#except that. this took Two Years whoops.

[chiropteracupola]

"What Grows on the Oak," 2024.

it's the time of year, once more, for an original spooky story!

The oak trees lie across the hills like low smoke, soft and near, and the road dips down into the valley, as inviting as any road has ever been, but the girl on the bench of the buggy on the hilltop makes no move to follow it.

Rose looks out down the road and over the hills, and taps her fingers beside her on the bench. It’s a quiet enough afternoon that there’s little other sound but the high thin sound of insects, and the wind in the long grass, and Rose’s fingers, tapping. The horse, still in harness, looks up and flicks its ear, as if in protest at the sound, and Rose sighs and forces her hand still.

There is a girl in the nearest tree, Rose notices — the fact of it is idly categorized, without true interest. All the same, the light is catching in her hair, dashing shadows over her face as she sits draped across the curve of a branch, and Rose cannot look away from her.

The Fosters, at whose door Rose waits, have no daughter — no children but the one still-toddling son, who Rose remembers as a colicky, twitchy boy. Besides, this girl looks nothing like Mr Foster and his wife, for her hair stands out about her head like a bundle of mistletoe, pale as sun-worn wood. She is, perhaps, their hired girl. Rose is struck by envy, suddenly, that the Fosters’ hired girl had the time to shinny up a tree in the last light of evening, and still would be paid for her work…

Rose sighs, leaning her chin on her hand. Perhaps it is enough for her to be her father’s driver, and to have bed and board in his house — perhaps some day there will be money for school again, in San Francisco or even out east. And perhaps it is not enough, and perhaps there will not ever be.

“Hello, doctor’s driver,” says a voice at Rose’s elbow. Rose yelps in surprise, then turns. It is the girl with the mistletoe hair — dry moss hair — hair like a cloudy day in August.

“No, you’re his daughter, are you not?” asks the Fosters’ hired girl, and Rose nods. “Miss del Llano, that’d make you.”

“Just Rose, please.” She’ll be Miss some other day — not now, in her too-short skirts and with her plait hanging over her shoulder.

“May I come up?” asks the girl.

“Surely,” says Rose, and the girl has swung herself into Rose’s father’s accustomed seat in a fluttering of pale skirts.

“Your father is the doctor — what does he do here? “He is a leech, then? A bloodletter?”

“Don’t be silly, he’s not medieval!”

“Hm-mm, I shall believe you when you prove it me,” says the girl, laughing, and leans her chin on her hand to make herself Rose’s mirror. Side by side they sit for a while, and the dark gathers in across the hills until oaks and grassland alike are made one mass of shadow. Somewhere in the trees beyond the road, a horned owl utters its deep, melancholy cry out into the dusk.

“If ghosts had telephones, I should think they’d sound rather like that,” says Rose, the early chill of after-sunset driving her quite easily to a morbid sort of cheer.

“How the times change,” says the girl, with an odd, but not entirely unhappy, look in her eyes. “No, my dear; ghosts use the same telephones as you and I, as you well know.” Rose does not know, well or otherwise, much at all about ghosts, so she nods, and feels a little more of the girl’s weight settle on her shoulder.

“You have very cold hands,” says Rose, and the girl from the oak tree smiles and taps at Rose’s cheek with clammy fingers.

“I always have, I’m afraid.”

“It’s no bother, really.” And so they sit and watch the sky, the falling-dusk and the distant fog that creeps over the hills, until there’s light, sharp as a door opening.

Rose turns, and it is only Dr del Llano, leaving his patient with his hat in his hand. She turns back, and the Fosters’ hired girl is gone.

“How is Mrs. Foster,” Rose asks, without any particular feeling in her voice, and her father shakes his head in reply. But the road down into the valley, where lies the town, is before them, and Rose is pleased enough at the journeying that she asks no further questions.

It’s in the hills and on the road that Rose meets, again, with the oak tree girl, the mistletoe girl, the girl with hands like marble in the shade. Once again, Rose is waiting for her father while he attends a patient, and, lazing in the sun, Rose has pushed the sleeves of her shirtwaist up to her elbows.

And then the girl is there again, with her shock of cobweb hair moving, ever so faintly, in a breeze that doesn’t seem to reach as far as the buggy-seat.

“Hello, my pretty-lovely,” says the girl, putting her hand out to the horse still in its traces. Though usually affectionate, the horse puts back its ears and pulls its head away.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” says Rose, half-laughing. “Save your sweet words for someone who wants them, all the same.”

“Has she a name, then?”

“Other than Morgan, for what she is? Not at all,” Rose replies. Neither she nor her father have ever thought of one, for all that they’re fond of the hardworking little mare. “And have you a name, then?” For she’s remembered, now, that her oak-tree girl had never told her of it.

“I’m called Saro,” says the girl, and again swings herself up beside Rose. “What does your father do here, my Rose?”

“Oh, I oughtn’t say,” and Saro looks back at her with a stare of please? and Rose laughs and says anyway. She shouldn’t gossip, but she leans in close anyway, and whispers that “Old Man Lucas has got the clap, and him a widower these ten years!” Saro’s mouth twitches at the corners — she can’t hide her laugh for long, and it bursts, bright, out from her.

“I shall tell, I shall tell!” says she, and Rose coughs on her own laugh with a still-merry “Don’t!”

“You’ll have to catch me and make me, first!” and Saro leaps down from the buggy and runs, her skirts, her hair a flash of white in the golden-dry grass. And Rose, her spirits raised beyond what a grown girl such as herself should permit, follows. She’s less fleet-footed than Saro, earthbound still, stumbling on furrows in the land, catching her heels in ground-squirrel burrows.

Saro, she’s sure, is holding back for her benefit — letting herself be caught. And Rose does catch her, knocking her off her feet and into the grass. Saro’s laughing-merry still, her hair stuck full of grass-seed and foxtails. Close-to, Rose can see the freckles that dapple her cheeks and nose, the squint of her dark eyes when she smiles. Saro flicks Rose’s cheek, the snap of her fingers like a prickle of frost, and Rose lies there in the dusty field, entirely lost.

But Saro’s on her feet again before Rose can blink, before Rose can reach out to her, and Rose is standing, blinking in the sunlight, stumbling back to the buggy as she dusts bits of dry grass from her skirt. She buttons the sleeves of her shirtwaist again, the cuffs of which don’t quite come to her wrists anymore, and laughs when her father hands her up into her seat like a lady.

“The best whip I ever had,” he says, perfectly straight-faced.

“Gee-up!” says Rose, holding the reins in one hand and imagining herself perched atop a stagecoach. But even for all her imaginings, she’s as good a driver as her father says, and draws the horse into a gentle trot to see them home. It’s hill and dale down into the valley, hill and dale again like a song, and in the inner slopes lie trees in amid the dust-golden grasses of summer. Beneath the sparse, spreading branches, it is suddenly cooler, then warmer again, as the horse steps evenly onward and back into the sun.

“That’s mistletoe, you know,” says Dr del Llano, as he’s said a thousand times before, and points up at the gray-green mass that clings among the summer-sparse branches of an oak.

“Isn’t that for Christmastime?” asks Rose.

“It’s an odd thing we bring it in for the Nativity,” muses her father, still looking back at the tree as they pass it by. “Poison, that — and it chokes the life out of the oak tree, too. Not a kindly thing, mistletoe, but we hang it up with the flor de Nochebuena all the same…”

He doesn’t speak after that, but sings instead, an out-of-season hymn of sons newborn and deaths already foretold. If the verse telling of tombs ought to be grim, Dr del Llano doesn’t make it so, and so the story of gloom and gravity is nothing but a blithe eventuality, predicted all light-hearted by a man very certain of the truth of it.

Mrs. Foster dies soon after. Rose sits in the church as the priest says the first of the masses for her, the first of seven that her widower has paid for. She waits at the door while her father makes conversation — how she wishes he would hurry up! But the doctor in his black coat and the priest in his cassock are two crows alike, and so she is there in the doorway until her father says ‘good-by, Padre’ and comes to join her. Rose hardly has the time to shut her hymnal closed over the catalog tucked inside before he bustles past her, eager now to be on his way.

“Damned quiet place now that the mine’s shut up,” he says on the walk home, and Rose nods, though she does not remember the mine-town as her father does. She knows that there is no more coal to be had here and no more sand, and that with the mine has gone much of her father’s custom. Without black-lung and burns and broken bones, there is far less for a doctor to do in these hills.

But there is no other doctor than Juan Soto del Llano, with his limping step and his rosary about his neck and his rattletrap of a horse-drawn buggy with his only daughter to drive it, so he goes on as he has, and mends up broken bones and offers fever-cures to farmers and their wives, and to the valley townsfolk nearer home.

Henry Freeman is twenty-two, the bright young son of a new-money farmer. He is sickening for something, he is grey-faced and cold and his eyes do not focus.

Dr del Llano is at his door with hat in hand — money passes from the elder Mr. Freeman’s worn hand into his, and the doctor closes the older man’s hand over the coins. Out on the bench of the buggy, Rose scoffs and shakes her head. The fog-touched night is cold even through her coat, and she shivers involuntarily.

“He oughn’t to do such things,” she says, to no one but herself. But all the same, Rose turns her head, and Saro is there beside her, smiling.

“What oughtn’t he do?” asks Saro, with the questioning merriment in her voice that Rose has come to like so well.

“He doesn’t ask for payment, when it’s hill sickness,” and, seeing Saro’s quirk of the mouth, the way the question lurks in her well-dark eyes, Rose continues. “Father doesn’t know what it is, still, and he can’t mend it. It cannot be consumption, for it doesn’t settle in the lungs, but all the same — it is as if something is drawing out the life from them, every one.”

“So your Henry Freeman shall die, then,” says Saro, blunt.

“Don’t—“ says Rose, and stops, cold. “Who are you?” she asks, and looks Saro in the eyes, the brown of them so dark that Rose can barely find her own reflection. And the girl with the mistletoe hair reaches out, and pulls her hand across the golden curve of the hill as if she is stroking the grass that lies like dry cowhide on the ground.

“You know my name, doctor’s daughter, is that not enough?”

“Saro—“ Footsteps, and Rose’s head turns without her willing it. Doctor del Llano still has his sleeves rolled up, the edges wet from scrubbing. He doesn’t let them down again as he drags on his coat, hauling himself up to the buggy-seat as if held down by a great weight.

“Father—“ says Rose, and looks to Saro beside her, but even as she turns back, Saro is gone again.

“I’ll not talk of it,” he says, and hauls his bag into the buggy. It might well weigh as much as all the world. Rose huffs, and pulls her arms against her chest, and sets them on the road again.

And so it goes, over and over again — the Misses Hayward, unmarried, a few years older than Rose herself — Martin Foster, only three — the widow Ruiz, whose husband died down the mine before Rose was born. All of them greying, cold, dying quick. There is sickness in the hills, and it is sickness that the doctor cannot cure, and Rose — Rose finds that she barely cares. She stands in the church, once more, at Lillie Hayward’s funeral, and cannot look at the coffin, but only turns her head to search for wild light hair among the townsfolk in the pews.

But Saro doesn’t come to town; that’s not the place for her, Rose knows. How could she stay anywhere else but where the wind drags the points of oak leaves down the sky, where the tall grass parts under her hands like water?

So life goes on as it did before — the spiders building their webs across the age-grey clapboards of the doctor’s house by the old mine, the oak leaves stuck by their prickling edges to the drying wash, Rose’s father singing softly in his parents’ Spanish as he stocks his black bag at his desk in the front-room.

Rose leans against the desk, chipping at the varnish with her fingernails. In concession to the afternoon heat, the eastward window is flung open, and the thinnest breeze flicks at the pages of the last Sears catalog laid idly within her reach. She has begun to resent the sun — she closes her eyes, hunting darkness for darkness’s sake, and thinks of Saro in her white skirts, standing candle-slender in the dusk between the hills, Saro’s hands that are always cold, pressed softly against Rose’s face, her neck, her chest.

Telephone, its jangling sound sharp in the late-summer quiet — her father’s soft noises of questioning and assent — the practiced movements of putting harness to the horse. But for all that the interruption is sharp, there’s a pleased rise in Rose’s heart nonetheless, for if she is lucky, she will see Saro on the road.

She reins in the horse when her father tells her so, and hands him his bag as he jumps from the buggy — once he’s gone, Rose allows herself a secret smile. It’s early in the evening now, with the light all golden, her father’s horse with its dark mane a-gleaming in the last of the sun. Rose has a flask of coffee with her, brewed black as her father’s coat. She drinks most of it, hot and bitter, never mind that it had been meant to be shared. It doesn’t keep her awake — she drowses, head on her arms, and feels a breeze like soft hands stroke along her neck.

Today she has a headache. Her face is hot, even with her collar unbuttoned and her hat laid aside in her father’s seat. The day is warm, and the air tastes of dust, hot and dry in Rose’s throat. Saro’s hand on her cheek is as sweet and cold as anything Rose has ever snuck from the ice-house. Saro’s mouth against her neck is a cool draught.

“My dear sweet Rose,” says Saro, quiet, with only the barest hint of her usual merriment. “You’ve been ever so patient, even while I took my time with others.”

“Mm,” says Rose, and lets the weight of her body press up against Saro’s cold frame. Perhaps — perhaps that cold could leach the heavy heat from her head, the feverish blur from her eyes.

Saro’s fingers are at the buttons of Rose’s shirtwaist, now, the full breadth of her hand an ice-print on Rose’s chest. Saro from the oak tree, Saro with her hair like mistletoe. The hills rise golden around them, the wind rushing in Rose’s ears without touching her skin.

“May I?”

“Please,” says Rose, at the last, and lets Saro draw away the last of her living warmth.

[sturnioloszn]

MARKED - C.S

summary; you get a new tattoo, and chris has to show you just how much he loves it...

warnings; smut, unprotected sex (don't be silly, wrap the willy), dirty talk, praise, cream pie, hair pulling.

a/n; sorry it took me literally foreverrrr to get a fic out, i did post one, but i actually hated it w every fibre in my being, so... it got cut. whoops. anywayyy, enjoy this one lmaooo.

I laid on my stomach, with my skin flush against the black leather of the tattoo table when the loud buzzing of the tattoo gun came to a sudden halt and broke me from my daydreams.

"Alright, you're done. I can't believe you did it with no breaks, you're insane," Sam, my tattooer spoke from behind me, gently cleaning and wiping the remaining ink off.

"It's wasn't too bad," I chuckled, peering over to Nick, who shoved his phone in his pocket and leaned over to get a clear look at the finished product.

After what felt like years, I finally sat up from the chair and kept my hands firmly on my shirt to make sure it wouldn't slip and I'd accidently flash a titty, since it was completely open in the back.

I stood up and walked over to the full sized mirror in the corner of the room and stared at my new decoration in awe. I loved it. It was perfect.

"Okay, so since this is a pretty big tattoo, I'll try wrap it as best as possible, but it'll probably start to peel in no time," Sam spoke, following me to the mirror with the wrapping.

Nick and I eventually pay and hop into an Uber to bring us back to his place. "Soo, do you like it?" Nick asks, turning to look at me.

"I don't like it, I LOVE it. He did an amazing job," I complimented, looking down at Nick's new addition to his tattoo collection too.

"I told you Sam is the best," He bragged.

The ride to the house wasn't long at all, but sure enough, the wrapping of my tattoo was already peeling and coming undone. I decided to peel it off completely and just try to deal with it, trying to not cause an infection.

I was so excited to show off my new tattoo that the second Nick unlocked the front door, I sprinted up the stairs into the living room where I found Matt sprawled comfortably on the couch, lazily scrolling on his phone.

"Hey kid, how was it?" He asks, momentarily looking up from his phone.

"It was amazing, wanna see?" I ask with a happy grin plastered on my face. Before even waiting for him to reply, I lifted the back of my shirt up and turned to show him my back.

"Holy shit, it's massive," he says. I crack an immature joke before gloating about the fact that I didn't take a break not once. At this point, Nick had joined Matt on the couch, and they began to discuss his new tattoo aswell but I'm overflowing with excitement to show Chris mine.

"Is Chris in his room?" I ask, receiving a small nod from Matt in reply. I skip my way downstairs to his bedroom and push the door open without even knocking.

I found Chris hunched in his gaming chair, eyes locked on the screen in front of him, with his headset over both ears. He must've not heard me and Nick come in. I sneakily crawled up behind him, placing my two hands on his shoulders.

He jumped out of his skin but instantly relaxed when he realised it was my touch. "Heyyy, you're back," He says, taking his headset off and standing up to place a delicate kiss on my lips and wrap his long arms around my torso.

"Wanna see it?" I ask, jumping out from his embrace. I can't help the smile from returning onto my face, feeling the dopamine course through my veins.

I once again turned to show him my tattoo before even earning his reply to my question. After a few moments of silence, I turn back around, worried about what expression I'd find on his face.

"Do you... like it?" I hesitatantly ask. However, his expression doesn't falter except that he's now looking into my eyes.

"Do I like it?" He repeats, taking slow but profound steps towards me, filling my surroundings entirely with his presence. "I fucking love it, it's so sexy," he whispers, now standing face to face with me.

He connects his palm to the side of my face and guides me closer to him, connecting our lips. Our kiss was passionate and meaningful until it wasn't. His lips roughly crashed into mine again, his tongue slipping in and out of my mouth with ease.

"Y'gonna let me fuck you and look at your new tattoo, hm?" He mutters, barely separating himself from me. I whine in return, letting him know that I need it more than he could imagine.

As he continues to bite and suck at my sore lips, his hands roam my body, slowly peeling off layers of my clothes. I'm eventually left in just my underwear, which he doesn't hesitate to discard, alongside the rest of my clothes.

"Ass up, face down, baby," he orders, quickly discarding his own clothes, littering them on the floor until we're equally as bare. I moved onto the centre on his bed, doing just what he asked; pressing my face into his mattress and arching my back so that my ass was in the air.

"You're so fucking hot," he groans, coming up behind me. I feel him grip my hips tightly before placing a few firm slaps on my ass, eleciting some yelps and moans from me.

Without warning, he slams his entire length into me, making me scream into the sheets. "Y'gotta be quiet baby, can't have Matt or Nick know how much you love my cock,"

My moans grow louder and louder as he ruthlessly rams me from behind, hitting that amazing spot that makes me feel like I'm in heaven.

"Sh-it, Chr-is, too mu-ch," I moan and whimper between his thrusts. His hands fall from my hips and move to my hair, gathering it together, forming a makeshift ponytail.

He yanks on my hair, pulling me up from the mattress, and sticks our two sweaty bodies together as he continues his solid pace.

"Fuck- you're so beautiful, love your new tattoo... looks so fuckin' good," he grunts. I feel my end drawing near, and with a few more harsh thrusts, I feel my orgasm crash over me. My eyes roll to the back of my head, and my pussy squeezes around his cock, begging for him to also finish. "..love how tight you are f'me, mh,"

He let's go of my hair, making me flop down back onto the mattress, and his hands find their way back to my hips, roughly grabbing them. He somehow snaps his hips even faster, making my second orgasm fast approaching. The headboard of the bed is banging against the wall, and there's no hiding what is happening anymore.

He snakes one of his hands around me, reaching over to my clit, rubbing it viciously. At this stage I've lost all self control and I release my fluids all over his cock for a second of time.

"Fuck! Just like that, come on my cock," He moans, filling me with his own release. His movements begin to slow, but he continues moving his hips, fucking his cum into me.

I feel him pull his limp cock out of me and stare at his work of art; our mixed fluids dripping out of my pussy and onto the sheets. The only sound heard now is our heavy breathing, which is desperately trying to return to normal.

-

After a few hours filled with cuddling and laughter, Chris and I decided to scavenge the kitchen for any food we could find, but as soon as we came up the stairs Matt and Nick stare at us from the couch.

"You could've just said you liked her new tattoo,we didn't all have to hear it," Matt grimaces, standing up and leaving, with Nick trailing his footsteps shortly after.

"Well... at least you know?" Chris jokes, turning to me. We break into laughter, and the rest of the night is filled with the same laughter and love.

a/n; this is definitely better than the last fic i posted lmaoo, also my requests r open so feel free to leave some ideas! hope u enjoyed this, love you all <33

Taglist; @idrk2292 @clairesrose @045696 @forgottxen @mattsturniolover @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut

[joonipertree]

Gang Leader Girlfriend Things™

Tags: Mikey x Fem!reader, Fluff, crack, no angst, he's only soft for you <3, love of his life

You know, I think the first rule of joining a gang should be 'don't piss off the leader'. Like, you wanna fight people who can whoop your ass? Go for it, that takes courage and respect. But you join a gang like Toman with 'Invincible Mikey' as the head, the one thing you should probably not do is make him mad.

(Nobody is stupid enough to do that though, much less Toman.)

Mikey personally didn't fight the weak, finds no joy in something that isn't a challenge. Two highschoolers that got recruited by Mitchy's crew? He could tell they were nothing from the back of their babbling heads.

"My god, there's no way a girl like that is here. She's so fucking hot."

"What's a girl even doing in a gang? There's no way she fights."

Mikey's eye twitched. Not only are you most definitely in Toman, with a gang jacket and everything (You had your own but you ended up wearing his most of the time, pretty in what's his.) One of Toman's strongest was Senju, someone who would kick their ass too.

"Do you think she's single?"

"She is not." Mikey drawled, eyes dead and head tilted. Draken came behind him, wondering why his captain was just standing there. Mikey was always friendly with new members but very evidently, those two were an exception.

"What a bummer. She could've been mine."

Draken wanted to laugh so badly but Mikey's hand was warning him into silence before he could.

Mikey couldn't see the dude's face but knew that he was too ugly for you. You weren't into pathetic fucks. And the only person Mikey was pathetic for, was you.

A lot of gang members' eyes were on them now, ready to bow to their captain but stopping when Draken raised his palm. They could tell something was off, looking at the two kids who just didn't bother turning. The aura around Mikey was practically tangible though, suffocating to anyone who took notice.

Yamagishi staggered towards his friends, ready to point out the very dangerous threat behind them. Of course, he was the one who recruited them. If he wasn't Takemitchy's friend, Mikey would've added him to his blacklist. Mikey's finger against his lip kept Yamagishi from saying anything. Their fates were sealed already.

"Man, I could probably take her boyfriend on. Easy win and I get her."

Draken choked, Yamagishi wanted to die, the few people who were close enough to listen stepped away. Mikey still didn't say anything, because the moment he was waiting for finally happened.

Chifuyu had let you know of the arrival with a nod of his head, pausing in his rant about a manga you guys had been reading. You saw Draken's head first, eyes lowering, knowing that Mikey would always fall close. And there he was, his blond ponytail the only thing you could see. Your heart filled up like it always did because fuck, you wanted to consume him in your love. His eyes peaked out and your smile stretched your cheeks.

You walked as if on auto pilot, feet having a pep in them as you did. He stepped out in full view and you squealed at his gentle eyes and outstretched arms. You practically ran to him, you missed him and missed him and missed him.

Your shoulder grazed someone's as you zoomed past and launched yourself into Manjiro's warm embrace. Strong arms encircled you immediately, his cheek squishing against yours. And before you knew it, your feet were off the ground as he twirled you around. Unabashed laughter left your lips, hanging onto him and letting his warm and wet kisses pepper your face. The swooping in your chest was welcomed, clinging to the boy you've loved for years. Your precious----

"Hi, Jiro~" You crooned, eyes open to catch his reddened cheeks and sparkling eyes.

He put your feet on the ground and pulled you close by the waist, noses touching each other's.

"Hi, baby." He said in a hushed voice.

You gave his cheek a peck, knowing one on the lips would result in him not getting off of you. There was supposed to be a meeting, so you decided to have him later. Being a gang leader's girlfriend was hard work.

"Did you have a good day?" You asked, knowing he woke up an hour ago, barely in the realm to text you a 'good morning, honey' ('Morning' in Mikey's realm was 1pm).

"Mhm." Mikey hummed, giving your cheek a kiss too. You relished in it.

"Where are you going?" Draken's voice came gruffly and you saw the tall man with his hands on two members' shoulders.

Your boyfriend's gaze fell on them, hardened and cold. It made you shiver, his arms tightening around you when you did. It didn't scare you, he looked hot but it never meant anything good.

You blinked at the two boys, confused and just now noticing the complete silence and the eyes of everyone on you.

I mean, you were a spectacle whenever Jiro was involved but weren't they used to it by now?

"You guys have really bad awareness if you didn't notice me even when I spoke up. I don't know if we want that in our gang." Mikey's words were sweet but dripping in venom, a grin to hide his clear rage.

"I'm so so sorry, boss! We didn't know she was yours, I swear!!" Dude no 1 got on his knees immediately, more so because his legs gave out.

"It's our first day, please have mercy." Dude no 2 shouted, bowing till his head met the floor.

Oh, you thought, they were actual idiots.

Seeing people bow and beg at your boyfriend was always surreal. You knew he had repertoire and respect because of years of being a gang leader. Personally, you never really understood gang things tm. But you knew your Mikey could kick ass and people looked up to him, so you always enjoyed the times he did gang leader things tm cuz it was hot.

"Yamagishi, you recruited them so you have responsibility. Have anything to add?" Mikey asked the frozen boy, who probably stopped breathing a long time ago.

"Uh, it was Takemitchy's idea?" The boy said, knowing who Mikey's kryptonite was.

"You're the one who asked me. Don't try to get me killed along with them!" The acting president hollered.

Mikey turned to his best friend, smile still plastered on his face. If Takemitchy didn't have the trauma to back up his biggest endeavour, he would be worried that the dark impulse would've possessed him from that interaction alone.

"Mitchy, normally I would let the head captain step in for any decision made about their division. But since they directly challenged me, we have to deal with it like all gangs do, right?"

"We didn't....we didn't know, promise!" Dude no 2 peeped out.

"Hmm, but wasn't it you who said that you could take her boyfriend on? It'd be an easy win? There's enough people who witnessed that."

"Oh, Lord Almighty." Takemitchy murmured, "nothing can save them now."

"Not even an hour in and they're going to die." Another murmur from the crowd. (It was Ran)

"I never said that, I am not a part of this." Dude no 1 threw his friend under the bus immediately. It was understandable.

"'She could've been mine,'" Mikey practically sang, taking off his jacket, "is what you said, right?"

"No I couldn't," you spoke absentmindedly, only looking at your boyfriend cuz you'd lost interest in the morons, "you're too ugly for me."

It was a blow that hit almost as hard as the kick they were about to receive. Mikey let out an affectionate snort as he covered your head with his jacket. The heavy material blocking your peripheral as he left your side within a second. A sick crack brandished the air, followed by two thuds.

"Welp, that fight didn't last. How boring, wanted to show off." Mikey sounded bored, the asphalt crunching under his slippers as he walked back.

"Are they--" Takemitchy's panicked pitch followed, a very common tone whenever Mikey was involved.

"Breathing." Draken called out, giving them a light kick on the side to check.

"Takemitchy, your crew is banned from recruiting." Their leader yelled back with his head only half turned, a flurry of 'yes sir!'s came.

"Thank you for holding onto my jacket, baby." Mikey whispered as he took the jacket off your head and draped it on his shoulders. His eyes were back to being kind and gentle, warm hand cupping your face in gratitude. You melted into him, eyes closing. He left a kiss on your forehead, keeping you close.

"Ah, I'm hungry," he whined, "let's go get mcdonald's. I didn't eat breakfast."

"You didn't?" You asked as he interwined your fingers together and tugged.

"I had cereal but that barely counts." Mikey started chattering on, waving a hand to dismiss the meeting that never began.

[marichild]

satosugu fics i entreat everyone to read

these are just some of the amazing fics I’ve read! I highly recommend every single one to my fellow satosugu lovers. you won’t regret it, I promise.

Carry Me Home by @valleykey [58.4k, completed, T]

The boy shifts on his feet. “The year is two thousand and eighteen? Common Era?” Slowly, smile still plastic on his face, Suguru faces Satoru. This fucking dumbass. “Satoru,” he says, dangerous edge to his voice, “what did you do?” Satoru makes some bastardization of a sound, half between a laugh and a cough.  “...Whoops?”  “I,” Suguru grits, pinching two fingers together, “am this close to mass murder.” He’s joking.  Probably.  ///OR: Shortly before Geto would have massacred a village, he and Gojo are thrust eleven years forward into a would-have-been future that Geto is conspicuously absent from.

愛のある場所; river of light (that brings me to you) by @yuzudetergent [66.8k, completed, T]

A lesson in love is a lesson in swimming. Except for Suguru, it's getting dropped into the deep end with the tide licking at his neck, no kickboard or life preserver keeping him afloat. (Or: This is how Satoru finds the ocean.)

achilles, only the dead stay seventeen forever by getou_suguru (dheiress) [7.9k, ongoing, T]

He looks like a little kid, insouciant and irreverent, smiling at you like that. This is how you want to remember him. “Winter snow melts into Spring, of course!” You open your mouth to laugh and laugh and laugh and— His breath tastes, inexplicably, like spun sugar and honey on your tongue.  (Gojou Satoru is not a God, not yet. But He will be and you think (you know) that you will be  the first to kneel in worship and offer Him your blood, your flesh. Build Him a temple inside the circle of your arms until He sinks inside your ribcage, there to dwell safe and sound and beating just for you.)  ((Pay attention, now. This is a story about how a boy���the Hallowed one, the enlightenment of all, the one who rose high above others, the one and only—fell.))

Always an Angel (Never a God) by 0atmlk [44.6k, ongoing, M]

"The first time I saw the sunset here, I wanted to send you a picture."  Suguru looked at him, surprised. "Why didn't you?"  "Because I knew you’d been here before on your own, it was probably something you'd seen plenty of times." Satoru paused. "But I almost did. Opened it and everything to send to you. Then I saw the date of the last message you sent. We were pushing year three. So I didn't." . . .  Suguru finds Satoru at fifteen. Satoru finds him at twenty-eight.

I’m Sorry: In Various Translations by @koifishscribbles [45.9k, ongoing, M]

The coffee in Satoru’s stomach curdles. He feels the weight of every one if those eight years roll through his entire body like an earthquake. All the missed sleep clings to his eyes, and the unsent texts threaten to erupt from his mouth. Getou Suguru. It is not that his stitches unravel. Those took years to craft, cinched with vitriol, and won’t be undone in a single moment. It’s his very being that unspools onto the dirty linoleum floor. He wants Suguru to pick him up and untangle the length of him. His fingers once again becoming familiar as they expertly craft him into something new, better.  —— Gojo Satoru has not seen his ex, Getou Suguru, since college. Until he shows up one day teaching in the classroom across the hall from him.

an anthology of bad ideas by ilovegetosuguru [9.5k, completed, gen]

Gojo panics and asks a very attractive stranger to be his fake boyfriend for a wedding.  Here’s the problem — there’s no wedding.  (Fake Dating AU)

april pink by @valleykey [3k, completed, gen]

“Dude,” Satoru says, first thing off the train, glasses sliding down, wide eyes peering over the rim, “you have, like, flowers. In your lungs.” “Oh really,” Suguru says, dry, “I hadn't noticed.”

Puppet On A String by @killjoyproductions [6.8k, completed, E]

“Huh,” he muses. “Are you… saving yourself for marriage?”  “Nope.”  “Are you asexual?”  Satoru shakes his head. “I’m not asexual, just a virgin.”

Autonomic Breath by finalproject [10.9k, completed, E]

She turns to Satoru and asks, "When did you know?"

Lies That Bind by Anonymous [48.1k, ongoing, E]

“Really now,” Gakuganji snorted, doubtful. “How convenient. Who is this alpha, then?” And of course, Satoru had seen that question coming as soon as his claim of having a mate was halfway out of his mouth, but by that point he was already talking and it was too late to stop. “So nosy.” He wagged his finger in a tut-tut motion in the geezer’s face, watching him turn a horrible shade of angry red. “It’s Geto Suguru, of course.” Satoru's sick and tired of all the higher-ups insisting he needs to find an alpha and settle down just because he's an omega, and the simple lie that Suguru is his mate seems like the easiest way to get some peace and quiet. What could go wrong?

like the tides, never standing still. by antepuer [1.1k, completed, T]

“I fucking hate it sometimes.” Suguru taps the ash off and looks at him. Puppy-dog eyes, has no idea what Satoru refers to, but it would be far from the first time. “What do you mean?” “Being queer.” He finally admits. “It fucking sucks.”

once we have sufficiently tortured one another by irrevenance [4.6k, completed, E]

Suguru’s throat goes dry. “You’re no longer a sorcerer,” he realizes, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat in response to the sick joke that has laid itself before him. “And you came to me?” “Yes,” Satoru says pleasantly. “What will you do about it,” and here he lowers both his eyelashes and his tone, a mockery of seduction, “Getou-sama?”

the dream house by irrevenance [6.1k, completed, E]

Suguru adopts two little girls, marries Satoru, and becomes a teacher. It’s not enough.

where shall we go tomorrow? by elivellichor [15k, ongoing, T]

“Who the hell are you, and what the fuck do you want from me?” a raspy voice hisses, breath on the shell of his ear, knocking Suguru out of his daze. Suguru tilts his chin up to better meet his pursuit face to face and goes breathless. Enraged and fiery cerulean eyes stare down at him with a twisted expression. This child is undeniably Gojo Satoru. He can’t imagine any other with a disposition so fiery and confrontational.  Or: an indulgent age-regression fic featuring One (1) Baby Gojo Satoru and One (1) Very Tired Geto Suguru feat. healing <3

Caesura by @cielelyse [85.5k, completed, M]

The first time they meet, Suguru and Satoru do not like each other. Arrogant, cocky, insufferable, they think. Despite the smirks Shoko gives Suguru, or the sighs Yaga gives Satoru, they do not like each other. Until a mission changes that.

it's not gay unless the domains touch by @hollow-lime-green [40.2k, completed, E]

Funny thing is, when you put up walls made of infinity, you don’t expect people to start slipping in. And you certainly don’t expect to start wanting them to. Gojo Satoru never had a chance to get used to people touching him. Suguru gets that, and he’s happy to help. That’s what good friends do, right? Alternatively: Geto Suguru is the most oblivious man alive.

two sorcerers chillin' in a hot tub (five feet apart cause they’re not gay) by @hollow-lime-green

Geto Suguru has almost two decades of practice pretending not to see things that are clearly there, and Gojo Satoru has a well-documented history of being the most socially-stunted motherfucker alive. That’s how they got here. That’s also why neither of them know where the hell they’re going with this.

BONUS! Baby Mine by @seaemberthesecond

There was something just slightly off in every interaction between Gojo-sensei and Fushiguro and once Yuji’d begun to notice it, he couldn’t unsee it. It wasn’t a bad kind of off – at least he didn’t think so – but it was just different from the way either of them acted around everyone else. * Or, Yuji's journey to discovering that Megumi is Gojo's baby boy, featuring: an insane amount of simping, the mundane indignities of being a parent, and a lot of Yuji snooping in places he really shouldn't be.

(aka, that fic I go back to all the time. gojo being megumi’s dad will never not be one of my favorite things ever.) (clearly)

[quin-ns]

Let’s Ditch (JJ Maybank x Reader)

Word count: 1.4K

Summary: JJ convinces you to ditch school with him and go out on the boat, only for the two of you to get stranded

Tags: fluff, friends to lovers, love confessions, kissing, just some overall sweetness

A/N: first fic of the year ���� wanted to start off on a nice note with some simple fluff

OBX masterlist + main masterlist

“Please, please, please—”

“Oh my god, JJ, fine!” you agreed, finally breaking.

He’d spent the last few minutes doing everything in his power to persuade you to ditch the rest of school and go out on the HMS Pogue with him.

After nothing else worked (asking nicely, bargaining, bribing), he resorted to begging. Relentlessly.

And, just as JJ had hoped, he wore you down before you could go to your next class.

“You’re the best!” He smiled, beaming with victory.

Sneaking out of the school was easier than it should’ve been. The two of you simply walked off campus and found where JJ parked his bike.

He put on his sunglasses and grinned at you. You rolled your eyes and bit back a smile. You were already having fun, you always did with JJ.

You climbed on, sitting behind JJ. You locked your arms around his waist when he told you to hold on tight. He revved the engine then took off well over the speed limit, leaving the school behind. He was going so fast he had to hold onto his hat with each turn, and the wind drowned out your laughter.

It was a short ride to the Chateau, and soon enough the two of you were hopping off. JJ left his bike in the yard and jogged to catch up to you, swinging an arm over your shoulders. Your face heated up as he hurried you both down the dock.

You lifted your hand to shield the sun from your eyes, watching JJ get the boat in the water.

“Does John B know we’re here?” you wondered, other hand falling to your hip.

“C’mon, you know he doesn’t mind!” JJ called back, hopping on to the boat. “Let’s go!”

That wasn’t exactly a “yes”, but you still stepped on, taking JJ’s hand to do so.

“Such a gentleman,” you commented lightly.

He responded, “Only for you.”

JJ went to the wheel, driving the two of you away from the dock and out into the marshes.

The further you got, the more relieved you grew that you were out of that boring school. You did your best to take it seriously because it was supposed to be important, but you missed summer break already.

“Can I drive?” you asked after a while, forgetting the story you’d been in the middle of telling JJ.

“Of course,” JJ said dramatically. He stepped back from the wheel, making way for you. He took off his sunglasses and shoved them onto your face. “You might want these.”

You laughed, adjusting them.

“Thank you very much.”

JJ grinned. “No problem, Captain.”

“Captain?” You hummed. “I like the sound of that.”

That was your last comment before you went full throttle. JJ held on tight, turning his red cap backwards to keep it from flying off his head. You had to grip the wheel tight to stay standing, both of you whooping and hollering at the speed.

Except, you didn’t get far. In a matter of minutes the boat was sputtering to a stop. That quickly killed the yells and grins of adrenaline.

“So, um, we’re out of gas,” the blonde declared when he returned from checking the tank.

You crossed your arms and leaned back against the wheel, knowing you weren’t going anywhere.

“Well, how much was in it when you first checked?”

JJ looked guilty. The fuel gauge was busted and John B had to get it fixed, so recently you’ve been having to check manually.

“Um, about that… I might have not checked.”

“You didn’t check?”

“Did you see me check?”

“So, let’s recap,” you started, holding your hands out. “You convince me to go on the boat and then you forget to check if it had any gas in it?”

“That pretty much covers it, yeah,” JJ replied to your sass with an equal amount.

“A+ planning,” you quipped.

“Wow, my first A+,” he joked, and you couldn’t smother the grin that started to form. “I’m sorry about the gas—we can call Pope, see if he can come bring us some.”

“It’s okay,” you assured him. “Although there’s no way Pope is leaving class early to rescue us.”

As it would turn out, you were right. You got lucky when you called him because he was between classes, so he actually answered. However, he said he could come get you but he wasn’t going to leave school early. That was after he called JJ a bad influence on you.

JJ couldn’t argue with that.

It was close to the end of the school day, so you wouldn’t have to wait too long for him, but it would still be over an hour.

You ended up sitting on the deck facing one another, trying to keep low to avoid the sun. You went back and forth talking about anything and everything and you had to admit, it was better than being in class. Then again, being with JJ was one of your favorite things, so it wasn’t a fair competition.

“No way you think C.H.U.D. is the best horror movie,” you argued when he brought it up.

“I’m pretending I didn’t hear you say that,” JJ shot back. “Why do you think I bring it up all the time?”

“Okay but that doesn’t make it a masterpiece just ‘cause you talk about it. That’s like saying being a mortician is the best job ever just because Pope always talks about it.”

JJ’s smile grew and you gave him a look.

“What?” you wondered, noticing the expression.

“This is nice,” JJ said, causing you to laugh.

“Arguing about movies is nice?”

“Well, yeah. It’s been so long since we’ve hung out,” JJ said with a shrug. Clearly it had been on his mind. You opened your mouth to counter, but he continued. “I mean, I see you everyday because of school and stuff, but I feel we haven’t really hung out just us in a while.”

You frowned a little. “It’s not like I don’t want to, it’s just been a busy month…”

“I know, I don’t blame you,” JJ assured. “I just miss you.” He hesitated before continuing. “A lot. And I was gonna tell you all that today, but I didn’t imagine it being because we were stuck out here getting sunburned.”

You gave him a curious look. “You didn’t have to bring me out here just to tell me you wanted to hang out more.”

JJ snorted. “It wasn’t just that,” he revealed. “I wanted it to be just us and not have an excuse to back out…”

“Back out? You’re not gonna push me overboard, are you?” you teased, and you and JJ both laughed. “Because I can swim, y’know.”

“Not my plan at all, but nice to know that’s where your mind goes.”

You relaxed with the taunting as you asked, “So what is it, then?”

JJ fiddled with his hands, eyes flicking away from yours for a minute. You watched him carefully, wondering where he was going with this.

Before he could continue, you heard a boat approaching. You got to your feet and so did JJ. The two of you spotted Heyward’s boat with Pope on board heading towards you.

“Hey there!” you called, waving to Pope. He waved back. You looked at JJ and saw his expression shift. “Wait, what were you gonna tell me?” He bit his lip. “Come on, don’t back out. You said you weren’t going to, so what is it?”

“Right, okay,” he said, getting a bit antsy. “What I was gonna ask is… will you go out with me?”

Your brows shot up.

“Like a date?”

JJ smiled sheepishly. “Exactly like a date.”

“Okay,” you answered, a smile overtaking your features. You didn’t even hesitate.

“Okay…” he repeated, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “Okay—yeah. Awesome!”

The two of you chuckled at his excitement, and you stepped closer to him.

A silence fell over the two of you and you knew you were thinking the same thing.

JJ leaned in to kiss you, and you met him halfway. Your lips fit together perfectly, but it didn’t last long.

“Hey guys!” Pope called, pulling the boat up next to the HMS Pogue. You and JJ turned to look up at him, seeing the amused face of your friend and a gas can in his hand. “Am I interrupting something or do you still need rescuing?”

You and JJ exchanged a look before JJ replied.

“Both.”

[thiswaytwoinfinity]

it’s a bad idea, right? - part 1: can’t two people reconnect

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x reader • inspired by sleeping with other people

Warnings: no use of y/n or physical description of reader except they have hair that can be tucked behind their ears, implied smut, this chapter is fine but future installments will be 18+

It’s finally here! Thank you to everyone for being so supportive and patient about this fic; I was dealing with some rough personal stuff and lost all my inspiration but it’s back now and I’m happy to be writing about everyone’s favorite cocky flyboy.

There’s something about a sticky summer night when you’re 22 that makes you feel more alive than you’ve ever been.

It’s the third bar that your new roommates have dragged you to tonight, there’s a cocktail sweating in your hand and the bass from the stereo thudding through your head. You’re not sure if the grin on your face is from the watching all of the wannabe cowboys go flying off the mechanical bull in mere milliseconds or from the possibilities of newfound adulthood laid out in front of you. In this moment, it’s hard to imagine that you were ever scared about moving halfway across the country — away from your family, your hometown and your high school sweetheart who always thought you’d move home after college — to Austin.

In this moment, you feel free. You feel invincible. You feel like this is a night you’ll remember for the rest of your life.

 

“Okay, the bar is a madhouse but I managed to get another round!” Anna shouts as she makes her way back to the table, tossing her long dark hair behind her before plopping the tray of shots down in front of you and your new friends. “And there’s a new rule!”

Everyone groans in unison; Anna loves to make up drinking games, handing out shots and beers with a new rule or bet that is guaranteed to leave someone embarrassed before the night’s over.

“Oh, stop. Shit like this is how we become lifelong best friends, trust me, I read about it online,” she fires back, rolling her eyes and handing shots to you and the three other girls at the table before taking one in hand. “It’s simple. Last one to finish their shot has to ride the mechanical bull.”

“Bitch, are you trying to kill us?” Erin asks, shooting a sideways glance at Katie, who’s eyeing up her shot glass like she’s trying to strategize the best way to drink it. The two of them are sisters — “Irish twins, it’s a whole thing,” Erin explained when you first moved in — are hyper-competitive and curse like sailors. You loved them instantly.

Your tiny hope of not being the one to end up on the bull dies when you look over at Taylor, who managed to throw back her tequila when nobody was watching. “What?!” she asks, curls bobbing in the bun on top of her head as she takes in everyone’s looks of confusion and frustration. “Anna never said we had to start at the same time.”

It’s like a starting pistol went off at the end of her sentence because before you know it, Erin and Katie are both biting into limes while Anna is swallowing down the liquor with a grimace. Shit.

You do your best to catch up but it’s too late. You, the girl who grew up nowhere near Texas and have never actually seen a bull in real life, are going to have to ride one in front of this entire bar.

Years later you won’t remember the details of the bet, how your friends whooped and hollered as you made your way over to the bull with shaky knees or how the operator took pity on you when you immediately slid off and offered you a second try. The song that was playing is lost to time, as is the actual feeling of riding the bull for a whole half second.

What you will remember, though, is sliding across the tarp to rest right by a group of athletic looking guys and the strong, tan hand that reached down to help you stand up.

You’ll remember the backwards Longhorns cap on his head, the way his green eyes flashed with amusement and the blinding white of his smile as he helped you to your feet, hand lingering just a moment too long in yours. You’ll remember the way it felt like someone had set off fireworks inside of you, fingers tingling where they touched his skin and your stomach swooping like you were on a roller coaster.

You’ll remember exactly what he said to you: “Well, that was definitely the most entertaining attempt of the night.”

You giggled, a little dazed by his chiseled features, by the way he seemed to only see you in that moment, by the force of his charisma.

 “I’m Jake. What’s your name, beautiful?”

 

For a Thursday night, the Hard Deck was surprisingly packed.

The Daggers had managed to claim their usual spot by the pool table, but despite their cramped quarters they practically had to shout over the sounds of drunken sailors and the oldies blasting out of the jukebox to be heard. The table next to Bob was crowded with beer bottles, the bespectacled WSO having waved off Penny when she stopped by to clear them, promising the group would clean up after themselves. Natasha and Bradley were in the middle of some kind of dumb darts competition, being heckled by Bob and a tipsy Rueben, who had his arm slung around the former’s shoulders for balance.

Jake took in the scenery, smug grin on his face, before sinking his final pool ball with a flourish.

“And that’s game, gentlemen,” he said, turning to Javy and Mickey, who were shaking their heads with frustration.

“Can’t believe I let you talk me into betting against him,” Mickey sighed, shuffling through his wallet for a $20 bill. Javy just shrugged and threw a playful punch against his friend’s shoulder, before asking for a rematch.

“Let that be a lesson, Fanboy,” Jake chuckled, making a big show of examining the bill before pocketing it. “Never bet against Jake Seresin. They call me a golden boy for a reason.”

“Who’s ‘they?’ Everyone we know just calls you a dick,” Nat called out, making her way back to the table for her drink. Taking a look at the chaos on the table, she rolled her eyes before starting to gather up a handful of empty bottles. “C’mon, Fanboy. Help me clear some of these and I’ll buy you a beer to drown your sorrows in.”

He ran over to help, allowing Javy to slide over to Jake and elbow his buddy in the side.

“10 o’clock, there’s a whole table of pretty ladies. The blonde’s had her eye on you all night and her friend with the locs is crazy hot,” he murmured, as Jake took a subtle look over at the table in question. 5 or 6 women were crammed into a booth, and judging by the tiara on one of their heads, they were out celebrating a birthday. “Wingman?” the younger aviator asked, holding out his fist for Jake to bump it.

For a half second, he contemplated turning his best friend down.

It wasn’t like Jake wasn’t attracted to the blonde, who was, indeed making eyes at him from across the room. She was exactly his type, all bright smiles and smokey bedroom eyes, her curves and long legs poured into tight jeans. She had an air of confidence that made it clear she knew just how hot she was.

He knew that if he strolled over and gave her his best All-American smile and some of that Southern charm, he could probably win her over. They’d flirt and dance a bit and then he’d drive them back to one of their places, have some decent-to-excellent sex and he’d be asleep shortly after midnight.

It seemed fun. It seemed obvious. It seemed, quite honestly, a little boring to him.

Maybe it was because he turned 35 a few months ago and the idea of going home to his own bed after a night out was starting to seem more and more appealing to him. Maybe it was because he spent so much time trying to convince his fellow Daggers that he wasn’t a complete asshole that he didn’t want to risk them changing their minds again.

Or maybe he was just a little jealous.

Jake would see the way Rueben’s face lit up when he talked about his wife, how he would brag about every milestone his 3-year-old daughter was reaching. He felt awkward about his lack of wedding knowledge when a pink-eared Bob would ask the squad for their opinion on something for his upcoming nuptials. He’d try to ignore the weird sinking feeling in his stomach when he’d overhead Nat and Mickey picking out a restaurant for their weekly brunch double date with their respective girlfriends.

And despite the fact that he had spent most of his adult life doing whatever he could to avoid those kinds of situations, now he was starting to wonder if maybe … maybe he’d be a little happier if he had been able to settle down with someone of his own.

Oof. That thought made Jake’s chest tighten uncomfortably. So he pushed it down, smiled as wide as he could and first bumped Javy. “Wingmen for life, Coyote. Lead the way.”

 

If you had to spend one more minute squeezed up against this bar, wedged between a couple aggressively making out and a trio of rowdy Navy men who were trying to sing along to Queen, you were going to scream.

“Just come for a drink or two. This place is super chill for a Navy bar, I promise,” you muttered darkly under your breath, repeating the words your friend and new coworker had used to convince you to come out tonight.

Between a frantic weekend spent unpacking all of your belongings into your new studio apartment and a very long first week at your new job, all you had wanted to do was bury yourself under a blanket and watch Real Housewives until your brain melted out of your ears.

But you were trying to be more social. You wanted to focus more on your friendships. Do things that were good for you. That was the whole point of this move.

So instead, you were leaning so far over the bar top that you could feel the edge digging into your ribs, shouting a drink order at the (admittedly, very sweet and slightly overwhelmed) bartender. She had just placed the two beers and margarita you had asked for down in front of you when another hand appeared and tried to snatch them up.

“Hey!” you yelled, tossing the bills in your hand onto the bar as you reached up to catch the offender by the wrist before they made off with your hard-won drinks. “Asshole! Drop them, those are my beers! What the fuck?”

You swiped up the cocktail with your free hand, lest it meet the same fate and turned around to see what kind of absolute monster thought they had the right to steal drinks.

Annoyingly, he was beautiful.

Tall and broad, with sun-kissed skin and a blindingly-white smile, which held a hint of sheepishness as he realized that he had been caught red handed. There was something familiar about the way he ducked his head a little, before peering at you from beneath his eyelashes.

“Sorry about that, ma’am. I thought those were mine. Didn’t mean to steal from you,” his low, twangy drawl went right through you, settling warm and comfortingly in your stomach. “I’d offer to buy you a drink to make it up to you, but, well …”

Texas. That’s where that accent is from, you thought, instantly being transported back to your nursing school program in Austin. How many wannabe cowboys had spoken with that same drawl, trying to charm you and your friends during a night out? Not too many of them had succeeded with you, especially not after —

“Jake? Jake Seresin!?”

It had to be him. You’d know that smile anywhere, had seen those green eyes in your dreams for far too long after you both had moved on. He was bigger now, muscles more pronounced and jaw more defined, more of those cheeky smile lines creasing around his eyes. His voice was deeper too, some of his accent smoothed out after years in the military, but it had to be.

He swore under his breath, eyes widening as he made the connection as well. He practically whispered your name, as if it felt a bit rusty on his tongue, but the second you nodded, he repeated it louder, warmer, like he was slipping back into his favorite jacket.

“Shit, how long’s it been?” Jake wondered aloud, looking you up and down as if to make a note of every infinitesimal change that had occurred since you last saw each other. “You look amazing, darling. Beautiful as ever.”

You rolled your eyes but felt your cheeks heating up at his compliment. Jake always had a way of making you feel like the most special person in the room — but then again, he made everyone feel that way, as you later found out. “You look good too, Seresin. Like a proper, respectable Navy man,” you concede, though the words don’t sound nearly as begrudging as you hoped.

You’re rewarded with one of those thousand-watt grins and for a second, you’re back in a Texas dive bar, flirting with the most handsome man you’ve ever seen to the tune of some cheesy country-rap remix.

“I am good,” Jake promises, eyes locked on yours, and you think he might be back there with you, leaning up against the jukebox, the floors sticky under your feet. “I don’t know how respectable I am, but I am definitely good.”

His voice drags out that sentence, low and flirtatious, and butterflies fill your stomach the same way they did all those years ago. You can practically feel the ghost of his big hands on your hips, your lower back, caressing your cheek as the world disappeared around you that night, just the two of you creating your own little world in the corner of that dingy bar. Your lips part — to say what, exactly, you’re not sure — and you see his eyes drop to them for just a moment before —

The woman behind the bar calls out “Hangman!” with a tone of voice that makes it clear that it’s not the first time she’s said it and you both startle and turn to see her holding four bottles of beer out towards Jake, a look of exhaustion on her face. He jumps forward to take them, apologies pouring from his lips and he pointedly shoves several bills into the tip jar in order to earn an eye roll and a small smile from her. Two sweating bottles in each hand, he turns back to you and almost seems a bit relieved that you’re still standing there. (As if you’ve ever been able to walk away from him.)

“I have to drop these off with my friends,” Jake says, nodding to a table somewhere behind you, “And you should probably get those drinks to the people who sent you over here. But do — do you wanna catch up? There’s a deck out back with some tables, it’s usually pretty quiet this time of night.” He waits for you to nod, before pressing a quick kiss to your cheekbone. “I’ll meet you in five minutes.”

With one more charming smile, he’s off into the crowd and — not for the first time in your life — you’re left speechless and a little stunned, staring after Jake Seresin.

 

You’re not sure if the goosebumps on your arms are from the chill of the California evening or the way that Jake hasn’t stopped staring at you since he joined you outside on the deck. You shift slightly against the wooden bench of the picnic table, overwhelmed by the intensity of having all of the blonde’s attention on you again for the first time in a decade.

“So …” you begin, and your voice seems to startle Jake out of his thoughts slightly. “You’re a California boy now? I never thought you’d ever leave Texas.”

He grins and shakes his head slightly. “Well, when Top Gun calls and offers you a permanent station, you’d be a fool not to accept. And not to brag, but they do only offer that to the best of the best.”

“Please, Seresin. You love to brag,” you fire back, watching those green eyes sparkle with mischief.

“Well, it’s not bragging if it’s the truth. And the truth is, darling, that I am one hell of a pilot.” Jake takes a swig from his beer, before leaning a bit closer into you, like he wants to study your reactions. “What about you? What brings you out to sunny San Diego?”

“New job,” you say shortly, shrugging your shoulders as nonchalantly as possible. “Moved from the ICU to the ED, so I figured a change of location would go well with a change of pace.”

Your smile doesn’t quite meet your eyes and you hope he can’t tell. There’s no reason to tell your ex — boyfriend? Fling? — whatever that you followed a guy out here, especially since that whole — relationship? Affair? Complete and utter heartbreaking disaster? — situation crashed and burned almost immediately.

“Mmhmm,” Jake says, as if he can tell that’s not the whole story, and he takes another sip before seemingly deciding to let you off the hook. “And what did you boyfriend have to say about moving halfway across the country? Or did someone manage to finally lock you down after all these years?”

There’s a small, sinking feeling in your stomach as you think about the real reason you moved here for a brief, heartbreaking second.

“No boyfriend. No husband, either,” you say, wiggling your left hand at him in order to illustrate your point, and clock the way his eyes almost look relieved by the sight of your empty finger. “What about you, Seresin? Where’s your sweet, Southern wife?”

He laughs, a little cocky but a little hollow at the same time. “You know I don’t really do commitment, darlin’,” he jokes and, boy, do you, nights of watching him flirt with other girls while you pouted in the corner of the bar flashing in your brain. You take a long swallow of your beer — just like you used to swallow down your pride back then — and roll your eyes at him.

“I swear, you look exactly the same when you roll your eyes like that,” Jake says, his smile softening around the edges. “Nobody ever managed to make it quite as cutting as you.”

“Nobody’s ever been quite as annoying as you,” you fire back, but there’s no real heat behind it. Jake’s eye light up like you just gave him a compliment rather than pointing out that he knew exactly how to press your buttons when you were younger.

“I seem to remember you used to like it when I was able to make your eyes roll. Or, at least, when I could make them roll back into your head …”

You sigh, doing your best not to let on how much that comment made your face heat with decade-old memories of you two tangled up in your sheets. “There it is …” you begin, but he just leans into you a little more, those green eyes traveling all over your face as he speaks.

“I’m just reminiscing, that’s all. Can ya blame me? You’re still so beautiful …” Jake responds, one hand reaching out to gently tuck some of your hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your cheek as he pulls away and you hope you can explain away the goosebumps that erupt on your skin as a product of the ocean breeze. “And I spent a lot of time trying to get you all worked up back then. Force of habit.”

You could give into it.

Allow the sheer force of Jake’s charisma and good looks to carry you away on a wave of old memories. The chemistry that always fizzled between you is clearly still there, the butterflies that have laid dormant in your stomach all this time just waiting for an excuse to be let free once again. It would be easy.

And it would be good — you two had always been good at the physical stuff. He was so gorgeous in so many ways and surprisingly generous when you were in bed. (Jake always took pride in being the best of the best, after all).

But once you woke up tomorrow morning, after all of the awkward goodbyes and the promises to call, then what? Jake Seresin doesn’t commit; he made that clear.

And you were still bruised from your last mess of a relationship, your heart feeling tender and aching in your chest most days. There’s no way that this doesn’t end the same way it did a decade ago, with you sobbing uncontrollably and Jake moving on to the next beautiful girl who manages to hold his attention.

So, with a self-control you didn’t even know you possessed, you pull yourself out of Jake’s undertow.

“Seresin, I … that’s probably a bad idea,” you say softly, eyes dropping down to the tabletop in between you. “I just got out of a relationship and I’m not in a place —”

He cuts you off by tilting your chin up to look at him and then making a point to pull his hands back and keep them to himself.

“Hey, hey, I get it. No worries. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything, darlin’” Jake explains in a rush. “I’m sorry about that. Like I said, force of habit.”

You huff out a laugh and another eye roll and you can see him fight a grin at your reaction. “Only you would describe flirting with someone as a habit, Jake.”

“Well, I’m one of a kind.”

“Shut up, Seresin,” you giggle, glad to be back on solid, friendly ground with him.

 Two hours later, Jake sent you off with a hug and his phone number as you and your friend climbed into an Uber and set off for home. She had a few questions about the “dreamboat” of a Naval aviator that you had apparently dated back in school, but was a little too excited about recounting her own evening to push you for details. It wasn’t until you arrived back at your apartment and collapsed on your couch that you realized Jake had been texting you the whole time you were in the car.

Unknown: It’s Jake 🫡😜🤠⭐️🍻🏈😉

Unknown: Hope you get home safe, beautiful. It was great to catch up with you.

Unknown: And I would be an embarrassment to the U.S. Navy if I didn’t at least offer to be your tour guide around San Diego

Unknown: I know all the best spots after all

Unknown: So text me if you want to grab lunch or something

Unknown: Or if you finally want to learn how to surf

Unknown: But give me fair warning beforehand, I remember how bad your balance is lol

 

You: lol I forgot you text every single thought in your brain

You: but having a tour guide sounds nice

You: we could get brunch this weekend and you can give me the highlights?

 

You had only just begun to take your shoes off, resigned to finally get off the couch, when your phone pinged.

 

Jake 🤠 🧡: I know just the place

You gave his text a quick thumbs up and got ready for bed smiling the whole time.

-—-—-—-—-—

Comments and reblogs are always appreciated! I don’t know if I’m going to have a regular schedule with this or anything, but I will do my best! Thank you for reading about the absolute menace that is Jake Seresin

Tagging some people who asked:

@tvshowgirl81 @redbarn1995 @stoneyggirl @keepingitlokiii @averyhotchner @dizzybee03 @olliepig @lynnevanss @djs8891 @mamachasesmayhem @mamaskillerqueen @kmc1989 @hookslove1592

[the-kr8tor]

May I have Bitter Orange in a ⭐ bottle please? The start of R and Hobie being handcuffed together before they turned, with R succumbing to the effects of the virus much faster than Hobie due to his spiderpowers, so for a bit he just watches his love become a husk of who they were before he too is a zombie?

*laughs evily* Yessss I've been waiting for a request exactly like this hwjsjwijsjaj hope you like it!

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 3.2k (whoops)

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), description of illness, TW blood, CW injury, TW death, zombie AU, Zombie apocalypse AU. Angst, Hurt/comfort

A prequel to this one shot

Katy's one year celebration 🎉

The air is nice and cool on your face as you walk hand in hand with Hobie in the barren street. There's rows upon rows of abandoned houses, all in different stages of decay from both scavengers trying to survive and time itself proving to be the worst enemy. But it's on your side for now for it has given you infinite time to be with him.

Hobie's hand is suddenly on your scarf, fingers gingerly sliding the fuzzy material up to your chin. He smiles at you, the sun blindingly light behind him. Despite the apocalypse, he still looks just as handsome. He has new shallow scars on his chin where a stubble is slowly growing, hair a bit of a mess but beautiful nonetheless. You've once told him after a lucky find of one whole pound of chocolate pudding that he's apocalypse chic, that he makes the end of the world look good. To which he laughed and shoved a spoonful of chocolate pudding in your mouth. Compared to him you probably look like a mess, you wouldn't know, you've ignored mirrors ever since you ran out of shampoo a few days ago.

“What are you thinkin' ‘bout, gorgeous?” He tugs you closer to him, the crowbar hanging from his backpack clinks against the machete next to it.

“That I really need shampoo, and that you look unfairly handsome in this light.”

Chuckling, he intertwined his fingers around your own. It could mean death for the both of you if the undead suddenly lunges and he doesn't have enough time to take his hand away from you. But he thinks it's alright for him to do, to indulge himself to your touch since the entire place is empty save for a few dead cars and scattered luggages left by people.

“You should see yourself in my eyes, lovie, the greasy hair is doin' a lot for me.”

“Oh yeah? You like it when you pat my head and you get petrol on your hand?”

“We need petrol, d’you think if I bunch up your hair and squeeze it I can collect the oil?”

You nudge him playfully, “you're an ass.”

“Yeah, well, you're stuck with this arse.”

Your mind goes back to your friends and family you've left behind. “Do you think they're okay?”

“'m sure they are, Yuri's got them, and they have Ned, he'll whip them into shape. ‘sides, we're almost at James’, if I was them I'd stay there.” He adjusts his hold on his pack and guitar. “We'll find them.”

You smile, nuzzling his bicep for his own reassurance, knowing that he also worries for them. “You're right. They're probably doing better than us.”

“Yeah,” he pecks the crown of your head. “They're living like kings, I bet.”

You two stop in front of a large house, complete with white marble steps and tall roman columns. “James' dad never had taste, huh?”

Hobie snorts, “his son took all of it. C’mon, then.” He leads you on the porch, trying the door, wishing that it was locked because if it is it means that someone's inside, that they're surviving and waiting for the two of you. To his despair, the door opens without a problem.

Hobie looks back at you having the same expression. “It's okay,” you try to be optimistic, “maybe they left a message for us.”

He nods, “yeah, maybe.” Crossing the abandoned space, he takes his guitar from his back to strum a tune. When he doesn't hear stumbling or any rattling from anywhere inside the house, he continues forward, but his guard is still up. “We might as well get some supplies while we're ‘ere.”

“Yeah, there might be some left in here.” You give him a small smile. “How about we split up? This place is too big, it'll take us forever to comb over this place.”

Hobie considers it for a moment. The place seems pristine except for the furniture and cabinets that are picked clean, so he deems it safe. “Okay, just…” you walk to his side, rubbing his arms, smiling sweetly at him even though he probably doesn't smell the best. “...keep your knife close.”

“I will keep my knife close,” you repeat his words, “and I'll stay alert.” Poking at his chest, you peck the frown off his lips. “And you keep safe.”

He's still apprehensive, but he knows you can hold your own. Taking your face in his hands, he kisses you fully, smooching until you're giggling. “We’ll meet back ‘ere in fifteen.”

“Aye, aye, Cap'n!” You mock salute. “Any special requests?”

“Chocolates.”

“I said a request, not wishful thinking.” You tease, he has an urge to kiss you again.

“Towels, the nice fluffy ones.” You slide your hands away from him, to which he already longs for.

“Got it! I bet James has a ton of them.” You wink, knife in hand, walking away from him.

Hobie watches your retreating back, tamping down his anxieties. He searches upstairs, grinning at James' familiar room. His posters and messy floors remain untouched, the bed still looking like it was tossed around by a tornado. He almost cries at the picture frame on the bedside table containing his band's smiling faces plus you who's embracing him.

Turning the frame around, he takes the picture and pockets it to show to you. After rummaging James' room, he takes a few shirts and pants for him and you. He even finds a pair of silk pajamas that he knows you'll love. A piercing scream echoes around the house, he immediately bolts downstairs, heavy footsteps thudding across marble floors.

You're on your back, fighting for your life while the undead on top of you tried to get a chunk out of you. It all stops when Hobie's guitar connects to the corpse's skull in a sickening crunch of metal and bone.

You scramble away, neck and arm in pain. Hobie's wide eyes meet yours just as when the back door bursts open, revealing a whole horde of the undead. Panicking, he yanks you up, holding your hand, running outside to more of the shambling dead.

“Fuck!”

“Hobie!”

“Just hold on!” His hand is tight around yours, you try to run at his pace, panic in your veins, adrenaline in his.

It feels like you've been running forever, Hobie sees an opening hidden in an alley. He can climb on his own without a ladder but you can't. So he leads you towards the empty alley while the rotten, decayed corpses of once human beings run after you at full speed.

Hobie jumps to take down an emergency ladder, without missing a beat, he grabs your waist and throws you on the ladder. You climb, but the pain in your arm gets worse so you're slower but you still try for him.

The undead finally gets to the alley, you don't dare to look down. Once you're on the rooftop, you peek below to see him struggling to get up the ladder, he's halfway with a handful of zombies dangling on his leg.

You scream his name but it's too late, one of the undead has bitten a chunk of his leg as he tries to kick the former human off the ladder where he's desperately trying to climb to. You wish he didn't run out of web fluid, you wish the world didn't end, you wish the throbbing pain on your arm is just muscle spasm, but the warm crimson seeping out of teeth marks says differently.

With a sickly crunch, the zombie falls down the ladder and into the rotten horde. Hobie climbs up quickly back to you, hands immediately grasping on to you.

“Did it get you?!” You yell, still in denial, frantically checking in hopes that his boot saved him. Your heart falls into your stomach at the sight of broken skin, blood staining your fingers where you hold the hem of his trousers away to get a better look. You're frozen on the spot, tears clinging to your lashes. “Hobie,” you gasp, taking off your scarf to make a makeshift tourniquet around and above the bite. “Fuck—!”

“You okay?!” He does the same to you, heaving, ripping off your sleeves like a madman trying to find the secrets hidden in your skin. He prays that he finds none. His eyes widen, terrified, broken hearted, shaking his head, refusing the fact that you're infected. “No,” he shakes his head again, closing the torn up cloth around the slowly rotting wound. “It's just a scratch, love, y-you’re not—”

“Hobie…” you smile bitterly, eyes mirroring his own. He rips the hem of his shirt, using the cloth to wrap it around your arm, just above the wound in an attempt to stop the spread. He ignores the stinging pain on his leg. “Hobie, stop, it's—”

“We can still stop it!” He yells desperately, tying the cloth tightly. “It's just a scratch.”

“Hobie, please.” You hold his trembling hands, “it has been ten minutes.” He refuses, you squeeze his hand weakly, the virus already taking hold. Slowly killing you. “And—” with trembling hands, you show him the gaping bite on your neck, oozing dark decaying blood. He choked on a sob. “B-but there's a chance for you, your abilities might've made you immune—”

“No, if you're goin’, ‘m goin’” He stands up, not giving up on you. “There's a chemist’s ‘ere, maybe if w-we…” he puts on a brave face amidst the impending doom and rotten flesh that stings his nose. “Maybe there's somethin’ there.” Hand reaching down, you smile up at him, orange and pink hues from the sky dancing around your face. “C-can you get up?” His voice breaks, chest heaving. “I can carry you. Don't make me carry you, love.”

You slide your hand onto his own. “Hobie,” your voice is soft above the mindless groaning below. His eyes beg you to move. So you do. “Okay,” with a single word, you bring him hope.

With divided effort, you both make it towards the roof of the pharmacy. He was uncharacteristically silent the whole way, but his hand never left yours. His eyes never met with your wounds that's slowly festering. You feel it inside you, the fever, the virus that's eating at you, spreading throughout your body, gnawing at every bit of your warmth like a seed taking root. Hobie feels it too, he's terrified that you're experiencing it too. It's his worst fears came to life only because he wasn't fast enough.

Opening the creaky door, he hopes that it's devoid of the undead. Like he's not on the brink of eating flesh, he does his usual prep. He strums his guitar softly to attract any walking corpses waiting behind doors, when none comes out, he cracks the door wider. With his torch, he lights up the way. But he doesn't feel your presence behind him.

Looking over his shoulder was a mistake, he finds you hunched over the doorway, groaning quietly, nails clawing at the throbbing wound around your neck. That's the moment he knew that you'd go out before him. For the first time, he curses his gifts.

Slowly, he crosses the distance towards you, shaking hands grasping your shoulders. You're warm, incredibly warm. “Love?” He could cry, but he doesn't want you to see his sorrow.

You sniff, tears streaming down your face from the pain and the tragedy of it all. You've accepted that you were infected, but not him, you'd take the virus from him too if you could. “I'm s-sorry, so fucking sorry. I should've—”

“Oi, none of that, yeah? You're gonna be fine.” He says it to convince himself. “You'll be back on your feet tomorrow and by then we'll see Yuri and the others.” Nodding, he takes you by your arm, careful of making your wounds worse. There's blood sticking to his clothes, seeping through his clammy skin. He hates the fact that it was yours. Bringing you behind the counter, you almost keep over. “I've got you, I've got you.” He says it against your temple like a prayer.

“H-Hobie.” You sob, salty tears marring your pretty face. “I can't— it hurts.” The gnawing feeling gets worse, as if a chainsaw is ripping you apart from the inside. “It's so hot, I–I can't breathe.”

“O-okay, I'll set you down ‘ere, get you comfortable. There's some fever meds over there. It'll help.” His hazel eyes pleads for anyone, anything that'll help you. He helps you sit down, and you immediately lie down on the cold tiles. “Do you want a blanket?”

“N-no,” you're hot and cold at the same time. “I don't know.” You look up at him, he sees the light in your eyes fading. “I don't feel so good, Hobs.”

Hobie could only look away from you, inhaling, exhaling but it doesn't feel like he's breathing right. He kneels down, setting his guitar next to you, palm placed on your forehead. “This is nothing, love.” He tries to smile, but fails. “Remember when you had the flu?” You nod weakly, “you were a fuckin' beast, you beat it on your own in just a few days.”

Even though you feel your heartbeat going faster and then slowing down in a weird rhythm like a heartbeat monitor going haywire, you smile for him. “I was, wasn't I?”

He rubs your bicep, under his touch, he feels your muscle twitch. “Yeah, you still are.”

You chuckle softly, tears sliding down your cheeks and into the cold tiles. “Okay, get me the meds.”

“That's my girl,” laying his forehead atop yours, he hopes that he'll take your pain away with the simple gesture, but it's futile. “I'll be back, I promise.”

“Don’t make me wait.”

Smiling, he squeezes your arm. “Never.” Standing up, he rummages through the entire place for the pills you need. Crouching down to check under the broken shelves, climbing up on the walls to get a bird's eye view, and all the while ignoring his own pain. It's slim pickings, but he manages to find a single bottle of tylenol that has rolled under a shelf, it's not enough, but it'll do.

With a victorious sigh, he quickly makes it to the counter, rounding the corner, he sees you wheezing, catching your breath and with blood leaking out from your eyes and ears. “No, no, no!” He takes you in his arms, making you sit up. “I've got the meds, love. Oi, open your eyes for me.” You crack one eye open tiredly. “That's it, good job.” He almost cries when you smile at him through the thick fog of illness.

“G-good job,” you murmur, he doesn't know if you're delirious or you're congratulating him for finding the medicine.

“Bottoms up.” He brings two pills to your mouth, to which you gladly take. Giving you his canteen, you drink most of it, downing the tepid water. “That's good, see, you're already gettin' better.”

You shake your head weakly, barely opening your eyes. “Thanks to you, Hobie.”

“Yeah, thanks to me.” He tries to joke but it comes out choked when blood still leaks out of your tear ducts. Sitting next to you, he now feels his temperature rise so he takes the same amount of pills as you.

You lay your head on his shoulder, hand shakily reaching towards his own. “I'm sorry.”

He almost breaks down at your apology. “Nothin' to apologize for, love.” Meeting your hand halfway, he intertwined his fingers with yours, you're cold now, frozen under his hold. “D’you want that blanket now?”

“Please,” you wheeze out.

Hobie obliges, taking a thick blanket from his pack and then draping it around you as if it'll protect you from the infection. “There, nice and cozy, eh?”

“Thank you,” he feels your crimson fall down on his collar. “For everything.”

“None of that, Y/N, please. None of that.”

“I still want to talk to you.” Your voice is soft and small. “I still want to stay with you.”

Hobie brings your intertwined hands to his lips, kissing each knuckle softly. “And we will be, after this—” a sob escapes from him. “After this, we'll be together, yeah? Just like how we talked about.”

“Forever and ever?”

His tears flow freely, “yeah, forever and ever.” After a beat of silence, he fears the worst. “Love?”

You cough, he sighs in relief. “Still here, Hobs, not leaving yet.”

“Not yet,” embracing you, he lays his chin atop your head, you're made comfortable in his hold. Home, you feel like you're back home in his houseboat, watching a shitty romcom while he rambles on about his patrol. You want to be back there again. He wants to be back there again. “Can I say somethin'?”

You hum into his chest, squeezing his hand tighter but your sickness, he barely felt it.

“I don't want to…” he could barely say it. “I don't want to kill you. ‘m sorry, I know we talked about it—”

You lean up, he's met with milky eyes, he knows you can barely see him now. “Then don't, I don't want you to—” you pause, clinging to humanity. “— to feel that before you go.”

Nodding, he kisses your forehead, crying, weeping into your skin. “I couldn't save you, ‘m so fuckin' sorry, love, ‘m so sorry.” He shakes, you gather enough strength to embrace him and bury yourself in his chest, letting his scent waft around you for comfort.

“Don't apologize, nothin' to apologize for.”

He sniffs, peppering your face with heavy weakened kisses. “Oi, don't use my own words against me.”

You smile against the rough leather of his jacket. “Can I say something?”

“Go,” he can practically see the countdown. “We have all the time in the world, love.” There's something warm leaking out of his eyes and ears. He's catching up to you.

You'd laugh but you can feel your life slipping through your fingers. “When we turn, I don't want us to be separated.”

“What do you propose?” He tries to inhale but he could only let out a sickening cough.

“Tie our hands together…really tight.” Your words fade away, but you still hold on.

“I've got rope here, I can do it now.”

“But I'll turn first, Hobie, I-I might—”

“It'll be my honour to be your first meal.”

“I'd laugh if we weren't dying right now.” Eyes too tired to open, you feel the rough rope around your wrist, and the unmistakable sound of a knot getting tied. You smile for the last time when you feel his fingers wrap around your own. “I love you.”

“How's that? Too tight?” He whispers close, he feels you slipping away, “Y/N? Love?” he breaks down when your hand falls limp around his own. “Not yet, please, not yet.” He holds you, rocking you back and forth like a babe needing to be held. Your heart doesn't beat in sync with his anymore. “C’mon, not yet, we still have to find the rest of the band, right?” His eyes cloud over, cold taking root inside his entire body. “Say somethin’, fuck!” He yells with all his might, “I love you, fuck, please wake up.”

Closing his eyes, he wraps you in what's left of his warmth. “Don't go, please.” Hobie pleads and cries until he can no longer breathe the same air as you. His last thoughts were of you.

[horrorstolemyheart]

The Lost Boys + Severen With A Socially Anxious Reader

Note: This was a request from @slasher-male-wife. (I will link the original ask here) Thank you so much for this request! I can't apologize enough for taking over a freaking year to post... I kinda fell off the face of the earth for a while (mental health reasons) but I hope you see this and enjoy it though! I intended for this to be out waaayyy sooner, I'm so so sorry for an absurdly long wait 😑.... (also I hope this title is fine and I think I say this every time, but I hope the boys personalities seem pretty fitting and also that I title this as a socially anxious reader...)

Pairing(s): The Lost Boys x reader, Severen x reader

Warning(s): None except for one mention of weed and maybe a curse word or two. If I missed any please feel free to let me know!

David (TLB)

Your initial shyness is actually what drew him to you. It intrigued him. He wanted to break that shell you hid inside and obviously what was inside was an exceptionally attractive person.

It's no lie the moment he first saw you he thought you were incredibly attractive, and of course that meant he had to have you.

He can be a giant asshole, but David never puts you down for being awkward or feeling anxious. You make him soft in that sense.

However, that isn’t to say he hasn’t ever hit a nerve with you. He wants to support you, but he isn’t exactly the best at it. So there have been a few times where he’ll simply tell you to just ‘act like yourself’ in public.

Oh, how you wish it was that easy.

He doesn’t really understand the whole social anxiety thing. But of course, this is from someone who doesn’t give a single fuck what people think of him.

There’s also a possessive part of him, you’re like a little gem to him that only he gets to see. Only he gets to see the real you and that’s only reserved for him. It’s kind of an ego boost for him. And perhaps not the healthiest view in the world.

David does grow soft around you (whether he'll admit it or not, he isn't as subtle as he thinks he is about it) and will feel a little bad if he sees you try to talk to someone and you end up stuttering or stumbling over words though.

He loves to see your lively side. Taking you on bike rides, whooping and hollering along the way with the other boys and he is so very glad to call you his.

Dwayne (TLB)

Dwanye thinks the shy side of you is pretty adorable.

He’s very understanding of your emotions (probably the most understanding of the boys) and unlike David is very good at discussing them. 

When he notices you start to stumble over words or zone out in public, he’ll often grab your hand or wrap an arm around you and pull you close as an attempt to reassure you and help you feel more at ease. 

Very protective bf.

Very willing to help you overcome the anxiety.

But as much as he wants to see you act the same way in public as you do around him, he’s never going to push you into a situation that would overwhelm you.

You were super intimidated by Dwayne when you first met him. And also incredibly attracted to him.

It took some time for him to get you comfortable around him, he was so gentle with you, and it took you aback to see his wild side as Dwayne has the capacity to be so incredibly calm and on the other side, he can be completely rowdy and wild.

Paul (TLB)

Let's just get this out of the way, Paul’s solution to your shyness and awkwardness?

WEED.

He’s a big believer in the power of the bud. However, if this isn’t something you choose to partake in or feel comfortable doing, he won’t force you. If you do great!

Oh, he may whine a bit and try to convince you it’ll help, but he’ll back off if you insist.

Otherwise, Paul is probably about the best person to be around next to Dwayne. His presence alone is almost like a security blanket. You feel more at ease with him at your side.

Paul loves you to death, and he wishes you would act the way you do when it’s just the two of you, but he understands it isn’t that simple, so he won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to.

He knows people would love the smart, silly, lovable you that you are in private and he’s more than willing to help you reach that goal. 

So he LOVES to dote on you and brag about you to just about everybody he passes by, talking you up is like a hobby for him.

It took him a minute to understand why you act this way, but he latched on pretty quickly.

Marko (TLB) (of course the only gif I found that fit good was one without Marko :I)

Marko likes to poke some fun at you for acting all shy, remarking that you aren’t that way around him.

He also finds it entertaining to embarrass you the slightest bit in public.

It makes you upset with your boyfriend when he does this, even if it isn't out of malice.

He seems to think if he can get a rise out of you in public that it might help you forget the stiff feeling and anxiety. that you'll realize that you're ok and no one probably even cares as much as you think they might.

In reality when you have gone off on him and someone glances over you feel like you want to crawl into a hole even more than you did before. 

Marko gets frustrated. Why can’t you just be you with everyone else? Especially when you act perfectly normal around him.

That's one thing he'll never fully quite grasp the concept of your stiffness around strangers. He's quite capable of coming around after he's gotten over himself, but out of all the boys he seems to struggle the most with this.

He isn't beyond being encouraging, but it's a vicious cycle you have to contend with. You often have to sit him down to explain how he can best help you to be more comfortable and why you have such a hard time in public. After which he settles down and can focus on just being there for you.

Severen

Shy? Never heard of her.

This man is your complete opposite. Well, at least the opposite of what you project to the public. 

An outsider would suspect you two to be the least likely pair in the world.

Severen thinks the shyness is very amusing and innocent and yes, he will tease the shit out of you for it. He almost feeds off of it.

Seriousness is very seldom part of this man’s outlook on life. 

Don’t be deceived, he isn’t unsympathetic to your anxiousness. But he wants you to partake in all the wild and crazy with him. 

He is quite content that he gets to know the real you though. Even if the rest of the world doesn’t get to see it.

“C’mon, sugar, you don’t act like this when it’s just the two of us…”

But because he loves you, he tries to show you there’s no reason to sit back and watch from the side lines.

He will drag you out onto the rowdy dance floor of a hole in the wall bar when he sees you sitting there, eyes as big as saucers.

Over time you will probably overcome some of the awkwardness simply by being exposed to everything that’s the opposite of that.

[help-me-im-in-the-fandom]

When you stare into the Abyss: The Beginning of Robin

Bruce never thought he’d have a child, perhaps after his Mission was done, after Gotham was cleaned of the worst of crime and the worst of the worst were behind bars and receiving treatment.

It was a laughable thought, that Bruce would ever manage to clean the corruption out of Gotham, that he would ever be able to pull out the black tar of insanity and crime within his lifetime.

Then Bruce sees a boy watch as his parents die, he sees this small child at the exact same age as he was going through the exact same thing, and it hurts.

Brucie Wayne leaves the circus, but Batman arrives at the crime scene, he wants justice, wants to make sure it was an accident and nothing more, even if for his own heart.

Little Richard Grayson is missing, that’s the first thing he hears, and it scares him. So he joins the search and finds the young boy hidden in one of the Elephant tents. His red, yellow and green Leotard is stained with blood, and it makes Bruce heart ache.

He isn’t scared to see the hulking creature that is Batman, no, this tiny boys is full of rage, of hurt and pain and the need to fight. He screams into Batman’s suit and then collapses into a crying mess on his clawed arms.

He brings the small boy back to the police, even when they watch his non-human form with fear and disgust. He hands the young boy off to be placed with his new guardians and tries to focus on the case.

It isn’t until the next day that he learns the eight year old wasn’t sent to a foster family or even a shelter, but to a juvenile detention center.

There is no family, no will or any instructions on where to place the boy, and the circus doesn’t have the means to fight for the right to keep him, they leave town within the next day.

It’s spur of the moment, born of anger and depression and knowing exactly what that poor boy was going through. Except he didn’t have and Alfred, have the Wayne fortune to keep him safe and cozy inside a huge mansion to cry himself to sleep in.

A few bribes and a lot of money later, and Richard ‘call me Dick’ Grayson is now the Ward of Gotham’s richest bachelor.

The boy is full of energy and the need to play, and Bruce finds himself expanding the gym just to place practice trapeze equipment so he’s got somewhere to let out his energy, beside being a Trapaze artist was in his blood, and Bruce would never try to take it away from him.

But there is rage there too, and after Alfred finds him with a dislocated thumb and bloody knuckles Bruce ends up teaching him how to throw a punch, then how to kick box, then on and on he teaches this boy who soaks up the lessons like a sponge.

It’s not the healthiest coping mechanism, but it works. It turns this grieving and depressed child into a happy and cheerful one, it helps in the best way Bruce knows how.

Then, whoops, Dick follows Alfred into the Batcave and realizes just exactly what’s going on, because Bruce is only halfway into the Batman ensemble and it’s very obvious.

Bruce still hasn’t been able to find Tony Zucco, the man who rigged the Grayson’s to fall. He has tried, so hard, but the lowlife had bunkered down as soon as Batman took to the scene.

Dick yells and screams at Bruce for hiding the secret, then for not being able to catch his parents murderer. He fights Bruce, with the intent to hurt. Bruce regrets teaching how to fight just a little bit, and is very thankful he has a cup on already.

Eventually, after a very long and painful conversation, Dick understands why Bruce hid as he did.

It takes two days before he decides if Bruce can be a crime-fighting Vigelante so can he. Bruce refuses and tells him maybe when he’s older, more trained it might be possible but he is not allowing him to fight crime as a child.

It takes him smuggling into the Batmobile for the fifth time, and almost getting himself caught by a criminal that Bruce realizes that he can’t stop him no matter how hard he tries. Because along with all the tricks the circus and Bruce have taught him, he is a little devil of a child.

So Bruce decides, fine, he can join him on patrol, but only after he goes through this very specific and absolutely grueling training program, keeps his grades above a B+ and after he designs and perfects his own cryptid suit to Bruce’s liking.

Bruce was hoping his endless hoops and almost impossible expectations would make Dick back down, nope, if anything it made him even worse.

He goes through the training with a smile on his face and a continued need to learn, even when Bruce makes him learn how to do college level chemistry, how to code and make back doors and viruses, even when he makes him sit through three hour long lectures on how to tell blood splatters apart.

He excels at school as well, going above and beyond with A+ across the board except for in English, which is understandable since it’s not Dicks first language.

He decides on his mother’s nickname for his new name, Robin, but he also chooses the Grayson colors for his suit, red yellow and green.

Robin looks more like a hummingbird, especially since Dick wanted both stilts and wings on his costume. Bruce actually welcomes the bonding activity of making the prosthetic bird feet that are fully functional, and would never stop Divk from his dream of flying, even if it’s more like paragliding.

Dick even creates his own style of fighting in the suit, flashy and playful but also deadly brutal. Sometimes Bruce forgets how quickly his ward can go from cheery and playful to downright brutal, but honestly he’s proud of his kid, even if this is probably the most concerning father-son bonding excercise ever

And thus, Robin was born and Gotham gained a new cryptid.

[astarionbraiinrot]

Last Call

Chapter 1: Astarion

Sequel to One for the Road

Read on AO3

It’s a few hours after dawn, and Astarion sits in the rocking chair near the bedroom window, just out of reach of the morning sun, contemplating the child in his arms. A tiny thing. Pudgy cheeks turned rosy after a successful first feed, courtesy of its mother. Pointed ears just slightly too big for its head. A mop of curly white hair in wild disarray. Pale green eyes squinting back at him with the slightly-disgruntled turnip-esque look inherent to newborns. A perfectly healthy baby boy, weighing in at just over seven pounds, and born at roughly 7-ish that morning, the first cries of this brand-new life coinciding with the dawning sun’s feeble attempts at projecting warmth into the midwinter chill of the frosty Nightal morning.

Looking back, the number seven had played a not-insignificant role in many of the major events of Astarion’s life. According to the records he and Tav had managed to dig up, he had been born near the end of Flamerule, the seventh month of the year, and he had died in that same month just a tenday shy of his fortieth birthday. He had been one of seven spawn, then one of seven thousand and seven. When he’d been kidnapped and tadpoled by Mindflayers, he’d quickly found himself part of a group of seven strangers traveling together to find a cure for the ticking timebombs in their brains. Then, almost as quickly, that group of strangers had become a party of seven friends-turned-adventurers on a quest to save the world. He’d stabbed Cazador fourteen times the night he'd taken back his life and regained his freedom, seven to kill him and seven more just because he deserved it. Their journey to defeat the Netherbrain and the Dead Three’s Chosen, from nautiloid to giant brain sinking into the Chionthar, took seven harrowing months. And he’d found out he was going to be a father for the first time just seven days before helping to crash that giant brain into the river. Now here he sat, making some rather embarrassing cooing noises he’d never admit to and gently rocking his seventh child.

Gods, his seventh child. He’d had months to wrap his head around the concept, and still, here he was, absolutely baffled as to how they’d gotten here. Even he could admit, privately, in his own mind, that seven was maybe a slightly unreasonable number of children to have. Especially for two Elves. Hells, most Elven couples barely managed two or three children over as many centuries, yet somehow, he and Tav had exceeded half a dozen in less than two decades. And while Elven children were uncommon, Dhampir were rarer still, with all sources firmly insisting that only True Vampires could sire them and that spawn were entirely sterile.

Shows what they know.

Even now, seven(!) children and almost twenty years later, they still truly had no idea why they were the exception to either rule. With their eldest, they had assumed it was a fluke of the tadpole (once he’d stopped hyperventilating long enough to have a conversation anyway). That, along with allowing him to walk in the sun, touch running water, and enter homes uninvited, it had temporarily knocked some part of his biology back close enough to “living” and whoops now they’re going to be parents. A once-in-an-unlifetime opportunity that had subsequently disappeared again along with all the tadpole’s other gifts.

It was a very sound theory too, if he did say so himself. Or at least it had been, right up until the moment Tav had informed him they’d managed the supposedly-impossible a second time. Or, more accurately, a second and third time, because clearly they were incapable of doing anything by halves. That time had coincided with some magical experimentation he’d undergone courtesy of Gale which, while not fully having the desired results, had given him an entire glorious month of being near-mortal enough to eat real food and walk in the sun. And so, once again, they’d made the (very reasonable in his opinion) decision to attribute this one to magic and unusual circumstances affecting biology in strange ways, blamed Gale this time, and got on with their lives as a happy family of five, confident in the knowledge that there was no chance of this happening again.

Of course, just over a year later when it did in fact very much happen again, they were forced to consider alternative causes to what was rapidly looking like the beginnings of a small army of children. Their friends’ theories had ranged from “killing Cazador could have made Astarion a True Vampire on a technicality,” to “the large number of lives lost in the Mindflayer invasion might have created a surplus of Elven souls waiting to reincarnate,” to the much more pragmatic “you are incapable of keeping your hands off one another and this is the expected result of such lack of willpower,” which to Lae’zel’s credit, was at the very least a contributing factor.

When the fifth one had happened a couple years later, followed rather quickly by the sixth not long after, he and Tav had decided that maybe it was time they sought out help with preventative measures. They’d paid Shadowheart a visit as soon as Tav was well enough to travel, hoping that her Clerical training and knowledge of medicine and potions would be up to the task. It was, and that had worked quite well for the next ten years, which turned out to be just long enough for them to get complacent, and now here they were again.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t wanted children, per se, moreso that they just hadn’t considered it could be an option since it wasn’t supposed to be possible, so they’d never really thought about whether they wanted to be preventing it or not until they’d already had four toddlers running around. But, unplanned as they were (and he never was good at plans anyway), he’d been relieved to find that loving them was not the arduous task he’d feared it might be. Quite the opposite, actually. He had not been prepared for just how much he could love them, these amazing little creatures that were somehow, miraculously, part him. But he did, with all the deepest parts of the heart he’d been sure he didn’t possess. Each one was a gift he’d never expected to receive, or even known he’d wanted, but gods was he so glad that they were here.

Even now, when he finds himself more and more wondering where the time has gone, one child just barely grown and most of the rest nearly there, all navigating life with grace and confidence and a drive for independence he knows they are ready for but he isn’t, happiness is the emotion he encounters the most these days. And, oh, wasn’t that just a kick to the chest? No one had told him that all the parts you prepare for, the crying, sleepless nights, toilet training, homework, sibling rivalries, puberty, broken hearts, dating, sleepless nights again, all the parts you expect to be hard, that those were actually the easy parts. No one had warned him that the hard part was having to put down the reins, letting them grow and navigate the world, seeing them try and fail and try again, fall and shake off the bruises and get back up. Spending the first half of their childhood hyper focused on keeping them safe, only for them to spend the second half excitedly forging a path out of that safety and into adventure as quickly as they can. He hadn’t known that watching his children experience life would feel like breaking his soul into pieces and setting them loose to run around outside his body discovering who they’ll be. Hadn’t prepared for an existence spent with his heart in his throat as he can only watch from the sidelines while they begin the journey of creating their own lives separate from him.

He absolutely does not get misty-eyed at that thought, and he’s only wiping his eyes because they itch, actually, and probably he’s suddenly developed a dust allergy just now because he definitely hasn’t shed even one tear over the idea of how quiet the house will be once they’re all grown and gone and he’s no longer spending his evenings pretending he can't hear the whispered giggles and gossip from their bedrooms as they utterly fail to hide the fact that they’re awake far too late for people who have school in the morning.

Gods, it must be terribly dusty in here.

Sitting here, holding his son and thinking about this family he’s built, it feels… strangely peaceful. A peace he knows will be shattered the moment the child in his arms turns his attention from scowling at his father to demanding another meal, but peaceful nonetheless. There wasn’t anything else that needed his attention at the moment. The midwife had attended to the cleanup before departing, making sure that the soiled bed linens were disposed of and replaced while he’d helped Tav to the bath and set about preparing her some breakfast. He’d sent a message to the neighbors asking them to inform the girls that their mother and new sibling were doing well and they could meet the baby when they got home from school and yes you still have to go to school today, yes really, yes I know I’m awful and mean and cruel and entirely unreasonable I love you anyway now go to school. Then he’d used their Sending Stone to ask Gale to please inform his eldest of the news and that he’d be sending funds for a teleportation circle to bring her home in a few days once her classes at Blackstaff were over for winter break, after which they’d had a brief discussion to adjust their holiday plans so that Gale’s family would now be coming to them for this year’s Winter Solstice Simril festival instead.

And so, with his to-do list cleared, he’d turned his mind to the task he’d been given by his darling wife, who was currently taking a well-earned rest in the bed nearby.

After both Tav and the baby had received a thorough bathing and a hearty meal, she’d placed their swaddled son in Astarion’s arms with instructions that their child needed a name, and since he was the one who’d insisted that they did not need to prepare a boy’s name, that meant he could do the work of coming up with one now while she would be taking a nap. And, if she awoke to find their son still nameless, she’d make the executive decision to name him after Gale. A very motivating threat, considering the man had already managed to lure away one of Astarion’s children into academia and wizardry of all things, a fact that he was not at all still minorly irritated over thank you very much, and he’d be damned if he’d let the wizard’s ego get any bigger by giving him a namesake on top of it. Absolutely not.

Thus, he’d spent the better part of the last hour considering this tiny new life and what moniker might fit him. A daunting task, really. Despite neither he nor Tav really being ones for tradition or holding to any particular religion, they knew that, for Elves, the choosing of a name was not something to be taken lightly, especially a child’s name. When they’d discovered they were expecting their eldest, finding out that they’d somehow accidentally done the supposedly-impossible and made an entire person at quite frankly the worst possible time had left them understandably quite anxious and a little terrified, so they had turned to Halsin for advice. In an effort to soothe their nerves, the druid had told them that, in Elven communities, a child’s birth was a momentous occasion, often drawing the entire neighborhood to gather and wait with eager anticipation for word of the new arrival. Once born, the child would be brought out by the new parents and presented to an elder relative, who would officially welcome them to the community by announcing the name chosen for them to those gathered. The name would usually reflect something unique about the child, or maybe convey what their presence meant to their parents, or might simply be a heartfelt wish for the child’s future. With rare exception, Elves would retain faint memories of these moments throughout their lives, even as other memories of childhood faded.

While hearing that had actually helped Tav to calm a little, it had done the exact opposite for Astarion, mostly just adding a layer of sadness to the fear coloring his already racing thoughts. The feeling that, by mere virtue of having no known family, they’d be denying their child what was apparently a core memory and treasured experience for their people, had broken some tiny little thing inside him, like a sliver off the edge of a pane of glass that leaves a weak point capable of shattering the rest. The whole thing just sounded so… nice. The thought of so many people eagerly awaiting your arrival, purely because your mere existence was a gift. The idea of being so wanted, so loved, before any of those gathered had even met you yet. He had wondered, briefly, if anyone had done that for him? Gathering around and celebrating simply because he was him and he was here. He had no memories of his mortal life, no family history to pass down or stories from his own youth that he could share with this child. Hells, he still had his childhood name, had died before he’d had the chance to even begin putting any thought into what name he might choose for himself when he came of age, what would represent who he had wanted to be.

Jaheira had told him at some point that his name meant “little star.” He’d had no idea. Had had no cause or opportunity to know it, and no one to ask even if he had. Was that how his parents had thought of him, a shining point of light, all bright and dazzling? He’d wanted to believe that there had been thought put into it. That someone had cared enough about his existence that they’d taken the time to find just the right name, one that would convey what they’d felt, hoped, dreamed for him. Though, whatever the intentions behind his name were, he was confident that he hadn’t lived up to them. He certainly hoped that none of what had occurred in the last two hundred years of his life and been on their wish list, anyway.

But, he’d thought, if he couldn’t provide this child with the ancestral welcome they deserved, then maybe the weird little family they’d somehow built out of a disparate group of traumatized worm-filled strangers could be enough. Maybe he could do for his own child what he’d decided to believe had been done for him and give them a name that was built on something good, something warm and positive, even if he was scared shitless at this whole situation.

And so, with that in mind, each of their children’s names had been chosen with the utmost care and reverence for the little life they’d made, with the hope that they would grow up feeling a connection and sense of belonging that neither he nor Tav had known, something to provide a root in the soil of the extended family they’d defied gods to build. A desperate wish that their children would always feel, no matter what, that they were loved, wholly and unconditionally, and know that home was always waiting for them.

The baby lets out a soft grunt and shifts in his blanket, at some point having chosen sleep over continuing to stare at his father while he’d been lost in thought. As Astarion takes in this tiny brand-new being, not even a half-day old, a surprise but welcome epilogue to a story they’d thought finished years ago, he tries to focus his tired mind on this important task laid at his feet. But it’s been over a day since he last tranced. The adrenaline of this whole event had kept him going for a while, but that had worn off hours ago, and while he’d pushed through the exhaustion to make sure that Tav and the baby were taken care of, he can feel himself losing the battle now that things have settled down. His eyes close without his permission. He leans back in the chair, cradling his son securely to his chest as muscle memory from the countless times he’s done this before slides over him like a well-worn glove. He inhales deeply, taking in that new baby smell he loves so much, and promises to himself that he’ll just rest his eyes for ten minutes.

Fifteen at most.

Definitely no more than twenty.

As he slips into Reverie, his mind drifts back to every time he’d been in this position over the years, and all the events that had led up to those moments, searching for inspiration. The initial fear that had reared its head less and less each time. The cautious excitement every time he first heard the faint double-time beat of a tiny heart. The wonder of feeling first kicks from a little creature so eager to make its presence known. The anxiety and thrill when there had been two. The pain and grief and terror when it had once gone so wrong. The adrenaline and panic and relief when it had once gone too right. The bone-deep exhaustion and elation and happy tears and pure joy that always came at the end when hearing that first cry. Each time, a small bundle gently placed in his arms. For each one, renewed awe that he could ever get to have something this unequivocally good. Always, a whispered introduction.

Hello, darling. It’s so nice to finally meet you.

[shima-draws]

Well since the Mochi Mayhem DLC out. How did that go when it came to the Kieran Orgepon AU. Heck what about Indigo Disk since things are bound to go differently there?

HONESTLY probably not that different from canon except Kieran teams up with Juliana to absolutely whoop Pecharunt's ass LMAO

Originally I thought that the Lousy Three had been manipulated into working under Pecharunt (I mean they still kinda were? Technically?) but then I read up on their lore and realized that Pecharunt basically took their desires and made them a reality, so it was more of an even trade than anything. The trio got to power up and achieved what was previously impossible for them, and Pecharunt got their loyalty and could command them as it wished. Part of me wanted an arc where after defeating them they are released from Pecharunt's control and could then apologize and reconcile with Ogerpon, but I really think they did a lot of what they did out of free will. So they're still assholes lol

Anyway as for Mochi Mayhem, Kieran would most likely recognize Pecharunt right from the start and would be squaring the HELL up. Pecharunt manages to get a shot at Carmine and flees (like a COWARD!!) so Kieran calls up Juliana and asks her for help. Which starts the impromptu visit to Kitakami with Arven, Penny and Nemona tagging along ;)

Juliana's never seen her friend so angry before so she realizes this is probably smth important. Cue the trauma arc and Kieran revealing Pecharunt had been behind everything regarding his masks and the Lousy Three terrorizing him all those years ago. (He didn't recognize Pecharunt in its dormant form, but once it awakens he sees it and goes !!! >:0)

At first Juliana's a bit hesitant but once she hears what Pecharunt did she's just as angry as Kieran, if not angrier. The Paldea trio are like WHAT is going on rn why are you two so fired up. And then what commences is the most epic beatdown in history. (And is also pretty cathartic for Kieran, too, finally able to vent out all his anger at the mastermind of the whole situation.)

Juliana probably catches it to keep it under control, but as for what they decide to do with it after...who knows. I feel like Pecharunt has always been intentionally malicious, so training it to not be that way would be difficult, not to mention how uncomfortable Kieran would be with the whole situation. Idk it could go either way!

As for the Indigo Disk--hmm. I'll have to think on that one a bit more. It'd definitely be different since Kieran was never a trainer to begin with, so he's not the BB Academy champion. And for conflict, I'll probably ramp up Briar's obsession with Terapagos to make it a bit more spicy, bc I felt that her arc was too underwhelming. Make her the real villain, and make her even more unhinged when she finds out about Kieran >:)

[jdbellingham]

new years - jude bellingham

pairing: jude bellingham x best friend reader

summary: as the bellingham brothers’ best friend, you had learned how to get the upper hand over them, and at new years when you are told to bring a game you have just the trick. but the one thing you didn’t expect from your game is what you got in return.

note: sorry I wrote this a while ago but haven’t gotten to posting it :)

word count: 1.9k

warnings: swearing, fluff?

Every year since you’d befriended the Bellingham brothers, you’d attended all of their holiday parties–and New Years was no exception. This year, Denise, Jude’s mother, had decided to make the party a bit more interesting. She had asked everyone attending to bring a fun challenge or game, and whoever won the most points that night would get to have one ask that no one could refuse. When you’d first heard your mind went completely blank, you didn’t know what to bring. But later that night you had dinner with Jude and Jobe, going to get Chinese food after Jobe had finished his final practice of the year. When you were eating you realized that the two of them didn’t know how to use chopsticks, and a shit-eating grinning spread across your face.

“Why do you have that devious smirk on your face y/n,” Jude looked up from his plate and began laughing when he saw your expression. Jobe casted a curious glance at you as well, furrowing his brows at your strange smile.

“No reason,” You had replied, snickering to yourself. You knew Jude and Jobe were overly competitive, and when they couldn’t win something they hated it. So what better way to whoop their asses on New Year’s Eve than to play dirty and bring a game with chopsticks?

–

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Jude blatantly spat out, his mouth parted in a small semi circle when you pulled out your game.

“Language, Jude!” Denise exclaimed and swatted her son’s arm, gesturing not so inconspicuously to the 6 year old lad that was watching some cartoons on his mother’s phone.

“She’s a cheater!” Jude acknowledged his mom’s words but chose not to respond to her, then threw his hands up, and Jobe nodded in agreement.

“It’s not cheating, you guys just don’t know how to use chopsticks,” You snorted, and Jude gave you a look that made you laugh even harder.

“This is why you wanted your game to go last, so you could make us remember how badly we did,” Jude accused, and you shook your head and ignored him.

“Everyone has got a minute to transfer as many jelly beans as they can from the bowl on the left to the bowl on the right–using chopsticks,” You explained to them, dishing out hefty portions of the sweets to each of the guests, sending Jude a wink at the last part of your instructions.

After setting everything up you took your place next to Jude, sitting snugly into the chair. You felt Jude’s soft gaze on you, and it made the butterflies in your stomach dance joyfully, flitting around as your face began to burn a pinkish-red. You absent-mindedly wondered how Jude hadn’t noticed your shift in behavior around him. Ever since the summer the two of you were 17 your feelings for him had morphed into less platonic and far more romantic ones.

“Okay, the timer starts in 3…2…1…Now!” Denise exclaimed, stirring you out of the stupor that had left you blankly staring at the boy you had tried to convince yourself you could only ever be best friends with in hopes of dwindling your not-so friendly feelings.

You picked up your chopsticks and began picking up jelly bean after jelly bean, all the while watching Jude put one chopstick in each hand and try fruitlessly to move a single sweet into another bowl.

The timer began beeping, and everyone placed their chopsticks down. You took a peek at Jude’s bowl and was surprised to see a single bean sitting in it.

“Well done,” You patted his back, trying to contain a laugh. Ever since the two of you had started becoming best friends you’d loved mocking him. Even when you stopped thinking of him as one-

“Oh shut it,” Jude whined, interrupting your thoughts while reclining into his chair then crossing his arms in frustration.

“Says the person who can’t use chopsticks,” You elbowed him, leaning heavily into his side. Your rib bones chafed against his, even through the layers of cloth that stood between you.

“What does that have to do with the fact I told you to quiet down?!” Jude complained, pushing his shoulder into yours, his chair scooting closer to yours as he did so.

Denise finally made her way down the table to where you and Jude sat, a smile gracing her lips when she caught the two of you shoving each other.

“Well, it’s obvious you didn’t win,” Denise remarked, not even bothering to count what was in Jude’s bowl.

“The two of you are so mean!” Jude exclaimed dramatically, putting his face in his hands.

“You act as if you have zero points,” You scoffed, turning in your seat to face him.

“Still!” Jude argued, and Denise finished counting the beans in your bowl.

“Quiet down,” You hushed the whiny boy beside you, eyes following Denise who was announcing the final points now that the games were over.

“Okay, now that the final game is over I will be announcing the top 5 scorers, from least to most points,” Denise elaborated, then took a look at her clipboard (which funnily enough she had bought just for this occasion).

“In 5th place is John, with 36 points,” And the 6 year old who had been watching what you thought was cocomelon shouted gleefully.

“4th place is Mark, with 39 points,” Denise continued, “3rd place is Jobe with 45 points,”

You glanced over at Jude, who looked heavily invested. He was quite literally at the edge of his seat, wondering if he had gotten first or second place.

“And lastly, 1st place is Jude and Y/n who tied at 61 points,” Denise finished, and you began doubling over in laughter.

“Are you serious?” Jude’s mouth in a large “O” shape.

“Is the pope catholic?” Denise questioned, raising her brows at her eldest son.

“It’s because of your stupid chopsticks game,” Jude groaned, grabbing your hoodie and burying his face into it, then leaving his head to rest on your chest.

“Aw, it’s okay you suck,” You feigned a sympathetic tone as you ran your hand over his hair.

“Fuck off,” He mumbled, and you could barely make out what he said through the muffle of your hoodie.

“What are you guys gonna ask for?” John, the tiny boy, questioned you and Jude. He had approached you with his mother’s phone in his hand, but it was forgotten and at his side by the time he asked his question.

“We’ll have to think about it,” You reply, and Jude lifts his face up, jutting his chin into your left breast. You shove it downwards to a less painful area as he speaks to John.

“I’m probably gonna get her to do something stupid,” Jude whispered, full-well knowing you could hear.

John giggled and ran back towards his mom, who sent an apologetic smile, probably thinking he had bothered you.

“Get off of me Jude,” You sighed, attempting to push him upright and into his own seat. He groaned and used his hands to grab your hips, pulling himself back onto you. At the very feel of his touch your skin burned, sending another bout of butterflies through your body.

“No, I’m so tired Y/n just let me lay here,” He protested, the end of his sentence stretched to a long whine. You looked down at him, his wide brown eyes staring into yours.

“If you're going to use me as a pillow at least let us move to the coach,” You caved after a moment of silence, and Jude obliged with a smile plastered onto his features.

–

You felt yourself being shaken awake, John’s tiny hands pulling at your hair. You stared at him quizzically before he offered an explanation.

“New Years in 5 minutes,”

You thanked him and he trotted away, then you shifted your attention to Jude. The two of you had fallen asleep together on the large L-shaped sofa in the living room. Jude’s large frame laying atop your smaller one, his head rested on your chest whilst your arms encircled him. The position the two of you were in made your brain turn to mush, the proximity was driving you mad. You stared at his soft pinkish lips, wishing you could press them against yours.

It was almost as if Jude could hear you thinking, and he began to stir under your embrace, his head shifting to rest on his left cheek and his eyes fluttering before going shut again.

“Hey Jude,” You said softly, and Jude’s eyes flew open, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Hey gorgeous,” Jude replied, his voice sleepy. You weren’t sure why he had decided to use that pet name, but you weren’t going to complain.

“Get up, it’s almost new years,” You began to get up, and this time Jude obliged.

The two of you straightened out your clothing and headed out to the backyard where a large projector was casting the countdown onto a large white screen.

You stood by Jobe, Jude on your other side. As you started to make conversation with Jobe you felt Jude’s hand grab at yours. You allowed him to take it, feeling confused at his newly affectionate behavior.

“One minute left!” Someone shouted, and your eyes glanced at the projector screen.

“Y/n I’m going to use my ask on you,” Jude told you, the clock just hitting the 35 second mark.

“Jude there's 30 seconds left, it's really not the time,” You replied dismissively, still staring at the projector as the numbers slowly got smaller and smaller.

“Y/n look at me,” Jude demanded, and you finally turned to face him.

“What? What do you want?” You questioned, eyes holding onto his, even as you felt his hand leave yours.

“10! 9! 8!” The others began shouting a countdown, and Jude looked more panicked than ever.

“Kiss me,” He finally managed to get out, and he grabbed your face in his hands, pressing his supple lips against yours just as the countdown hit one. Your hands reflexively went to his chest, and you felt the unmistakable curve of defined muscle beneath your palms. You barely registered the cheers everyone yelled around you, your mind focused on the sensation of his body against yours.

The two of you finally pulled away, and Jude grinned like an idiot before softly saying “Happy New Year y/n,”

“Can I ask you to do something for me Jude,” You inquired, moving the conversation forward. You noticed how sharp Jude’s features were in the firelight contrasted by the dark night sky.

“Anything,” His eyes twinkled, wondering what exactly you wanted.

“Ask me to be your girlfriend,”

“Be my girlfriend y/n,” Jude immediately replied, and you smiled like a Cheshire cat.

“Thought you’d never ask,” You said, half honest and half sarcastic. Your heart was pounding crazily in your chest, still in shock of the events that had occurred in the last minute.

“Should’ve asked you sooner if I'm being honest,” Jude tilted his head while his eyes remained on your face, studying the features he’d loved for years.

“Can I ask you for one more thing?” You continued, staring back up at him. You figured you might as well ask for what you wanted, even if it was the heat of the moment.

“Anything for you, love,” Jude replied, the nicknames he was calling you tonight absolutely melting your insides.

“Kiss me again,”

note: working on reqs! I’m so sorry for the delay I’ve been swamped with volleyball and finals :(

if your name is below but not tagged I’m removing it from the list because it won’t let me tag you—prob bc u have a private blog—sorry!!

taglist: @raspberii @xaelia-au @mxyzptlkss @nonaism @itsmevalery @neysl0ver @crowdthena @qvirky-y @azvault @britneysbitch @futbol10 @cooloperajudgebear @lomlcherry @slvt4peterparker @saywhatiwants @richarlisonluvr @milkteabish @kyekai @jinjidontucry @wavessmile @angelxxrose-blog @meehhangryfun @fezlvr @wonderharryy @graysondolansmaid @hazalnut @eddiew-k @livinglifethroughfanfic @l0st-exe @superswaggycooch @honkkey47 @cialovessirlewis @capriaura @maeumiluv @alicesolengg @f1lover55 @frenchgirlsblog @bath1lda @luvelyxp @neymarjrsrealwife @notbluees @yooriscousin @neymarjrsrealwife @wehehwwh @landosmilkjug @edgyficuselastica

[hippolotamus]

WIP Wednesday/Fuck it Friday 😍

tagged by the lovely @spaceprincessem @wikiangela @elvensorceress @indestructibleheart @diazsdimples @tizniz @daffi-990 @wildlife4life @disasterbuckdiaz @jesuisici33 @vanillahigh00 Thank you loves 💕 (tagging you back for Fuck it Friday) Be sure to check their snippets

Coming in late because I couldn’t get myself together yesterday. But honestly what even is time? Another piece from the thing I keep saying I won’t have more of. Whoops 😬 (prev snippets here)

Eddie’s fingers skim down Buck’s sides until he reaches the hem of his shirt. Eddie lifts them both enough to tug the fabric up, exposing his tattoos and pecs, pulling it over his head. They’ve seen each other naked, or close to it, plenty of times in the showers at work, but that clearly wasn’t enough to fully prepare Eddie for being able to really see and appreciate.

“Jesus, Buck. You’re-” Exquisite? Resplendent? Carved and molded by the gods themselves? There doesn’t seem to be a single descriptor, in any language, comprehensive enough for the view in front of him. And Eddie took two years of Latin.

Buck swallows audibly and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Eddie tracks the movement, wanting to claim that mouth again. To lick and explore, to learn every curve. But he’s stopped by the open, vulnerable expression painting Buck’s features.

“Tell me,” Buck prompts, hushed and questioning and sounding so uncertain of what Eddie might say.

“Beautiful. Perfect. Exceptional.” The words tumble out, despite how inadequate they are, because he needs Buck to know. He needs him to be unwaveringly assured that what Eddie sees is wanted and captivating, unlike anything else.

no pressure tagging @stereopticons @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @spotsandsocks @buddierights @thekristen999 @fortheloveofbuddie @buckaroosheart @theotherbuckley @apothecarose @barbiediaz @chaosandwolves @eowon @giddyupbuck @heartshapedvows @honestlydarkprincess @gayedmundodiaz @hoodie-buck @ladydorian05 @lemonzestywrites @lizzie-bennetdarcy @loserdiaz @monsterrae1 @rmd-writes @singlethread @statueinthestone @steadfastsaturnsrings @the-likesofus @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @thewolvesof1998 @watchyourbuck @weewootruck @welcometololaland @your-catfish-friend and anyone else who wants to 😘

[ronearoundblindly]

I’m feeling angsty 😈

For F.R.I Steve can I get

6. How do they make up/apologize after an argument?

18. How do they care for each other when one of them is wounded/sick

And 40. Do they have any regrets in their relationship

Question are from this ask game and for the Fools Rush In series with Steve Rogers x lab tech!Reader.

Angst? You want angst, you say? I shall endeavor to deliver...

*This series deals with mature and/or sexual themes not suitable for all-ages, and these drabble-answers are no exception! Also, sorry this took forever.

6

Well, there was that time when you called Steve a 'himbo,' or when Steve was repelled by the smell of a lab accident, or when you finally snap at too many classified secrets stacked between you and Steve. You have arguments, but not all of them are knock-down drag-outs.

It's important that you two do talk in order to come to an understanding of what is truly wrong or upsetting because, as we all know, sometimes neither of you starts off by saying exactly that.

Time together alone is critical. You two are not public in almost any sense of the word, so you are skilled is setting whatever feelings there are aside until you can openly speak. Being alone sometimes still means being physically separate. Touching can be distracting and avoids the crux of the issue (usually, except the first like half a year you dated, whoops), so sorting through your feelings and putting them into words may take a while but ends up best.

There have been arguments that even take alone-alone time, where you two have some space before coming together again. It's rare, but when frustrations run really high, Steve is not a fan of that energy bleeding into physical touch or everyday tasks. He hates associating any negativity with you. (You're human. He knows that. So is he. Just...no more than absolutely necessary.)

After all that--and only after all that is worked out--Steve and you are very tender to each other. You ease back into each other. Proximity is intimacy. Steve favorite small gesture is to put his arm over you while you two read on the couch. Yours is to tuck him to your chest as you fall asleep.

It's devastating to you that Steve censors his own future.

We all like to imagine the good in our lives lasting forever, and Steve does that, too. He simply...doesn't imagine ever getting any more of you than he does now. He doesn't think to expect that part of you two together ever evolves because that would be somehow demanding...anything. He feels ungrateful for how far you've come, and that is so much more than he ever hoped to have.

Thus, he censors what he could want and expect from you. Happy homecomings, enthusiastic reunions, intense and escalating sexual relations (yes, I know that sounds clinical, but that's how his brain thinks of these things) are, each time, welcome events. He refuses to explore his desires. Steve guilts himself into being grateful and that's it.

I mention this in conjunction with arguments and making up because it's not something you can be angry at other than it's a shame he cannot incorporate his physical satisfaction with general life.

(That gets explored in 'Not A Perfect Soldier But A Good Man,' a sex pollen exposure that breaks down Steve's defenses around that.)

18

Ack, ok, wounds are...yikes. Steve fusses an unbelievable amount, even if only internally. He will plan out like six levels of 'how much to help' as you recover from something. If he is the one who got hurt (because he doesn't get sick, nope, never), then just ignore it; he'll be fine in no time. The serum is the serum is the serum. He has no business needing to be taken care of.

Bullocks.

Obviously, Steve is completely full of shit on this subject.

Once you get past his guarded dismissal, he needs tender, loving care. Steve needs reminding that not only is he still human but that being human is enough, even if he heals quickly.

In all honestly, his worst wounds are psychological. Those take patience and encouragement to speak openly.

Though unrealistic about his own health needs, Steve is (usually) thorough in his focus on your healing. At first, in the very early days, he had to be subtle, like when you hurt your hand...twice, and he's been fine accessing your mental health needs since the beginning. Seriously that's...pretty much the whole setup to this series...

There are times--adjacent to the heat of battle, let's say--when Steve does default to trusting your own strength while he continues to handle something urgent. You're an adult; he doesn't baby you. He's just gentle and as doting as possible when you two have time to be alone.

There are ongoing snippy-convos, not arguments, about taking medications for various things. He isn't fond of you dismissing your own pain--ex: you have a headache but won't take a pill--but respects your choice to treat your body how you wish. (Healthy, though, because ((and he will use this language)) he won't fucking stand for disordered eating to control your appearance. Media can fuck off in this regard.)

40

No deep-seated regrets, no. There's little things, things you both wish you'd gotten over faster or learned earlier, but all-in-all, everything that happens to you and in your relationship happens for a reason and exactly when it's supposed to happen. Lord knows, the excitement and the sorrow of the life of an Avenger leaves very little desire to spice up your world much more.

Thank you for asking!

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks]

One More First Kiss

There were a lot of instances, really, that could be considered their "first kiss."

For @jonmartinweek day 1 - First Kiss / Season 1

This is actually going to be a 7-chapter fic, with one chapter posted per day for every day of Jonmartin week! (except that jm week is actually 9 days this year, but oh well) Chapter one is a fluffy season 1 scene featuring a holiday party, a little too much to drink, and two contenders for the title of Jon & Martin's first kiss. Check it out on AO3 here, or read below:

The Institute’s yearly holiday party was miserable. 

The Institute’s yearly holiday party was always miserable, of course, but this year’s was worse than most, because this year – in addition to the lights being too bright and his dress-code-mandated tacky Christmas sweater being too itchy and the music being too loud and too festive and too repetitive (Jon swore to God, if he heard “Silver Bells” one more time, he wouldn’t be accountable for his actions) – the only coworkers he could stand were nowhere to be found.

It was their fault he’d even shown up in the first place. Tim had been pestering him for ages about his alleged inability to have fun, and Jon wanted to prove to him that he was at least occasionally capable of going to parties. His plan had been to arrive a little more than fashionably late, have one glass of mulled wine and a nibble of whatever looked good from the cheese plate while listening to Tim tell stories from his latest holiday and Sasha report what her dubiously-ethical snooping on their coworkers’ computers had revealed, and then slip out before he ever had to make small talk with strangers.

He’d already failed on that front. Unable to find Tim or Sasha, he’d somehow found himself dragged into conversation with Heather from HR and a man from payroll whose name he hadn’t caught. They were sharing the latest gossip about someone named Hannah and someone else named Jeremy, and while Jon was fairly certain he didn’t know either of those people, the possibility that he’d met both of them multiple times kept him from asking who they were. To prevent that or any other form of rudeness, he’d stuck mostly to nodding along while the other two spoke, and as such was less than fully engaged in the conversation.

When there was finally a lull in the small talk, Jon excused himself and went to search for the others.

A quick scan of the room produced no sign of Tim or Sasha. They were not by the drinks table, not on the dance floor, not in any of the little groups of chit-chatters that Jon could see. Half to get away from the migraine-inducing light and noise and half to avoid being sucked into any more small talk, Jon stepped into the hallway. He took a few steps towards the break room, thinking a glass of water and maybe a brief lie-down on the couch might help his headache, when he heard, from behind the closed breakroom door, the unmistakable sound of Tim Stoker whooping in delight.

Jon opened the door, and nine sets of eyes turned to him at once. Tim, Sasha, and Martin were sat on the break room floor with three of their old friends from Research whose names Jon knew – namely Amanda, Eric, and Salim – and three people from the library whose names he did not. They were all arranged in a circle, a bottle of wine at the center.

Tim’s face lit up. “Hey, you made it!” he said with a grin, waving Jon into the room. 

“Spin the bottle?” Jon muttered acidly as he closed the door behind him. “Really?”

“It’s a party!”

“A work party!” Jon countered. The sheer unprofessionalism on display was staggering.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Tim said, patting the little scrap of empty space between himself and Martin. “Come on, we’ve got room for another player.”

Hm. Jon had come here to prove a point, but now he found the goalposts being moved without his input. Suddenly it wasn’t enough to simply attend the party – he was sure that showing up and not letting his hair down would be worse than not showing up at all, as far as Tim was concerned. And Jon had never been very good at backing down from a challenge – not even a challenge that his opponent hadn’t been aware they’d issued – so, against his better judgment, he took a seat in the circle. Tim shifted to give him more room, while Martin sat right where he was and stared at Jon like he’d just grown a second head.

“It’s your spin, Lee,” one member of the Library contingent said to another, and with that Jon was mercifully no longer the center of attention.

Thankfully, with a circle that large, the odds of it landing on Jon more than a few times weren’t particularly high, and for once, luck seemed to be on Jon’s side. He shared a quick, chaste peck with Amanda from research, and a significantly less-chaste kiss with Tim that was, little as Jon was likely to admit it, not un- enjoyable, and aside from that, he was mostly free to sit back and watch.

There seemed to be some sort of drama brewing within the Library crowd. Two of them – Lee and Yewonde – kept landing on each other, and it quickly became apparent that there was some sort of history there. The first kiss was an awkward, close-lipped affair that was over in the blink of an eye, and they both quite clearly avoided eye contact after it was over. The second and third were a little less brief but no less awkward, but by the fourth (fourth! Jon did not envy them their luck that evening) they’d each had enough to drink to abandon propriety and engage in an activity that could only be described as sucking face.

Jon knew Martin used to work in the library with them, so he leaned over and asked, “Are they…?” He whispered the question as quietly as he could, though he doubted they would notice if he didn’t. They seemed pretty thoroughly otherwise engaged.

“They both insist they aren’t,” Martin answered at the same volume. “But everyone’s pretty sure they hooked up last year’s holiday party. Yewonde’s boyfriend definitely thinks they did, but they’re kinda on-again-off-again, and I’m pretty sure they’re broken up right now.”

Jon was grateful for the context, but before he could express his thanks, Lee had peeled themself off of their colleague and was spinning the bottle again. 

It landed on Martin. It was safe to say that Lee approached this kiss with less enthusiasm than they had the last one, but less enthusiasm was not the same as no enthusiasm. Lee drunkenly misjudged the angle and left a clumsy, wet kiss to the bridge of Martin’s nose, and Martin received it with a good-natured grin. 

Jon was glad he still seemed to have a good relationship with his old coworkers. He sometimes struck Jon as a little isolated down in the Archives, the odd one out in a group who had otherwise all known each other for years. It was nice seeing him relax like this, among friends.

“Alright, my spin,” he announced, though everyone in the room had long caught on to the game’s rules.

The bottle swung in a wide, complete arc, then another, then one more before finally coming to a stop with the cap pointed squarely at Jon. Jon’s heart sank.

It wasn’t that Jon hated Martin. No one could be blamed for thinking that he did, given how he acted, but he didn’t. It was just that, well, it took Jon time to get comfortable with new people. He’d been quite looking forward to running a department that contained only himself, Tim, and Sasha – two people he had known long enough that they’d long made it out of the ‘acquaintances’ category and were well into the range of ‘friends’ – and when he’d learned that a stranger had been thrust into their midst without Jon’s input, Jon had handled it… poorly. He’d softened a bit on Martin in recent months, coming to view him less as an unwelcome intruder, but that didn’t mean he wanted to kiss him.

Martin was the worst-case-scenario in this game – not enough of a friend for the interaction to be comfortable, not enough of a stranger for the interaction to be meaningless. Jon would have to kiss Martin, and then he would have to come into work with him on Monday, and then again the next day, and the next, and that thought froze Jon in place.

Jon’s thoughts must have been written all over his face, because Martin’s face fell. The easygoing smile vanished in an instant, and he cringed.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Martin muttered softly, but Lee interjected.

“Yes he does!” They were slurring their words, just a bit. “It’s spin the bottle! The whole game falls apart if you just ignore–”

“Alright, alright!” Martin cut them off, shoulders creeping up to his rapidly reddening ears.

“Come on, Jon!” Tim chimed in, slapping Jon roughly on the back. “He doesn’t bite!”

And Jon knew he didn’t, but now everyone was looking at him, and making a fuss, and he couldn’t move under the scrutiny of so many eyes.

Martin leaned over and planted a quick kiss to his cheek. He had to stoop quite a bit to bring himself level with Jon’s cheek, and his hot breath stirred the loose strands of hair beside Jon’s jaw. 

Martin’s lips were warm and dry and a bit rough. Jon wasn’t sure why that mattered more than the feel of Tim’s or Amanda’s lips had, but it did. 

It must have been the surprise. That’s all.

“That counts, right?” Martin asked, and the group all conceded that it did.

Jon very much wanted to sit in quiet contemplation of the memory of Martin’s lips against his cheek for a while, but unfortunately it was his spin next.

It landed on Tim, and Tim raised a single eyebrow enticingly. Jon thought about invoking his newly-established right to kiss on the cheek instead of lips, but he thought doing that again so soon might cause Lee to accuse him of destroying the integrity of the game again, so he sighed and kissed him.

Tim was a good kisser – Jon had known that for a while – but somehow it was Martin that he couldn’t get out of his head.

The game went on. Tim landed on Eric, Eric landed on Lee, Lee landed on the woman from the library whose name Jon had forgotten, she landed on Salim, Salim landed on Martin, Martin landed on Sasha. 

Jon could still smell Martin. That was hardly surprising – they were sitting right next to each other – but when Martin had leaned over, the smell had completely overwhelmed Jon’s senses, and now he lost himself trying to place the scent. It was vaguely citrusy. Not lemon, though. Bergamot, perhaps?

Sasha spun, and the bottle came to rest in front of Jon. She planted a sloppy kiss to the corner of his mouth (the library group weren’t the only ones who’d been getting a bit clumsy the more they drank) with a loud, “Mwah!”

Jon’s spin next. He couldn’t exactly say he was surprised at where it landed.

Martin visibly sagged. “I-It’s sort of between me and Sasha…”

“No, it isn’t!”

“Shut up, Lee!”

It really wasn’t.

Jon took a breath, steeled his nerves. Grabbed Martin by the shoulders, pulled him close, and pressed their lips together.

For a moment Martin went rigid against him, lips stiff and inflexible as wood, but still as warm and chapped as he’d remembered. Then he melted, turning soft and pliable beneath Jon’s touch, sighing softly against his still-closed mouth.

It was definitely bergamot that Jon was smelling.

When Jon pulled away, Martin’s eyes were closed and his cheeks were pink, freckles disappearing against the rising color. His lips were still slightly parted, as though waiting for Jon to lean back in for another kiss. Jon took in the sight for just a moment before he cleared his throat.

“I think I might head home,” he told the group. “I have to get up early tomorrow.” That was a blatant lie, but Jon needed an excuse that wasn’t I’ve seen what happens when you land on the same person too many times, and I’d rather not end up snogging with Martin as aggressively as the two of you did.

“I was actually thinking of calling it a night, too,” Martin said. “My hips are killing me; I’m too old to sit on the floor this long.” He stood up, and as though to prove his point, his knees cracked audibly.

“You can’t leave, it’s your turn!” Tim protested.

Martin leaned down and gave the bottle a final spin. It landed on Sasha, and he stooped to give her a hurried kiss on the cheek.

“Bye, Sash.”

“Bye, Martin! See you Monday!”

Tim looked up and tilted his cheek to Martin in clear invitation. “One more for the road, Marto?”

“Fine,” Martin laughed, and complied.

Jon couldn’t quite meet Martin’s eye as they made their way out of the building together. He supposed he could have found some excuse to peel off, maybe say goodbye to Elias or Heather from HR – hell, even make one more stop at the drinks table – anything to avoid the coworker he’d just kissed. Instead, they wound their way through the party shoulder-to-shoulder, and the silence was more comfortable than it had any right to be.

Neither of them spoke until they’d stepped through the front doors. They lingered on the steps of the institute. The December air was dark and brisk and sobering, and Jon took a deep, full breath of it.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” Martin said. “I, uh. I didn’t think you would.”

“Yes, well, Tim’s reports of my reclusiveness are overblown, I can assure you. I do actually leave my office on occasion.”

Martin laughed. “Yeah, well, I’m glad.” He blinked, then huffed another, softer laugh. “I-I guess I said that already, b-but–”

“I’m glad, too,” Jon said.

Martin smiled. His lips were growing pinker by the second, in the chill night air. For a second, it seemed that he was leaning toward Jon, and Jon found himself leaning in as well.

“Well,” Martin said, and the moment, if there had been one, was broken. “G’night, Jon.”

“Good night, Martin.”

[arithmonym]

Been thinking about your ace cam fic where she initiates and is like hm yes i am good at being a scientist. And then is like YIKES WAIT NVM. Bc ive lived that experience several times lmao and you wrote it super well in a way that i feel like fits them. It Stuck with me.

Anyway Im reading this autostraddle article you reblogged and looking at the consent chart (screenshot included) and Im curious about where you feel she falls on that chart. I interpreted it as “willing consent (when i care about you even though i dont desire you right now)” but yeah im curious about your meta on it

(fic link, for context.)

that’s a difficult question!! i don’t think there’s a straightforward answer; and camilla is an unreliable narrator in this fic, so that confounds the issue.

the way she narrates the encounter prior to her withdrawal, i think “willing consent” is the closest approximation: she doesn’t desire palamedes, but she’s making the choice to have sex with him because she cares about him, and they’re both hurting in the wake of dulcinea’s rejection. she doesn’t expect to get anything out of it except the reassurance that she and palamedes are still bound tightly together, but she doesn’t expect to be harmed by it, either (…so long as she can stop herself from thinking about how it might affect their necro-cav dynamic, which she prioritizes more than any romantic or sexual relationship they could have).

from a meta perspective, the setting of chapter two is very intentional: it’s where camilla trained as a child (first for her own benefit, then for his), and it’s where she first started to internalize the societal messaging that her autonomy was less important than her his.

(i took gymnastics for a few years as a kid, and the rope climb made me cry sometimes. i could do the other skills fine, but i struggled with the coordination required—not to mention the attention of my peers as i failed. this is camilla, ashamed she wasn’t better (at a task that objectively means nothing vis-a-vis “being a good cavalier”), because she’s grown to a point where she bases her self-worth on being useful to him.)

(then, at the end, she’s lying on her back on the mat, staring up at the bell, exactly like she’s just fallen off the rope. again. introjected conditions of worth go brrrrrr.)

the paragraph under that chart clotheslined me, because whoops, been there, done that, and i think it rings truer to what’s actually happening with cam in this fic:

even as she refuses to acknowledge it, camilla knows that she’s making a mistake. she doesn’t want to desire palamedes. she doesn’t want this to become a part of their dynamic, she wants this to be a one-off that they never speak of again (because she doesn’t really want it to happen in the first place)—but she’s also terrified of losing him. her decision to initiate rather than pull away is 100% informed by the fact that dulcinea has just rejected palamedes, and cam perceives something as simple as prioritizing her own wants/needs as a rejection, on a day when that’s a very sensitive subject. this tips the scale more towards the “unwilling” side, IMO, but it’s a huge grey area (badum-tsss, sixth house pun).

TL;DR: i think consent gets tricky in the context of cavaliers and necromancers and how all-encompassing that relationship can be!! i love all interpretations of campal, but i thought this one was worth exploring (especially as this fic is also me processing that i’m on the ace spectrum, and it reflects the struggle to work out my own boundaries with sex).

bonus: screenshot from when i first brought this fic up with my friends.