door right at 7. But he does, so he hovers on the bottom step for an extra minute.

She doesn't answer when he knocks; she yells through the door for him to come in. In his pocket his phone buzzes every few seconds, Johnny sends another message insisting that Simon tell him who he's eating dinner with. Simon thinks for a moment about blocking his number for the night.

Billy smiles at him from behind the counter, elbow-deep in bread dough. All at once, Simon feels overdressed taking in the large shirt covered in flour Billy's wearing. 

"Hey. Sorry, dinner's going to be like 30 minutes later than I said. I couldn't get this shit to rise properly for like an hour."

"It's alright."

Billy must sense his apprehension because she jerks her head at a chair pulled up to the counter. 

"Come sit down."

Simon appreciates the order. Billy rolls the dough out on the counter, measuring the thickness with her knuckle with a precision Simon would expect out of her. He has to keep himself from staring at her; instead, he analyzes the rest of the apartment. 

He can see everything but the bedroom from his one spot; that door is firmly shut. It's clean but the type of clean houses have whenever someone new is coming over and everything is thrown into a closet. After a few minutes, Simon thinks he needs to speak.

"What are you making?"

"Rolls. I made - uh - what is the fancy word for it - beef bourgine?"

"Beef bourguignon?"

Billy smiles down at the dough as she cuts squares out.

"I'm glad one of us can say it - I can cook, I just can't speak French."

"Do you always cook like this?"

"Only on special occasions."

Special occasions . 

It's awkward at first for Simon to sit there while she moves about the kitchen, putting the rolls in the oven and cleaning the counter; Billy doesn't speak much and Simon knows she doesn't feel the need to fill the silence either. 

His phone buzzes again - under the counter he checks it.

Johnny:

don't leave me hanging lt tell me whos it is

"Your girlfriend?" Billy teases without turning to look at Simon from the other side of the kitchen. 

"Not exactly," Simon says, muting the phone and shoving it back in his pocket. 

"Do you have one?" Her voice is prying, but she doesn't look at Simon as she pulls bowls down from the cabinet. 

"A girlfriend?"

"Yeah."

It bubbles inside him - just once - the urge to tell her about himself . He swallows it down.

"No."

"Not even back home?"

"Back home?"

She grins at him slyly, setting two glasses of water down in front of the two of them.

"Why do you think I have to keep paying you in cash? Your um….paperwork didn't exactly list you as being an employable American. And you have - you know - an accent."

Simon doesn't realize he's leaning toward her until his elbows hit the counter. 

"No, not back home."

She seems satisfied by that answer - or she doesn't have time to ask anything else. Behind her the oven timer beeps and she turns to pull the rolls out. They're barely out of the oven whenever she ladles the stew into the bowls and pulls two rolls off one for each of them.

 Pushing the bowl towards Simon she opens her mouth - Simon thinks she's going to ask something else but she just shakes her head. 

"I'm going to eat over there, so you can eat too," she says passing him a fork. 

"No cameras?"

"None you can see."

She retreats to the other side of the room and drops down on the couch so that she's facing away from him. Muffled behind a door to the right, Simon can hear her cat meow once. 

They eat in silence; Simon knows she's only eating slowly to give him time to finish without her accidentally turning to see his face. He doesn't need it: he realizes he hasn't had a meal that hasn't consisted of a sandwich or some form of potatoes in weeks; he eats fast, slowing down just as he finishes to keep from embarrassing himself. 

He sets the bowl down with enough dramatics that she can tell he's done without having to turn around. It's quiet again when she comes into the kitchen and takes his bowl to rinse it out in the sink. The sound of the water makes his skin crawl; it clashes with the domestic feeling of being taken care of. 

She laughs quietly to herself as she dries her hands on her shirt, lifting it up just enough to expose the little shorts she has on underneath.

"Something funny?"

"Not really funny," she says, hands stilling in her shirt, "I don't know - it just - I - well it's about this time of dinner that guys usually try to take me to the bedroom. I was just thinking about how different this night would be with anyone else."

With anyone else . 

That bothers him some.

"I don't suppose that's what you came here for," she grins at him as she speaks, resting her elbows on the counter. "Besides we don't even know each other."

"We work with each other every weekend," Simon retorts, not sure why he feels the need to prove her wrong.

"And we barely speak the entire time."

She points at him, her bright yellow nails glinting in the light.

"I've never seen you in anything other than long sleeves, even on the hottest day. You could have like fucking tentacles under there and I wouldn't know. And you don't even know anything about me."

For once, Simon doesn't think - he does.

He pushes his sleeves up slowly, each one nearly to his elbow. Billy leans forward, just enough to see the tattoo ink and scars that mar his forearms. Her fingers twitch against the countertop like she wants to reach out and touch him, but they stay still.

"Do you - do you only have tattoos on your arms?"

Simon reaches up to hook one finger in his collar and pulls it down just a half inch - just enough to show her the ink there.

"Your turn," Simon says, dropping his hand down. Under the counter, it lies fisted on his thigh.

"My turn?" Billy asks eyebrow cocked at him.

"Do you have any tattoos?"

She licks her lips once; Simon can see her thinking. After a pause she reaches down to grab the edge of her shirt - Simon's heart clenches. She lifts the hem up, just enough to show him the edge of a tattoo on her side, disappearing beneath her shorts and rising above where she lifted. She laughs a little as she drops the shirt.

"Is that all we need to know about each other?"

"It's a start."

***

He finally tells her he was in the military four Sundays after the first one. She'd told him at work she was too tired to cook and apologized, promising to make it up to him. So when he showed up at her door with a pizza and a promise that he was just dropping it off on his way home, he was surprised when she asked him to come in.

Each week they coaxed something new out of each other: a snippet about their families, about their travels. He loves Kentucky; she's from the East Coast. Her father died young. He's from England.

She's curled up in the recliner the cat on her stomach - they're watching something on television but they're both not really paying attention to it. So he blurts it out - a new confession in this weekly therapy.

"I was in the military."

"I guessed. The British Armed Forces?"

"The SAS."

She frowns and Simon stiffens.

"Is that like a unit or something?"

"Yeah."

This time she grins.

"Is that why you always lock my door behind you when you come in?"

"No. I do it because you never know who could come in when you're alone."

"You mean when you're not here."

Yes.

"No."

She rolls over, clutching the cat to her chest so as to not dump him on the floor until her feet hang over the arm and she can eyeball Simon across the room.

"I can shoot straight."

"Can you?"

***

She can. She takes him through the desert on Friday afternoon, bundled up against the cold. Out where they can target practice without anyone bothering them.

She hits every target.

***

"Christmas is this weekend."

"Yeah."

"So you know we're closed right? I'm not paying you time and a half."

A pause longer than he's used to.

"Are you doing anything for Christmas?"

"No."

"Do you want to come over?"

***

She makes Chinese on Christmas. A tradition she says because when she was younger the only places open were Chinese restaurants and her dad couldn't cook. They didn't have real dinners until she learned to cook herself, but it was always Chinese on Christmas.

The cat has a bell around its neck for the holiday and it latches onto Simon for the night. She wrinkles her nose at the cat and calls him a traitor. The cat doesn't seem to care. 

"I didn't get you a present," she says, putting her bowl on the coffee table. From his spot in the kitchen, Simon speaks.

"I didn't get you one either."

"Well, you're slowly building me an entire coffee shop."

"That's not present."

"Well, it's not exactly in your job description either."

He leaves his half-eaten bowl on the counter to drop down on the couch. She's sideways in the armchair, shirt riding up and a bruise on her shin. She's back to white nails.

"I can make out with you for Christmas; other guys have liked that present."

Simon's heart nearly stops. 

"Excuse me?"

"I'm just kidding Si."

Just kidding .

***

She begs and pleads with him to please go out to the bar with her for the new year. He doesn't have to drink, she says, she can drink enough for the both of them. 

She does. She doesn't even make it until eleven.

He carries her home on his back. Her door is unlocked and wants to think about how dangerous that is, but all he can think about is her warm breath on his neck.

He drops her unceremoniously onto the couch - he thinks about carrying her to the bedroom, but that's one place the door has always been shut to. 

He does take her shoes off of her while she insists she can do that herself. He slips the right one off when the fireworks go off outside; the entire town is bathed in their light.

"Midnight," she says as Simon rises up on one knee in front of her, ready to tell her goodbye and good night.

She kisses him over the mask.

She doesn't mention it the next day.

***

By summer, Simon has the entire cafe portion of the store finished. He's embarrassed when she hangs a sign over the area: 'Simon's Spot'. 

"What?" She asks, peering down at him from the top of the ladder. "You built it."

***

He breaks during the summer. Billy calls him on a Tuesday, asking if he knows anything about air conditioning systems.

"You built the cafe, so I know you're handy."

He doesn't. But he can figure it out. 

After hours the bookstore is sweltering. Billy has the blinds pulled down in a futile attempt to keep out some of the heat and the setting sun. Her shirt, already cropped short, clings to her with sweat when she unlocks the front door for Simon. 

It takes him two hours but he figures it out. When it kicks on she looks up at him, one arm resting on his shoulder, and tells him he's her hero.

He makes it all the way to her apartment - the promise of something for dinner and a cold drink as for payment the ruse - before he does it. 

It's dark inside, dark enough that when he locks the door behind him, he slips his mask off. She turns to ask him something - he doesn't hear it; he's too busy kissing her, pushing her back against the kitchen cabinet. 

It's messy - the kissing - he can't remember the last time he kissed somebody like this - all teeth and tongue and need.

When they stumble into her room, he doesn't take his shirt off, and she doesn't ask why.

***

"Come visit me L.T.. Scotlands beautiful this time of year."

"I'll have to book two tickets Johnny; that's not cheap."

"Alright, you cheap bastard you can afford it."

[lalunanymph]

Riding on the nanami brainrot!!!! dawn as a bewitched!au enthusiast, it had me thinking about retired army general!nanami and a geisha!reader 🫶 what if after leaving the gojo clan, he settled down and became reader’s patron and they lived happily ever after 🥰

- 🍎

i couldnt get this idea out of my mind and had to write something for it grrr thank you sm apple nonnie ily and your beautiful brain

tw for love making and suggestive themes

The ex-general of the great Gojo clan should be a man who was intimidated by many.

For truly, his countenance, stoic mien, and even the shock of fair hair on his head (so unnaturally light and a contrast to every common passerby on the street) would’ve marked him as a man who would not be into foolhardy pursuits.

But, in your months of living under his roof, you had come to find that General Nanami Kento was indeed an incredibly kind man.

“What are you doing?” 

Kento had awoken from his slumber, padding into the kitchen to find you standing by the stove, hair still in a disarray. A light scruff shadowed his chin, and his face was pinched with fatigue.

In answer, you tightened your silk sash, a teasing grin pulling on your face. “About to surprise you, of course.” 

The general is not a man to be trifled with. Hence, when he tilted his head to the side, unsure of what your coy entendre was supposed to mean, you were slightly terrified of his rejection.

What would he say to your next plan? Would he ridicule you and find it foolish? 

“Surprise?” His rough, low voice involuntarily sent shivers down your spine. “What kind of surprise?” 

The general does not like to be blindsided. Your answer was meek, almost like a girl who was about to be berated by her superior.

“I wanted to… I wanted to dance for you, Kento-san.” 

Now, his attention was piqued. Nanami’s back went ramrod straight, those dark eyes widening infinitesimally. “Dance for me? Why ever for?” 

He did not sound disappointed or peeved. Instead, you detected a note of curiosity in his genuine question—the first stirrings of a man who had never been indulged in such finery.

You had to hide a smirk behind your fall of hair. Only General Nanami—a man who brought an infamous geisha under his wing—would be taken aback by her natural want to charm and appease him. 

Your smile was partly patient, partly abashed. “Because,” you started, and walked over to him slowly. Nanami did not cringe back or let himself be bowed over by your sudden proximity; keeping his reactions fastened to his chest. “I want to do it.” 

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. You could see the ripping flow of emotions erupting across his handsome features; a thread of desire overshadowed by his strict samurai stolidity.

“You do not have to do this.” His voice was soft, cottoned with gentleness. Giving you a route of escape should your mortification catch up with common sense. 

You shook your head. “Please, Nanami-san. Let me do this for you. I wanted to show you some lessons I remembered.” 

It had been a considerable amount of time since you last put on a Natsu wa Hotaru for men. Your nerves were getting the best of you, but you strapped on your armour of gratitude towards this man who had housed, fed and clothed you with little to no expectation of any returning sentiments. Why General Nanami had chosen you—perhaps you may never know. But, you had learned to never question providence whenever it fell into your lap like a sleepy, curling kitten. 

Kento was in no obligation to give into your whims, but he eased himself into a cross-legged position onto the tatami floors, the split in front of his striped blue yukata showing off a web of whitened scars. 

You didn’t have any music to accompany you, but Mama-san always did say you had a beautiful humming voice. 

Graciously picking up the uchiwa fan—one of the only items you had taken from your old life in the okiya into your new one as part of his household—you held it above your head, warming up with a low hum. 

Your arm arched overhead, easing in front of your body with a slowed, graceful swoop. You recounted the steps perforated deep into your subconscious from Mama-san’s rigid lessons—spinning on your heel, lifting your head and eyes to the sun to give thanks for the summer. All the while, your voice never broke or petered off, rich and warm like the rays streaming through the paper thin shoji windows. 

Nanami did not move nor you suspected, breathed. He was hewed of stone, fists clenched atop of his lap. The only sign of movement were his eyes, steadily following every motion of your body. Men would often compliment how you moved like water—Mizu no Megami—they called you. 

The water goddess.

There was a fluidity to your motions which would put rainfall to shame, and Nanami was starting to believe why his comrades used to say geishas were the spirits of grace put right onto this earth. 

From the arch of your back, to the curve of your arms in midair, spinning the fan in your lithe fingers like you were one with its fluttering disposition, made him firmly believe you were an otherworldly being. 

And your voice… it never faltered. A sweet, rich octave which brought goosebumps to his skin.

All too soon, your performance ended. You were bright-eyed and warm in your cheeks, waiting for him to thaw, frozen in your ending position of knees bent, arms curved close to your waist. 

Instead of applauding, like rowdy men were wont to do, Nanami slowly got to his feet. 

He approached you, careful not to scare you with too quick of a movement, and soft as down, his large, scarred palms cupped your face. 

You were petrified, not with fear, but with baited desire. He stroked your cheeks, rough pads of his thumbs soothing on your far softer skin, and there was a look you knew all too well on his dear face. They reminded you of watching your onee-sans stagger back into the okiya, drunk and whispering that they would kill you if you told Mama-san of their evening whereabouts. Not much of where they had been, but who they were with.

Older men. Soldiers. Politicians.

Everyone of them wore a secret, satisfied smile like they were sated from a huge meal after starving for decades. Now, years later when you were free from the constrictions of tight obis and etiquette, you could see desire plainly in the open air—finally free to indulge in it.

His lips touched yours in the softest of caresses, and you didn’t fight him off when he swept you into the seam of his embrace. Your body fell against his—like two pieces of Go flushed together, slotting perfectly in each other’s spaces, finding a clear path towards a release of intensity which brimmed and brimmed; eventually bubbling over.

Nanami removed your obi, pulling down your simple, sakura-patterned sobe panels, revealing the tender rise of your shoulders to his touch. He kissed a pathway down your neck, marking his territory right on your collarbones; bold enough to touch his tongue to your pulse point.

Your soft gasp thrilled through the morning air, drops of unfettered desire clinging between both of your bodies like a film of sweat. 

“Tell me to stop,” Kento’s gruff voice breached through the fog in your mind, drawing you down into deeper depths of rapture. “Tell me to stop whenever you want me to.” 

“I do not,” you replied back, heavy in breath and intention when you softly rested your palms on his scarred chest. Without a lingering second for him to chart your intentions and misconstrue them, you unwound his own yukata sash, feeling more of his rough, pale skin under your wandering touch. “I want you, Kento. I want you, it burns.” 

That was enough for Nanami to discard years of training to tame his emotions. The beast within was roaring to claim you, his blood singing like it would whenever he was about to rush into a battlefield. But, this time, it wasn’t severed limbs or broken bones awaiting him, but the terrains of your body drawing him to unleash his brute desire. 

Nanami was brash when he lifted you up, your feet dangling in midair, only to be swept into the crevice of his arms. He brought you to the bedroom with barely any effort exerted, not a droplet of sweat rolling down his sharp cheekbones and sunken temples. 

Gently this time, he laid you on the futon, covering your entire body with his bigger build. You had never noticed how starkly a man towered over you, until you were in this position to look up at him. Wonder stained your sighs, those wide eyes gleaming with a girl-like innocence charming as it tugged on his soul. 

Kento felt a warmth unlike any other he had ever encountered in his arduous life; like a thousand bees were swarming in his chest, warming up the cavities of his austere ribcage housing his equally stony heart. 

His large hands swept down your shoulders, parting your kimono further apart, until the panels were splayed around your naked body. Those dark eyes appraised the crease in between your thighs, memorising them like it was his next terrain to conquer. 

Nanami was never a man who gave into the screamings of flesh, but in this instance, he felt like his veins were sparked with gunpowder—igniting from the base of his spine to the tips of his toes. 

“You are beautiful.”

That lavish praise tumbled freely from his parted mouth, burying itself underneath your blooming affections. 

However, his next words sent you reeling, like a bare branch tumbling in a storm, when he uttered: 

“I want to ruin you.”

His lips descended back onto yours, kissing with an ardour that would’ve frightened a more modest woman. Modesty—thankfully—was not part of your script, and you returned his kiss with an equal zeal that many men would find loose and unbecoming. 

From the ends of your hair to the crest of your toes, your body pulsed with an unbridled heat for him. You were soaked in between your thighs. 

Such simple kisses were making you unravel, unlike a tapestry whose loose thread had the power to undo the striking masterpiece. You were crumbling for Kento, relenting to his relentless passion. 

The taste of sleep and his skin was strong with every curl of his tongue on yours. Something hard and foreign was poking your thigh, and Kento’s strong hips undulated, his mind losing control of his body.

“Fuck,” he swore lowly, eyeing the lines between both of your bodies with a gleam in those dark, unfathomable eyes. 

You cupped his face to yours, admiring every instance of those beautiful features with their scars and faint wrinkles. A part of you wondered—as he shoved his yukata off to one side of the room—if your children would have his blonde hair. 

Nanami’s cock was imposing and resting on your thigh. His kisses were unhurried now, and they were traversing lower and lower down your body. He nipped your collarbones. Kissed your jaw and scraped his teeth on your pulse point. That same mouth roamed in between your breasts, finding the peaks of your stiff nipples and sucking on them tenderly, mouthing on them like he was attempting to extract some deeper essence from your willing body. 

Your breathing hitched when he dared to roam lower—right towards the apex of your body where your lust was undeniable. 

Kento gently parted your thighs, resting deeper in between the promised crease. His mouth touched your pelvis first, sending what felt like hot flashes up your spine. And the moment you felt his mouth on your tender parts, you were sure you moaned loud enough to wake up the old teamaker next door. 

“Kento,” you gasped, disregarding all of your etiquette training to succumb to the lust like you were no better than the harlots walking down cobblestone pavements at night. “Oh! Oh…” 

His tongue was working you into a frenzy, and those thick fingers ran through the seam of your sticky heat, parting your folds to get to the heart of your desire. One thick, calloused finger rubbed firm circles on your sensitive nub, eliciting a tremble in your thighs you had only experienced when standing for too long on a hot day. 

“Kento,” you gasped out, almost purring his name like a wanton whore. “Oh—I-I’m—” you broke off, unable to speak past the pleasure knotting underneath your sternum, making you stutter and choke. Your eyes watered, tears dripping down your cheeks; smeared by loving kisses from the man above you who watched your fall with pure rapture. 

How your brows knitted together, how your mouth fell open, a scream rebounding across the room…

“Shit,” Kento cursed, unable to help himself from driving his hips deeper and deeper into your body. “Shit, shit, shit—I’m—”

His stuttered moan was heralded by a well of warmth filling you up. The ecstasy of belonging to Kento; of feeling him melt into your walls, was the sweetest sin unlike any other. You lived for his flushed cheeks, his feral snarl, his handsome face contorting like it was in pain…

He slumped atop of you, pushing you further into the futon until your chest was smothered from the full weight of him. But, deprivation of air was not your main concern, not when Kento was kissing down your forehead, cheeks and jaw like you were a precious jewel he had just found out was real. 

Your giggle was a sweet sublime balm for his soul, and he smiled like the first warm rays of a summer morning. 

A tenderness unlike any other rooted itself in your soul, and for the first time, you figured out why men would go to war for love; why women sacrificed parts of their souls and bodies for a mere sliver of hope that their love would bloom eternally. 

Your eyes were open, and your heart welcomed every drop of his presence. 

Kento brushed the back of his knuckles down your cheek, expression softening when you began to grin.

“I did not hurt you?” 

Soft as down, you pressed his knuckles to your lips, kissing them softly. “No.”

The stoic samurai tried his best to hide how pathetically his heart raced at your tiny gesture, but his growing smile told the full truth, slowly coming to light like the indentations of a secret message upon paper being shaded in with charcoal. 

“We should be getting up for breakfast.” Ever the worrier, Kento was concerned about your lack of nutrition; if you were already starving and he had overtaxed you. 

But, your returning grin was part deific and part exasperation for the older man before you; filled with a gentleness your scarred and scared heart had never felt in her lifetime.

“We should,” you hummed in agreement. Neither of you made a move to leave each other’s embrace, and the morning sun continued speckling dancing shadows of waving sakura branches against the shoji windows.

©️ LALUNANYMPH

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tags: @illiana-mystery, @iobsessoverfictionalmen

warnings: swearing, fighting, yelling

I shook my head as I took in the car in the driveway. All day, I’d been considering taking a baseball bat to it. But it wouldn’t do any good. There wasn’t enough money left in the bank to fix the damage I would do. Unlocking the door, I rolled my eyes at the hat sitting on the table next to the keys to the car. The black jacket on the wall further annoyed me.

“hey!” Elwood called, walking into the living room. He was wiping his hands on a rag. “How was work?” His smiled fell when he saw my face. “Shit day huh?”

“oh I don’t know Elwood.” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “You tell me. Given how you blew off your job to spend our entire life’s savings.” He gulped and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“oh. You heard about that?” He asked, eyes starting to drift down to his feet. I put my hands on my hips.

“yeah. I heard about that.” I shot back. Elwood rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at me. “You didn’t think the bank would call? When you took everything out of our account?”

“It wasn’t everything.” Elwood muttered.

“ok no.” I sighed, rubbing my forehead. “It wasn’t everything. But it was most of our lives savings Elwood. We were supposed to have that for when we retired. Wanted to go on vacation. Do things together. Things we decided on together. How could you?” Elwood shifted his weight and chewed on his lip.

“it needed it.” Elwood whispered. He moved to head back into the kitchen but I followed him.

“the bluesmobile needed it?” I cried. “What was so wrong with it before that it needed the money?”

“I have to add modifications to it.” Elwood said. “Make it safer.”

“Elwood…” I breathed out, trying to calm the rage that was burning inside me. “It’s an old cop car. It’s the safest car out there. What the ever loving fuck could you do to it to make it safer?” Elwood put his hands on the counter and leaned his weight against it.

“a few things actually.” He said. His voice was oddly even and flat. “Better seat belts. Fix the suspension. The shocks.”

“I don’t give a shit Elwood!” I cried. “What I give an shit about is that you took our hard earned money and blew it on a goddamn car!”

“it wasn’t just the fucking car!” Elwood exploded, turning to look at me. “I almost got into an accident the other day! Because of Jake. And Matt almost went through the window!” I nodded. Elwood had come home pretty shaken up after it had happened. I’d pried him from the front seat and made him come into the house. “It coulda been you. And that fucking terrifies me. Add in the fact Jake’s gonna have a kid…” Elwood shook his head as his anger started to subside. “I had to. Ok? For you. For me. For Jake. For this fucking kid. I just had to.” I stood there in shock.

“Jake’s gonna be a dad?” I asked, all the anger leaving me. “You’re gonna be an uncle?” Elwood nodded.

“he found out this morning.” Elwood said. “Carrie or Carla or whatever her name is. The on again off again one.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Doesn’t even know if it’s his and he’s going fucking nuts. Talking about changing things up and settling down and raising this kid.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He sighed and ran a hand down his face.

“Elwood…” I reached out for him and Elwood shot over, wrapping his arms around me tightly and burying his face in my neck. “I’m not happy about it. But I understand.” I buried my fingers in his hair and kissed his cheek. I started to giggle and Elwood pinched my side.

“What?” He said. It turned into a full blown laugh as Elwood smiled against my neck.

“You’re just as bad as Jake.” I said. Elwood pulled back with a frown. “You babyproofed the bluesmobile.” He tried not to smile but the corners of his mouth quirked up. Elwood ran a hand through his hair and turned away from me.

“shut up.” He chuckled.

“it’s cute!” I shot back. Elwood shook his head and blushed. “Really it is. Shows how protective you are.”

“it’s just…I’m concerned you know?” He said. “First that happens and then Jake finds out he’s gonna be a dad and I just…panicked.” I cupped his cheeks and kissed him.

“I really am still pissed about you not saying anything to me about taking all our money to do this.” Elwood nodded and wrapped his hands around my wrists. “But it’s understandable. Especially after everything that’s happened.”

“I am sorry I didn’t mention it to you. I should have. But I know you get busy and stressed and I didn’t want to make it worse.” Elwood said, leaning in and kissing me softly.

“Elwood, you calling me and telling me this would have been so much less stressful than the fucking bank calling me.” I said. Elwood chuckled and nodded.

“understood.” He said. I smiled at him as I rubbed my thumb over his cheek.

“now.” I said, moving my hand to pat his chest. “Show me these modifications.” Elwood lit up and took my hand, pulling me outside to show me what he had done to the car.

[selencgraphy]

— 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑: man i hate this part of texas (three clicks and i'm home)

PAIRING: jake seresin x f!original character

TAGS: honestly it's just all fluff (i know, crazy, right?)

A/N: some of you might recognize some bits of this part bc they were in the original versions of the series... anyways, this part is solely dedicated to jake and jessie's history (i.e. a culmination of how they met and [some] important moments in their life). now for the 'bad' news... the next part will be the last one in the main series. i kept beating around the bush with them and now we're coming to a head! my inbox is always open for requests as well, so lmk if you ever want to see anything with them! anyways, i'll save the sappy shit for the fic and the next post's authors notes. oh, also there are some words/phrases in spanish. translations are included at the very end :) happy reading!

WORD COUNT: ~4.3k

if you want to be added to the taglist, click here!

previous part || masterlist || next part

El Paso had been home for the last 6 years of her life. Every important milestone she could remember had been accomplished along the streets of that city. It’s where her parents decided to settle down once her father retired from the Navy. 6 years of peace. So when her parents had sat her down one random summer night to tell her that they were moving again, it had felt like her entire world was going to crumble. In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been as big of a deal as she had made it. She grew up a Navy brat, moving cities was supposed to be easy. But that was ages ago for her. Her father’s retirement was supposed to mean no more moving around. Now she was going to start high school in a little over a month. That was daunting in and of itself and now her parents expected her to move to a city 9 hours from home? 

“You’ll be okay, mija. I promise,” her mother reassured. The new house was similar to her childhood home, allowing her to forget where she was sometimes. But then she would suggest to her father they visit her favorite bookstore and the fantasy she created in her head, even if it was for a minute, would crumble. Even after she had unpacked all the mass of cardboard boxes and placed everything to mimic her old room, the promised feeling never came. She missed the  corner of the bookstore she made hers. The street that she used to race her parents down. She missed home. Austin wasn’t home. Not yet at least.

Jessie made herself as small as possible as she made her way through the crowded halls of Westlake High School, hands gripping the paper that held her future for the next 6 months tightly. Find your class was the phrase she repeated in her head like a mantra. She had only just looked back down for a second to double check the class number. By the time she glanced back up, she had no time to react before walking straight into a backpack, accidentally shoving the owner forward. “Oh my- I am so sorry.”

While spewing apologies profusely, the person she ran into turned around to face her. A tall boy not much older than her with blonde hair that was borderline brunette and eyes her favorite shade of green. “Dios mío,” she thought, admiring his face before her eyes caught sight of his jacket. He had said something back to her, but she registered nothing, too caught up in panic at the revelation of what he was.

“Mierda, he’s a jock. Good going, Jess,” she cursed in her head. If her preconceived notion about jocks was right, which was based on films, this was the first step to living four years in absolute hell.

Her expression must’ve been extreme because now his eyebrows were furrowed. “Hey, it’s really no big deal. Are you- are you okay?”

Was he really asking if she was okay? “Am I okay? I was the one who ran into you!”

“The hallway always gets packed on the first day so it happens,” he shrugged. “Do you need help finding your class?”

She quickly shook her head profusely. “No it’s okay. Thank you though.” Just as she finished her sentence and started to walk off, the bell had rung. She was nowhere near where she needed to be. What a way to start off the first day of high school. She had taken probably two steps before her schedule was snatched out of her hands. “Hey! What’re you-”

She glared at the boy, silently begging that he gave it back as he studied it. She didn’t have time for this. After a few seconds, he started walking. Now a couple steps in front of her, he turned back around with a raised eyebrow and smirk on his face and asked, “Do you want to be late or…?”

As they walked, he returned her schedule and she asked, “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it, but why are you helping me?”

“Because,” was all he said in reply with that smirk still plastered across his face, shrugging his shoulders. 

Her face scrunched at his smugness. “Well, aren’t you going to be late now?” Right when she finished her question he just stopped walking. Quickly glancing at the class number and back to the paper, she sighed in relief. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem. Just try not to bump into any more people. Not everyone's as nice as me,” he jested.

“Noted,” she replied with a chuckle. As he walked into the class across the hall, he called over his shoulder, “Welcome to high school, Jessie!”

“Thank yo- Wait, I didn’t get your-” Before she could finish, he already vanished from sight and into the other room. “Name,” she mumbled to herself before walking into her own class.

The next seven and a half hours were boring as hell. Each teacher went through basically the same spiel about their class. It was the last period of the day now—English 10. It was a sophomore year class, but she had such good grades in middle school that they put her in English 9 in eighth grade. So yeah, a freshman in a sophomore year class. Having gotten there early, she took a seat in the middle of the row closest to the door, like she had the rest of the day. Nose glued to the book in front of her, she failed to notice the person who slipped into the seat right behind her. Tap tap tap.

Hesitantly, she turned to face them being met with a familiar face. “Hey stranger,” he said with the same smirk on his face.

“Hey,” she greeted back, confusion in her tone. “What’re you doing here?”

“Last I checked this is English 10 and you’re a freshman. So the real question is what are you doing here?” Leaning back into his chair as he asked—he wasn’t being entirely serious, but she didn’t need to know that. As she stammered and her face reddened, he did his best to hold in a laugh. “I’m just pulling your leg, Jessie. I looked at your schedule this morning, remember?”

Quickly, she released a breath she didn’t know she held. After taking a few seconds to recollect herself, she turned further in her chair to fully face him, extending her hand. “Jessie Rosales, but you already knew that.”

“I did,” he smiled at her gesture, shaking her hand. “Jake Seresin.”

“Jake,” she said, familiarizing herself with the name. “What sport do you play?"

“Huh?”

She quickly glanced down at his clothes. “Your letterman jacket.”

“Oh yeah, uh football.”

“Predictable,” she said with a shrug before turning back around. Realizing what she had said he lurched forward, his face now inches away from the back of her head. “Predictable? What d’you mean predictable?”

She turned her head just enough to talk to him again. “You’re a pretty white boy in Texas who plays football, Jake. It’s predictable.” Before he could say anymore, the bell rang and their teacher started to talk. One of the words she used to describe him didn’t go unnoticed though. 

“She thinks I’m pretty,” he thought to himself with a small smirk on his face. But it wasn’t his usual one that he wore from his ever-growing confidence. No, this one came from the new warmth in his chest that made his cheeks turn pink and start to burn.

Out of the years of high school, sophomore year was supposed to be the most boring of the four. Freshman were the new kids on the block. Juniors had the stress of taking their SATs and getting ready to figure out what they wanted to do. Seniors were celebrating the end of their high school careers with prom and graduation. Sophomore year was the weird gap between truly leaving childhood and heading into adulthood, no large milestones to be had. So Jake didn’t expect much out of the year aside from the football season. That is until a girl came barreling into him on August 18, 1997. Yes, he remembered the exact date. How could forget?

A few hours after she had gotten back home, she sat at her desk mindlessly drawing in her sketchbook. Each page had a recurring theme, the most recent being planes. She had placed her desk to be right in front of her window, giving her a view of the street and the houses right across. A faded red truck pulled into the driveway of the house directly across from hers. She wasn’t sure what had caused her to look up at the exact moment that she did. She watched as they parked the car and hopped out. It was late and practically pitch black outside but the street light was bright enough for her to see who it was. When he tapped the top of the truck before heading into his house, a small smile grew on her face before she looked back down to continue drawing. 

When she got to school the next day, her eyes searched the crowd in the hallway for a letterman—his letterman—but couldn’t find it. He probably wasn’t wearing it today. For the entire day, it was as if he didn’t even exist. Her only hope was sixth period and that was hours away. Still she waited. When she walked in, she immediately looked over to where they had sat the day before, finding him already there in the same seat, loudly talking to another boy behind him. Quickly, she slipped into her seat as quiet as possible, trying her best not to attract his attention away from his conversation. But of course, her plan was ruined by the squeak of her chair. “Look who decided to show up,” he remarked, looking down at his watch. “You know, freshman are usually the first one’s to show up? The fear of being late and all but you? Barely a minute to spare, Rosales.”

“Still made it, didn’t I?” His smile widened at her response. The sudden burst of confidence shocking even herself. “I didn’t see you this morning, did you come late? You did get home pretty late last night.”

His eyebrows raised at that, confusion and intrigue mixed into his expression. Still he remained silent as she continued. “Didn’t a new family move into the house right across from you?”

“How did you…?” The realization hit him slowly, his signature smirk returning. “You’re my new neighbor.”

“Yup,” she said with a pop.

His eyes narrowed. “Why haven't I seen you until now? You moved in like a month ago.”

“I’ve been around. You just weren't looking, I guess.” That was a lie. She hasn’t been around. She had spent that month memorizing the four walls of her bedroom. But that wasn’t something he needed to know. She was quick to leave class—the first one out the door when the bell rang as a matter of fact. There was really no need for her to be in such a rush, it wasn’t like she drove, so the traffic was the least of her worries. No, she wanted to be in the quiet of her room where she could breathe.

“Jess, wait up!” Her pace faltered at the shout of her name, rushed footsteps growing louder. “Damn, you’re fast,” he exclaimed as soon as he came to be side by side with her. “Got somewhere to be?”

“Home,” she replied.

“I can drive you,” he quickly suggested before jogging forward to open the door, waiting for her answer as he held it open. She maintained her pace as she walked through the door, making him jog again for a couple steps to catch up.

“I’m good with walking. Thank you though.”

“Come on, Jess. We live right across from each other, and you can get home in five minutes instead of roasting in this heat for thirty.” 

She sighed at his persistence. “Don’t you have practice?” She didn't mean for her words to come out so harshly, instantly regretting them as soon as they flew out. “Sorry, I just have to get home.” Her voice wavered slightly causing his eyes to soften suddenly. It was so subtle that she barely even noticed but they did.

“Alright then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, giving her a reassuring smile. Watching him as he turned to head towards his car, she looked over his shoulder to his truck. The old streetlight in front of their houses didn’t do it justice, but one thing caught her eye that she didn’t see the night before.

Rubbing her face in annoyance, she whispered to herself, “No dejes para mañana lo que puedes hacer hoy.” Don't leave for tomorrow what you can do today. 

Before she knew it, she jogged up to him like he had done minutes earlier and asked while pointing towards his rearview mirror, “You like planes, too?”

The shock on his face lasted mere milliseconds before his signature smirk returned. “I do. But that’s actually an-”

Before he could finish she cut him off as she opened the door to the passenger seat. “An F/A-18 Super Hornet, yeah I know. Just wanted to see if you knew.”

His eyes softened, a small grin forming on his face at the banter before turning on the ignition.

—

“Did you do the essay?”

She jumped around causing him to jolt back in his seat from leaning forward. “Essay? What essay?”

“The one for this class, stupid. Minimum 4 pages about the last book you read.”

Her face grew redder by the second. “Jake.”

“Jessie.” 

“You’re fucking with me.”

He shook his head. “I am not.”

She quickly turned to the person sitting next to her. “Hey, did we have an essay due today?” Their face scrunched in confusion. At their reaction, she slowly turned back to Jake who was now trying to hold in a laugh.

“Pinche pendejo,” she cursed, smacking his arm.

“Ahh hahah,” he whined through his laughter, rubbing the spot she hit him. “You’re just so gullible. I love seeing you get all red like that. It’s cute.”

“I hate you,” she murmured, rolling her eyes and turning back in her seat.

He chuckled at her. “No you don’t.” He tapped her shoulder to get her to turn back around but all he got in return was a huff. “Oh come on,” he whined. “Don’t be like that, Jess.”

–

"Jake's a good boy," her mother commented as she cleared up the dining table. Since becoming such close friends, she started to bring him around her house more. Her father was skeptical at first, him being overprotective and all, but after a while Jake Seresin became a part of their family. He'd come over for dinner every so often just like tonight where he was now in the kitchen helping her dad do dishes. "I know you keep insisting that you two are just friends but-"

She quickly interrupted her mother. "Mama," she whined.

"I'm just saying, sweetheart. You don't find good boys like him that easily these days. However that is, you keep that boy around."

As her mom spoke, her mind wandered back to the times when he dropped one of his teammates because he heard him talking shit about her. To when he bought her the book she had been gushing about for months. To when he dragged her out for burgers because he supposedly just felt like it. No matter if she needed or even wanted him around, he was always right there. Jake's voice pulled her from her thoughts. "Jess, you okay?"

She wasn't sure how long she had been standing and thinking for. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"You sure?" he pressed, a smidge of worry swimming in his eyes, and his hand placed on her bicep.

"Yeah," she sighed.

Just as he was about to say something Jessie's mom called from the kitchen. "Jake, honey, come here really quick!"

He gave her a reassuring squeeze before heading back from where he came. She followed him, catching her mother handing him their landline as she crossed the threshold between the dining room and kitchen. No one could hear what the voice on the other end was saying and he gave no indication of who it may be as he stood and listened. When he hung up, he looked towards his best friend and her parents, a blank expression on his face. "Is everything okay, míjo?"

"Yeah, that was the school's football coach. He said he called my house, but my mom said I was here," he trailed. "He decided the roster for the Varsity team."

Based on the look on his face, the Rosales' began to sigh, assuming that the coach had called to tell him he didn't make it. But then his face brightened once again. "I’m starting QB," he yelled, sending the family in front of him into a frenzy. Jessie threw her arms around him, spewing congratulations after congratulation.

"I knew they'd pick you, Jake," she whispered into his neck. "They'd be stupid if they didn't."

"Thank you for believing in me," he replied, loud enough that only she could hear him. "What kind of best friend would I be if I didn't?"

—

Game after game, Jessie Rosales stood in the same spot, no matter if it was a home or away game, holding a sign that had his name and jersey number on it as she cheered him on. Every time he heard her scream or saw him jumping in celebration, his heart swelled.

Jake had taken his team all the way to state championships and the stands were filled practically to the brim. Jessie showed up a few minutes before kick-off, taking a seat at the top-most row of the bleachers, a newly made poster in hand. Usually she was the loudest of them all but it being the championship game, her cheers for Jake were drowned out amidst everyone else's. Before she knew it, the last play finished as Jake threw the game winning pass, throwing everyone onto their feet. So many people were congratulating him and taking pictures she wasn’t sure she was gonna get the chance to get him alone. Fuck it. “Seresin!” she yelled from across the field. 

At the shout of his last name, he turned to search for her, the slight frown he had molded into a smile. It was as if he came fresh off of the bench the way he sprinted at her. “You made it,” he exclaimed as he wrapped his arms around her.

“Of course I came! When have I ever missed one of your games?”

His embrace tightened and her feet lifted off the ground. “Never,” he whispered.

“Exactly,” she replied and it was like he could hear her smile. As soon as her feet returned back to solid ground, his embrace loosened, but he didn't let her go. Instead, he grabbed her shoulders and lowered himself so that his eyes leveled with hers. Her smile morphed into a confused frown as he stared at her for a second. “What?”

He took a beat longer than usual before answering her. “Nothing, I’m just happy is all.”

“You better fucking be, Mr. MVP,” she exclaimed, pulling him into a hug once more. “You’re the fucking best.”

“I am the best,” he agreed, his body relaxing into her embrace. They stayed like that for a minute before she pulled away and smacked his arm. “Now let’s celebrate by stuffing our faces with burgers!”

—

"What if we just went together?"

"Us?"

Her reaction sent him into a spiral, the blood draining from his face. "Yeah, I mean we'd go just as friends— people go with their friends all the time."

Her face lightened in amusement at his nervous rambling. "I'm just fucking with you, Seresin. We can go together."

Then every year after that, they went as each other's "dates." To homecoming and prom. By Jake's senior year, everyone in their school swore up and down that they were actually a couple, despite their insistence that they weren't. Them showing up to prom together just fueled the fire. Jessie wasn't even a senior that year, but the yearbook staff made an exception labeling her and Jake, "Most Inseparable Friends." Every time someone opened up their copy of the yearbook, you could see drawn-in quotations people would add around the word Friends.

But regardless of everyone's speculations or pressure, they never really did get past being just friends. At his graduation, all three Rosales’ stood next to the Seresins cheering with balloons and a bouquet of flowers. Jessie noticed the side eye his father gave her as she cheered for him when the principal called his name but paid no mind to it. She supported their son more than he ever did.

—

“Jake!” He jumped at her sudden shout.

“What,” he groaned as he rubbed his eyes. Summer was exhausting, Jessie and Jake deciding to do almost everything they possibly could do in Austin, Texas. He was leaving for college at the end of the sunny season after all. He wasn’t going far, but he’d be busy with classes soon enough. Most days, just like today, they found themselves lounging in her room, listening to music and catching up on sleep. Well, until she woke him up. “You know how X-Men is coming out next week?”

“Yeah…?"

“The Alamo Drafthouse is playing it!”

“And?” She smacked his leg at his sarcasm. “Ow! Okay, I’m sorry!”

“We have to get tickets!”

“Do we have to?” Her eyebrows furrowed, sending him an angered glare. “Okay, okay!”

She quickly stood up off her bed, placing her hands out in front of him to help him up. “What?”

“Let’s go. How are we gonna see the movie when we don’t even have tickets yet!”

“Ugh, fine. But you’re driving,” he said, tossing her his keys. As they pulled into a parking space in front of the theater, she turned off the car with lightning speed and ran to the tiny box office at the entrance.

“Sorry hun, we ran out of tickets for it just yesterday…”

Her shoulders sagged and she whimpered back to the worker, “Oh okay. Thank you though.”

Watching her as she walked back to his car, the pep in her step gone, he couldn't help but feel bad. As she sat back down in the driver’s seat, he asked, “Well? Did you get the tickets?” She shook her head.

“That’s weird,” he started, pulling something out from his pockets. “Because when I went there yesterday, they had plenty.”

At that, he placed two small slips of paper in her lap. “Two tickets to see X-Men, tonight at 8 o’clock.” Her eyes widened as she picked up the papers and shot her head around to face him. He had expected a shriek followed by a warm embrace of excitement but instead, he was met with a firm slap to the shoulder. “What was that for?”

“You’re crazy and you’re stupid. That was so mean!” Each word was followed by a consecutive slap. “Okay but do you need to keep hitting me?”

“Yes! Because you’re mean! Letting me get all sad thinking I wasn’t gonna see the fricking movie.” After a dozen more hits, she leaned over the center console and gave him the hug he was expecting earlier. “Thank you,” she said into his shoulder. “You’re the best.”

“Of course. One question though.”

“Hmm?”

“Who’s hotter: me or Hugh Jackman?”

“You’re an asshole, d’you know that?” He grinned as she turned the car back on. “Refusal to answer the question means the answer is me,” he quipped, singing the last word.

“In your dreams, dickhead. Obviously Hugh Jackman’s hotter.”

Jake gasped in feigned offense. “I can return those tickets.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Jessie hissed, causing Jake to grin at her seriousness. 

—

As Jessie handed Jake an envelope, his eyes quickly scanned the text printed. University of California, Irvine. “Jess, what is this?”

“Open it,” she encouraged. Carefully, Jake pushed aside the flap, the envelope already opened as he pulled the paper inside, his expression filled with concern.

“Oh, read it out loud, too!” He let out a breathy laugh at her excitement.

“‘Dear Jessie Rosales, it is with great pleasure that I inform you that your application for admission to the University of California, Irvine has been approved.’ Jess, this is awesome!” He immediately jumped up and pulled her into a tight hug, the papers thrown across her bed as he threw his arms around her. 

A piece of him worried for what the newfound distance between them would strain their relationship, but when his phone rang every night like clockwork, her name flashing across the screen, his anxiety about losing her slowly faded into the background. 

Then they both got into the Naval Aviation program, Jake first with Jessie following suit a year later. Even when they were stationed in different places at a time and being sent off on long deployments, their relationship stayed strong. Long calls like no time had passed made his heart swell.

“What’s up with you?” Jessie asked, her voice distorted slightly by his phone’s speaker.

“I am packing,” he responds loudly for his phone’s mic to pick up as he moved to grab more clothes from his closet.” 

“New orders?”

“Yeah,” he trailed, his voice strained as he shoved stuff into his duffel. “M’not supposed to tell anyone, but I got called back to Top Gun.”

Jessie didn’t respond for a second. “Hey, you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here,” she answered quickly. “D’you know why they’re calling you back?”

“Nope, but you know the Navy. They tell us where to go but not why.”

Jessie hummed. “Well, I’ll let you go pack.”

“Alright, good night. Love you.”

“Love you too.”He sighed as his phone beeped when she hung up, falling onto his bed in exhaustion.

Both of them saw the other grow up to be the person their younger versions had always wanted to be and neither of them would have it any other way.

TRANSLATIONS:

Dios mio - My god

Mierda - shit / crap

Pinche pendejo - Fucking idiot

(disclaimer: i don't speak spanish fluently and referred to things i've heard my friends say and/or looked it up! lmk if anything isn't accurate)

A/N: i hope this part made up for the pain that was the last three parts... again, tysm for keeping up with this series whether you've been here since the original versions or are just tuning in. much love <3 (also, the whole x-men plot point was written long before the hype for that franchise came back [ogs remember] and i thought i'd be cool to keep it in)

if you want to be added to the taglist, click here!

the playlist || taglist: @dempy @bellaireland1981 @princessashley99 @whateverbagman @blairfox04 @blue-aconite @captainmoonknight (some ppl were tagged bc i remember ygs from the og posts & thought i'd update yall! lmk if you don't wanna be tagged anymore!)

[bwoahtastic]

Toto, Nico and Seb retiring to Toto's country estate for the summer. Seb is still being courted by several suitors, though he is firmly fixed upon Jenson, and all of them could do with a break. They will of course attend other balls in the area that they have been invited to, but it's nice to have some peace and quiet, as much peace and quiet as can be had in a house that contains Seb anyway. When they are in the country Nico goes riding every morning. He loves the wind in his hair and the feeling of freedom. Seb will often ride with him in the afternoons but refuses to get up so early in the morning which is when Nico most likes to ride. Toto is surprised at how proficient both Nico and Seb are at horse riding, they are better even than him! Toto asks Seb if he thinks Nico would like a horse of his own, and Seb excitedly tells him about a beautiful silver stallion Nico had seen and ridden once in town, and that he had fallen completely in love with. Toto buys the horse, and wakes up especially early in the morning to meet Nico at the stables and give him his gift. Nico is thrilled about receiving the horse, and thanks Toto again and again, before shyly asking if Toto would like to join him on his morning ride. Toto accepts and spends most of the ride watching Nico gallop ahead, supremely confident on his beautiful stallion, always the most beautiful person Toto has ever seen

Oh plss yes! Nico and Toto going to the country side with Seb, as seb is so confident about his match with Jenson that he doesn't really want to dance with other suitors anymore, but Nico wants hin to hold off on an engagement for a little longer.

Toto having such a beautiful country estate and nico and seb grew up in the country side and prefer it tenfold over the city! Toto owns big stables and quite a few horses too and is amused to find Nico there most of the day, riding but also grooming the horses or playing with the cats living in the hay. Nico is looking much more carefree and relaxed incthe country side, not needing to wear his mask for society and Toto falls for him more and more every single day.

Seb just babbling away most of the day (after getting up pretty late lol) and one day he tells Toto how much Nico adores the stables! Toto asking if seb thinks Nico would like to have his own horse and Seb perks up and is ready to drag toto out of the house and to town to show him the silver grey stallion Nico adores so much!

They go the day after, Toto pretending to offer to chaperone a meeting for seb and jenson and Nico is quite happy not having to for once so he agrees. Seb layer distracting Nico as Toto gets the horse settled in the stables and groomed for the big surprise the day after!

Nico beingnsurprised to wake up with Toto's side of the bed empty but supposes Toto has work to attend to. So he dresses in riding gear and heads to the stables, and almost trips over some hay when he sees Toto petting the nose of the grey stallion!

Nico is so excited and in awe and Toto is grinning as Nico flings himself at him and gives him so many kisses! So much excited affection! Nico is a little flustered after but asks Toto to join him foe a ride and they have a lot of fun. Toto mostly has his horse halt at the side of the field while Nico tries the stallion, galloping back and forth and laughing ao much! He is so beautiful and carefree and Toto hopes thst Nico loves him back just 10% of how much Toto loves Nico, because then it's still more than most people.

(Also the stallion loves nico and toto both but likes to headbutt Seb gently to annoy him, or step away as seb is trying to mount him to ride him too lol!)

[meredith-harper81]

I’ve Always Loved You💔

She Moved On

Chapter 1:

Paring : Chris Evans x Lana Parker

Word Count: 2k

Chris Pov

I had already gotten messages from my family and friends wishing me all the best and saying they couldn't wait to see me super soon.

I look up from my phone, and the black SUV arrives. I open the door and get in.

"Ready to go, Chris?" Megan asks me as she hands me a Bud Light seltzer.

"Ready as I will ever be," I smile, opening the can and taking a sip to cool my nerves. I am so nervous and excited about tonight. It would be my last premiere for awhile, and nobody knows just yet.

"Okay, so nobody knows the news except for me and your agency, so when the media ask about your next project, just try to project them away from asking more questions, or I will try my best to drift the question away," Megan tells me, and all I do is nod.

The driver pulls out of the driveway, and we are on our way to the Dolby Theater.

After a twenty-minute drive, we pull in, and I can hear people shouting. I get out of the SUV and wave to some people, and Megan directs me along to the carpet to take some photos and answer some questions about the movie.

I'm waiting in line and can't help but notice Ryan and Ana both have their families with them tonight. Ana brought her boyfriend Paul, and Ryan is here with his kids and wife, and I feel a little jealous of them and their loved ones tonight.

Normally I would bring my brother or family to events like these, but everyone is busy living their lives.

...

I take some pictures, greet some fans, and answer some questions about the movie and some even about what I'm wearing tonight, and then we get pulled into a group photo with the rest of the cast. I look around me, and everybody just looks so happy and content, but the dagger in my heart is bleeding out bit by bit every day. I just wish she was here to support me like she always did.

After we got introduced on stage, I am sitting by the bar, and for some reason, I can't get her out of my head tonight...

'Lana Parker'

The only love of my life.

We were once engaged in 2019 and even supposed to get married, but I ended things with her on a bad note, half of which I don't even remember.

I just remember walking out. It was one of my biggest mistakes, and I still regret it to this day.

It had to do with my career. We were supposed to get married, and I was going to quit acting, but—I can't remember—I lashed out at her and woke up the next morning and left her.

I sold my house and moved to LA, and most of my belongings were placed in a storage unit with the help of Ma and Tara. I stayed down here during the lockdown and just worked for three years.

My family was really mad and didn't talk to me for a few months, but eventually we made up when Shanna got married. Now that Scott is engaged... I'm thinking about going back to Boston and trying again with her unless she's moved on or found someone else.

I was deep in my thoughts when Ana came up with her boyfriend, Paul.

"Chris I want you to meet Paul," Ana says.

I get out of my seat and pull my hand forward to greet him.

"Oh yeah, man, how are you? I say I'm pulling him into a hug.

"Good, good. Huge fan," he says and pulls back.

"Thanks. Nice. So let's get a picture. I say, breaking the awkward tension. He nods, and Ana takes the photo.

"And I guess Paul is on to his next victim," Ana jokes as she orders an old-fashioned.

I smile and finish my beer.

"So rumors say Chris Evans is retiring soon? Is that right? She asks me, taking some of the beer nuts I have in front of me.

My head is hung low, and all I do is nod.

"That's great, Chris. So are you planning on settling down with Lana soon?"

I look up at her, and she immediately has a look of regret on her face.

"I'm so sorry I didn't mean to; it just slipped out since you guys were last together," she says.

"It's okay. Umm, I'm not sure. I need to get to Boston first," I say, looking at the time, which reads 6:45 p.m. I get up and tell Ana to have a good night.

I decided not to go to the after-party and just head back home to Dodger Stadium and finish packing.

Once the car service arrived at the gate, I gave him some cash and walked inside, where I was greeted by Dodger. I know he is probably hungry, and with all the moving boxes and things, I can't find anything.

"Yeah, Bubba, hold on," I say, finding the bag behind some random moving box near the living room. I scoop a few cups and place them in his dog bowl.

Meanwhile, I head to the bedroom, change out of this suit, and take a much-needed shower to wash all the stress of tonight off.

After my shower, I warm up some leftovers from last night and sit down to eat when a whiny Dodger comes by with his puppy eyes.

Which either means he did something bad or wants me to grab his favorite dog toy, which he probably tossed somewhere.

I get up and start looking under the sofa, and I'm about to give up when I find the darn lizard's tail hidden under the curtain.

I walk over and lift the curtain, pick up the stuffed animal, throw it across the room, and step on something cold.

I pick it up, and it's a gold infinity necklace. I open the clasp, put it around my neck alongside my Christopher necklace, and go back to eating dinner.

I remember Lana losing this necklace when I brought her here for a week, and she loved this necklace in an Instagram ad. I bought it for her and surprised her, and the look on her face when she lost it was devastating.

I wonder if she's doing well or has moved on. I haven't had the time to keep a tab on her, but I miss her so much.

I pull out my wallet and put my hand over the picture I have of us laughing, taken at Ma's house one Christmas. She is sitting on my lap, laughing at something I said.

I take out the engagement ring I remember taking off of her and throwing it.

I regret that day so much. I was so drunk, I don't even remember it. Ma was the one who found the ring and gave it to me at Shanna's wedding, and since then I've kept it in my wallet.

.....

I was leaving LA for good and leaving my house to my pal Jimmy to look after and move into.

After dinner, I take all my boxes with my personal belongings and place them in my room. I will deal with them later in life if ever needed. I call Ma, letting her know I will be home by early lunch, and she answers very coldly and tells me it's okay.

And after tonight, I'm ready to settle down and start a family of my own.

I mean, I'm forty-one, for crying out loud. These swimmers are even more likely to drown if I don't plant them somewhere.

I started up at the ceiling, daydreaming about how my life would have been if I didn't leave Boston; maybe I would've had a family of my own... I turn off the lamp and Dodger layers next to me, and I give him some cuddles and try to get some good shut-eye.

...

I've just landed in Boston, and before I left LA, I met up with Megan. She told me to just give her a call, and she can have statements sent and ready for the press. She gave me a hug, wished me all the best, and hoped I got the family I'd longed for.

I grab Dodger's leash and have him sit in the car as I load my things in the back. I run over to the other side, and the Uber takes off for Ma's home.

When the driver drops me off, Dodger runs off to the front door while I am slowly wheeling in my two suitcases.

I walk over to the front door and ring the bell and knock, but nothing happens.

I look under the mat and see the spare key. I use it and let Dodger in, and he starts to sniff around and bark, plants himself on the sofa, and goes to sleep. I walk further into the house.

"Ma?" I walk over and see a note on the table with a key.

The note said my room for a while is in the basement, and this is the key for the basement, and lunch is in the oven, and Ma is out with a friend.

Since when does Ma go out on a Friday afternoon? I shrug it off, and I wheel my things down to the basement.

I head downstairs, walk into one of the guest bedrooms, and decide to take a shower. After my shower, I head back upstairs and notice Ma is still not home. I heat up some food, eat it, and decide to take Dodger on a walk to his favorite park, which we used to go to all the time.

I pull on some running shoes and take his leash, and we take off. I text Tara, letting her know I need to find a new place, and we decide to meet up for dinner at Ma's tonight.

I've known Tara since I was in middle school; she has been one of my all-time best friends, but she and Lana never got along. I sort of remember Tara always bringing something up about Lana being selfish or using me for her money.

Recently, Tara got a divorce, and I wasn't there. I feel like a shy friend, so I also need to make up for that. Ma is inviting all my siblings for dinner tonight, and I called Tara and invited her as well.

...

I arrive at the park, and as I let Dodger off his leash, I notice it isn't busy for a Friday afternoon. Which I find a little strange.

I walk over to one of the beaches and take a seat, watching Dodger jump around, waggling his tail. I had a huge smile on my face. I really missed this place, and by the looks of it, so did Dodger.

After I let Dodger run around in the dog park, I called him over, and just as I put on his leash, he took off, catching me off guard. He starts to run in the other direction, running at full speed.

"Dodger! Bubba Stop! I yell after him, trying to catch up, but he is not stopping; in fact, he is running faster now.

What has gotten into him?

Dodger keeps running off across the dog park to the larger area of what looks like a children's park.

As I catch my breath, I hear a little baby crying, and Dodger is running faster.

I catch up to Dodger, and when I look up, I see him lying on top of a little girl as she giggles and Dodger licks her face.

The little girl is cooing to Dodger in some sort of baby nonsense...

I find it weird that Dodger only plants himself on humans he knows, and he is fully playing around with this baby he's never met.

"Dodger, you don't do that," I say, and I grab his leash, pulling him a little back off of her. I get a good look at this girl; she is wearing overalls, has pigtails, and has bright blue eyes.

I look at her jeans, and they are a little ripped, and she has a cut. I'm guessing she tripped on the tree root. I look around us, but I don't see anyone near us. I wonder where she came from and where her parents are.

"Swilly Doggy," I hear the little girl say as she is underneath Dodger and still giggling. I smile and move Dodger a little off of her.

"Hi, my name is Chris, and this is Dodger," I say, smiling and getting on her level.

"My nawe is Awia," she babbles as she pets Dodger as he starts to lick her tiny finger.

"Well, nice to meet you, Awia. Where is your mama? I say it, and then I hear it.

"Mawa," she says as her head turns, looking around.

"ARIA! ARIA, HONEY, WHERE ARE YOU? I hear a voice coming closer.

Just as I was turning, Dodger got up and ran across the grass, and I pulled him by his leash this time.

"Oh, my God, Aria. Here you are." I hear a voice coming closer. The voice... Lana's voice.

It's like the wind is sucking the wind out of me. It can't be, and then I see her standing far across the sidewalk. Her hair is in a ponytail, and she's wearing jeans with a black long-sleeved shirt. She's more beautiful than I can remember. Dodger gets up and runs toward Lana, almost taking her down.

Lana makes eye contact with me and wastes no time running up to the little girl and grabbing her, pulling her to her chest as she lets out a deep breath and kisses her head.

"Aria doesn't scare me like that. You were supposed to stay with Steven," she says.

"Ouchie, mawa," Aria says, pointing to her leg.

"Mawa, look dodgy doggy, Aria says as she gets distracted from what she was saying. Lana holds her close, kissing her chubby cheeks.

Just as I was about to say something, another man walked up to them.

I look over, and I don't see Lana wearing a ring or even this man.

"Oh my god, Aria," he says as he reaches and rubs her back, and Aria clings to her mother.

"Thank you; have a good day, Mr.," she says, leaving me and Dodger both baffled.

'Mister?' Did she really call me Mister?

"LANA!" I yell after her and I see her walk faster.

I see Lana walking away as Aria is babbling some more baby talk and waving to us, and Dodger is barking and nudging my leg to follow.

I am just frozen. Lana moved on and now has a baby. Maybe she's even married. I couldn't even get a word in, and she just walked away like nothing had happened. She didn't even acknowledge me or Dodger, and she just walked away. Did she not recognize me? I'm utterly shocked, as Dodger is whining.

...

I walk home with so many questions in my mind. I open the front door and take my shoes off, and Dodger runs into the kitchen, and I can smell Ma making something. I follow Dodger, and I walk in and see Ma in the kitchen cleaning up.

"Hey Ma," I say, walking over and hugging her.

"Welcome back home; how are you? She asks

"I just saw Lana in the park with her daughter," I say, and Ma's face changes all of a sudden.

Yeah, she had a baby two years ago after you left," Ma says while she rubs my back.

"I'm so sorry, Christopher," Ma says as she rubs my back.

"Are you ever going to tell me what happened between the two of you? Ma says, and I just look at her, and she frowns.

"You should get ready for dinner; everyone is coming soon. I nod and walk downstairs to get ready for tonight.

[fruchtfleisch-art]

If you’re still looking for prompts how about KiraShino for something akin to ‘a weekend away’ :D

“What took you so long?” Shinobu asks. She’s treading water in the deep end of the hotel pool, loose hair swirling around her in a coppery cloud. The setting sun tinges everything in a bloody hue.

“I had to return a few calls,” Kira says. “Everything’s been a scramble since Fukami retired, and we just got a group of new hires last week. Lots of little fires to put out, people forgetting passwords and getting locked out of the network, that sort of thing.”

“Still, you’d think they’d leave you alone for the weekend. It’s supposed to be a vacation.”

“Oh, I talked to Hayato, too,” Kira says breezily, circling around to the far end of the pool, where the steps are. Shinobu makes a lazy half-turn to follow him. “Just making sure he’s not missing us too much.”

“Aw, I would have waited if I knew you were doing that! Is he okay?”

“As far as I can tell.”

“Do you think we should have left him some money? He could order something for dinner. I know we have leftovers, but-”

“He’s twenty-four,” Kira says, wincing as he steps down into the shallows. He sprained his hip years ago, after a hard fall, and it never really recovered. “I think he knows how to use the microwave.”

“I just worry about him sometimes,” Shinobu says. She’s lost a good deal of that frantic neediness Kira used to loathe, but the subject of Hayato always manages to bring out what’s left. “I wish he’d go out more.”

Their son- her son, Kira reminds himself, the correction as automatic as the mistake- is as sullen and reticent as ever, but he’s an excellent student and rarely bothers Kira with much of anything. He’s more of a skittish animal than a human being these days, slat-sided and dull-eyed, only suffering the company of his parents when necessity-food, finances, medical care- demands it. He knows his time is precious and limited. He knows he’s only a squatter on a bigger, nastier predator’s turf. It’s not a matter of if, but when.

Kira has been thinking it might finally be time to rid himself of Hayato, now that he’s close to graduating. It’s going to be hard to keep an eye on him if he moves out (a minuscule possibility, but not one to discard entirely). Really, he should have done it years ago, but it always felt slightly more advantageous to have a living son than a dead one, even though Kira’s cover was near-perfect after that first tumultuous summer. Maybe he felt like being generous, after all the hard work Hayato put in to clean up his own mess. Maybe Shinobu isn’t the only one who’s mellowed a little with age.

Older, grayer, slower; joints stiffer, muscles stringier, fat settling where it’s least wanted. Kosaku’s hair, at least, is as thick and brushy as ever, showing no signs of thinning out. The lines and contours of the other man’s face feel as familiar to Kira as his own, now. He likes to think he’s molded the blunt features towards a rough sort of elegance.

Two years ago marks a tipping point, the moment where he had officially been with Shinobu longer than the man he’s impersonating. Kira knows her as intimately as a hand knows a glove, the comfort of their relationship a soothing balm to the various irritations of life. It isn’t what he would have chosen for himself, but its value has gradually accrued, layers of nacreous buildup over the irritating grit of the circumstances forcing them together.

Shinobu knows how he takes his coffee, and when he expects her to have it ready. He’s played the part of the steadfast provider diligently, worked until the house they rented became the home they owned. When Kira, in a moment of drunken idiocy, told Shinobu exactly which part of the female anatomy captivated him, she listened, and bravely offered him the use of her first two fingers, probing and swirling until he felt the sweet scratch of fingernails on his soft palette.

Yes, it’s quite nice.

He ducks under the water, eyes open despite the sting, and kicks out towards Shinobu. When he surfaces, she puts her arms around him, and they float together, the water lapping at them hungrily. In the last dregs of daylight, the water beading on Shinobu’s body flares like molten gold.

“I think I see a little gray coming in,” he says.

“Where?” She’s been dyeing her hair meticulously, scared of looking old. As if.

“Right… here.” He presses a kiss to her temple, disregarding the chlorine tang. Affection and certainty swell in his chest. He’ll kill Hayato, just as soon as they return from Tokyo. Everything is going to fall right into his hands, just like the girl stuffed in the hallway maintenance closet next to their room.

It’s all so easy. He wanted her, and then he had her, almost before he was ready, their eyes meeting as he stepped out into the hall with his swim trunks and towel. His limp, incredibly, has done more to endear him to women than a lifetime of practiced blandness. They disregard him with confidence, certain he can’t do them any harm. Foolish.

Kira has been using his stand less and less as the years go by, savoring the pop of cartilage and crunch of ligaments as he strangles them, the stupid bovine fear laid bare in those exhilarating final moments. It’s not need that drives him to kill anymore, but an aimless sense of play, satiated but still desiring to chew, swallow, and digest.

But this one might be different. He’ll see how he feels when they get back to their room. Soon there will be places to go, and a body to destroy, and words to say, in the darkness of night under thin hotel sheets. But for now he sits suspended with his wife in the pool, weightless, and it’s perfect.

He'll get to everything in due time. There’s plenty of it. Currently taking p4 minific requests (1000 words or less), throw me an ask!

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Living Weapon Whumpee *BONUS* Scene part 10

Warnings: forced living weapon/fighter, aftermath of being a weapon/semi-retired weapon, lost family, fractured memories, rejection, fluffy heart-to-heart conversation

"Yet we choose to love, again and again, open ourselves up to being hurt... because it is worth it for the reward. To steal those small moments of light in the darkness."

"You speak like someone who knows this invisible pain well," Whumpee cautiously ventured.

Flint's expression faltered, a hint of distant sadness crossing his features "I do," he whispered. "I know it far too well..." He paused for so long Whumpee wondered if he even planned on elaborating at all, or leaving him wondering.

"Have you... ever lost someone?" he pressed.

"Many times," Flint admitted sorrowfully. "It never gets easier to see those around you fall. I'm around it more than others are as leader of the army, fighting on the frontlines. I've seen a lot of death in my lifetime, mostly strangers, but... far too often people I knew personally. People I cared about too deeply." His voice hitched subtly, a trace of thick emotion in it, but he schooled his expression to be carefully neutral, with visible effort.

"Myra's mother -- my wife -- was one of those losses. You never truly get over stuff like that, no matter how hard brave men try to pretend otherwise. June was her name, and she died during a raid performed by Leader, a few months before he started showing up on the battlefield with you as his weapon to wield. As far as Myra knows, her mother died of natural causes, got cancer and passed away peacefully. But it was so terrible I couldn't bring myself to tell Myra the truth."

Flint took a deep, shaky breath to calm himself. "I had been traveling to the town my wife lived in to update her on the status of the war like I often did to reassure her, but I arrived to find the place torn apart and doors of houses busted down. And I will never forget the moment I found June lying in a pool of blood with a dozen bullet holes in her, never forget seeing her lifeless eyes. That memory will haunt me to the day I breathe my last breath, and I will carry a shard of that pain with me wherever I go. But it is by that pain that I know it was real."

Whumpee nodded thoughtfully, eyes softening slightly with a newfound understanding of Flint. Now he knew why the leader was so protective of his daughter and even his closest soldiers like Max and Jake, because they were like family to him. He was choosing to care about them and risk being hurt.

"How do you live with it?" Whumpee asked. "With the pain?"

"I surround myself with people who support me and my decisions, who are there when I need them. I cherish those who stay by my side through both the good times and hard. I never take them for granted. They are the main reason I'm able to carry my pain so well, even though the burden is heavy."

"...I don't know what to do about Miranda," Whumpee confessed. "Your wife died, and mine's still alive... but doesn't even remember me. How am I supposed to be at peace with that? At least if she were dead, I could have closure, but... her being alive yet fearing me almost feels a worse agony to suffer through."

Flint gave him a sympathetic glance. "It might just take time for Miranda to settle in," he suggested. "She was rescued alongside other prisoners -- I imagine that was rough for her. And then seeing you right after -- I think she might come around, once she realizes she's safe and free. And even if she doesn't... I, uh, I hope you know you've always got a place among my team or under the roof of my headquarters. You... don't have to struggle through this on your own."

Whumpee blinked at him in genuine surprise at the offer. It was like inviting him to be part of the family, though he knew there were plenty of men in Flint's headquarters who would have a problem with him.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @cepheusgalaxy

@dragongodryss @theforeverdyingperson

[heyitsjustmoi]

First in Bag End

The path had led him through the green, rolling hills of the Shire, with its freshly tilled earth, gardens teeming with life, and flower boxes brimming from windowsills. He took it all in, but found it difficult to describe the peace and tranquility of this land—an unfamiliar feeling for one who had seen much strife.

He had never heard of the Shire, not by name nor by reputation, and upon his arrival, the lush landscape overwhelmed him. It was unexpected, this calm, this peacefulness—a far cry from the dark and sorrowful halls of the Blue Mountains.

A small, elderly hobbit, burdened by a sack of rice, stumbled near him. Thorin reached out instinctively, steadying the sack with ease.

"Thank ye, laddie!" the hobbit exclaimed, his weathered face lighting up with gratitude.

Thorin held the sack a moment longer. "Where shall I take this for you?" His voice held a quiet uncertainty, for his garb and stature drew the eyes of curious onlookers. He was an outsider here, and the gaze of the Shirefolk upon him felt both curious and judgmental.

"Oh, there's no need, none at all! I can manage from here," the old hobbit replied, tipping his hat in thanks before reclaiming the sack with a slight bow.

With a sigh, Thorin breathed in the fresh air. Gandalf said I would know Bag End when I saw it, he mused, his eyes drifting to the peculiar homes of the hobbits—each one built under the hills, their round doors set like jewels in the earth. It amused him to think of the dirt that must settle within, though the people themselves appeared anything but unkempt.

One door in particular caught his attention: a perfectly round green door with a brass knob set squarely in its center. He paused momentarily before moving on, continuing his search through the village. His feet carried him toward the market, where laughter and lighthearted chatter filled the air. The spirits of the Shirefolk were infectious, and Thorin felt a flicker of something he had long since buried—hope.

Amidst the market's bustling energy, a voice caught his ear. "Now, I don't suppose you've seen a Wizard lurking about?" The voice was that of a finely dressed hobbit, polished and perhaps a touch arrogant in his manner.

"A tall fellow? Long, gray beard? Pointy hat?" the farmer replied, shaking his head. "Can't say I have."

Before the conversation could unfold further, the hobbit rushed off, leaving Thorin to ponder. A Wizard… Could this be the one Gandalf mentioned? He followed the hobbit at a distance, careful to remain unnoticed, for he had no desire to make a poor impression on the fourteenth member of their company.

Soon, Thorin found himself standing before the same round green door he had passed earlier. As he examined it closely, he noticed a symbol etched discreetly upon its surface. He nearly groaned aloud—he had walked right by the very place he sought. So much for my directional sense.

He watched as the hobbit entered the house, and Thorin, unsure of his next move, sat quietly on a small bench nearby. For a moment, he allowed himself to breathe in the stillness, the tranquility of this place. A fleeting thought crossed his mind—could he one day live in such peace? Perhaps, when Erebor was reclaimed and his crown secured, he might retire to a small home here, far from the weight of the throne. The idea brought a rare smile to his face.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the Shire, Thorin rose and approached the door. He knocked firmly, and after a moment, it creaked open to reveal a hobbit, staring up at him with wide, startled eyes.

"Uh—who—"

"Thorin Oakenshield," he introduced himself with a small nod. "And you must be the hobbit."

The hobbit blinked in confusion. "Hobbit? Well, yes, I am indeed a hobbit, but... do we know each other?"

"Not yet," Thorin replied with a faint smirk. "You haven’t given me your name."

"Ah, yes! Bilbo Baggins," the hobbit replied, offering his hand hesitantly. Thorin took it, his grip firm.

"Now we know each other," Thorin said. "May I come in?"

Bilbo stepped aside, still clearly flustered. "Well, I suppose so, though I must apologize—I’m not expecting any visitors, and my dinner preparations—"

Thorin stepped inside, shedding his cloak and handing it to Bilbo. The hobbit took it, unsure of where to place it, before hanging it on a nearby peg. Thorin surveyed the hobbit-hole, his first impression upended. Despite being under a hill, the walls were not earthy, but lined with polished wood, the air warm and inviting. It felt... homely.

"You have a fine home, Master Baggins," Thorin said, genuinely pleased.

Bilbo, still a bit taken aback, smiled faintly. "Thank you."

"Where’s your kitchen? I might lend a hand."

Bilbo hurried after him, protesting. "No, no, you’re a guest—uninvited, perhaps, but still a guest!"

Thorin ignored the remark, already inspecting the small kitchen. "You’ll want to prepare more than this, Master Baggins. There will be more guests later this night."

Bilbo’s eyebrows shot up, his voice rising in pitch. “More guests? Who—? Wait! Wait! That’s the pantry!”

Thorin, undeterred, had already begun rummaging through the pantry, pulling out supplies with the practiced ease of a man accustomed to hard work. “Bombur alone could devour half this larder, so you might want to prepare more than this block of cheese.” He placed items on the table. “I’m no master chef, but I can manage slicing and dicing.”

Bilbo stood frozen for a moment, mouth agape, before throwing his hands up in resignation. “Fine! Fine! I suppose you're right.” With a deep breath, he took charge of his kitchen once more, pointing Thorin toward a cutting board and handing him a knife. “Slice these vegetables—thinly, mind you—and mind the pots while I prepare the bread.”

Thorin obeyed, a rare smile playing at the edges of his lips. There was something oddly pleasant about the hobbit’s kitchen, about Bilbo himself, in fact. For the first time in years, Thorin felt the weight on his shoulders lift, if only for a fleeting moment. He worked with surprising ease, the rhythm of the kitchen a welcome distraction from darker thoughts of dragons and distant mountains.

As they worked, Bilbo’s flustered chatter filled the room, though Thorin found it rather amusing.

“What is this even about?” Bilbo finally asked, stirring one of the simmering pots. “I’m preparing a meal for a gathering I know nothing of, and for strangers, no less! Forgive me, but I barely know you, Mister Oakenshield!”

Thorin chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I take it Gandalf neglected to inform you.”

“Gandalf?” Bilbo exclaimed, nearly spilling the soup. “That old wizard! He did say something about an ‘adventure’ this morning, which I very clearly declined.”

“Declined?” Thorin’s brow arched in surprise.

“Yes, declined! I don’t imagine anyone west of Bree has much use for adventures. Certainly not me! Do I look like the sort to go gallivanting off into danger?”

Thorin looked him over appraisingly, eyes twinkling with mirth. “No, if I’m being honest, you look more like a grocer.”

“Well, that wasn’t very nice,” Bilbo muttered, though he couldn’t quite hide the smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t look like a grocer! I could be an adventurer if I wished. Did you know that my great-great-great-great-uncle Bullroarer Took was so large, he could ride a real horse?”

“Is that so?” Thorin indulged him.

“Yes! In the Battle of Green Fields, he charged the goblin ranks, swinging his club with such might that he knocked the Goblin-king’s head clean off! It sailed a hundred yards and landed down a rabbit hole, and thus the battle was won, and the game of golf invented at the same time!”

Bilbo’s pride in the tale was evident, and Thorin couldn’t help but smile, amused by the hobbit’s sudden enthusiasm for adventure—despite his earlier protests.

“Here, taste this,” Bilbo said, interrupting Thorin’s thoughts as he offered a spoonful of the soup.

Thorin leaned in, tasting the broth, and hummed appreciatively. “That is fine soup, Master Baggins.”

“Family recipe,” Bilbo said, clearly pleased with himself.

As the preparations continued, Bilbo busied himself with more tales, and Thorin, to his own surprise, found that he enjoyed listening. It was peaceful, listening to the hobbit’s stories of a life so far removed from his own. Here in this little kitchen, with the warmth of the fire and the simple task of preparing a meal, Thorin felt a rare contentment.

At last, when the table was set and the food prepared, Thorin turned to Bilbo, his tone more serious. “Master Baggins,” he began, startling the hobbit from his task, “I would tell you my story now.”

Bilbo blinked, then nodded, taking a seat as Thorin gestured for him to do so. Thorin sat opposite him, the flickering firelight casting long shadows across the room.

With a deep breath, Thorin recounted the tale of Erebor—of the dragon Smaug, of the desolation wrought upon his people, and of the long, bitter years spent in exile. As he spoke, he watched Bilbo’s face change, amusement giving way to concern, and finally, fear. He couldn’t fault the hobbit for his reaction; it was a story filled with loss and peril.

“I cannot guarantee your safety,” Thorin admitted solemnly, his voice low. “Nor will I be responsible for your fate. But if you are to be what Gandalf believes you can be, we will need your help to reclaim what was stolen from us—our home.”

For a long moment, Bilbo was silent, his small frame hunched under an invisible weight. Thorin could almost see the thoughts turning in his head, the quiet struggle within him. Though they had only just met, Thorin found himself liking the hobbit. He was unsure yet whether he could trust him fully, but if they had met under different circumstances, Thorin thought he might have enjoyed getting to know Bilbo better. Perhaps, in time, they could even have been friends.

“I—I don’t know,” Bilbo stammered at last, his voice shaky. “I’ve never left this place, not once.”

Thorin nodded, thoughtful. He understood the appeal of the Shire, its charm, its tranquility. He even envied it. For all his efforts to make the Blue Mountains his home, they had never truly felt like one. And though Erebor was his birthright, the truth was he no longer knew if it would ever feel like home again.

“At least hear the others out when they arrive,” Thorin said, offering a small smile. “I will not hold you to anything if you choose to decline.”

When Bilbo remained silent, Thorin found himself continuing, his voice tinged with a longing he didn’t quite understand. "But in other circumstances, Master Baggins, I would love nothing more than to sit here, share a cup of tea, and listen to your tales for hours on end.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment, the doorbell rang. Both hobbit and dwarf turned to the door.

“They’re here,” Thorin said, standing from the table. He crossed the room and opened the door to greet his company, his expression turning more serious.

As the others filed in, filling the quiet of the place with noise and movement, Thorin found himself wishing for a little more time—just a bit longer with Bilbo, in the peace of his home. But the road ahead called him, with all its dangers and responsibilities. Such peace, he knew, was too much to hope for.

---

So this was inspired by my own musing. Once I have more ideas, I'll probably turn this one into multiple chapters. But for now, I hope you enjoyed this one! ---

Now posted in ao3 as well! xoxo