#he says 'working for that clinic' with so much disdain

[rvspecter]

I'm not getting into the Bar if it means getting you kicked out.

[tteokdoroki]

˗ˏˋ 💎  JJK MEN AS OVERPROTECTIVE GIRL DADS gojo, sukuna & geto .ᐟ

⋆˙ ᯓ★  about ! “a little girl’s first love will always be her father." three scenarios in which the daughters of three jjk men introduce their boyfriends to their fathers. ( 5.7K )

warnings ! minors blank and ageless blogs do not interact. video banner. not beta read. sfw, fluff, angst if you squint, no-curses!au, mentions of pregnancy, children and babies, the children have no names, some family issues, married life, domestic bliss, husband + father!jjk men, mother + fem!reader.

sonic says ! hello everyone !! i wanted to try my hand at some head canons and scenarios, i couldn’t get this idea out of my head so put a pause on working on kinktober to write it lol!! hope you enjoy <3 - m.list ⋆ read on ao3 ! ִ ࣪𖤐₊ 

ᯓ★ SATORU GOJO:

before meeting you, satoru gojo had never been fond of a family dinner. 

in his childhood home — they were cold and quiet, pockets of clattering cutlery would cut through painstaking silence and distract from the loud emptiness of the seat at the head of the table where his own father was supposed to be. his mother, often solemn and sunken in the shoulders, never spoke. never cooked and slipped small bites to her son in between preparation or steps.

they had staff for that, they had staff for everything.

to keep the household clean and together. to keep him fed and breathing. to keep him alive. all requirements felt almost clinical, the environment in which he was raised almost like the white walls of a hospital — without a trace of love needed for a child like satoru gojo needed to thrive. 

even if he had all the money in the world, he hadn’t a drop of love. he wasn’t ever sure if he was capable of the warm and fuzzy emotion, didn’t know if it was something his heart could ever open up to — sealed in by layers of cool, cold concrete and cement. kept in a safe without a key. at least until you miraculously found it and melted the thick layers of ice blocking satoru’s veins. you brought back colour to his cheeks and light to his eyes, taking up the space in his heart where his family had left a swirling, black void. 

to satoru, you were a saving grace. his everything… and he swore he’d never be like his father; who left his wife unhappy and empty, like a abandoned shell. he promised; he’d do much better than his parents ever did. especially when you found out you were pregnant, even more so when your little girl came into the world with plentiful white curls and lashes, screaming at the top of her teeny tiny lungs. 

at the time, you were sure you’d never seen satoru gojo so in love ( and so teary eyed too ) — but you knew what becoming a parent meant to him. what it meant for the new life you now shared.

but now, having met you and married you and created life with you — satoru had found a new appreciation for family dinners. they were a sacred event, a special time for him to keep up with the lives of his children and let them know he was there. present. 

it wasn’t a time to be imposed on and certainly not by meddlesome boyfriends brought home by sixteen year old daughters.

“so kid, what’s your 401K look like?” 

satoru carries a look of disdain, his nostrils flared, blue eyes narrowed and perfect pink lips curled in an unhappy frown. 

the young boy opposite him, a little scrawny and awkward, shrinks underneath the white haired man’s intense gaze — if you squinted, you could probably see him shaking like a little leaf in the intense wind from across the table “um… i don’t know?”

“hear that little guy? no 401K… how’s he meant to take care of your sister. yeah, yeah.

you’re right, i’ll give him a chance,” he mutters to the baby boy snoozing happily in his arms under his breath, engaging in a one sided conversation before switching his focus back to his daughter’s…sorry excuse for a partner. “okay then… finances, clearly not. academics and common sense —“ pausing,  the white haired father of two clicks his tongue, pushing it into the soft flesh on the inside of his cheek as if to feel his next words out in his mouth. “do you even know what a bouquet of flowers is, kid? a corsage? gojo women don’t play about their flowers, yanno.” 

“sir—“

without giving the boy a chance to speak, gojo drops his intrusive gaze under the table and back up again — pointing an accusatory finger at his little girl’s partner. “your top button’s undone and your shoe laces are untied. you might wanna fix that! if you care about my daughter’s safety!” he turns his nose up all petulant like a picky toddler being forced to eat his veggies, he even sticks his tongue out for good measure. gojo’s eccentric movements nearly jostle his sleepy son in place. the baby whines and gurgles a little bit, only soothed by a pat to his back from dad — who repositions him to snooze over his shoulder.

in a silent, quieter gesture, satoru uses two fingers to point between his eyes and the boy’s. almost as if to say ‘i’m watching you.’

catching him in the act, the eldest gojo daughter bounces into the room carrying plates of steaming hot food, exhaling with worm down patience evident in her body language. “daddy please, you don’t act like this normally. stop messing around.” rolling her eyes, she sets the dishes down, freeing up her hand to smack the back of her dad’s clearly empty skull. just like her mother.

“well sooooorrry for being a good dad and caring about your wellbeing! who you’re dating! who you’re bringing into our bloodline!” gojo rebuttals with petish grunts, unable to cradle the back of his injured head like he does with his son.  

and as if by magic, you, his beautiful and loving and gorgeous wife appear with dinner plates in hand to double down on a scolding the white haired man. amused, you also swat at your husband’s head and tut down at him. “satoru? what are you doing?” there’s something about the way you tease and tell gojo off that always makes his heart race, even after all these years of marriage and raising his kids. he loves you, his family so much. he almost keens into your touch like a pathetic dog, until your daughter starts gagging at the sight — slipping into her set. you were supposed to be watching the baby. not interrogating the poor kid.” 

“we’re having a heart to heart, babe,” gojo swoons, clearing his throat as his head bobs in the direction of his daughter’s boyfriend. “jimbob here was just telling me about his 3.4% grade point average.”

“it’s hiro sir! and uh… 3.5% sir.” the boyfriend in question chirps shyly.

you know that your husband feels… almost threatened by another man entering your daughter’s life — they’ve been practically inseparable since the moment she first opened her eyes. to give up the duty of loving and protecting her and pass it onto someone else is probably what scares him the most. “that’s pretty good hun!” you comment absentmindedly, hoping to pull satoru away from the conversation.

“no it’s not! our daughter has a 4.0%.”

“s-she was failing in math, i was tutoring her.” the boyfriend hopefully interjects again, whispering next when the baby stirs at the dining table. “i hope that makes up for my 401K sir. i-i also work part time to save for college and—!” 

“haha — no i wasn’t!” the younger gojo girl tenses in place, elbowing her date in the ribs not so discretely from under the table. it’s this interaction that makes her father smile, only briefly, before you scowl his way.

“i thought you told them we met at a tutoring session.” 

“you were failing?” you raise a brow, taking your own seat beside her father. 

“see! this boy failure is a bad influence on our daughter!” a glare settles on the slopes of satoru’s angelic features, mirrored by your child’s unimpressed expression across the table. in his arms, your youngest fusses about as if he senses the mounting tension at the table — earning a bounce or two from daddy, who turns your way all matter-of-factly like. “see, this why he doesn’t have a 401K”

“why would a teenager have a 401k, satoru!” comes your exasperated sigh.

“i had one when i was his age.” satoru shoots back and the kid sinks nervously in his seat. the poor boy looks as though he wants to disappear, squirming in place like he’s no better than a worm on a bait hook — it’s torture being interrogated and inspected by someone so close to the person you love most, but even he knows how important satoru’s approval is to your daughter.

she wouldn’t say it now, not when she was all grown up and finding her way out in the world — but she idolised gojo, all of her fondest memories are painted in his colours. shades of sapphire and azure like his vivid eyes, snowy white from his hair that almost rivals the clouds in the sky — the backdrop to days spent riding her father’s shoulders through the big wide world, racing down grassy green hills and wasting the hours away. she wouldn’t admit it here, today, but she never wanted to leave those memories. leave her father behind in her youth — it was written on each dip and curve and highlight on her youthful face, she wanted her father to move into this next phase of life with her too.

“daddy, you were a trust fund baby with shit grades and no prospects until you met mum,” she huffs but her words hold no malice, even if the sass brims over the edge of her tone like an emotionally charged, overflowing glass of water. you’d chide her for cursing — but you know she means well, stubbornly expressing her desire for approval to her man child of a father. “a loser, if you will.” 

gojo slumps, the rosey petals of his plump lips pushing into an age old pout. “how could you say that about dear old dad?” he whines, as though he’s a wounded animal. 

“well she’s not wrong, baby. you were a loser satoru, you still are.” the words are fond and light hearted on your tongue, a similar state to the wisps of a smile that trace over your own lips. leaning in close, you tickle the nose of the gurgling baby boy in his arms, heart heavy with affection — grateful that the one interaction you had with your husband all those years ago ( when he was a scrapier and misunderstood ) led you both to the beautiful chaotic family you have together now. “a hot one at least.” 

“gross.” your daughter groans and buries her embarrassed gaze in the spread of food on the neatly laid table — grabbing a plate and piling it high to cope.

her boyfriend chuckles nervously, wanting nothing more but to eat and do the same. desperate to hide from gojo’s intimidating aura, but too afraid to cross another one of his ridiculous invisible lines. “i think that’s very sweet mrs gojo!”

the brief moment of peace in the war of dad v boyfriend is then interrupted by the white haired man’s temper tantrum, realising that his only daughter is still in the room. “don’t push it kid.” the father of your children all but wails and finds something else about the young couple to pick apart. “you’re sitting too close together! move apart!” 

“daddy—!”

“w-what?”

“i said move it or lose it kid, before i keel over and die of heartbreak.” “betrayal. my own daughter, leaving me for someone else.” 

the two separate, shifting their chairs away from one another despite never actually being too close. you share an empathetic look with your eldest, empathetic to your husband’s actions. you both knew he wouldn’t handle the meeting well, but this was beyond your whilst dreams. the young couple’s hands remain intertwined under the table cloth as the meal begins properly, and when satoru notices, he doesn’t comment — biting down hard on his unhappy tongue. he knows all too well what it’s like to love against the odds, his father in law hardly wanted him around you. it’s not like he wasn’t aware how bad he was for you, how your standards might have even dropped for the man to be with him. but you loved satoru with your entire being, wholly and against all of your own parent’s wishes. 

in a way, the dinner tonight reminds him of himself meeting your father for the first time — how he had to work for his approval too. prove that he was more than just a spoilt brat. too caught up in the memories, the odd sense of loss threaded between his every breath and the love he holds for his daughter settled in his lungs — gojo almost kissed the way you whisper to him adoringly, head drooping to rest on his shoulder mostly to look at your baby but partly to comfort him. “you’re being dramatic satoru. look at them, don’t you just love young love.” 

and he does, he looks, really looks — softly staring across the table and through the haze of his own judgement, noticing how happy his little girl looks all wrapped up with her boyfriend. all he’s ever wanted is to keep her smiling, give her a life that his parents couldn’t give him, he feels all of his resentment and fear or losing his daughter melt away like a plain sheet of paper dissolving in water. he loves her too much to not let her be happy, his baby. his little girl. 

“no, not at all,” satoru finally relents with a wobbling voice and silvery tears that dot his vision — shaking his head back and forth to stop them from dropping onto his sleeping son gathered in his arms. “w-why would you say that? god, is it allergy season? my eyes are killing me. they’re not cute at all, why would you say that i’m crying?” 

your teenage daughter glances over, relief evident in all of her identical gojo features. “no one mentioned you crying, daddy.” she coos softly in an attempt to console satoru.

it doesn’t work, he starts dry heaving and sobbing. which is new for her, he hasn’t cried this hard since her baby brother was born.

the kid scrambles into his pocket and damn near stumbles over the table in order to hand your white haired lover a tissue. “i don’t think you’re crying sir!” 

“shut up!” gojo sniffles dramatically, putting on his best theatre kid act and drapes himself ( and the baby ) all over you. “shit, is this cushioned tissue? three ply?” pale, deft fingers swipe at the blue pools of eyes which well with tears while the kid nods over enthusiastically — desperate to please his girlfriend’s guardian. “good stuff this is… but this doesn’t mean i approve of you for my daughter!”

“gojo!” 

“whaaaaat!? he doesn’t have a 401K!”

ᯓ★ RYOMEN SUKUNA:

if you’d told sukuna, almost a decade and a half ago, that he would end up with a life shrouded in domestic bliss — he would have laughed in your face. maybe even called you a cunt whilst telling you to fuck off. back then, when he was younger and the spirit of ambitious fire burned brightly in his veins as though he had petroleum for blood, the pink haired man never dreamed of settling down. buying a house. getting married. or having kids.

he was as untameable as a wild horse, with only one goal in mind. to open up his restaurant and get his family out of that shithole town by all and any means. he’d cross whatever rivers he had to, climb whatever mountains he needed to — push past societal hurdles that judged him for the pink in his hair and the thick ink on his body. ryomen sukuna did not care. not about anyone else, only about his goals.

at least, until he met you. 

in many ways, you were a blessing to the world where sukuna was a curse. his complete opposite, the day to his night. though the worlds and lives you came from were completely different — 

nowadays, the man is a little softer around the edges and weaker in the heart — they say that’s what true love does to you.

a set of keys jingle at the front door, followed by the dull thud of trainers on the shoe rack and footsteps on the mahogany wood floor. sukuna hardly looks up from the article he’s reading — something about the best recipes for autumnal vegetables. who would have thought, ryomen sukuna, reading up on gardening. he would tell anyone who asked it was for his restaurant, not because he actually enjoyed it. would make him look soft. 

“hey, i’m home!” the voice that calls to him is sweet and youthful, a dulcet symphony that tugs paternally at the pink haired man’s heart strings. “is ma here?” 

sukuna smiles to himself behind the newspaper, inhaling its fresh ink scent. “in the kitchen, workin’,” he replies absentmindedly, listening to his daughter skid down the hall after dropping her backpack. “oi squirt, you ain’t slick. you know what day it is, report card. now.” 

there’s a dramatic sigh that follows footsteps trailing back into the living room. sukuna’s daughter, his pride and joy clings onto the doorframe with a scowl that could very well rival his own, ruby red eyes twinkling with annoyance — she’s in a rush to chat with her mother after school, he knows, but he can’t help but to tease her just a bit. “s’in my bag, can i go now?” she whines impatiently but takes off at the first gentle nod from her father in reply. 

but the pink haired parent’s peaceful evening is quickly turned upside down at the discovery he makes in the bottom of his pride and joy’s bag. no matter how much time has passed, how many decades have gone by in which he’s been a father — nothing could prepare him for this new challenge, the new wave of emotions that come with having a tween daughter and swirl hotly in his chest.

“what the fuck is this?” he announces with a foul snarl, slipping into the kitchen where his girls chitchat idly over a test batch of cookies sukuna had made earlier in the day. for his restaurant of course. not because he’s a doting husband or loving father. he’s got an image to uphold and it’s not one of domestic bliss. 

his daughter chirps, not looking up from the sweet treat she picks apart and pops into her mouth — seated on the kitchen island while you work away on your laptop. “what’s what, daddy?” her innocent nonchalance about the older sukuna’s discovery almost makes him pop a vein. “also, ma told you to stop saying the f-word. so, swear jar.”

the hulking man with the contrastingly soft pink pokes his tongue into the soft epithelium of his cheek, his jaw ticks and a playful frustration tingles throughout all four of his limbs. the swear jar was something you’d brought into play as soon as [daughter name] had learned how to talk, afraid that your rough and rugged husband’s potty mouth would rub off on her young impressionable mind. every time a cursed word falls from between ryomen sukuna’s lips, a couple hundred yen is popped into the jar as punishment. the thing was practically full by your baby’s third birthday, so you’ve been putting it down as her college fund ever since.

paper rustles between deft and tattooed fingers as sukuna reveals not a report card, but a crinkled note like the kind passed back and forth between distracted kids in the middle of that one class before lunch. “don’t play dumb with me, squirt.” ryomen holds the note up to the light so that both of his girls can see, blood diamond eyes squinting so he can inspect it better. somebody get this guy his glasses. “‘do you want to go out with me? tick for yes, cross for no.’” he reads out loud, each word leaving a bitter taste on his tongue, his frown so deep that lines of disapproval form on his well-aged face.

thoughts of the once all-important report card vanish into thin air, the relaxed aura in the room replaced with a palatable tension that not even your husband’s finest knives could cut. your precious baby girl shoots up from the counter to scramble with her dad over the note in hand. he holds her back with a large palm to the forehead.

“oh my god! you weren’t supposed to see that! daddy, give it here. please!”

“fat chance, squirt,” the tattooed man retorts. “you passin’ notes in class? that why you’re hidin’ your report card?” 

“you can have my report card, when you give that back!”

with the two standing side by side, the resemblance strikes you as clear as day. they share the same hair, same scowl and same rugged intonation to their voices. they’re both yours, your entire world under one roof. before they can blow said root off, you stand between the elder and younger sukuna — turning to your husband with hooded eyes and a gentle hand on the centre of his broad chest. “oh ryo,” you coo in flirtation, slowing his train of thought as you sneakily swipe the crushed paper from his grip. “shut up ‘n let me see that.”

your daughter gags behind you at the display of affection, contrasting with the amused smirk you share with your long time lover. after all this time, marriage and the perfect kid, you’re still able to make a fool out of him — make sukuna’s heart skip a beat and a heat he refuses to acknowledge crawl up the back of his neck. he’s gone soft, for you and his family. for now, for you, he relents on taunting his precious little girl. 

casting your gaze over the note, you grin at the pink-ink chicken scratch scribbled across the page. it’s sweet and endearing, reminding you of young love. “did atsushi finally ask you out?” you ask tenderly, handing the paper back to your daughter who cuddles it to her chest like the  physical version of a precious memory. 

a bashful expression lines the contours of her face, seeping into features you’d recognise from your husband on her. sukuna would argue that she has the shape of your eyes and your beauty too — but all you see is a culmination of love. “ma you were so totally right, playing hard to get really works!” 

she gushes dreamily over her crush like it’s puppy love, biting her lip and bouncing on the spot. 

“like a charm, every time.” comes your entertained response, much to your husband’s dismay.

“you weren’t playin’ hard to get with me…” sukuna questions rather than states, trying to piece together parts of the gossip that he’s missed. an anxiety corners the beat of his heart at the thought of his daughter dating, something in which the burly man never thought he would be afraid of. the world had been hard on sukuna; he only worries that it’s not as safe for his pride and joy as it were for him.   “never mind that; the brat asked you out with a piece of paper?  y’better not have said yes. we have standards here.” 

his words make you roll your eyes with the hint of a smile. ryomen almost reminding you of your own father around the time you’d met him.

your daughter scrunches her nose petulantly, gearing herself up for a witty reply. “well ma married you, so her standards can’t be that high.” she snaps, earning a stifled laugh from you and an unimpressed grunt from her hardheaded dad. “and no, i didn’t. told him he needed to ask me out  properly. face to face. with words. he said to meet him on the running track tomorrow at lunch for a surprise!”

pulling her into a hug, you kiss her round youthful cheek. “oh baby, i'm so happy for you!”

“well i ain’t! show me the damn kid, need to see what kind of pitiful brat wants to ask out my little girl,”  sukuna crosses his arms and grumbles to himself, black ink tattoos flexing menacingly as he does so. almost as if he’s preparing to threaten the kid before even meeting him. “whatever happened to askin’ for permission to court or whatever. he should have been on my doorstep asking for your hand.” 

“firstly you would have said no, and secondly this isn’t the olden days, dad. nobody does that anymore.” your cheeky daughter chides him loudly, her words slipping over her snarky little tongue. like father like daughter, the way they snip and snap at one another has an uncanny resemblance.

tilting your head upwards towards your fuming husband, you laugh breathlessly in a way that washes away his anger.“she’s right ryo; though my dad hardly approved of you either.” you say softly. even now, you make him feel weak in the knees and dizzy in the mind, like he’s so anything for you. whoever dates his daughter should feel the same about her.

“i freakin’ earned it, didn’t i? 

“just barely.”

sukuna huffs but settles a hand on your waist from behind and his head atop yours. he needs to soothe himself somehow, his daughter is growing too fast. “stop ganging up on me and lemme see the damn kid.” 

“here, isn’t he cute.” 

lips downturned, sukuna craned his neck to look at your daughter’s phone from over your shoulder — scrutinising the instagram page that she’s opened now offering the kid his only child has taken an interest in like a lamb at the slaughterhouse. “brat looks like a noodle.” haughty laughter fills the kitchen, reverberating against the bones and organs in ryomen’s chest and buzzing right though your back. “you’re right i woulda said no as soon as he fuckin’ turned up!” 

two sets of scolding eyes similar in shape, belonging to the two girls he loves the most swivel around to face the pink haired man disapprovingly.

“ryomen sukuna!” 

“daddy!”

“yeah yeah, i know. swear jar.”

ᯓ★ SUGURU GETO:

“my love, were you aware that our little munchkin has a boyfriend?”

suguru looks up from the bubbling pot of child friendly pasta sauce on the stove. if it were just the two of you having dinner tonight, like it was merely three (nearly four) years ago — he would have planned for a more adventurous meal. perhaps sought out a bottle of fine aged wine for you both to enjoy on the balcony and even gotten a dessert to sweeten the date in. but now, you both had more than two hungry tummies to worry about, and bottles of wine could only be purchased when the little one was off with her uncle satoru.

“no, i wasnt. i don't believe that’s come up in discussion before,” your dark haired lover turns his narrow gaze to the giggly little girl swaddled in your arms — her chubby cheeks and dark, curious eyes just peeking out of the fluffy duck-themed towel you’ve wrapped her in. bath time is usually after bed, but someone got into the paint pots at nursery school and managed to get blotches of blue streaked through her hair and under her fingernails. “care to elaborate sweetheart?”

suguru taps the wooden sauce spoon against the side of the pot and swipes his hands on a nearby tea towel before allowing them to rest on his hips, look of faux irritation settling on the contours of his face and slopes of his features. thin brows draw together like closed gates in the middle of his forehead — the expression earning airy light and squealed laughter from your baby girl.

“nuh uhhh! not my boy-fend!” she babbles her way through the big girl word, missing a few syllables here and there, but geto still grins with pride — happily leaning forward to press enthusiastic kisses to his little angel’s damp forehead. “no boy-fend papa!

bouncing your daughter slightly, you cock your hip out to hold her weight and cheekily roll your eyes. “such a daddy’s girl, lying to him already? he’ll let you get away with anything if you keep that up,”  though you muster up a pout to rival the toddler’s, the uncanny resemblance warming the cockles or your husband’s heart, your tone is playful and adoring — it’s lilt full of love for the baby girl you made together. you pinch her chubby cheek, waggling it from side to side as more of her childlike laughter tangles with the scent of pasta in the air.  “we bumped into the fujioka boy and his mother at the gates this morning, he held her hand all the way up to the classroom. it was quite cute. you had to be there, love.” 

“i’m sure,” he responds, gentle mirth and protectiveness swirling in dark framed eyes.

you relay the information to your husband as though it’s hot gossip fresh from the press, whispering over your dark-haired daughter’s head not so secretly. even with the hair and eyes to match suguru’s, she’s still just as much your carbon copy as she is his — he tends to say all of her spirit comes from you, not to mention the way she laughs and smiles.

shaking her head between you, both — your baby chimes in brightly. “noooo mama!! boys are gross, i don’ hold hands with boys.”

this time suguru manoeuvres to pinch her other chubby cheek, clicking his tongue as he does so. “not even papa?” he pretends to pout, crouching down with his hands on his knees to coo into her sweet little face. 

“nuhhh, papa isn’t gross!! papa is my favourite boy!” she quickly tacks on with a dribbly smile.

“that’s right. i’ll be the only boy in your life always, just you and i princess,” your husband reaffirms with a firm shake of his head and presses a promise in the form of a kiss to your daughter’s nose. her chubby little hands, still wet from bath time, smack either side of suguru’s face and keep him close — close enough for her to plant a soggy smooch onto his forehead affectionately. a wet kiss only a father could love. “that settles it, i’m no longer sharing my kisses. papa says no boyfriends until you’re ninety.”

once your two loves are done sharing their candied affections, you seat your daughter on the edge of the kitchen table to allow geto the room to finish up with dinner. the comforting symphony of baby babbles and kitchen utensils clanking and food boiling fills the steamy air, it makes you smile. it feels like home. “oh come on suguru, they’re only three. don’t you think it’s the tiniest bit adorable?” you say with a sing-songy voice, entertaining both your little one and her father.“they even share their animal crackers during break time and crayons when it’s time to colour, one of the supervisors told me.”

with his back now to you as he stirs through the pasta sauce one final time, you hardly miss the way suguru’s shoulders tense at the mention of the little boy your girl has taken a liking to. he wouldn’t dare frown about it in front of her, what upsets daddy upsets baby too. that’s why he’s always smiling for her, and you find the man’s subtle jealousy endearing. it’s always supposed to be suguru and his princess, with no room for anyone else ( aside from you, of course ) 

“nope, no boyfriends. no amount of cuteness can convince me otherwise.” voice falling tight and flat, suguru reaches into the cupboards for plates and bowls to dish up his lovingly prepared home cooked meal, slamming them into place at the table with a little less patience than before. 

the idea of some… little boy chasing after his daughter’s heart? over his dead body.

“boy-fends are gross!” but your daughter is forever a daddy’s girl, furrowing her brow and crossing her tiny arms in an act of defiance — supporting her papa’s cause. boyfriends are bad! 

fuelling her excitement and even more support for papa — food is served shortly by your husband, who plates up as best as he can with toddler safe dinnerware. you adjust your little girl into her high chair at the table, giggling to yourself softly when she cranes her neck to keep an eye on suguru. “does that mean papa’s gross? he’s technically mama’s boyfriend.”

“husband, love, there’s a difference.” 

three plates of hot, aromatic spaghetti are organised in a table — each a domestic reminder of the family suguru geto has been blessed with. in that moment, he thinks he would be happy if he spent the rest of his life as just the three of you. briefly his mind wonders to setting a fourth place at the table in a decade or so’s time, once his daughter truly is old enough to date. the very thought makes him feel ill. 

round, doe eyes dart between you and suguru as you take your seats either side of your darling daughter at the table — she mimics you both with fumbling little fingers that reach for her baby fork and concentrates as she attempts to repeat your husband’s words. “can i have a husbsband-love?”

you laugh and kiss her cheek, helping her to gather a bite of pasta on the full end of her fork. “husband. just husband, my love. make sure you blow on your food please!” she follows your instructions with a comical air, cheeks puffing and breath huffing while you explain why her father is a second away from blowing his top. “good girl. husband’s aren’t for babies, baby. and i think papa might not like it if you got one now.”

“if you got one ever!” suguru interjects, eyes narrowing while he fights with his lips to avoid a scowl. “the answer is still no, princess. no husbands and no boyfriends until papa is old, cold and in the ground.” 

now that your hands are free, you grab the nearest tea towel and wind it up in your grip — launching its tail end at geto as though to swat at  him. he jumps in surprise and your daughter shrieks in amusement as she begins babbling again. “don worry, papa!. fujioka is  no my boy-fend!!” she says over food in her mouth and happy tummy. geto wipes over her face again. she’ll definitely need another bath later. “hasegawa is!!”

the pair of you share a look and this time, you really think suguru might just throw in the towel. 

how could he compete with pre-school love and paint pots shared over playtime gossip? 

“two boyfriends? oh god, love… i think need some air.”

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2024. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai & recommend elsewhere.

[cowboybeepboop]

Please please please write something angsty with Hangman that ends with smut, it doesn't have to be too angsty but I really like how soft you write him

Pairing: Jake “Hangan” Seresin x fem! Reader 

Genre: Smut

Word count: 6.6k 

Summary: You’re a psychologist who is currently working with Maverick which means that Jake Seresin is back in your life. The two of you used to be friends but things changed between you during senior year. Seeing him again brings back memories, and feelings you thought you’d suppressed.

Warnings: not even slightly accurate to irl navy experience (I feel like that would be an assumption but nevertheless), mentions of bullying, Jake being a horrible person in the past, hand stuff, oral fem receiving. 

a/n: lowkey this was rlly fun to write, I'm not so great at angst so I hope this is good. Again, as always, I hope you enjoy and please send any requests you might have <3 I love to write requests so feel free to send anything! Also also, send me a message if you want to be tagged in future Glen Powell/Hangman fics.

You and Jake went to the same highschool and were great friends yet both late bloomers. You grew into yourself during your sophomore year of college whereas Jake did in Senior year of high school, when he got his big growth spurt and lost his braces. Something about him entirely humiliating you by standing you up on Prom night, something you were looking forward to, simply because of how much you liked him has you holding a grudge. 

So when you ran into him during your new position as a clinical psychologist for the Navy, your heart quite literally stopped. You thought that pretending you didn't see him would suffice, but, unfortunately the universe has a completely different plan. 

Your boss had introduced you to Maverick, they planned to have you check out his new team in order to make sure they are competent for the missions the government plans for them to complete. That's how you ended up in the gruff man's office every morning, despite his obvious disdain for your presence in their team. 

The evening sunlight beats down on you as you stand next to Maverick, watching the team go through their training drills. You notice him glance over at you, before focusing back on the team in front of you.

"How's that observing going for you?" He asks with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, never taking his eyes off the team performing push-ups.

“Honestly Sir,” you glance over to him, “You’re really good at training, but I think you should be flying missions. You’re too good of a pilot to be stuck on teaching duties.” 

Maverick pauses for a moment, caught off guard by your unexpected compliment. It's clear he wasn't expecting you to say that. He huffs, shaking his head as if trying to dismiss what you said.

"Well, aren't you just full of surprises, sweetheart." He smirks and turns to look you in the eye. "I take it you read up on my file, huh? Got all the dirty little details on Mr. Top Gun himself."

“Of course, but my father trained here a couple years after you.” your gaze returns to the aviators, “He’s always looked up to you, says you're one of the greatest.” 

Maverick's smirk falters for a second, his expression unreadable. He shifts his weight and adjusts the collar of his shirt, suddenly looking a bit uncomfortable.

"Your old man, huh?” He clears his throat. “I had no idea." There's a brief pause before he speaks again, his voice taking on a slightly softer tone. "What's he doing nowadays?"

You reply with a shrug, “Not sure. He wasn’t so keen on having a *shrink* hanging around. Said it cramps his style.” Maverick snorts, that sarcastic smirk returning to his face. 

"Yeah, that sounds like a pilot, alright." He says with a chuckle. His gaze flicks over to the team, currently going through flight drills. He lets out a deep breath before speaking again, a hint of contemplation in his voice. "Did you ever think about becoming a pilot?”

“I did, but I don't think I meet the height requirement.” you smile up at him. Maverick chuckles at your joke, a rare glimpse of genuine humor in his expression.

"Ah yes, the height requirement. The bane of many short people's existence." He teases, his smirk widening. Before you can respond, both of you turn your attention to the sound of the aviators approaching. They look exhausted but pleased, clearly proud of a job well done.

Jake walks towards you, sweat dripping down his forehead from the strenuous training. He stands a little too close, his eyes fixed on you and his breathing heavy. "Hey, Y/N." Jake says, his voice strained from the workout. "You got a minute?” you shift your gaze to the older man at your right, clearing your throat before speaking. 

“No, I’m quite busy.” your usual playful tone is replaced with a distant and cold one.

Maverick picks up on your plea immediately, his expression hardening at the sight of Jake's attempt to speak with you. He steps forward slightly, creating a small barrier between you and Jake.

Jake looks taken back by your cold response, his cocky demeanor slipping slightly. He glances between you and Maverick, clearly confused. "Ah, come on. Just a quick minute." He presses.

“There’s time to talk later.” Maverick interrupts, making you sigh in relief. Jake's cocky smile falters at your cold rejection and Maverick's intervention. He glances at the older man, clearly annoyed by his interruption. 

"It's alright, Maverick," he says, trying to shrug off Maverick's protective stance. "I just wanted to talk to Y/N for a second. It won't take long."  you cower behind Mav, unwilling to face Jake alone again.

Rooster interrupts the tense situation, “Mav, should we hit the showers? Or is there more training to be done?” Jake’s face darkens at Rooster’s question, clearly frustrated that his attempt to speak with you is being constantly interrupted. He clenches his jaw, his irritation palpable.

Maverick, however, remains calm. He gives you a reassuring look before turning to face his team. "Yeah, you guys go ahead and hit the showers." Maverick says, his hand still on your shoulder. "I’ll take care of the situation here." The team nods, sensing the tension in the air, and starts making their way towards the showers.

You avoid Jake's gaze, biting down on your lower lip as you sigh with the tension between the three of you. As the team heads off to the showers, the tension in the air still hangs heavily. Jake stands there, hands on his hips, as he stares at you with a mix of disappointment and anger.

Meanwhile, Maverick's hand goes to your shoulder, a silent show of support. "You really going to keep avoiding me like this?" Jake finally blurts out, breaking the silence.

“If I can.” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re like a damn hawk.” Mav gives you a quizzical gaze before you sigh. “It’s okay Sir, I’ll talk to him” he gives you a soft nod, heading off toward the buildings. 

Once Maverick leaves, Jake's attention refocuses on you, his gaze narrowing as he steps closer. "You’ve been avoiding me all week. We need to talk." His voice is firm, his frustration evident.

“It’s only been a couple days,” you protest, Jake's annoyance only grows at your words, his jaw tightening as he steps even closer, closing the space between you. 

"A couple of days?! It's felt like an eternity. And yeah, I remember our last conversation. It didn't exactly go well." He crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing as he looks down at you. "You can't keep brushing me aside like this." 

You take a few steps back, sighing with defeat. “Jake, why do you care so much now?” Jake's eyes flick down to the space between you, watching you take a few steps back. His expression softens slightly as he hears the resignation in your voice.

He runs a hand through his hair, frustration etched across his features. "Why do I care?” he repeats, as if the answer should be obvious. “Because I..." He trails off, his own emotions catching him off guard. He pauses, grappling with the words he wants to say, before finding them again. 

You gulp, brushing past him heading toward the buildings. Jake turns, his eyes following you as you try to brush past him. He reaches out, his hand encircling your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

"Hey, wait." His voice is softer now, more pleading. "Please, just stop and listen to me for a second."

“Okay, fine.” you pull your wrist from his grasp. Jake's hand hangs in the air for a moment after you pull away, your sharp movement surprising him slightly. But he quickly regains his composure and drops it back to his side.

He takes a deep breath and steps closer to you. He wants to reach out and touch you again, but he restrains himself. "I just... I can't stand this. This constant avoidance." 

“Worked well for you when it was you avoiding me.” you bite back. 

Jake's face flushes slightly, guilt flashing across his features. Your words hit him like a punch to the gut, reminding him of his own past behavior. He lets out a frustrated breath, his gaze dropping to the ground. "That was different..." 

“It’s not and you know it.” your head lowers as your mind goes back to your previous conversation, where you confessed your feelings for him and he shut them down quickly. Jake looks at you as your head lowers, regret in his eyes. He instinctively reaches out, gently placing a hand on your shoulder.

"Baby, please." His voice is soft, almost pleading. "Just let me talk for a minute." His touch is tentative, as if he's afraid you'll brush him away again. He wants you to hear him out, but he doesn't want to push you further away in the process. 

You’re taken aback by the pet name, allowing him time to speak. Jake notices the effect his words have on you, a flicker of hope sparking in his eyes. He realizes that he might have a chance to explain himself now.

He takes a deep breath and begins, his voice steady but sincere. "When you told me about your feelings, it took me completely by surprise. I didn't expect it at all. And, honestly, I didn't know how to handle it." His gaze drops to the ground for a moment, his hand lightly squeezing your shoulder. 

You take a deep breath, “Jake,” you move his hand from you. “The only reason you care now is because, because I’m finally *decent* enough for your attention.” 

Jake's expression darkens at your words, a mixture of anger and regret in his eyes. He knows your words carry truth, and it hurts. "That's not true." he protests, his voice tight. "If I'm here now, it's not because I suddenly think you're *decent enough*. It's because..." 

“Because what?” your eyes scan his face. 

Jake runs a hand through his hair, struggling to find the words to explain himself. His eyes lock onto yours, as he tries to convey the depth of his emotions.

"Because I realize now what an idiot I've been," he bursts out, his frustration and remorse clear in his tone. "But... something changed and I..." 

“What changed?” you sigh, Jake's eyes drop to the ground as he grapples with how to answer. He runs a hand through his hair before looking back up at you.

"I don't know," he admits, his voice quieter now, "maybe it was time, or realizing I'm not a kid anymore, but..." He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. "You're different now. You've grown, you've become this..." He gestures towards you, struggling to find the right words. 

“Jake stop..” you look up at him with wary eyes, “That's not fair,”

Jake stops, his eyes widening at your words. "What do you mean it's not fair?" He steps forward, confusion and frustration etched in his expression.

"I'm trying to explain myself, to make you understand why I care now," he says, his voice straining to remain calm. "How is that not fair?"

“Why? Why now?” your voice becomes louder with your growing frustration. Jake's own frustration flares up in response to your growing anger. His hands clench into fists at his sides as he tries to control his emotions.

"I can't explain why now!" he snaps, his voice rising to match yours. "I don't know why I didn't say anything before. I was a dumbass, and I'm sorry!" He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes never leaving your face. "I... I just wish I could go back and fix everything.” 

You open your mouth to speak, yet nothing leaves your lips. Jake notices your hesitation and his expression softens slightly, hope flickering in his eyes. He takes a step closer, his voice quieter now.

"Please. Just... say something. Anything." his hand snakes around your waist, pulling you closer, his hand pressing into the small of your back. You stay silent, unable to process his words and find a response. 

Jake's touch on your waist is firm but not overpowering. He pulls you closer, his eyes searching your face for some kind of response. He notices your silence, the way you seem to be frozen in place. His brow furrows with concern. "Please, talk to me," he pleads. "Don't just stand there." 

You cover his mouth with your hand, needing a second to think. Jake freezes as you place your hand over his mouth, preventing him from speaking any further for the moment. He instinctively responds to your touch, however, pressing a soft kiss against your palm.

His eyes fix on yours, full of hope and anticipation, waiting for you to speak. You feel your guard dropping with his affection, leaning into his body. 

Jake pulls you closer as you lean into him, his arms wrapping fully around you. The tension in the air eases slightly as he holds you tight against his body, his heart racing against your chest. He takes a deep breath, his chin resting on the top of your head. "Please, just talk to me," he whispers into your hair, his voice gentle and desperate. 

“Jake…” you press your forehead against his shoulder, “I..” Jake feels your forehead press against his shoulder, and he holds you a little tighter, his arms encircling you like a protective veil.

"Please," he repeats, his voice barely a whisper, "tell me what you're thinking." He gently tucks a finger under your chin, gently tilting your head up to meet his gaze. His eyes search yours, desperate for some kind of response. 

Your eyes glance to his lips, hands grasping his sides. “I, uh. I don’t know what to say,” your tongue flicks out to wet your lip. Jake's body tenses as he leans in towards you, his breath warm against your lips. He holds you tightly, his grip firm but gentle.

"You don't have to say anything," he murmurs, the corners of his lips barely brushing against yours, "Just... just let me show you." His eyes search yours, filled with a deep mixture of desire and vulnerability. Waiting for your response, for any sign that it's okay to proceed. 

“Jake..” you murmur, his breath hitches at the tone of your voice, the sound of his name on your lips sending a shiver down his spine. He leans in even closer, his lips mere millimeters from yours, his eyes locked on yours.

"Say it again," he whispers, his voice low and rough. "Say my name again." you shake your head in response,  pressing your lips to his. Jake's heart stutters at the touch of your lips against his. He responds immediately, the tension between you snapping as he kisses you back.

He molds his body against yours, one hand gripping your hip to pull you tighter against his chest. The other hand moves to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. He kisses you deeply, a thousand unsaid words translated through the contact. 

Your desire momentarily outweighs your grudge against him. Your resistance fades further as Jake's hand slides down your back, his touch igniting a fire within you. He caresses your body with a combination of firm desire and tender finesse, as if he's both demanding and reverent.

His hand cups your ass, his touch a combination of possessive and loving. He pulls you even closer, pressing your body fully against his, his tongue delving deeper into your mouth. He kisses you hungrily, his body craving more, but his hands remain gentle and careful. 

Jake pulls back from the kiss, his forehead resting against yours. Both of you gasp for air, chests heaving as you take a moment to catch your breath.

His eyes remain locked onto yours, a mix of desire, hope, and something else - something deeper - swirling within them. His hands remain on your body, his touch possessive but tender. He runs his thumb over your cheek, a soft gesture of affection. "Say something," he murmurs again, his voice gruff with need. 

“I think,” you take a deep breath, “I think I should leave Jake.” your hands fall from his sides. 

As you speak, as those words leave your lips, something flickers in Jake's eyes. Fear, regret, desperation, all battling for dominance within him. He feels your hands fall away from his sides and his own hands tighten slightly on your hips, as if reflexively trying to pull you back.

"Please, don't go." His voice is thick with emotion, his grip on you bordering on pleading. "Please." your hands cup his cheeks, pulling him in for another deep kiss. Your brain constantly fighting the way your body clings to him. 

As your lips meet in another deep kiss, Jake melts into your touch like a man starved. His hands move to your waist, pulling you flush against his body, his touch firm and possessive.

He kisses you hungrily, his tongue delving into your mouth, seeking connection and reassurance. His heartbeat thuds against your chest, his body reacting to your touch with a mix of need and desperation. 

He doesn't want to let you go. Not now. Jake's body presses even closer against yours, his leg slipping in between yours, creating a tantalizing friction as he wedges himself between your thighs.

His hands roam your body, his touch both rough and tender, a manifestation of the emotions he can't quite find words for. His mouth moves down your neck, his kisses becoming more insistent, more possessive, like a man marking his claim.

He needs you, and he's making it painfully clear. You moan softly, your head leaning to the side to give him better access. Jake's hands grip your hips as he kisses your neck, his lips tracing a path of fire along your skin. The sound of your soft moans only emboldens him, his own body responding to your noises in kind.

You feel him harden against you, a physical reminder of his desire for you. His kisses grow more intense, his teeth gently nipping at your skin as he tries to reign in his self-control. 

He wants more. He needs more. He growls against your skin, his hands moving under your shirt, his fingers tracing up your sides. He nips lightly at your collarbone, his own need growing with each sound that leaves your lips.

“Mm Jake,” you push against his chest, “Wait.” Jake's body stills as you push against his chest, his mind still clouded with desire. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes hazy and dark.

He tries to process what you're saying, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. He swallows hard, trying to control his racing heart. "Wait... what?" His voice is low and hoarse, his body still pressed against yours, his hands gripping your hip. 

“Take me home,” you murmur, intoxicated by his body on yours. Your lips press to his with hunger, arms wrapping around his neck. Jake's brain struggles to process your words, his body still caught in the haze of desire that surrounds you both. But as your lips brush against his again, the sound of your voice, filled with need, cuts through the fog.

He responds to your hunger with his own, pulling you even closer, his arms wrapping around your waist. He deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, his body pressed completely against yours.

When the kiss finally breaks, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice a ragged whisper. "Yes. Anything you want." you nod against his head, pulling him closer as you’re unwilling to let him go. 

Jake holds you tight as you nod, his arms encircling you possessively, not wanting to let you go either.

He takes a moment to compose himself, taking a deep breath and trying to gather his thoughts. But the feeling of you in his arms, the sound of your voice, the scent of your skin, they all cloud his mind and make it difficult to do anything but touch you.

He nuzzles his face into your neck, his voice low and rough. "We need to go." 

“Mhm,” your hands wander down his chest, to his lower abdomen, moving to his belt. “We really need to,” Your touch on his body sets his nerves on fire, his muscles tensing under your hands as you move them lower. The feel of your fingers on his belt sends a shiver down his spine, his breath hitching at the contact.

He swallows hard, trying to maintain his composure, but your proximity and your touch make it difficult. He grips your hips tighter, his fingers digging into your skin as he tries to control himself. His voice, when he speaks, is a rough murmur. "Not here.”

You reluctantly pull away from him, handing him the keys from your pocket. Jake takes them from you, his fingers brushing against yours, the contact electric. He watches you pull away, his eyes following your movements closely.

He clenches the keys in his fist, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat in his veins. His body thrums with need, the need to touch you, to hold you, to *claim* you.

He takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself. "Lead the way." you slide into the passenger seat of your car, putting your address into the gps, restlessly waiting for him inside. Jake slides into the driver's seat beside you, his movements quick and urgent. The sight of you in the seat next to him, the knowledge that he's about to take you home, only serves to heighten his desire.

He starts the car, his hand gripping the gear shift tightly, his knuckles turning white. He glances over at you, taking in your restless demeanor, and a smirk crosses his lips. He knows exactly how affected you are, and it only makes his own need surge. Your hand falls to his lap as you squeeze your legs together in anticipation of what's to come. 

Jake's breath hitches as your hand lands on his lap, the touch sending a jolt through his body. He can tell how tightly you're holding yourself, how the anticipation is affecting you, and it only adds to his own desire.

His eyes flicker down to your hand on his lap, and he has to fight the urge to pull the car over and take you right then and there.

He keeps his eyes on the road, his grip on the steering wheel white-knuckled. "We're almost there." His voice is hoarse, filled with tension. 

“Almost,” you whisper in response, moving your fingertips over his bulge, teasing his body. 

Your fingers brush over his erection, and he lets out a strangled gasp. His hand flies to yours, pressing your hand against him, as if trying to both stop you and encourage you at the same time.

He clenches his jaw, his body tensing at your touch. "Tease," he mutters through clenched teeth, his eyes darting from the road to you and back again. He groans, his body aching for release. You move closer, using your free hand to unbuckle his belt. 

You successfully remove his belt, fingers fumbling with the button and zipper. Jake's breath catches in his throat as you move closer, your hands working on removing his pants. His body tenses, both in anticipation and because he's trying to focus on driving.

He bites back another curse as you unbutton and unzip his pants, his eyes flickering between the road and your hands. He grips the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles white with tension. "We're almost there," he repeats, his voice strained. "Just... just hold on a little longer." 

“Fifteen more minutes,” you groan, hand sliding into his pants. Jake's body jerks at your touch, his hips lifting involuntarily, seeking more of your touch. He lets out a low, ragged groan, struggling to keep his focus on the road.

He looks at you, his eyes dark and intense. "Fifteen minutes," he repeats in agreement, his voice gravelly and rough, "that's it. I can last fifteen minutes." He reaches down, his hand covering yours, but not pushing you away, his touch firm and possessive. 

“Mm, but I can’t.” you murmur as you free him from his boxers, his erection standing straight up. Your words and your touch send a shiver down Jake's spine, his body responding to your every move. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, your touch like fire to his skin, the air in the car suddenly thick. "Jesus," he breathes, his head falling back, "you're going to make me crash."

As you stroke him gently, Jake's eyes fly open, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "If you keep doing that, I'm not going to be able to drive," he warns, his voice strained with desire.

Ignoring Jake's warning, you lean in and press a soft kiss to his jaw, sending shivers down his spine. His body jolts with surprise and pleasure. Your hand continues to stroke him as your mouth moves closer to his erection, and with a strangled groan, he abruptly pulls the car over to the side of the road, the tires screeching against the pavement. 

His eyes lock onto yours, a mix of desire and alarm, but he says nothing as you wrap your lips around the tip of his cock, the heat of your mouth enveloping him. His hands fly to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as you begin to suck, the rhythm slow and tantalizing.

His hands grasp your shoulders, gently but firmly, and he pulls you away from his lap. "Wait, wee can't do this here," he says, his voice strained with need and concern. His eyes are dark with desire, but he's visibly fighting to regain control. "Not here, this wouldn’t be right." His words hang in the air, and for a moment, the only sound is the heavy panting of your breath and the pulsing of his erection against your hand. 

You reluctantly pull back, your own desire warring with the understanding in his gaze. "Let's go to your place," he suggests, his voice still thick with lust. "We can... talk things out properly there." He releases you, his hands dropping to the steering wheel as he takes several deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart.

He speeds to your place, rushing to get you inside. The tension in the car is palpable as Jake shifts it into park, his eyes never leaving yours. You both exit the vehicle, and he takes your hand in his, his touch surprisingly gentle given the fiery passion that had flared between you moments ago. As you enter your townhouse, the urgency from the car seems to dissipate slightly, allowing for a brief moment of awkwardness to settle in. 

You unlock the door and lead him inside, the cool air conditioning a stark contrast to the heat that still simmers between you. Once the door is closed, Jake turns to you, his gaze searching your face for any hint of regret or hesitation. Seeing none, he leans in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that's both desperate and tender. 

Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, as if trying to erase the years of hurt and distance. His hands roam over your body, reacquainting themselves with your curves, and for a moment, it feels like no time has passed at all.

The kiss deepens, and Jake's hands move to the button of your pants, his fingers deftly undoing it and sliding the zipper down. You gasp into his mouth as he breaks the kiss, his eyes never leaving yours as he kneels before you. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your pants, pulling them down along with your underwear, exposing your bare skin to the cool air. 

His gaze travels downward, taking in your wetness with a mix of hunger and awe. "Fuck," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire, before pressing his mouth to your inner thigh, kissing and nipping the sensitive flesh as he moves closer to your center. His tongue traces the line of your pussy, eliciting a moan from deep within you. His hands grip your hips, keeping you in place as he kisses and licks you with purposeful strokes, the heat of his breath sending waves of pleasure through your body. 

You lean back, falling into the couch, your legs spreading wider, giving him full access to explore and taste you. The tension of the day dissipates as he worships your body, his mouth working magic on your clit, his hands exploring and caressing you as if trying to make up for lost time. The air is thick with the scent of arousal, the only sounds in the room your muffled moans and the wet sounds of his tongue against your skin. 

Jake's eyes meet yours again, and you can see the need in them, the raw desire that matches your own. You reach down, threading your fingers through his hair, urging him closer, whispering his name as you feel yourself getting closer to the edge.

As Jake continues to kiss and suck on your clit, you can't help but squirm against his mouth, the sensations building to an unbearable peak. You grab onto his shoulders for support, your moans growing louder with each passing moment. 

Suddenly, the dam breaks and you cum hard, your body shaking with the intensity of your orgasm. He doesn't pull away, instead, he laps up every drop of your release, groaning with his own pleasure at the taste of you. 

As the waves of pleasure subside, you collapse onto the couch, panting and trembling, your eyes fluttering open to meet his intense gaze. He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a smug look on his face. "See, we can still get along," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. 

The sight of him standing there, looking so confident and desperate for more, makes your heart race. You can't deny the pull between you, the undeniable chemistry that's always been there. But as you look into his eyes, you know that this isn't just about sex. 

Jake's kisses slowly travel up your legs, turning from hungry to gentle pecks that make your skin tingle with sensitivity. His eyes never leave yours as he shifts his body, moving from his knees to the couch beside you. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him, and you can feel his heart racing in sync with your own. 

His other hand continues to trace patterns on your bare thigh, the softness of his touch a stark contrast to the fervor of moments ago. His eyes are filled with a tenderness that you never knew existed within him, and it's this that has your chest tightening with a mix of emotions. 

With trembling hands, Jake fumbles with his zipper, the metal teeth parting with a low hiss. His eyes never leave your face, the intensity of his gaze setting your skin alight. He swiftly pushes his pants down to his thighs, freeing his erection. It stands tall and proud, a testament to his desire. The room feels like it's closing in, the air thick with anticipation.

You pull him to you by his collar, kissing his lips hungrily. The fabric of his shirt is rough against your skin, but the heat of his body underneath is anything but. His tongue meets yours with an urgency that mirrors your own, your kisses deepening as his hand slides up your shirt, palming your breast. You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips as his thumb grazes your nipple.

He pulls you onto his lap, your legs straddling his thighs. He kisses you again, his tongue invading your mouth with a passion that leaves you breathless. You can feel him, hot and hard, pressing against your wetness, and it's all you can do to not grind down onto him immediately.

Jake's hands are everywhere, exploring the curves of your body as if he's worshiping a sacred relic. You can feel the heat of his breath against your skin as he kisses down your neck, leaving a trail of soft, sucking marks that make you shiver with pleasure. His teeth graze your skin, not hard enough to break it, but enough to leave a sting that makes your pulse race.

As your moans fill the quiet room, you can't help but move your hand to wrap around his erection. Your grip is firm, your strokes measured as you watch his face contort with pleasure. His eyes are closed, his head thrown back, and the noises he makes are pure, unadulterated ecstasy. You stroke him faster, your hand moving in a rhythm that matches the beat of your racing heart.

His hips buck upward, meeting your hand with each stroke, his breath coming in short, ragged pants. You can feel the tension in his body, the coiled spring of his muscles ready to snap. And when he's right there, on the precipice of climax, his head falls forward into the crook of your neck, his mouth finding your skin.

The feel of his needy moans against your flesh sends a shiver down your spine, your own body responding to the raw, primal sounds. You tighten your grip, your strokes becoming quicker, more erratic, your own breathing syncing with his. Each moan that escapes his lips is like a command, urging you to bring him over the edge.

His body tenses beneath you, his muscles tightening like a bowstring about to snap. And then it happens. With a guttural moan, he cums undone in your hand, his release hot and sticky as it coats your palm and fingers. His hips jerk upward, his cock pulsing in your grip as he rides out the waves of pleasure. His eyes squeeze shut, and his breath comes out in sharp gasps.

For a moment, there's silence, save for the sound of your own racing heart and his labored breathing. You sit there, still straddling him, watching him come down from the high of his orgasm. His chest is heaving, his eyes still closed as he savors the feeling.

You slide from his lap, relaxing into your couch as the weight of your actions crashes over you. You turn your back to him, biting your lip as you think about what to do next.

Jake watches you, his eyes tracing the curves of your body, still trying to regain his breath. He reaches out, his hand brushing against your arm, his touch gentle but insistent. "Look at me," he murmurs, his voice raspy and rough.

You turn to him with a breathy sigh, avoiding his gaze. Jake notices your averted eyes, his fingers moving to your chin, gently lifting it until you're forced to meet his gaze. 

"Don't look away," he whispers, his eyes searching yours. "I want to see you."

"Jake," you whisper his name, eyes softening at his expression. You knew it wasn’t a mistake, it couldn't be, not on your part. You've been in love with him your whole life, but what if it was all lust for him. 

Jake cups your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the lines of your cheekbones. He can see the mixture of emotions in your eyes - love, lust, fear, and regret. He gently shakes his head, his gaze intense.

“Jake, is this really what you wanted?” you take a deep breath, “Not just some game to you?” 

Jake watches you intently as you withdraw, his hands falling to your waist, his touch firm yet gentle. "This isn't a game to me," he says, his voice serious. "It never was." 

He pulls you closer, his eyes locked onto yours. "I've always wanted you, more than anything else," he continues, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. "But I thought I lost my chance with you a long time ago." he presses a soft kiss to your chest. 

The tension in your body vanishes the second he speaks, you relax into his touch, audibly sighing. “Always?”

Jake smiles, his hands roaming your body as if trying to memorize every contour. "Always," he confirms, his voice a whisper. "Since we were kids." He pulls you onto his lap, cradling you against his chest. He can feel your tension melting away, replaced by an air of comfortable intimacy.

“You’re confusing,” you sigh, feeling his hands pulling you closer to him, his chin resting on top of your breasts. 

Jake chuckles, his breath warm against your skin. "I know," he replies, his arms encircling you possessively. "I've always had a habit of making you scratch your head, haven't I?"

He nuzzles his face against your chest, his tongue tracing a gentle line between your cleavage. "But that's nothing new," he whispers, his voice husky with desire. "I've always gotten a kick out of confusing you."

You gasp in response to his tongue, hands squeezing his shoulders. “Mm, fuck.” Jake feels your hands clenching his shoulders, and he grins against your skin, his tongue continuing to explore the valley between your breasts. 

"Language, princess," he teases, his voice laced with amusement. "You know how I feel about filthy mouths."His lips move up to your neck, gently nipping at the sensitive skin. "Makes me want to shut you up."

“Are you going to be able to be professional at work?” your murmur, hands tangling in his hair as you force him to look at you.

Jake chuckles, his eyes meeting yours. "Are you kidding me?" he counters, his grin widening. "When have I ever been professional when it comes to you?"

He shakes his head, pulling you closer until your bodies are flush against each other. "I've been trying to hide how I feel about you for years. Do you really think now that I've finally got you in my arms, I'm going to play it cool at work?"

“Jake,” you purse your lips at him, pressing a quick peck to his. “You know that I already have a problem with your coworkers…I don't want to make it worse.”

Jake lets out a groan of frustration, his hands moving to the small of your back, pulling you even closer. "I know, I know," he mutters, his lips returning to your neck. "But can you blame me for acting like a possessive jerk? You've got all those guys drooling over you, and it drives me insane."

“They only drool over me because of how form fitting my uniform is,” you reply sweetly, “Now imagine if they saw me in a bikini.” you whisper against his ear teasingly. 

Jake's grip on you tightens, his breath hitching at your words. "A bikini," he repeats, his voice dropping an octave. "Now that's a mental image I'll have trouble getting out of my head."

He pulls back slightly to look at you, his gaze dark with desire. "You like teasing me, don't you?" he accuses, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "You know what that does to me."

“I think we need to take a beach trip one of these days,” you smile innocently.

Jake's hands continue to roam your body, his touch growing more possessive. "A beach trip?" he echoes, his mind already filling with images of you in a bikini. "That's a dangerous idea, princess."

He leans in, his lips moving to your ear. "But I like how you think," he murmurs, his voice low and seductive.

[hallowedmistress]

stardew sexuality hcs!

bachelors + bachelorettes

alex

definitely gay

grew up in a homophobic, religious family

first time he saw gay people was on tv on a news program about same-sex marriage being legalised

george immediately turned it off in disdain and evelyn distracted him with some food, but the thought lingered at the back of his mind

as he grows up, he collects sports magazines. more often with lean, muscular men on the covers than not

he suppresses it for years but it comes to a head when the cute new farmer moves in

and the rest is history

elliott

homoflexible

knew he was into men since he was very young

his family wasn't pleased to say the least. their only son, gay and a writer? the blasphemy.

didn't dare confess to any of his childhood crushes because he grew up in a pretty old fashioned area

instead wrote letters and stuffed them into used cans and threw them into the sea

lived in zuzu city for a short while before moving to stardew valley, had a relatively unhealthy lifestyle of drinking and hookups and no sleep. the cabin on the beach helped with his insomnia

very rarely attracted to women; usually into the type of women who mistake him for a lesbian

sam

unlabelled

leans more towards men

vincent called him weird at first but wrapped his head around it pretty quick

jodi doesn't talk about it but she just wants him to be happy and not hide any part of himself

kent absolutely flips when sam brings the farmer, his boyfriend, over

they make it work. kent warms up to the farmer, and the strict military rules drilled into his head slowly come undone

he reluctantly tells sebastian he likes guys at the saloon one night while abigail isn't around. sebastian just says 'huh', and beats him at pool.

sebastian

queer, on the aromantic spectrum

never really thought about romance. he has enough to deal with by himself, why should he want someone else?

has a little crush on sam when they're kids

only realises it was romantic when sam tells him that he likes guys. and sebastian realises oh, i can do that.

he doesn't really tell anyone but he blurts it out to his mother one afternoon

robin is supportive, and curious at first

demetrius... doesn't say much.

after kissing sam for a dare, he huddles inside a blanket with a red face for a whole day

harvey

heteroflexible

he likes women, but likes the occasional buff man

he's vocal with his support of the community, and pins up a pride flag on the clinic's wall

he lost a trans girlfriend to suicide back in the city. it sticks with him, and he makes sure to respectfully inquire about all his patients' mental health and if they need anything

he likes the farmer for their cool, confident demeanor regardless of their gender.

shane

straight

never thought about his sexuality

kissed a few of his homies back in college before he dropped out

hasn't really "fallen" for anyone before the farmer

abigail

bisexual

this girl is so, so bi

she definitely read manga on sites named stuff like yaoiparadiseheaven growing up

always shipped the protagonist and rival in pokemon games

has a few bi pride pins. pierre hates it and wants her to tone it down, but she refuses. loud and proud

caroline chides her, but is secretly proud of her and even buys her some sapphic movie dvds

haley

lesbian

it's complicated. she knows she has some sort of comphet, and she hates it

she wants to be out to the whole town just to prove a point, but she wants to present as straight at the same time just to feel more accepted

she flirts with guys and then feels like throwing up

she tries to flirt with girls and ends up insulting them

she and abigail have some sort of sapphic jealousy thing going on

when the farmer comes to town, abigail knows she's head-over-heels for the butch immediately despite her previous insistence that she only likes femme women

leah

definitely a lesbian

chill about it. she doesn't tell anyone, but she doesn't hide it

she has a vase painted the lesbian colours

her ex from the city is non-binary

she doesn't expect to fall for the farmer at all, but ends up yearning for months

boldly sculpts a messy piece of two women kissing

she and male!farmer would talk about women together

penny

her labels keep changing

she's into women, and into pretty guys.

she used to always keep an eye out for the woman who worked the jojamart counter

pam catches her reading a lesbian romance once, and penny fears the worst

instead, pam just nods and mentions she went out with some women herself and penny just stops in her tracks wide-eyed

when she first meets the farmer, she can't stop blushing around them

maru

she never really fathomed being attracted to men in the first and doesn't get why demetrius is so against her having male friends

demetrius is obnoxiously supportive once he finds out. the farmer sighs every time they walk in on an overly large display of support

he celebrates her coming-out anniversary every year

lesbian in stem

she's also on the asexual spectrum. something like demisexual, maybe. she doesn't have it figured out yet

emily

pansexual, and open about it

every time someone asks if she has a boyfriend, she corrects them to 'significant other'.

romance doesn't work like 'normal' to her

every friendship has a little romance, and every romance has a lot of friendship. isn't that the best way to live?

she's very affectionate. with friends, family, s/o's, anyone.

[smilesession]

extremely candid, tell-all thoughts about sacrifice and familial codependency, potentially emotional incest, mentions of abuse

I have watched sacrifice become the root of all suffering, but sacrifice has become cemented as a vicious cycle with no clear path of escape as its own result.

How can I dare to place judgment or blame on my mother? A woman who gave up so much of herself in service to her disabled husband and disabled child. I watched her, when I was growing up, working up to 80 hours a week, sometimes I would stay up all night with her at the office and feel bewildered and exhilarated from exhaustion. For me it was an adventure, for her it was obligation and I can hardly imagine how she felt. Its evidence of her incredible fortitude. While she worked this hard, she was also solely responsible for taking care of the home, taking care of a significantly autistic daughter, and taking care of a negligent, drug-addicted, manipulative husband. She also hit me almost every day.

When my parents met, my father was in his early 30s (to my mother's mid-20s) and he was dying of late-stage congestive heart failure. He had 6 months to live. He lived in absolute squalor, working part-time doing something or another to do with printing signs, in spite of having a business degree, while my mom was a homeowner and worked full time in a finance position despite not having a college education. On their first meeting, my mom gave him advice on how to better maintain his long hair that he grew out to his waist but didn't wash or take care of. She was not particularly interested in him until she found out he was dying. My mom attached herself to the idea of future-widow, secretly, finding a promise of eternal validation in martyrdom. They married after 6 months and she played the role of dutiful wife; she moved him into her home, she navigated the medical system for him, she and her own mother kept him fed and comfortable, she paid for his increasingly experimental and niche treatments, and she sat at his bedside in the Mayo Clinic, both loving him and privately waiting for his death.

He didn't die. I was conceived shortly after the heart transplant. She wanted to leave him when he went back to using drugs, feeling that it was an act of disrespect to her, to her family, and to the young man who was his organ donor. She decided that leaving wasn't an option, due to the extent he depended on her. He also refused, by threats and by stubbornness, to let her leave.

The next best thing to being a widow is to be a martyr. She conceded to letting him never go back to work, and she began working longer and longer hours and striving harder. His job was to take care of me and the home. For him, this was a free ticket to eternal adolescence; for my entire childhood if he wasn't verbally abusing me he was locked behind a door, in his private room, getting high and watching either the news or Adult Swim or old concert videos on TV. He resented my natural neediness as a young child, and said to me, quantifiably more than he said anything else, "the next time you need something, I won't be there for you", and he stuck to his word. In my memory, I can't remember a single time he reacted to my needing something with anything more than complete disdain, by waving me off with his hand. He would sleep for most of the day and sometimes forget to pick me up from school. He would not sacrifice one moment of comfort for anything in the world - he is pathologically incapable of it. My mom, on top of working as much as she did, solely took care of keeping the home clean, attending to my needs, and attending to him. Again, she also hit me almost every day and openly despised me until I was an adult.

They never divorced, even though I begged her to. She would always say to me, "he wouldn't be able to survive on his own". He doesn't require around-the-clock medical care; what she meant is that he doesn't possess basic life skills. He never learned how to use the internet, does not manage his doctor's appointments, has never cleaned anything, and has never submitted a job application for himself. My mom handles all of this. When he did finally get a job, part-time at a casino, my mom delivered him lunch every day.

Once when I was really little, maybe a 2nd grader, I wrote a set of comics while at school, "My Mom is Busy!" and "My Dad is Lazy!" where I drew her going to work and him laying in bed. I wasn't trying to be mean, I was trying to depict my life. When he saw them, he insisted that I'd done it to humiliate him by lying.

For my entire life, I've watched my mom run from herself by dissolving into service to others. She dissolved her own will in service of him, by overworking, and taking on charitable volunteering on top of it. The older I get I simultaneously gain more respect for this, and more grief. I think that amount of sacrifice is a type of escape, and a type of bargaining, and a type of groveling. I think its a cycle in which she wants to do anything possible to try to prove the slightest bit of worth in herself, because she doesn't feel she has it inherently.

My entire childhood she talked horribly about herself and called herself fat and ugly even though she's always been objectively beautiful. We often dieted together and I liked it because it seemed like it made her happy in some way. I think I carry every part of her pathology, replicated into me.

Self-martyrdom is trying to outrun yourself, to displace pieces of yourself into other people, trying to force others to being your mirror, all the while making it less and less likely. It's implicitly a humiliating insult. It's implicitly dehumanizing to everyone involved. I can never dislike my mother, because you can't help but love and admire someone who faces adversity by giving more and more. I have eternal, bottomless love for her that's only made stronger by the contrast with my father, who responded to adversity by making it everyone else's problem, by being entitled and ungrateful, for feeling like heaven and earth were owed to him for absolutely nothing.

As my mother's daughter I become a martyr inherently by loving her. I want to be that perfect mirror, I want her to see the good in herself in me, instead of seeing "proof" of her perceived insufficiency. Sacrifice inherently makes you look to others to know who you are. I know firsthand that when you sacrifice yourself for a weaponized-incompetent partner, you see yourself as a subhuman, you see that nothing you can do is good enough. And it goes on permanently and you become more twisted and monstrous in your own eyes the less and less you're "appreciated". It's about the self, but it feels like overly simplistic pop-psych to call it narcissism proper. Focus on Self is displaced entirely on caretaking the Other. In this kind of sacrifice, you erase yourself and become a sacrificial object. My mom isn't a narcissist, she's completely invisible to herself. My dad is blatantly a narcissist. On top of all of this, he degrades her for her tastes and preferences and requires everything be done in accordance to his own. She is not able to watch tv shows, listen to music, etc without his open judgment, mockery, and condemnation.

But is it not narcissistic to think you can save anyone from their own decisions? Making yourself a sacrificial (thereby holy, superior, not-human) object in service is still believing you're capable of the impossible. She would have been lucky if he died. I wish he could have died even though it means I wouldn't have been born. I would sacrifice myself for her.

I struggle to break the cycle because it would be betraying her.

[broken-clover]

Since it doesn’t look like I’m gonna be finishing this year’s Mermay fic on time as I had hoped (still working on it though! Just gonna be late) and I still wanted to do something, I’m gonna just toss some miscellaneous bullets and whatnot for Illyria Aquarium that I either are so small haven’t found a way to bring them up in a plot yet or have changed because of Strive’s continuing narrative (esp regarding Asuka being released). Just a little fun grab bag of stuff!

-Asuka still visits Henry (Happy) in prison from time to time. Part of him genuinely still believes they can come to an understanding someday, but Henry only mocks him for his sentimentality. 

-It doesn’t help that as the years pass Henry only seems to become more unhinged from his time in jail. He happily embraces it, and Asuka can only reflect upon how his old friend and mentor could have turned into something like this

-Asuka has also started to try reaching out to Aria again as a friend after taking in Elphelt and Ramlethal. She has been very hesitant so far, but she can at least stand a short phone call every once in a while.

-Faust, like many seahorses, can make popping sounds by rubbing together parts of his skull. It is very good he wears the hats because watching him do it makes children cry

-Sin loves Dizzy, and nobody has any idea why. Sure, Dizzy loves and cares for all the mer, and some return that affection in varying ways, but as soon as Sin sees her visit he’ll swim headfirst into his tank wall and not even care that he gave himself a concussion. Her visits have to be carefully scheduled to keep him from doing it again

-Bedman was recently renamed as part of a fundraiser/charity drive for the aquarium. People who donated were allowed to submit and vote for name ideas, with the winning name being ‘Romeo.’ I-no assumes it was picked for irony’s sake.

-Despite his disdain for most other mer, Sol doesn’t seem to mind Bridget as much 

-Asuka’s main method of attempting to work through his problems is talking to himself in a mirror and pretending it’s a conversation. Raven has walked in on his doing it several times now.

-Mer can’t speak in the same way that humans can, nor can most fully understand human language, but May has the ability to make sounds that are very close to words.

-Needless to say, this has caused problems.

-Technically she didn’t say ‘fuck’ right in front of a middle school field trip, but it sure as hell sounded like it, and the parent chaperones were very unhappy.

-Sol, May, Millia, Baiken and Leo have all almost accidentally killed the staff members at least once, however Answer and Romeo are the only ones with the prestigious honor of trying to do so on purpose

-I-no became a marine biologist entirely out of spite

-Raven has been declared clinically dead seven times and legally dead twice. If you ask him about it he just shrugs and says he has ‘overdramatic organs.’

[dandyshucks]

hiii dandy !! i wanted to ask, what do you think you and guzma would do post-canon after the events of sun & moon ? (i might have asked this before - if i have, i apologize..) (i also wanted to say that its been really cool seeing ur progress on ur plush!! it seems so hard, so you having that skill is rly admirable and i wish u lots of luck w finishing it!!) (@dmclr)

CLARA HI i hope u (and dimitri hehe) are doing well :] !!! wah thank u for the question, u havent asked it before dw !!! 

OKAY SO admittedly I mostly only know the story through reading Guz’s wiki page a few times (teehee) and through osmosis from the general fandom dsgjkl, i want to play the game one day and maybe read the manga, and I’ve watched the anime eps he’s featured in and that’s all i’m watching of that LOL. I haven’t actually experienced much of his story (or su/mo in general) first-hand myself though fdsjkl

answer below the cut because.... the rambler's curse got me LOL

after the events of su/mo, I don’t think he’d actually disband Team Skull because… what is the point of that honestly LOL, so Team Skull stays together in MY version of the world hehe. they’re required to do community service to make up for whatever shenanigans they get up to, but they stop stealing pokemon and move onto just like… graffiti and casual pranks and stuff. they still cause trouble, but it’s mostly mischief now rather than any actual crime. I set them up to work on murals for shop owners around the islands so they can spraypaint and be artistic that way rather than randomly tagging walls and getting into trouble for it fjdskl. they keep their disdain for authority figures and rules because at the end of the day most of them are rowdy teens who feel outcasted from society, and that’s just the way the ball rolls with them (also a certain level of that is healthy and warranted tbh). I work with Plumeria to organize events and outings (outside of community service) for the squad though, which helps give everyone healthier outlets for their energy and focus.

Hala mentors Guz to help put him onto (and keep him on) the right track, and Guz learns to appreciate the islands and their traditions a bit - even if he still doesn’t agree with all of them. Part of that mentorship is also sort of therapy (in a more holistic naturally-occurring way rather than like... clinical therapist sitting with patient), so trauma gets unpacked and healthier ways of handling emotions are learned and implemented. Also fuck the Aether Foundation HFDSJKL I keep Guz far away from Lusamine and make sure she never gets close to him again (idk what Gladion and Lillie get up to, I haven’t thought enough about them yet fsjkl). There’s a lot of healing and self-improvement and learning how to Be A PersonTM for both of us tbh!

Beyond that, it is mostly just regular Alola/island living!! Beach visits, walking around, getting ice cream and popsicles, casual battles with tourists, catching wimpods, all that sort of thing :] Also we visit Sinnoh (my home region) for half the year (i have… a whole schedule worked out for that actually LOL) so there’s that, too.

as for the plushie omg thank u sm WAUGH :D i cannot tell if it’s just because i have a weird hodge-podge skillset but i DO think it is not actually all that difficult !!! you just need a pattern for cutting the felt and then I learned the ladder stitch for hand-sewing, and it’s been very straightforward on how to sew the pieces together!! the hardest part so far has just been the hair because I have a difficult time translating 2D images to 3D reality in that way.

I just really want to encourage ppl to try their hand at new crafts and creative skills because I think it’s really fun and honestly really good for ppls well-being!! i am very passionate about making creativity accessible to people as much as possible!!! maybe i could make a tutorial or smth… the pattern I'm using is free and available on the creator’s website, and it’s genuinely not that difficult esp compared to some other things i’ve tried my hand at in the past LOL I feel like some of my paper mache projects have been more complex than this lil goober!!

THANK YOU AGAIN, AND SORRY ABOUT BECOMING THE RAMBLING RAMBLER LMAO i actually entirely rewrote this once because I wanted to shorten it and it STILL ended up this long 😭

[realace]

Happy Friday! Here is an angsty song lyric prompt for you: “If they want you they’re gonna have to fight me” from Night Terror by Laura Marling for Fenders, or anyone else you feel like writing ✨

@dadrunkwriting It's Fenders :) might upload to AO3 later?? It was difficult, life in Tevinter. Injustice was in every crevice and nook, demons in every magister and slavery as usual as bath houses or mansions. But after so much time on the run Fenris had wanted answers about his past, and Anders was his way in as a mage. Granted, there was no blood magic or slavery to be found anywhere near him but Fenris had assured him that Justice would be enough fascination for magisters to give him the time of day. So they'd moved to Tevinter in a desperate bid to find some answers.

Anders' had hoped that he would find answers sooner than later just by existing, preferably without going to the Magisterium. 

But even two days in every interaction with blood magic had started to make Justice flicker to the surface and Anders grew more and more weary. He was not meant for this kind of work. He was also not meant for constant hot weather and sweating. 

Tevinter had enough blood magic and hot weather to spare.

So after they had managed to find a spot for the clinic to be set up. Fenris had urged him to go out to the Magisterium, so they could spend the remaining days healing and finalizing their research before they left for good. ["Anders, I do not wish to engage with the Magisters either. But there is no other way at this juncture." Fenris was serious, though he was wearing the playful smile that always came out when Anders pouted. And Anders did - pout that is. "Fenris~," he whined. "There's blood magic and Justice doesn't like it. Aren't we doing great work here at the clinic?" He put on his best puppy dog eyes. "It is up to you, Amatus." Fenris' hand was soft as he caressed Anders'. "I do not wish to stay in Tevinter any longer. However, I have no desire to pressure you either. It is your choice." Well, what was a man to say to that? Anders made plans to go early in the morning the next day.] "So you're seeking information on Fenris, slave of Danarius?" The clerk in front of him was clearly looking down onto Anders though whether that was due to the height difference or disdain of Anders' outfit remained to be seen. Anders thought he cleaned up rather well. Fenris had even complimented him! Granted, Fenris had picked out the clothes from a distance as Anders bought them because you cannot be trusted to dress yourself, but the point remained: Dirty Sewer Apostate was out. New, clean, possessed Anderfels mage was in. Anders resolutely ignored the fact that Fenris would say he looked good in anything as his lover.

"Yes, and his history if possible," Anders replied. Justice was rumbling around in his head, mostly unintelligible words and feelings but in between there Anders caught a fragment of he is not a slave. "And who is requesting these documents?" The clerk continued looking bored as he held his writing utensil in his hand. "That would be -" Anders cleared his throat. "My name is Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall." Justice did not like that response either but Anders told him very politely to shut up.

The clerk rolled his eyes before handing Anders a stack of papers. "Alright Ser Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall," the title was said with disdain as the papers were transferred. "Fill these forms in and then ask for documents in the documents hall." Without even looking at Anders he yelled "Next!" the person next in line moving forward. Anders filled the forms with nonsense, Hawke was clearly born in Antive, definitely nearing his sixties with residency right here in Tevinter. By the time they checked these forms he and Fenris would be long gone, and the less trouble he got Hawke into the better. So he took his forms and got Fenris' documentation and got out of there as fast as he could. ---------

When he got back to the clinic he was the first one home He started rifling through the documents lightly. Fenris might not know his past but it still felt like an invasion of privacy to know more of Fenris' history than he did. He started with the latest information, that was safe. Danarius death was on the top, a newspaper clippings of his death and funeral. 

'Tevinter would miss one it's great experimental magisters' phfaugh. Anders called flame into his palm and set the paper in front of him aflame, Fenris did not deserve to have to read through other fools giving praise and acclaim to his previous master. Anders had already burnt a corner when a piece of text caught his eye, attached to the top on a note with handwriting. 'Magister Ahriman is still seeking his property, please send word when this file is requested." Maker's arse. Were they in trouble now? That's when the layers of locks to their clinic started rustling. Fenris had insisted on the complicated mechanism but it took them forever to get in and out. Tevinter had been Fenris' home however, so Anders allowed him to do as he pleased. After all, Fenris was the one risking it all by being here. As soon as white hair stepped through the door, Anders stood up to hug Fenris. "Welcome home, love." His arms wrapped around his back as Fenris was now busy locking the mechanisms on the inside. "Anders," Fenris replied as soon as he was done, turning around to face him. He placed his hand on Anders' face before pulling him in for a kiss. Anders' indulged the both of them, kissing softly against the door.

Anders pulled back to run his hand through Fenris' hair. Fenris pulled back as well, walking towards where he could hang up his armor. "All went well?" he asked, unbuckling his right gauntlet. "Mostly," Anders replied, reaching to help with the other gauntlet. "Mostly? What happened, Amatus?" Gauntlets removed, Fenris started unbuckling his chestplate. Anders still never got the buckles and straps right after the years so he left Fenris to remove his armor while he went back to where the papers were. "Well, I may have accidentally put a magister on our trail." Anders smiled at Fenris, hoping the smile came out reasurringly,  though it didn't reach his eyes. "Venhedis, am I doomed to never have peace?" Fenris threw his chestplate to the floor with more force than required, the sound echoing through the small clinic. "You will." Anders reached out to cup Fenris' face, Justice rumbling in agreement in the back of his mind. "I will make it so, Fenris. If they want you they’re gonna have to fight me. And I won't lose.” Fenris pulled Anders' close, his hands wrapped around him in an embrace. His voice was full of sentimentality when he spoke: "Foolish mage."

[tamatosss]

A little reference for Violette! It’s very vague and honestly a mess, but it should get my points across!

Sorry if there are any grammatical errors or contradictory info

Name: Violette Marianne Fischer

Gender, sexuality, pronouns: cis female, bisexual, she/her

Age, birthday: 26 (as of year 1), winter 28

Loved items: complete breakfast, poppyseed muffin, ginger ale, coffee, chowder

Hated items: cherry, hot pepper, spicy eel, pepper popper

Partner: Harvey (husband)

Friends: Willy, Leah, Sebastian, Maru, Emily

Appearance: 5’4”. dark brown, chin-length hair. Olive, freckled skin. Green eyes

Character: Violette is an absent minded, nervous little ball of anxiety. She has a kind heart and tries her best to not be a burden on others. Once she breaks out of her timid shell, Violette is a giggly, energetic nerd who can find enjoyment in the most mundane things

Brief Background:

Violette lived in Zuzu city for almost her entire life with her big brother James, grandpa Lloyd, and her childhood friend Stella. James was an ambitious, happy-go-lucky guy. Despite being a trouble maker, he was beloved by many. Lloyd was like James but… old. Stella was witty and outgoing, but she had a rotten attitude that left a bitter impression on people

When Violette was 12, Lloyd’s health started to decline. At some point, he gave a letter to the siblings (You know. The letter). Lloyd passed away from illness 8 years later

Violette graduated University with a degree in architecture. Unfortunately, not much came of it. Violette and Stella found work with Joja together (yay finance buddies, what can go wrong?). Violette initially found her job tolerable, but it devolved to disdain. She kept pushing through hoping things will work out

When Violette was 24 James passed away in an accident. He was 29

Violette fell into a depressive headspace. She felt so exhausted she could barely get anything done. Public spaces, social events, even the traffic of the streets made her incredibly anxious and sick

Violette and Stella drifted apart. The two ended on rough terms

Violette, 26, remembered Lloyd’s letter, quits her job and leaves for his abandoned farm, unkempt ever since he moved to the city 23 years ago

Relationships:

Harvey: Violette tried to avoid the clinic as much as she could because hospitals stress her out. This idea quickly fell apart as she kept injuring herself due to her work

For the first little while the two had more moments of awkward silences than conversation. Violette never knew what to say to Harvey while Harvey didn’t want to press for personal stuff where it wasn’t his business

He stressed Violette to be more cautious due to how often she needed medical attention. Harvey was very patient, calm, and easygoing around her, alleviating some of the nerves she had around him after some time. Her dropping by the clinic became almost routine for them

Violette started to make gifts for him. It was a little way for her to show off her gratitude towards him (also because she felt terrible for making him worry all the time)

“I'd like to get to know you better. Let's put aside our doctor-patient relationship”. The two form a friendship even though they’re both a little too anxious for their own good

The two started spending time together outside of work. They surprisingly had a lot in common. Violette loved how easy he was to get along with. Harvey was glad to see her so lively and talkative knowing this stuff isn’t always easy for her. It was a big change from when they first interacted

Violette developed feelings for him (hell yeah)

Harvey had Violette on his mind a lot. Like he’d casually bring her up in conversations without realizing it (He’s not subtle at all). It’s been a long time since he had a serious relationship, he never considered it happening again at his current age. He’s having these lovey dovey feelings but is trying to rationalize them into anything other than romantic love

Harvey eventually had that “Oh.” moment where he realizes he is in fact, super in love with Violette

Pre-dating tension!!!

He confesses, they date. Violette proposes, they happily get married, and become the world’s lamest couple :)

Willy: Willy and Lloyd were very close friends and fishing partners back in the day. The two go way back to their childhoods

He remembers Violette from her youth. He welcomes her with open arms. The two end up catching up over lost time and reminisce on old memories

She sees a lot of her grandpa in Willy and finds comfort with him (emotional support fisherman!!!)

Willy is the 1st person in town Violette warms up to. She was relieved to see a familiar figure after many years

Seb, Emily, Maru, Leah: 🤷‍♀️

Random facts:

Her hobbies include reading, making crafts, interior design, whittling, building models, and napping… so much napping

She sucks at cooking and should never be allowed near a stove. The awful chef gene runs in her family

She can play the piano, harp, and guitar

She’s very clumsy and has a habit of misplacing things

She always wanted to be an architect

Her love languages are words of affirmation, and quality time

James was a shipwright. Lloyd was a carpenter and piano teacher before he owned the farm

She has a habit of putting her hand to her face when she’s nervous/deep in thought

Can’t believe this sat in my drafts unfinished for almost 2 months as of posting this oops

[thethreebroomsticksficfest]

Deliciously normal

Fic number 3, @fightfortherightsofhouseelves is taking us to Grunnings to witness a love story for the ages. Read it on AO3 here.

Username: fightfortherightsofhouseelves

Pairing: Petunia/Vernon

Brief summary: Petunia Evans and Vernon Dursley’s first date.

Warnings or triggers: extreme snobbery

‘Sex and the single gorilla,’ the title read. Petunia’s cheeks swiftly and properly flushed at the sheer indecency. Her head bobbed behind the wide pages of the Guardian, long neck craning to scan the empty train compartment with as much subtlety as a big, sharp rock. Upon ensuring it had remained securely empty, Petunia read on.

‘Only mankind has put not only love but sex on a pedestal, where it never belonged. Brainwashed into the erroneous belief that paradise lies beneath the belt, we rush about in small circles worrying.’ Her pale, blue eyes zoomed over those two sentences again and again as she struggled to understand. Brainwashed? Paradise beneath the belt? Petunia was too appalled to even gasp.

‘Are we getting enough of the right sort of sex?’ the article followed most audaciously. 

At this, Petunia promptly crumpled the paper, perfectly permed head turning left and right at lightning speed. What if someone had seen her reading Jill Tweedie? What would they make of her? Oh, she would surely die of shame - well educated, nice women didn’t read such rubbish anymore, and for good reason. Petunia might have been curious, but she had her pride.

She stuffed the paper in her bag, content to chuck it into the first dustbin as she stepped off the train platform. She had temporarily lost her head today, but it will never happen again, Petunia vowed. She would continue to be properly embarrassed by the idea of sex, adequately unknowing and uncurious about it until her wedding, as any respectable young woman ought to be. She would most certainly not become a - a freak.

Petunia walked through the Grunnings car park with her head held high, blonde hair flickering in the grey morning light. As she’d always done before going through the revolving front doors, Petunia checked her lacquered black shoes, smoothened the creases in her lilac deux-piece where the black bag always seemed to crumple it slightly, and checked her nails and breath. All was in tip top shape, just as it should be.

She couldn’t give a rat’s toss about Wilson’s Sex Discrimnation Act, Petunia reflected on the elevator ride to the very top floor of the building; she was immensely proud of the job that had removed her from Cokeworth, and there was no sense dwelling on it now.

With one disdainful look at her Jet Jeans-wearing coworker, Petunia clutched her bag closely to her side and exited the elevator without a single word. The company should be more careful with the staff they employ, she thought waspishly as she turned the lock of her office door with practised dexterity. Right in the centre of it, a golden plaque sat shining proudly, the name Vernon Dursley, Junior Executive branded into the door of the largest office on the ninth floor. Petunia’s blue eyes glazed over it flaccidly, a little sigh forming in her throat.

The plaque on the door had a twin sister dominating the centre of a large desk expertly placed in front of the largest window. Petunia picked it up, gave it a quick rub with her sleeve, then carefully set it back in its place.

Next, she worked the coffee machine in the corner of the room, adding the exact amount of milk and sugar Mr Dursley preferred with clinical precision. She placed the Grunnings labelled cup on a coaster in front of the golden plaque, which Mr Dursley would later pick up and enjoy while he recounted the latest political events for Petunia’s benefit, offering her a wide array of his personal opinions. 

Mr Dursley was very well read and had a word to say on any topic, he was ever so intelligent and cultured. Petunia could listen to him for hours, sat in enraptured silence, secretly wishing he would finally ask her out. Oh, how quickly she would say yes - she would take him like a shot.

Petunia was careful to be in her seat, at her desk, typing machine ready and landline pulled close enough to answer on the first shrill ring (Mr Dursley found the phone’s ringing most irritating), when Vernon Dursley himself arrived. Smelling of Lifebuoy soap and coated in Denim Aftershave, Mr Dursley was clean, shaven, and radiated authority. His neatly trimmed moustache and stiff white collar made Petunia’s insides tingle when he looked at her with his beady, small black eyes and barked ‘Morning!’.

Above all, Vernon Dursley was perfectly, deliciously normal.

‘This country is going to the dogs,’ Mr Dursley promptly announced upon entering the office, and Petunia hurried to nod as heartily as she could, taking his coat and carefully hanging it on the rack by the door. ‘Surely you’ve heard of those - those Sexual Firearms cavorting all over London with their rotten lyrics, inciting violence,’ he continued, small eyes flashing dangerously as he picked up his coffee cup.

Petunia was about to nod her acknowledgement when she realised how utterly, fatally damaging it would have been, and stopped herself. Indeed, Vernon seemed highly pleased with her ignorance, which permitted him to offer her a lengthy explanation on the despairing, deploring state of Britain’s youth. As she listened, Petunia once again congratulated herself for having the sense to dispose of the harrowing piece of evidence of having any sort of knowledge on any sort of topic, in the form of today’s edition of the Guardian.

‘Of course, this is all due to the Labour Party,’ Mr Dursley grunted through his last sip of coffee. ‘If Edward Heath had still been in office, such monstrosities would’ve never happened,’ he declared with an air of omniscient wisdom as he plopped into his executive chair. The leather gave a loud squeak while Vernon Dursley settled into a comfortable position, and accepted the red, thick agenda offered by Petunia.

‘Smith cancelled, eh? He better not have lunch at J.P. Whitter, that lying, rotten pillock,’ Vernon growled, double-chin flashing beetroot under his great bottom lip. 

‘Said he was otherwise engaged,’ Petunia contributed, nose scrunched in contemptuous distaste.

‘Otherwise engaged? Ha,’ Mr Dursley laughed. ‘Not smart enough to come up with a decent lie, that one. He’ll be sorry when he gets his next order, I’ll make sure of it.’ He whacked his hands twice over his already generous stomach and laughed again.

Petunia kept the ill expression on her face, ready as ever to show Vernon Dursley how much she was on his side. To her absolute delight, he shot her an appraising, pleased look, then ordered her downstairs to intercept the postman.

Petunia was thrilled to report back with a nice, fat letter for Mr Dursley from his beloved sister (Petunia knew all about his family by now and had no qualms peeking at the rough scribblings on the envelope), along with a variety of snide remarks aimed at their various coworkers. Vernon Dursley grunted happily at each and every one of those, and Petunia was instantly besides herself. Such bliss in his little snorts, she thought, elated. 

That Tweedie woman was abysmally wrong, then: paradise did not lie beneath the belt in any shape or form; it lied in the way he tore his envelopes like he was waging war against the paper, it lied in the particular way he applied himself to reading personal correspondence - not in a perfect whisper, but not completely audibly either, and it lied especially in the way he let everyone know he was the boss.

‘Marge has a new proper batch of pups,’ Mr Dursley cackled, interrupting her moment of rapture. ‘Look.’

He threw her a picture of a very large woman standing proud in the middle, a gaggle of menacing looking dogs at her ankles. A moustache nearly as thick as her brother’s crept up the woman’s upper lip, small eyes staring at the camera with open hatred. But most of all, Petunia was taken aback by the woman’s peculiar expression and intensely red cheeks. 

Had it been anyone besides a member of Mr Dursley’s family, Petunia would have harped about people hitting the sherry in broad daylight and greedily forgetting to count their calories at every meal. However, in this unfortunate situation, she willed herself to focus on the dogs, and made a mental note to skip lunch today - she herself would carry on being thin, clean, and refinedly alluring.

‘Where are you having lunch, then?’   

Petunia stopped abruptly, picture almost slipping through her fingers - so very shocked she was, she couldn’t think for a proper minute.

‘How about you come to lunch with me instead of Smith?’ Vernon followed without waiting for her answer. 

It was not a suggestion, but a statement which left no space for ‘no’ or comments. But it didn’t matter: Petunia was swiftly transported into a fit of delight, so overjoyed she might have run round the large desk and hugged him. Of course, respectable women didn’t do that, so Petunia didn’t either.

‘Of course,’ she said, and sat down to calm herself. ‘Of course, Mr Dursley.’

Vernon Dursley watched her with curious intensity, his expression unreadable under the thick moustache. ‘You can call me Vernon, while we’re out,’ he then said.

Petunia nearly fainted.

Skipping lunch was no longer an option, but the very ticket to seeing her dreams come true.

She found it very hard indeed to maintain her usual composure throughout the day. Very often she would slip away to the bathroom and check her thinly plucked eyebrows, powder her nose, pat her permed hair, and quickly chew two Doublemints to freshen up her breath. She had been waiting for this to happen ever since she started the job and Petunia was determined not to blunder her chance away.

As the clock struck one, Vernon Dursley’s large fingers clutched the car keys off the desk, the solid BMW chain swinging at his wrist, and nudged Petunia to follow him.

Her heart rang in her ears as the lift descended; she could barely hear what he was saying, although it seemed something had troubled him - spit was coming out of his mouth as he talked. Petunia fortified herself, and put on a disgusted grimace that she very much hoped would tell Vernon Dursley they were of the same mind.

Luckily, he did throw her a searching look and his bad mood seemed to lessen considerably. By the time they were stepping into the Grunnings car park, Petunia was glowing.

‘Petunia,’ Vernon beckoned her into the freshly polished car, grey as the suit he was wearing and shining blindingly in the early winter sun. Her heart skipped as he shut the door, stopping to scowl at a passing coworker before he joined her in his BMW. ‘Black suit and brown shoes - ha!’ he shook his head in distaste, although his eyes shone with mirth. ‘This country is going to the dogs, I keep telling you. No proper blokes anymore, no proper leadership, we’ll be under Europe’s thumb before you know it.’

Petunia put on a thick mask of propriety, nodding on to everything Vernon - she could call him Vernon now! - was saying, her heart light and thudding with undisguised glee. There she was, riding to lunch with him, one step closer to building her own normal family, in a normal home, in a very normal world. 

Soon, they were at Simpson’s Tavern, near The Bank - a restaurant for proper blokes with proper jobs, Vernon had described it on their drive there, between two revs of his precious new car.

‘And they have an assortment of proper lunch options,’ Vernon further explained, tugging at the hairs in his moustache with satisfaction as they walked. ‘Oho, some fine lamb chops - ah, and those pork chops with sausages!’

He held the door open for her and she pranced inside, taking in the staff and patrons with the air of someone who lorded over the place. After all, it was she, Petunia, who was lunching with the manliest, smartest, most proper man in the room.

‘The girls here have changed,’ Vernon exclaimed loud enough for everyone to hear. Then, he swiftly drew a chair for Petunia and offered it to her.

‘Mr Dursley,’ a mini-skirted young waitress greeted them within the minute, handing menus which Vernon briskly refused. Petunia eyed her scathingly, thinking that, perhaps, they did not really change - or not fast enough, at any rate. But that was a thought she kept strictly to herself.

‘No need, no need,’ Vernon chuckled cordially. ‘We know what we’re eating, don’t we, Petunia?’

Petunia did not, in fact, know, but waited to be told all the same. The young waitress pulled out her notebook and pen, and smiled politely.

‘We’ll start with the stewed cheese and a glass of port each. I want the bread well made, write that down, and some mustard - of the good sort. You got all that? Good, that’s it.’ And he waved her away dismissively, his small black eyes now on Petunia.

For a terrible moment, Petunia thought he was about to ask her about her family or past, and her stomach plummeted. It came back to its place in a second, though, when she discovered that Vernon had absolutely no intention to do so: this was not going to be an interview. Petunia settled more comfortably into her chair, and listened to him reverently.

‘- cannot watch the news without my blood pressure rising through the roof,’ Vernon continued. He had launched himself into an unforgiving, Europe-bashing campaign, and Petunia made sure her ears were fully functioning. She might not have needed to have an opinion this early, but she must carefully prepare for what was ahead. ‘Oh, that sorry excuse for a Prime Minister knew very well what he was doing, you listen to me. He opened the gates for Balkan riffraff and lazy, good for nothing Iberics to waltz in and whisk all our jobs away. No one’s taking my job if I have something to say!’ he grunted, eyeing a nearby patron with the deepest loathing in his eyes: the man had simply held his glass of Campari lemonade up in cheers.

‘Foreigners’ beverage,’ Vernon commented, still scowling at the man. Fortunately, the young waitress returned with their order just then, and Vernon accepted his glass of port with great gusto. ‘Now this is a proper drink.’

He wasted no time in smearing a loaf of bread with stewed cheese and a healthy helping of mustard - ‘Lovely, proper job.’ Then, he returned to his previous campaign.

‘It’s because of this sort that the referendum failed in June,’ Vernon pronounced with unquestioning finality, hooking a greasy finger over his shoulder at the Campari drinking patron. 

While Petunia usually didn’t bother to vote and had never held firm political beliefs, she found herself waking up early that summer to cast her vote - a hearty ‘Yes’. So she nodded so fast her permed curls shivered, and listened closely as she too spread stewed cheese on a crisp loaf of bread. It was by far better than skipping lunch alone, or even than the Energen rye bread she had brought with her to work that day, and Petunia discovered that she did not care that she’d just kicked aside the 19 calories promised by Energen for what could potentially turn into a lasting disaster on her hips. Vernon Dursley held her spellbound -

No, not spellbound. What a ridiculous thing to think. 

‘ - that was a good walloping that Thatcher woman from Education gave the Labour leadership, that was,’ he followed happily as he demolished through his plate. ‘Industrial Relations, ha! Those poxy beggars in the unions ought to be governed with an iron fist, not through a blighting bit of paper. They rob you and still you agree to their demands? Preposterous! This country is going to the dogs under the Labourists. What we need is a bit of Tory pride, I tell you. Who Governs Britain, ha! Not that Wilson muppet and not Jim Callaghan either.’

Petunia continued to nod, frequently running her tongue over her teeth to ensure there were no bits of food stuck there (it would have been most embarrassing), patting her permed curls here and there and batting her eyelashes up at Vernon as he monologued. It was the most interesting lunch she’d ever had.

By the time their chairs scraped back and they were ready to leave, Vernon explaining that the bread had not been crisp enough to warrant a tip, Petunia was absolutely certain she had struck gold. Vernon Dursley was, without a doubt, the man of her dreams.

Door held for her, Petunia stepped outside into the cold winter air again, long neck craning to search for the grey BMW. She quickly found it, parked under a giant billboard (‘Fancy a jar? Forget the car.’), which Vernon wholly and promptly disregarded.

‘Free again tomorrow?’ he asked as he joined her in the car. His arm had snaked round the passenger seat, and Petunia’s voice nearly wobbled when she spoke.

‘I should be.’

‘Right. I’ll treat you to a battered sausage and we can have a stroll after. My mother says it helps with digestion.’

Petunia felt she could have lost herself in his beady black eyes, longed to thread her fingers through his neatly trimmed moustache. Nevertheless, she restrained herself and nodded, clutching the bag she had placed on her lap to keep her hands from trembling. 

She basked in the smell of Denim Aftershave, buzzed reminiscing their lunch together. Petunia Evans had been on a date and tomorrow she would be going on another one. 

She raised a perfectly manicured hand against the car window. Vividly and jubilantly, she could imagine a ring on her finger, glinting golden in the sunlight, placed there by the grumpy, neckless man who was her boss.

[barnesandco]

Little Hands (II)

Series Masterlist

You, Bucky, and Anastasia pay Bruce Banner a visit. 

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo 2021. Word count: 1836. Square filled: “You don’t wanna know.”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: More Sad Child. Needles, fear of. So much overthinking.

A/N: Gosh, I’m so glad I got this chapter edited in time. I hope you like it and I’m sorry for skipping out on y’all last week! To make up for it, there’ll be two updates this weekend, so look out for the next chapter tomorrow! Lmk what you thinkkkk

The Avengers Compound is every bit as spectacular as you could have possibly hoped, and yet you’re unable to fully appreciate it because of the sheer absurdity of the situation. Your hand is in the vice-tight grip of the supposed daughter of your neighbor, who happens to be an Avenger.

Said neighbor is pacing back and forth in front of you as you sit in Bruce Banner’s laboratory, with Anastasia beside you while you wait for Bruce to arrive. Ana is remarkably calm, her young features – the round cheeks, still-wet eyes – made mature by her abnormal silence. Something about her makes you think she’s used to this kind of tension. Something about her screams war-child. Perhaps this grip she has on you is the first demand she has made in a long time, the only tantrum she has ever been allowed to throw.

While you aren’t particularly experienced with children, you think you want her to feel safe with you, because it seems she hasn’t been elsewhere. Ana’s eyes flit around the room in the only behavioral indication of her youth – a childlike curiosity, shining in the face of this fancy, new place that gleams like a toy store. Every now and then, her gaze jumps back from the alien appearance of the lab to her father (?) who seems intent on wearing a hole in the tiles with his pacing.

It is beginning to wear on you: both Bucky’s pacing and Ana’s steadily increasing anxiety. He hasn’t said a word to her since he opened the envelope, only asked that you accompany him to the Compound seeing as Ana won’t go alone with him (You would have gone with him even if that hadn’t been so. Though the nature of your relationship is ambiguous at times, the strength of your friendship is not. You’ll figure this out. You won’t leave him alone). Clearly, there is some unspoken memory that has him convinced the claim in the letter is plausible. Neither of you would be here if it wasn’t.

Bucky doesn’t talk too much about his past. He has offered a few of the shattered shards of his past reflection to you in the few night-caped moments you have hammered on his door upon hearing shouts across the hall. Between that, and what you know thanks to Black Widow’s file dump, the big Avengers’ in-fight in Europe last summer, the consequent resolution to the Accords, and Bucky’s publicized pardon, you can guess at the traumas that lurk in the depths of him.

They’re traumas that are closer to the surface of his eyes now, pulled forth by this new life, this little soul that has no business with such dark things, and the implication that this holds. Ana, innocent as she may be, is an insinuation of what else might have been unwillingly torn from Bucky.

You don’t want to think about it, because it hurts to do so, because you care for him, in many, many ways. It seems that Anastasia is also starting to tire of it. With every step Bucky takes, her hand tightens on yours. Fortunately, soon, the door to your left opens, and Bruce Banner enters his lab.

He's appropriately disheveled for this hour in the morning. Under his pristine lab coat, one of his shirt buttons is done into the wrong buttonhole, but his eyes are alert, frantic even, though you get the feeling that this is a man always on the edge of escape.

Bucky lets out a breath he seems to have been holding at the same time as his shoulders tense. “Thanks for coming so early, Doctor Banner. I wouldn’t have called if—”

“You never call, so I know it must have been important. But it looks like I’ve kept you waiting anyways,” Banner says, his eyes widening as they move from Bucky, to you, to the little girl at your side. “What’s the matter? You know I’m not a medical doctor, right?” He asks, putting a work bench between himself and his visitors.

Bucky clears his throat, and doesn’t quite know how to say what he needs to. After a few more seconds of hesitation, in which Banner waits patiently, Bucky extracts the envelope containing the fateful letter from his pocket, and hands it over.

The furrows in Doctor Banner’s brow multiply spontaneously, and when he looks up, Bucky gestures with a subtle nod of his head to Ana. He has yet to explain your presence, but you think Doctor Banner is a smart man. It won’t take more than Anastasia’s tight hold on you for him to put two and two together. Sometimes, a scared child is just that, no matter how unusual.

Most of their ensuing conversation is held at a lowered volume, set by Bucky, probably out of courtesy for Ana. You can hear snatches and phrases, most of them confirmations of things you had expected and some, not so much. Lobby security cam footage… fingerprints… paternity test… serum… blood sample…

By the end of it, some facsimile of a plan seems to have evolved between the two men, because Doctor Banner turns away with a smile and you, taking it as a welcome, stand and approach him. He rounds his desk and shakes your hand, exchange introductions though he hardly needs one, and then, he crouches, the way Bucky had, and offers Ana his hand.

“Hi, I’m Bruce.”

“Ana.”

Bucky steps forward. “Anastasia—” the name is clumsy on his tongue, because he’s scared. You can see it, and you hope he knows you are, too, but you’ll stand with him regardless, “—Bruce is going to check that you aren’t sick.”

“I’m okay.”

“We need to be sure.”

“Okay.”

Banner pulls out a chair, and you’re about to sit Ana down on it, when she pushes you gently into it, and sits on your lap. You can do nothing but wrap your arms gently around her, so she doesn’t fall. The apology in Bucky’s eyes is melted with a sympathetic smile. It’s alright. A child developing an inexplicable affection for you is not the worst thing to ever happen to you.

Ana is warm and a comfortable weight on you, and you hold her as loosely as you can, feel the movement of her chest against your arms with each breath. Her hair is a mix of wool-thick and silk-soft against your chin, smelling faintly of the sugar-sweet strawberry scent found in children’s shampoos. Someone took care of her.

Someone she isn’t asking for. What kind of child doesn’t ask for their mother, past the initial, momentary heartbreak? How has she come to terms with the apparent change in custody, when the new custodian hasn’t?

Whether Bucky is to be the new guardian has yet to be determined. You can see Bruce pulling out a syringe and preparing a vial. You wonder if she’s scared of needles. Bucky flinches at the sight of them, even now. He’s said that his disdain for the cold clinicism of medicine dates back to long before Hydra. Medical equipment reminds him of worrying that his best friend was going to die. It’s the fear he has harbored longest, longer than his fear of war, of gunshots in the dark, of blood on his hands.

Ana shares it. When she sees the needle, she screams, and Bucky lunges forward to help you hold her in place. She’s so, so much stronger than you thought and while you can hold her limbs, her head thrashes about, and so does her torso, making it impossible for Bruce to get to the inside of her elbow.

In the chaos, your eye lands on a trinket on a nearby desk, sitting there like a peace offering, literally beckoning to you. “Hey, Ana,” you whisper-yell, trying not to get hit in the jaw by her head. “Do you like animals? Cats? I have a friend who has lots and lots of cats, and I could take you to see them.” It’s working. You’re out of breath, but she’s quieting. Most little kids love cats. You love cats. “I think Bruce has a toy cat. See, over there?” You dare to lift an arm to point at the maneki-neko on the table. Ana stills. Her eyes follow the hypnotic movement, and the syringe at Ana’s elbow does its job.

When the bandage is put on, you and Bucky let go with twin nervous chuckles of relief and disbelief, and Bruce puts the vial in a machine. Ana hops off to approach the desk, and bats at the paw waving at her like a mirror of it.

“We should have the results soon. I think the others are starting to wake up, if you want to say hi,” Bruce says, taking off his glasses and wiping them on the corner of his lab coat.

“Maybe later,” you say, seeing that Bucky is hardly in any position to converse casually with his teammates right now. Not to mention, it’d be a lot of work to explain Ana, especially before having any sort of confirmation of who she is.

Bucky pulls out a chair next to you while Bruce opens a laptop a few counters away, and an x-ray machine lifts its head behind Ana, who has moved on from the lucky cat, and is stroking the leaves of a flowering plant.

“Peace lily,” Bucky says, startling you. You look at him, the bags under his eyes, the way he almost looks his age right now, and fight the urge to hold his hand. “It’s the first flower I bought for my apartment. I put it in a community garden after a nightmare about the war. Didn’t feel right for me to have it.”

He's talking about the Second World War. The war always refers to his first war. You think he’s talking about peace, and not the lily, after what he’s done. After what he was forced to do.

“It’s not your fault,” is an automatic response, and never enough, especially for the war, because at least he was in his own senses, even if he was drafted. It always elicits a self-deprecating laugh, but right now, he’s too tired for even that.

Right now, he can only watch as the x-ray camera follows Ana around the room, from the peace lilies, to an Amazon elephant’s ear, to a strange sculpture made from Coca-Cola cans glued together by what looks like spider-webs.

Too soon, Bruce calls you over to his work station. You follow Bucky, one eye on Ana.

“She’s yours,” Bruce says, and Bucky inhales sharply. Now, you do take his hand, stroke the metal ridges with your calloused thumb. “But she has disproportionately more of your DNA than her mother’s.”

“What does that mean?”

Bruce wrings his hands. “She’s not a complete clone, but nearly a genetic copy. 80% of a clone, if you will.”

Bucky is growing increasingly uncomfortable, shifting next to you. “How’s that possible?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

[secretkeeper13]

Name

A year ago today, after a few months of lurking on Ao3 and Tumblr and reading without an account, I posted my first fic. I don’t know what possessed me to start writing. I think I was so desperate for some sort of creative outlet in the monotony of quarantine life that when I got an idea, I wrote it down. And here I am a year later, still writing, though not as frequently as I’d like. Thank you @thedistantdusk, queen beta, for all your help. To all the funny, lovely people I’ve “met” on Discord, thanks for brightening the past year. And thank you to everyone who read and commented on my fics.  I truly appreciate you all!  

A little (belated) Harry birthday fic below the cut or on Ao3

For many years, Harry hated summer. Summer was loneliness and boredom, monotony punctuated by growls from his stomach or his aunt’s shouts. Summer was endless daylight that stretched and languished well into the night, mocking him, a prisoner in his bedroom with barred windows. Summer meant isolation, locked doors, tossing and turning alone under damp, sticky sheets.

But what he once loathed had now become his favorite season, when three weeks ago, on the terrace of their garden, under the orange glow of the evening summer sun, he’d dropped to one knee, and with shaking hands, asked Ginny to marry him. She’d said yes, of course, yet part of him still couldn’t believe it- that after everything, horcruxes and hallows, Voldemort and the Forest, she would be walking down the aisle not to a faceless stranger, but to him.  

In their bed later that evening, after a round of private celebration, the sheen of sweat still clinging to their bodies, she’d told him of her idea. A wedding at the Burrow, just family and close friends, and a surprise to all but a handful, planned under the guise of her birthday party. It would keep the press from getting wind of it, she’d said, and with the ink barely dry on Rita Skeeter’s latest “expose” (Ginny plying Harry with love potions in an effort to force him to propose), he’d thought it was a brilliant plan. And secretly, Harry thought that the limited window for Molly to fuss over wedding preparation was a bonus.

“Do you think it’s crazy?” she’d asked, as her fingers traced gentle patterns over his chest. “I know it’s barely a month away.”

“No,” he said, turning his head to kiss her bare shoulder, “I’m chuffed that you can’t wait to marry me, actually.”

She grinned at him, her smile bathed in moonlight. “Afraid I’ll change my mind if we wait too long?”

“Well, love potions don’t last forever, you know. And one of these days I may slip up and forget to put it in your tea.”

“No, no- you’ve got it all wrong,” she teased, jabbing him with her finger. “I’m the one who's dosing you, remember?”

“Ah, but Rita Skeeter never gets it right, you know that,” he replied, smirking at her through the darkness.

She’d thrown her head back as she laughed, that beautiful sound echoing in the stillness, then kissed him again, and he wondered, for the thousandth time, how he’d gotten this lucky.

And now, three weeks later, on the morning of his birthday, still enjoying the glow of their secret engagement, he sat on the sofa leafing through the sports pages of the paper when Ginny’s voice rang out from upstairs.

“Harry, will you come up here for a moment?”

“Be right up,” he called back. Assuming it was something to do with the wedding, he climbed the stairs and entered their bedroom. The sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks.

Ginny stood near the foot of the bed, wearing only a Harpies jersey, her long hair swept over one shoulder, the bare skin of her other shoulder peeking out on the other side. The jersey was clearly his, as it hung on her like a dress, ending just below her bum, revealing almost all of her legs. At the sight of her, his eyes went wide and his jaw slackened instantly.

She grinned at his reaction. “Happy birthday.”

“I’ll say,” he replied, his eyes trailing down her legs, the creamy skin peppered with freckles.

She took a step closer, closing the gap between them. “I’m wearing your present,” she said, and he could tell that she was trying to sound nonchalant as she ran her hand lightly down his chest, pausing tantalizingly over the waistband of his joggers. “But I thought you’d prefer to unwrap it this way.”

“You thought right.”

He kissed her softly, his lips sliding over hers, his hands cradling her face. “Thank you,” he murmured, his lips moving to graze the shell of her ear, “I’ve been needing a new one, the old one is looking a bit worn.”  

Before he could begin to move his lips down her neck, she pulled back slightly. She looked up at him, still grinning, her eyes glinting in the soft morning light. “That wasn’t why I got it for you.”

“Well, you know I’ve got a thing for you in your uniform,” he replied, leaning down for another kiss, but she put her hand lightly on his chest to stop him.

“I know- but that isn’t why either.” Her smile was so wide that her eyes crinkled at the corners. She was clearly enjoying this.

“I got it because…” She paused as she took a step back, positively beaming at him now. “You’ll be needing a jersey with my new name.”

At that, she turned so her back was facing him. And there, in bold, gold letters, the name POTTER was emblazoned above Ginny’s number.

He was stunned. They’d never discussed Ginny changing her name. He hadn’t even thought about it in the whirlwind weeks of their engagement. He’d simply assumed, given her career (not to mention her fierce sense of independence) that she would keep hers. It certainly didn’t matter to him- she’d said yes to marrying him, that was all that was important.

“Surprised?” Ginny asked.

“I, erm… yeah,” he replied, unable to form a coherent sentence as his mind raced to try to process it all.

For the first eleven years of his life, his name was delightfully ordinary. His aunt once said his name was common , the word dripping with disdain, as if it was the most grievous insult she could bestow. Her implication aside, it was true that his name wasn’t unusual. There was another Harry in his primary school. He’d seen other Potters, too. Once in the clinic, the nurse called out for “Mr. Potter,” and an elderly man rose as Harry stood.  After the man smiled kindly at him and shuffled into the corridor, he’d asked Petunia innocently if the man was a relative. In response, she’d scoffed and told Harry that if he had other relatives, he certainly wouldn’t be living with her.

When he entered the wizarding world, his name ceased to be ordinary, transformed, like everything in his life, on that fateful day of his eleventh birthday. From then on, his name was notorious. It was whispered unsubtly as he walked down the corridors of Hogwarts. It was splashed across headlines in the Prophet. It was jeered by Death Eaters. Far too often, it was said with a reverence that made him exceedingly uncomfortable.  

The thought of Ginny taking his name, and all that came with it, overwhelmed him. A lump began to form in his throat. He swallowed quickly, trying to compose himself, not wanting to ruin the moment.

“Love- are you all right?” she said, turning back around to face him.

“I… yeah,” was all he could manage, his voice cracking.

She placed her arms around him gently, waiting for him to continue.

“I’m just s-surprised,” he stammered. “We hadn’t talked   about it, and Hermione’s always going on about how it’s sexist that the woman is expected to take the man’s name. And you’ve worked so hard to make a name for yourself in Quidditch. And you know, er, feminism and all…” He trailed off, aware he was rambling.

She smiled, pulling back slightly so she could look up at him. “Well first, Hermione’s right. It is sexist that it’s assumed that a wife will take her husband’s name. But I think it’s quite clear from your reaction that you didn’t expect me to or assume I would. Right?” She raised her brow.

“Of course I didn’t. It’s fine if you want to keep yours, really.”

“But I don’t,” she said, her voice firm and clear. “Plus, I  think there’s plenty of Weasleys to carry on the family name without me, yeah?”

“I know, it’s just…” He swallowed, the lump in his throat growing larger. “My name- it’s a lot. And I’d understand if you didn’t want to take that on.”

She slipped her arms around him again, pulling herself to him until she was flush to his chest. “Harry,” she said, her tone soothing, her voice reverberating on his chest, “we’ve been together since I was fifteen. I understand everything that comes with the name Potter. And that’s why I want to do this, why I’m choosing to do this- I thought it might be nice if you had someone, family, to share that with. I think that sometimes it's lonely for you, being the only Potter, and I never want you to feel alone.”

She hugged him tightly. He inhaled, his breath shaky, as he let himself sink into her embrace. Seeing her in that jersey, knowing that she wanted to take his name, that they would be united together, permanently- he was overcome. He blinked rapidly and bit his bottom lip, squeezing her back tightly, determined not to spoil the moment.

As his racing heart slowed and he composed himself, he gently tipped her chin up to look at her.

“Gin,” he said, his tone soft and earnest, “I’d love nothing more than to share my name with you. I just don’t want you to feel obligated. We could double-barrell, if you wanted-“

She rolled her eyes, “I’d prefer if our children didn’t sound like posh twats every time they introduced themselves, thanks.”

He laughed, then realized- “Our children?”

She nodded and looked up at him through her lashes. “We have talked about that, you know.”

He felt as if he would burst from happiness. He leaned down and kissed her, trying with all his might to put into the kiss what he couldn’t find the words to say, to tell her, with his mouth and the trace of his tongue, how much this meant to him.

She sighed as they broke apart. “I take this to mean you’re happy that in a week I’ll be Ginny Potter?”

“Yes. Happy doesn’t even begin to cover it, really. Honestly, I’m so thrilled that you’re marrying me, it wouldn't matter what name you’d chosen.”

She smirked, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “In that case, I take it all back. I’m going by Ida.”

“Ida?”

“Yes, Ida Shaggem.”

He burst into laughter.

“No?” she feigned, mirth evident in her tone. “What about Anita Hardone?”

He was laughing so hard now that his shoulders shook.

Her smile grew wider and she bit her lip (he could tell she was trying very hard to keep from laughing). “Well then, I guess Ginny Potter it is.”

She burst into laughter and he pulled her to him, holding her tightly as he walked her backwards towards the bed, both of them still laughing, nearly breathless.

As they reached the end of the bed, her hands grasped the hem of the jersey to pull it off.

“Oh no,” he gasped, still trying to stop laughing. “You’re definitely leaving that on.”

[vrepitsorrynotsorry]

Nanagofest 2022 Day 1 - Clinical Observation

This is a little snippet from Shoko's POV for the situational prompt: A and B's relationship from an outside perspective. Fully the first third is just setup.

Some spoilers for things discussed in the manga but not yet animated, so if you're anime only, this is your heads up.

*waves a JJK peeps* Hi! I lurk around here some.

Clinical Observation

Ieiri Shoko often saw more than she wanted, would have chosen to see, play out in front of her. It wasn’t because of any cursed ability, either—she was just observant. Life would certainly be easier if she could just turn away and mind her own business, but it would also be far less entertaining. There was also something to be said for a little normal, interpersonal drama to distract from mutilated bodies and gruesome wounds.

She never interfered, though, unless she was specifically asked. Goodness knew her own life wasn’t exactly a paragon of healthy behavior, so she was content to let the rest of them work out their own problems while she stood in the background, unseen but intently watching.

She was well aware that her cursed ability wasn’t visually impressive and, at least in her case, not useful offensively, but it was valuable and necessary in the sorcery world. Sometimes she was literally the only thing holding frontline fighters together—physically anyway. This meant she was granted a certain level of respect while not being singled out as anyone more powerful’s pet project to increase their own might and influence. It was one of the better possibilities afforded in her world.

She had never envied the constant expectations and primarily negative focus directed at both Gojo and Getou from the very moment she’d met them. Equally harsh was the disdain directed at outsiders like Nanami.

After Haibara’s death and Getou’s defection, there had been a moment where she’d thought Gojo and Nanami might be able to connect over their very similar losses. Instead, Gojo had doubled down on his reckless and carefree persona, and Nanami had made an attempt at a return to the “normal” world.

She had very briefly entertained the idea of life outside the dark, violent world of curses herself, but her skills were too vital. It would have been a death sentence for sorcerers and students she could have helped, and she just couldn’t do that.

It had been both a shock and somehow inevitable that Gojo himself had been the one to lure Nanami back into the fold. For all that she knew how much effort Gojo had put into pestering Nanami into returning, neither had seemed particularly happy about it. Not at first.

Nanami was back, but Gojo couldn’t seem to help himself from poking the bear at every opportunity. There was a pool going for how long it would take for Nanami to snap and resort to violence. She hadn’t placed a bet because she had a feeling the final straw would lead to something physical, but not a fight.

Slowly, Gojo’s casual touches began to linger a little longer and Nanami’s sarcastic retorts carried just a touch of fondness. It was subtle, sure, but easily noted by a keen eye.

She’d never been able to pinpoint the precise time it had clearly become more than just camaraderie between coworkers, but now she looked forward to following the progress of their relationship. It was also quite fun to apparently be the only one who’d noticed, since everyone else’s bet was still going.

It wasn’t always sunshine and roses for the two or anything, but that was life. She wouldn’t begrudge anyone something to bring a bit of comfort to lives that were all too short and uncertain.

They balanced one another out nicely for the most part. She might even go so far as to say that they were good, relatively speaking, influences on each other.

Gojo’s wild streak had tempered ever so slightly after Nanami’s return and continued to do so. Most of the others didn’t notice at first and attributed it to his finally agreeing to take up a teaching role instead. He was certainly different around the students than he was when left to his own devices, but he seemed a little less angry at the world when Nanami was close by.

Nanami’s own changes were even trickier to spot because he’d always played his cards close to the vest. He’d never seemed to enjoy publicly displaying emotion and preferred things structured and controlled. She had never been fooled into believing that meant he didn’t feel deeply. Gojo hadn’t bought it, either. Nowadays, Nanami didn’t carry himself with quite as much tension. Rumor had it he even made a dry joke or two on occasion.

She had often debated with herself whether she ought to let them know she was aware of their relationship. On the one hand, they would have one less person from whom they felt they had to hide. On the other, it was really none of her business why they weren’t open about it. 

So she continued to observe.

[kyloswarstars]

ROOMMATES • Part 3

Divergent • College AU • Eric x Reader

ROOMMATES masterlist 💫 Divergent masterlist

You escaped your current living situation by moving in with your friend Christina – and five other college students. Little did you know that one of them was the guy who was your ultimate pain in the neck since your first semester. Now, you had to find a way to not strangle him in his sleep out of pure frustration. Also, you had to find a way to get rid of those weird butterfly feelings for him that slowly grew in your stomach.

Words • 2.9k

The enemies to lovers story no one needed.

/////

Still sleeping on only a mattress slowly took its toll on your back. You woke up at least three times a night. Twice because of your back and once because of some knocking against the wall. Every time that happened, it was in another rhythm how knuckles tried to keep you from sleeping.

For a while you observed how the morning sunshine dipped your room in a warm orange. Dust particles were dancing through the air and made their way to the floor. There was something about waking up to the sun on weekday mornings you never were able to enjoy during your semesters. Summer break was perfect for that.

That comforting silence didn’t last forever, though. Low knocking echoed from the other side of the room. You turned your body to face it. That rhythm was new. Different than those in the middle of the night. You paid attention.

Short, long. Short, long, long. Short, long. Long, short, long. Short. Short, short, long, long, short, short.

AWAKE?

You blankly stared at the wall and couldn’t believe it. During your childhood you had done the weirdest things, such as learning the morse code, to keep you occupied. Had Eric done that too? Or did he use a chart to knock you with little messages out of your sleep?

You didn’t care. You just wanted some little more peace before getting up. So you responded.

Short, short, short. Short, short, short, short. Short, short, long. Long. Short, short, long. Short, long, long, short.

There was a small laughter to be heard from the other side of the wall but then it stayed quiet.

Even though Eric’s teasing was quiet disturbing, you still rather lived here than back with your ex. You could somehow handle Eric whereas you never really knew what to expect from your ex after breaking up with him. After all it had not been the funniest of times.

You grabbed the nearest shorts and rummaged through the pockets to find a paper. Hilbert’s ninth problem. You focused on that. Until you heard Eric’s door making that cracking open sound. His foot steps trailed to the kitchen and when the coffee machine made its ‚PING‘ to signal it was ready to brew, you got up yourself and out of your room.

Eric didn’t say ‚good morning‘ so neither did you.

Reaching out for the shelf to grab a cup, you once again didn’t reach it. He leaned over, almost right into you with his bare chest – why did he never wear shirts in the mornings? – and grabbed two cups from the shelf. Eric placed them right next to the coffee machine and then turned, crossed his arms and just stared at you.

First, his intense eyes locked with yours. There was no way you could possibly guess what he was thinking with the harsh face he was wearing. Eric’s slightly pinched eyes made you lose some of your self esteem, though. His unapologetic stares weren’t that new to you, but only wearing your sleeping attire, a tank top and some sleeping shorts, made you feel insecure when his glance diverted to the rest of your body. You crossed your arms to have some little cover at least.

„Where’s everyone at?“ You asked, trying to fill that damn awkward silence. The apartment was empty, with all of the doors open.

„Don’t know.“

Another ‚PING‘ chimed. You walked around Eric, since he was still occupied with weirdly staring into your face, and poured some coffee into a cup. You hesitated to put back the pot into the machine and actually poured coffee into the second cup as well. Then you quickly grabbed your cup and went out to sit on the balcony. Gladly, you noticed him leaving for his room.

A morning coffee, a refreshing shower and an after shower coffee later, you continued with the study. You finally had found a way to properly lock the bathroom from the inside. The trick was to just drag your chair across the hallway and slam it under the door handle. That worked just fine. Unpleasant was, though, that there was not much that had to be done for the study today. No new data yet, still you tried to blindly swim around the model and work on some problems you weren’t able to solve yet. Free time wasn’t your favorite thing to have during summer break, especially not this summer break. You were still a little peeved that your friends had just abandoned you on the day of you moving. So meeting up with them wasn’t on your to do list for this summer.

Neither was visiting your parents since they were living out of state. You didn’t really want to head down to the hell the Florida Keys were in summer. It would be even hotter than here in Chicago. None of your hobbies sounded appealing enough to you today and all your roommates were gone. Except for one.

The only thing on your to do list was to buy a new bed frame.

„Shouldn’t you be out and do something instead of constantly crouching over your desk?“ Again, he leaned in the doorframe and you didn’t know for how long Eric was already there.

„Can’t,“ you were actually tracking down a possible solution and couldn’t be bothered to concentrate on anywhere else than your calculations.

„What is it that’s so important?“ It was the first time he entered your room. You noticed him move out of the corner of your eye and sensed him coming to a stop right next to you. He must’ve checked your computer screen and the papers in front of you. You couldn’t really care, though. Whenever one of those problem-solving-trains hit, you just physically couldn’t stop yourself. „Is that professor Matthews’ study?“

„Yep,“ you mumbled.

„I heard about it, tried to get in but that didn’t work out.“ His voice had a tone you had never heard before. „What’s your part in it?“ Was it honest interest?

„I’m responsible, with others of course, for the mathematical model. But please shut up for a few second okay? I’m almost done.“ You tried to talk and still follow your train of thoughts. „Just need to get it out of the brain.“

Eric stayed surprisingly silent while your hand was still moving around your desk, fishing for various papers and scribbling onto them in the illegible handwriting of yours.

You threw the pencil away, once you were mainly done with bringing the theory on paper. „So what do you wanna know?“ You asked and turned around in the same moment. That Eric had kneeled down next to you had escaped your attention. You blinked at him, his face only a couple of inches away. That this proximity suddenly slowed up your pulse confused you. He was too close. Way too close. You leaned back in your chair and swallowed.

Eric on the other hand didn’t seem to be uncomfortable at all. „How did you get in?“

„They asked, actually.“

„They asked?“ His eyebrows raised themselves to the top of Willis Tower.

„Yes.“ You replied, a little unsure of why that would be so odd. Back during high school there was this hype your teachers made about your mathematical skills. But that wasn’t reason for you to think that you were some wunderkind like Einstein or something. You just liked math. Like some people actually did. Not many, but those in your major all had similar experiences during their childhood and school time. So of course, when they had asked you to join the study, you accepted.

Eric let himself sink against the wall next to your makeshift desk. It was the first time you ever saw something like true recognition radiating off of him. And he didn’t hide it. He wanted to know more. He questioned a lot about the study and your part in it. He was interested in how math helped with a clinical study and it slowly dawned on you why he might’ve taken all those classes of yours. Those were all about adapting math in a way to help solve social orientated problems.

After having to compete with him for the upper hand in those stupid debates, you were a little gleeful that it was you who took part in professor Matthews’ study.

This conversation was everything but a discussion. And you found that it could be really enjoyable to have a decent talk with him. You even offered to put in a good word for him at the next meeting with the staff. No clue where this came from, though.

„Hey, Eric?“ The two of you had changed from your room to the dining table because of the close-by coffee refuels. „Would you do me a favor?“

He was currently getting the freshly brewed pot and nodded to the empty cup in your hands so he could refill it. You handed it to him. „What kind of favor?“

„I need a car,“ you stated, instantly noticing the disdain on his face. „Only for a couple of hours. Not long.“

Eric shook his head. „I’m not lending my car.“ He returned the hot cup and sat down across from you. „I can drive you, though,“ Eric added.

That took you by surprise. „Oh.“ You hadn’t thought he would give his car to you in the first place anyway. Wondering where this kindness suddenly came from left you without an answer. But you decided to accept it. „Okay.“

/////

Eric’s mission was to try every single bed in the furniture store. You tried to explain it didn’t really matter anyways since you already had a mattress. He insisted on still laying down and pulled you along with him. „A new bed,“ he said, „must meet many requirements. Not only the coziness factor of the mattress.“ His voice was a whisper next to you. That low rasp in it drew your attention to his full lips, perfectly framed by the stubble he rarely cared to shave.

Finding yourself laying in a bed next to Eric, even if it was in a furniture store and on full public display, weirdly quickened your pulse again. The way his fingers randomly touched your thigh made you nervous. He probably didn’t even notice, or cared, that his hand was in contact with the bare skin below your shorts. Still, it let your insecurities flame up again. Laying next to a perfectly built and defined man like him brought back memories you rather wanted to escape.

„That’s not the one,“ you quickly stated and rolled out of bed. There was no paper in your pockets this time, and it wasn’t the right place anyway, to distract your brain with. Instead you concentrated on the multiple bed frames. It was a tough task – nothing really suited your taste.

„How about that one, Y/N?“ Eric had been shouting through the whole store. You turned and saw him laying in a child’s bed – car shape.

The view of his legs sticking out on the bed end, because he was simply too tall for it, made you laugh out loud. You couldn’t hold it back nor lower the volume. By the time you reached him, he had joined in on the banter. Next to the car shaped bed was a pink unicorn one. He sat on it and said you could have his bed, he would buy this one. Your laughter increased.

„You think I wouldn’t buy it?“

You shook your head, biting back the laughter.

Eric got up and looked around for a salesman. When he spotted one, he raised his hand to wave him over but you were quick to grab his hand and pull it down. „Stop it!“ For a moment too long you held onto his hand. It caused both of you to look down at your hands like they weren’t attached to your arms and had a mind to themselves. Then your eyes slowly moved up to Eric’s and locked with them. Both of you probably tried to find a reason as to why your hands were still holding onto each other. When Eric’s fingers tried to intertwine with yours, you suddenly realised that you were holding. his. hand.

You instantly let it go like you burned yourself and went back to search for a bed frame. The urge to get out of here made you choose a random but simple bed frame. The salesman Eric had wanted to wave over was now at your side to take your order.

You went with him to the check out desk, Eric quietly following the two of you, and paid for your new bed. The salesman printed out some papers, stapled them together and handed them over. „The pick up station is three blocks down the street.“ He pointed to the left of the exit.

„Thank you.“ Grabbing the papers, you headed to leave, Eric ahead of you and holding the door open.

„Have fun with the new bed,“ the salesman inappropriately winked at the two of you on your way out. When your brain processed his remark, a heat in your face rose. To your luck, Eric was walking in front of you to his car and you tried to make the heat go away by fanning your face with the papers. You didn’t understand why all of this made you feel so… weird.

The short ride to the warehouse was silent. Even with the radio on. Eric waited in the car when it came to a stop on the lot. You got out to turn in the papers and get the bed.

The sun was blazing down while you waited for the employee to return with the package. You caught Eric staring in your direction but with the sunglasses on you couldn’t see what possibly was going on his brain. But to be fair, you couldn’t even pinpoint that when he wasn’t wearing sunglasses.

„Here you go.“ A trolley with two big packages was pushed next to you. If that would fit into Eric’s muscle car? You weren’t so sure about that.

As you turned around to wave at him, he was already at your side. Was he a cat? Or why was he always able to sneak up so quietly?

He probably saw the concern on your face because he just said ‚we got this’ and pushed the trolley over to his car. Eric suggested to remove the packaging so you could play Tetris and fit everything in. That worked pretty well and you were soon ready to head home.

It was Eric who tried to remove that awkward mood between you. He just started chatting about a new group of penguins in the zoo. That he usually went there once a week since the entrance was free and that he did it to stay grounded in stressful times. A while ago he adopted a penguin called Smartie. Him being so open about something not study related was surprising but even more surprising was that he basically invited you to join him some time to go and see the new ‚kids‘ as he called them.

Back home you carried all parts of the bed up to the third story. Eric left to find a proper parking space for his car and you started on building up the bed frame. The instruction must’ve been somewhere attached to the packaging you left at the warehouse because you couldn’t find it. That wasn’t too much a problem, though. Studying the parts you had for a second, you figured out a plan and already started putting pieces together when you noticed Eric, silently of course, appearing in your doorframe.

„I’ll help you,“ he offered. It didn’t sound much like an offer, though. More like a fact.

It didn’t take long with his help to build up the bed, place in the slatted frame and lift the mattress on top of it. You didn’t really have a plan where to put the bed but for some reason Eric convinced you to position it at the exact same spot your mattress had laid before.

„Thank you for your help.“ You sat down on your new bed and checked if it didn’t break with the first contact. It didn’t.

Eric’s lips parted and he wanted to say something. You couldn’t get rid of the feeling that he wanted to say something else when everything that came out was a sharp ‚Sure‘.

Before you could ask him if he’d like a beer, just to be polite after him helping you all day, he made a beeline for his room. And stayed there.

/////

He didn’t come out for dinner and you decided you didn’t care. When you finally crashed that night, after having multiple board game showdowns with Will, you instantly knew that you’d sleep well. The bed was super comfy. Eric had been right, the mattress only didn’t do the thing, everything had to match up.

You didn’t even check your phone anymore, your eyes too heavy to stay open.

A gentle knock came from the other side of the wall. You turned to it and listened.

Long, long, short. Long, short. GN. Good night? Those two knocked letters brought a faint smile to your lips you couldn’t fight. You returned the same knocks and fell asleep. Smiling.

/////

Taglist • @longlostinanotherworld • @dosentier • @dhunhdchrih

Wanna get tagged too for future updates? Lemme know 🖤

[txemrn]

The Missionary's Daughter

Ch. 1: "Meant to Live"

Need to catch up? Prologue: "It's Over"

Chapter Song Inspo: "Meant to Live" by Switchfoot

Series Song Inspo: "Changed by You" by Between the Trees

Pairings: Drake Walker x OC (Margot Hughes); Liam Rys x Riley Brooks

Series Warning: 🛑 for mature audiences only (🔞); series contains angst, language, NSFW🍋 material; trigger warning: heavy discussion/depiction of drug and alcohol abuse, suicide, religion, mental health; please be advised and exercise discretion

A/N: When I say that this took a village, it would be the understatement of the century! Huuuuuuuuge thank you to all of my amazing sweet writing sisters that encouraged me and helped me pull this together, but especially to @charlotteg234 for brainstorming and mapping this out with me, @kat-tia801 for doing the same, but then having to deal with me incessantly asking, "Does this sound right?" and @chemist-ana FOR GIFITNG ME MY FREAKING AMAZING MOODBOARD! It's SO beautiful, and it literally puts me in the mood to write about my Druggy Drake and Margot! Thank you so, so much, friend! Most of the characters and some of the plot belong to our friends at Pixelberry.

A palpable crackle ignites the sterile air of the staff locker room. To say she was ‘nervous’ is a painfully severe understatement to the jitters that spark from her fingertips. But, rather than dance chaotically like cut wires on pavement, she is lightning, mesmerizing, lighting up the sky with excitement and power.

***

Dressing for another Monday morning at her weekly volunteer job at the prestigious Cordonia Family OB/GYN, Margot Hughes swiftly shimmies a monogrammed ceil blue scrub top down her curves. Pulling her brilliant strands of autumn harvest into a high bun, she slips on her work clogs while nudging her locker closed with her knee.

Before leaving the changing area, she catches her visage in the mirror, the unflattering fluorescent lights casting more shadows onto her worried features. She can feel the rumble of her rapid heartbeat echoing in her ears; her chest constricts tightly as her breathing becomes shallow. Her eyes begin to sting with fear as the whites burn red, threatening with a glaze of tears.

Today is the day her entire life will change; everything she has ever wanted, everything that she has ever worked for will suddenly determine the course of her future in a single moment. Seeing the all-too-familiar terror in her eyes, Margot flutters her eyelids shut. Her fingers nervously trace along a simple chain around her neck until they finally grasp tightly to a dainty sterling silver charm: a cross.

“Take my anxieties, Lord,” she whispers with prayerful conviction, her sparkling blue eyes gracefully opening to look at her necklace. She exhales deeply. “Your will be done.” Margot stares at her reflection for a few more moments, focusing on her breathing to calm her restless heart. “You are strong, Margot. You've got this,” she affirms herself in a hushed tone, a bright smile breaking across her face. “This is your day--" suddenly overwhelmed with peace, a joyous smile paints across her face. Chuckling to herself, she glances upwards: “I'm counting on You.” Taking a deep cleansing breath, she eagerly exits the stillness of her thoughts, and joins the bustle of the morning's clinic appointments. Today is her day.

***

Halos of blurred auras bleach his vision as Drake cautiously opens one blood-shot eye. His tongue sticks to the roof of his roughly parched mouth as he massages his pained forehead. Clueless of what day it is--much less what he did last night--he is greeted with a sudden glorious sensation: a supple wet mouth on his hardened morning length.

His body relaxes back onto the dampened, disheveled sheets of his bed; he releases a pleasurable exhale as he blindly reaches for the head behind the lips. He strains to focus his view, but can only make out a foggy shape of a nude woman with long, tousled brunette waves.

It’s her. His love.

Drake smiles; delicately tangling his grip in her strands, he admires how even the afternoon sun catches her beauty perfectly. He quietly smacks his lips. He can still smell her on his stubble; he can still taste her on his tongue.

Had she told Liam? Were they celebrating that they could finally be together?

As she takes in the head of his girth, he arches his back, relaxing his body into her hungry touch. Closing his eyes, he offers a guttural groan deep in his chest as she swirls her tongue around his firm thickness.

“God, you’re incredible, Riley--”

---

Pulling out a pen, Margot reaches across the counter to grab a patient’s clipboard--that is until Iris, the front desk manager grips her long, manicured nails to the other side of the particle wood. “Miss Mary-Margaret,” she leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice, “do we know anything yet?” Margot chuckles, shaking her head. “Child, you better come find me the moment you know!”

“Only if you promise to start calling me ‘Margot’” the young blonde jests, opening her client’s chart.

“How about I start calling you what we’ll all be calling you in just a few short years: ‘doctor’?” Rosy pink swirls splash across Margot’s face, warming her cheeks to the touch. She bows her head coyly at the mention of her dream becoming a reality. The thought that she will soon find out if a medical career is in her future makes the twenty-one-year-old’s heart leap with unbridled excitement.

For as long as she can remember, Margot has had a strong desire to serve and help other people. Much of that selfless attitude was instilled into her heart by her own parents. They were called to be Christian missionaries when Margot was only eight years old. After much planning, church fund-raising, and prayer, Roy and Mary Hughes left their comfortable home of Lafayette, Louisiana, and settled in the small Mediterranean country of Cordonia.

Many of their friends and family were shocked that the church would send them to such a beautiful area of the world. Typically missionaries humble themselves to serve the needy, the homeless, the lonely and the sick. They sacrifice the luxuries of home for the sake of loving humanity. They help people in war-torn countries, third-world countries, countries that don’t have electricity or running water. But, this country?

Cordonia itself is a lavish nation, rich in heritage and traditions. And funds. Thanks to the ideal weather conditions, the fruitful soil produces bountiful harvests and exquisite supplies for fine textiles that remain in high demand throughout the world. The Cordonian government, a monarchy, discovered a new opportunity to expand their wealth in the late 19th century: costly tariffs to international investors. Within the first ten years of increasing the taxes on exports, the national treasury was not only in the black, but their funds had exponentially increased every year. Farms were flourishing as the working class became larger, stronger.

But, the treasury began to dwindle quickly due to the extravagant demands of the royals. For the first time in the country's history, commoners were wealthier than some of the nobility. Disdain from the upper class quickly ensued until finally, in the early 20th century under the rule of William I, a new tax law was implemented to all of Cordonia: anyone involved with international exchange would have to pay into the treasury to handle such business.

Unfortunately, there were no limitations to this new tax law, and many farms floundered, property ownership being seized by the government. Families were uprooted; jobs were lost, and worse, assets were sold for even more money, filling the pockets of the greedy leaders. The people that once had a plethora of goods at their fingertips were now starving and unsheltered. And vengeful. The Cordonians were outraged by the gouging, many of them forming violent riots, banding together with outside influencers in hopes of overthrowing the government.

On the cusp of a civil war, King William I decided to rezone the country, providing a place for the displaced working class to claim safety and sanctuary, a place that would offer shelter, education, and more affordable options for goods. To appease the people even more, he named the project ‘the Core,’ paying homage to their greatest export, the Cordonian Ruby. It was also a way for him to forever express his gratitude for such a fruitful nation: they were the core reason the nation was thriving so richly.

Like many government-assisted programs, it didn’t take long for the cracks to show in the infrastructure. And with funding cuts over the years, the Core began to crumble, striking a sharp contrast from the rest of Cordonia. The Core, now often referred to as ‘the slums’, have become a breeding ground for crime, drugs, and prostitution. It is the blemish of Cordonia, its existence often not acknowledged amongst the elite.

But, according to the Hughes, ‘God saw the need’. They were sent to serve in the slums of Cordonia, starting up several free programs, including a nightly soup kitchen, afterschool programs to keep children out of trouble, and trade classes to help adults out of poverty. The people accepted the help and adapted quickly to the missionaries; but even more importantly, they embraced these Americans as their own, many of them forming important and lasting relationships with the Hughes.

But, still there was something missing, something that burdened the missionary’s oldest daughter: healthcare. Having good health and access to a doctor is still treated as a privilege in Cordonia, and time and time again, the curable were disabled or buried. A change needed to take place. And Margot, although unsure of how, knew she would devote her life in making it happen for the Cordonian people.

As she makes a few notes on her clipboard, an olive-complected arm stealthily reaches around Margot, gracefully grazing her sun-kissed skin before gently placing a cup of piping hot black coffee in front of her. Staring at the hand, she instantly knows who it is. And she titters, playfully rolling her eyes. “Tadd! Another coffee?” She grabs the coffee, twirling on the ball of her foot to face the clinic’s young ultrasound technician. "My tab must be over a hundred euros by now!"

"Oh, don't you worry about that," he chuckles, rocking on his feet. “Plus, I figured with your new gig at Bríki--” he jovially shrugs his shoulders.

“You figured what?” Margot playfully punches his shoulder. “That I could sneak you free coffee?” She gives a mischievous smile, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think Mr. Pavlis would appreciate me offering free drinks, especially since I haven’t even started yet--”

“That’s right!” Tadd eyes widen. “Today’s the day--!”

“As if I didn’t already have enough to be nervous about today,” Margot’s voice becomes shaky, as she clenches her teeth in a forced smile.

“Hey,” Tadd’s voice turns into an endearing whisper. He shifts his head until his piercing jade eyes meet Margot’s baby blues. “You have nothing to worry about. We both know you did well on that American doctor test--"

"The MCAT," Margot stifles a laugh, rolling her eyes into an appreciative grin.

"Whatever," a crooked smile grows across Tadd's handsome features. "And as far as the coffee shop, you're a fast learner. And a hard worker. Plus, if they see what we all see in you--" he sighs, his gaze never breaking free from hers, "-- they're going to love you."

Margot looks down at her feet, hugging her clipboard tightly to her chest. Feeling her palms begin to sweat, she coyly looks back up at her dear friend. "Thanks, Tadd."

After a few silent moments of staring at each other, Tadd clears his throat. "So, um--" he starts, "have you heard anything yet? About the test?" Tadd changes the subject. Margot shakes her head as she takes a pull from her coffee. "Well, when you do, um, maybe we could, I mean, I thought we could--"

Suddenly an intercom buzzes overhead. "Thaddeus to exam room four. Thaddeus to exam room four."

Tadd furrows his eyebrows, looking to the ceiling before resting a kind half-smile back on Margot. "Duty calls," he nervously sighs as he bounds down the hallway. Halfway down the corridor, he spins around to face Margot. "Hey, um, come find me! Before you leave at noon!" He finger-guns the air before returning to his pursuit.

Margot awkwardly finger-guns him back before smacking her forehead with the palm of her hand. "Seriously, Margot?" she mutters to herself, turning her attention back to the central desk of the clinic; however, she realizes quickly that the attention is all on her.

"When are you two going to make it official, Miss Mary-Margaret?" Iris chokes in the midst of her belly laughs, nodding with other scrub-adorned coworkers.

Biting her bottom lip feeling her heart flutter, Margot straightens out her demeanor, becoming stoic. "I--I don't know what you're talking about--"

"Margot, isn't it obvious?" Chimes in a jolly intake nurse. "That boy loves you--!"

"Who? Tadd?" Margot feigns innocence. She fixes her attention to the chart as she scribbles down more notes. "It's not like that--I mean, we're not, um--" she sighs. "We're just friends--" An instant roar of laughter abrupts from the reception desk, making it impossible for Margot to hide her toothy-smile paired with her scrunched up nose.

"You say that now, baby girl--"

"That's right," chimes in another giggling co-worker, "friends for now!"

An older plump nurse places a tender hand on Margot’s hand, a knowing smile spreading across her face. "Some of the best relationships come from friendships, moró. Give it time. Let the love grow," she winks at Margot.

Margot fidgets with her pen, delicately licking her bottom lip. She then tries to form words with her mouth, but no sound is heard. Her pink cheeks reveal she is flustered. She quickly closes up the chart, pushing loose hairs behind her ear. "Have a good day, ladies."

Hearing the squeals of her coworkers diminishing behind her, Margot quickly escapes into an empty exam room. Closing the door behind her, she leans against it, looking up at the textured ceiling tiles. She can feel the butterflies in her stomach bouncing through to her heart as her legs wiggle with weakness like gelatin.

The idea of 'falling in love' excites Margot, an idea she has dreamed about ever since she saw Baby meet Johnny. But, so far in her young life, she has never experienced it first hand, let alone a romantic hand- hold. Was this love? All she knew for sure was today was not the day to figure it out.

***

As soon as Riley’s name escapes his breathless moans of ecstasy, a searing sharp pain instantly ignites around his hardened girth. And Drake sees red.

"Fuck!" He lets out a guttural roar until no sound comes out of his mouth. He gnashes his teeth, trying to breathe through the agony, but only froths at the corners of his lips. The veins in his neck and his forehead protrude violently as streams of tears roll down his face. Petrified to move, his face turns a deep ruddy color. Before turning violet.

A sudden sensation of relief washes over him as the stabbing sensation fades to throbbing. Drake nervously looks down at his softening cock, relieved to see his member in one piece. "Goddamnit, Brooks," he pants furiously, "you fucking bit me--"

The brunette quickly tosses her curls out of her eyesight right before her fist meets Drake's jaw. "Oh, shit!" The cracking of the joints in his face echoes around the room. Drake starts to gently massage his chin. "You're not Riley--"

She climbs off of his body, standing her naked body in front of him. "No shit, Sherlock!" She slinks her short black spaghetti-strap dress over her dangerous curves before hastily grabbing her clear platform heels and racing out the door. "Fuck you, Drake Walker!"

***

A heartless, cocky laugh pours over the phone speaker. "Shit, Walker. Just--" the baritone voice trails back into a fit of laughter.

"It's not funny, Leo--" Drake warns, accidentally shifting his weight in bed, stirring a soreness to his recent injuries. "Ow!” he sucks air quickly between his gritted teeth, “fuck!" he whimpers to himself, adjusting the cold packs on his genitals.

"But you actually called her a different name, bro. A different name! With her mouth on your salami, your pocket rocket, on your--on your anaconda--" Leo's words fade back into cackles.

"As if you remember every goddamn hook-up’s name--"

"Dude," Leo interrupts, "if she's going to go all hungry, hungry hippo mid-blowie, I'm going to remember her name."

Drake scoffs. "Bullshit--"

"What? I'm serious, bro" Leo's voice becomes sincere. "All of these bitches we meet are looking for one thing--" he pauses dramatically for his wounded friend to finish his sentence; but the silence proves Drake is clueless as to where Leo was going with this. "A connection, Walker!" Leo's voice drips with conviction. "These women don't want to feel like they're disposable, even though--" he chuckles to himself, “let’s be honest: we’re doing them a favor--”

"--’A connection’, Leo" Drake interrupts, urging the conversation back on track.

"Right! ‘A connection," reaffirms Leo, circling back to his point. "Now, okay,” he knowingly titters, “I can’t remember all of these names--”

“Ha! See?” Drake barks.

“--Which is why--” Leo enunciates over Drake, “I use a single pet name. ‘Girl’.”

"'Girl'? That’s your trick? You call them 'girl'?" Drake raises an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Hear me out,” Leo continues. “If you call them something like ‘baby’ or ‘sweetie’, it can be seen as patronizing, that you’re clearly looking to smooth-talk your way into their pants--” Drake rolls his eyes, moving the phone to his other ear “--but now, calling them ‘girl’, I’m showing I want to be a friend, that I just simply want to connect. And then when you’re having your way with her, call her whatever the fuck you want as long as you finish the name with ‘girl’. Good girl. Dirty girl. Naughty girl. Sweet girl. Or in your case, hungry girl--”

Drake clears his throat, stifling a laugh. “--That is the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard--”

“Hey!” Leo interjects. “Who is wearing a bag of frozen peas on his one-eyed trouser snake?”

“Touché,” Drake sighs. “So, where are you right now?”

“With Jason up at his shop.”

“Who?” Drake lets out yawn, looking at his bedside alarm clock.

“Shit, Walker, you really were fucked up last night," Leo sighs. "Jason. You met him last night.” Leo’s voice lowers into a whisper. “He helped you get fucked up last night.”

“Oh! Right, right,” Drake rubs his head, “that was--wow, that shit was--”

“Good, right?” Leo finishes. “Hey, come join us at his shop. We’ve got coffee, and he’s got some new, um, product he’d love to show you--”

“Oh, Leo, I don’t know--” Drake removes the melting bag of vegetables from his lap. Gently lifting up on the waistband of his boxers, carefully inspecting his bruised parts.

“Does Liam have you working today?”

“No, no, it’s not that--” Drake hesitates.

“Oh!” Leo knowingly exclaims. “Does Riley have you working today?” He begins to chuckle. “You might need to let her know that you’re currently indisposed for --”

“Leo--” Drake warns.

“Then what's the hold up?"

Drake glances over at the mirror affixed to his antique dresser, but he doesn't recognize his own reflection. There's an emptiness in eyes, an inexplicable turmoil overcoming the man he once was. How did everything get so complicated? How did he get to such a place that it's better to be absent in life than to live it?

She was just a friend--at least that's what he convinced himself when Riley Brooks first caught his eye. Beautiful. Extremely witty with a fight he had never seen before. When they first kissed, he swore it was a mistake. Hormones. It had been so long since he had touched the delicate petals of a woman's lips.

But, this wasn't just any woman. It was her. And he soon would find himself wrapped up in her bedsheets, wrapped around her finger, wrapped in an awful web of lies.

And, all of his transgressions were against him, his very best friend, the man he regards as closer than a brother, his closest ally and confidant. Normally, Drake would turn to Liam in a heartbeat with any troubles, but this? How could he? How could he talk to Liam about his own devastation when the truth would devastate Liam?

It's been four days since that fateful night of Liam's coronation, four days since the love of Drake's life walked away from him, forcing his hand into harboring secrets from the crowned prince. It's been four days since Drake heard his own voice in his head, four days since he's been sober enough to even think. Even though he deemed the temporary escape necessary, the sudden twinge of discomfort in his groin makes him realize that taking another hit right now is the absolute last thing he needs.

"I think I better stay put," Drake answers, combing his fingers through his disheveled tresses.

"Suit yourself," Leo jovially retorts. "If you need any oxy for your boo-boo, hit me up--Oh, and Drake?"

“Hrmmm?”

"Her name is Whitney."

"What?"

"Jaws? You know, the bitch who chewed on your Moby Dick?" Drake sighs heavily, regretting that he ever told Leo what had happened. "Her name is Whitney."

Drake furrows his eyebrows. "Now, how do you remember her name--?"

"Oh, bro, you don't forget WAP Whitney--oh shit, you probably haven't gotten a good look at your sheets this morning, have you?"

With a grunt, Drake ends the call. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath. He carefully gets up, waddling to grab his clothes before heading to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

In the middle of splashing his face with cold, soapy water, Drake's phone rings. Grabbing a hand towel he carefully saunters back to his room, answering the call without hesitation. "Just let it go, Leo--”

"Drake?"

An icy chill shoots down Drake’s spine, freezing him in his steps. He knows that melodic voice anywhere, a voice that reminds him of early morning sunrises and late night silver moonlit paths. “H-hey, Riley,” he stutters, caught off guard. A brief awkward stillness falls over the conversation. “How are you--?”

“I miss you, Drake,” she interrupts.

Drake’s vision suddenly begins to spin as the air in the room becomes stagnant. Stiffening his bottom lip in anger, his breathing quickens as he reaches out carefully to brace himself against the wall.

“Drake?”

“I’m here,” he chokes out. “What do you want, Brooks?” He can hear the tears in her voice, but he wills himself not to care, he wills himself to not even ask.

“Drake, I think I made a mistake--”

“No,” Drake barks out, “no, you can’t do this to me--”

“Drake, please,” Riley sobs, “I’m on my way to the doctor--”

“The doctor?” Drake’s tone suddenly changes. “Are you okay? Is everything with--um, you know--” he slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand, “--okay?”

“Yes--” she sniffles, “--no. I just, I can’t do this alone, Drake. I can’t do this--”

“Riley--” he roughly says her name to grab her attention, “you made your decision: you chose Liam. You want to raise our baby--my baby with him--”

“Don’t you think I want to have this baby with you? That’s all I can even think about Drake,” she takes a moment to calm down her shaking voice. “I love you, Drake. I want a life with you. I want you to be there when this baby is born, when this baby needs his or her father--when this baby needs you--”

“Riley--” Drake exhales with frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose, “--but Liam--”

“I know, Drake. I know--” Riley takes a deep breath, “Can we just talk? In person? Just so we can figure this out? I can come over there--”

“Brooks, I--” Drake stumbles over his words as he runs his fingers over his coarse, overgrown stubble. Of course, he wants her to come over. And to stay. But, has anything changed? Liam just proposed, and she made it clear what her intentions were. But, still, it’s possible she had a change of heart, and this was a second chance he may never get again. He sighs heavily. “Sure. Okay."

After finishing his impromptu conversation with Riley, Drake realizes he needs to make another phone call. He scrolls through his call history, and clicks the green send button.

"Did you change your mind, Evander Holyfield?"

"Funny, Leo," Drake sarcastically responds. "So, yeah, um, what's the address to the shop?"

***

“Does that--does that say what I think it says?” Margot nervously stammers. "I think I saw my score--oh gosh!"

“Here. Let me look--”

Margot quickly covers the computer screen with her hands, "No, Mrs. Iris!” Margot squeals. “I’m not ready--I’m not ready for this!”

“Child, you have been ready for this for months. Now, if you don’t get your hands out of the way--"

"What's with all the commotion?" A few technicians and nurses pile into the room, each giving an endearing rub to Margot’s back. Everyone begins craning their necks to see the computer, covered by Margot's arms. "Is it time? Have they posted the scores?"

"They sure have!" answers Iris before turning to Margot. She tucks several blonde wisps behind Margot’s ear before putting her finger under her chin. "C'mon, baby," she smiles encouragingly, "it's more fun celebrating than worrying."

"I'm--" Margot takes a deep breath, biting back her tears, "--I'm so scared--"

"--and the Lord knew you would be, baby." Iris wrinkles her nose at Margot, her voice becoming stronger. "That's why He called you to be courageous. C'mon."

Margot bites her lip, slowly nodding her head. Feeling the storm brew in her eyes as the weight of the world sits on her chest, she carefully peels back her hands. Her eyes scale the black and white on the screen, but nothing seems to make sense. A burst of silence overwhelms her hearing, time standing perfectly still. Her only company is the beating of her heart.

Take my anxieties...

You have nothing to worry about…

Your will be done…

Be courageous...

Like suddenly breaking through the surface for air, an abrupt roar of cheers fill the room, shaking Margot from her trance. "Our baby girl got a 519!" screams a tearful Iris, pulling Margot from her seat and into a tight embrace. Other coworkers join in, creating a giant group hug.

Margot remains speechless, shocked by her score. She always knew she was an excellent student, studying hard all through school and excelling in her classes. When it came to the MCAT, she was confident she would score better than average, a score of 500. But, to even be noticed by top medical schools, she needed to score in the top 5%, a score 517 or greater.

News swept like wildfire through the clinic, and shortly thereafter, Tadd and some other technicians filed into the breakroom with a decorative chocolate cake and punch in tow. "I knew you could do it!" Tadd cheers victoriously, offering a chaste hug to Margot. "Dr. Hughes," he swipes his hand in the air as if to paint an imaginary portrait. "It has a nice ring to it."

"I still don't understand why you put yourself through all of that," mentions an older phlebotomist. "Cordonia has a medical school right down the road--"

"Because Margot wants to go to one of the best medical schools in the world," interrupts a deeply demanding, yet sincere voice. “To Harvard. Like me.”

"Dr. Ramirez," Margot smiles brightly, jumping up to greet her mentor with a hug.

"That is, you are still looking at my alma mater for medical school--"

"Yes ma'am!" Margot's eyes light up with the thought that her dream of going to Harvard Medical School is becoming her reality. "It would be such an honor to go there, let alone to follow in your footsteps."

Dr. Ramirez pulls Margot in for another tight hug. "My word, Mary-Margaret, 519?" she presses her cheek to Margot's, "I am so proud of you."

"Thank you, Dr. Ramirez," Margot warmly responds, "thank you for taking a chance on me and helping me so much with my studies and research--"

"You know I did that for selfish reasons, right?" The practitioner stifles a smile while Margot squints her eyes with suspicion. "Cordonia needs more female physicians, and more importantly, physicians that will make a difference in its healthcare," she grips tightly to Margot’s hand, "for everyone. I believe you will lead this country in a health care reformation."

"I don't know what to say," Margot clears her throat as she fights back the tears. "I hope I make you proud--"

"You already do." Dr. Ramirez gently touches Margot's cheek lovingly before turning to exit the room.

"Oh!" Margot quickly chases after the obstetrician, “can I talk to you? Privately?” With a nod, Dr. Ramirez leads Margot into a quiet corner. “I know my work-study ends in two weeks--”

“I know. Don’t remind me, Margot--”

“Well, I was wondering,” Margot chews on the side of her mouth, fidgeting with her fingers, “if by any chance I could possibly stay on?”

“Oh, Margot, I wish I could. Unfortunately with budget cuts--”

Margot shakes her head. “No, no, Dr. Ramirez, I meant if I could stay on, shadowing my usual Monday and Thursday mornings, I mean, if that’s alright. Learn more? Keep up my skills?”

“You want to continue volunteering with us?” The doctor gives an inquisitive look. “Don’t you want to get a job to earn money before you move to the states next year?”

“I already got that covered,” Margot assuredly answers. “I just got a job at Bríki, the coffee shop past the square--”

“Oh my gosh,” Dr. Ramirez’s eyes light up. “Does Aleksi still own that place?”

“Mr. Pavlis? Yes! Him and his son run it together, I believe--”

“They have the best coffee,” she energetically smiles, “now I have another reason to stop by.” She kindly places her hand on Margot’s shoulder. “Of course, you can stay on as a volunteer. Whenever you want, however much you want. It is a pleasure to have you around.” With a squeeze of her arm, Dr. Ramirez turns to go to her next appointment, but stops halfway down the hall. “Oh, Margot? My nurse stepped away to make an important phone call. Do you mind escorting my next patient to the exam room?”

Margot dutifully nods with a grin. She twirls around, bounding for the front desk to grab the chart of Dr. Ramirez’s next patient, a new patient. After making a few small notes, Margot opens the door to call her back.

“Brooks? Riley Brooks?”

*****

Tags: (this is my original tag list for this series; if you wanted to be added or removed, please let me know!) @alyssalauren @ao719 @bbrandy2002 @burnsoslow @charlotteg234 @chemist-ana @choiceskatie @forallthatitsworth @gkittylove99 @glaimtruelovealways @kat-tia801 @khoicesbyk @lovingchoices14 @lovelyladyk88 @lucy-268 @mainstreetreader @marshmallowsaremyfavorite @neotericthemis @nestledonthaveone @sfb123 @shannonwrote @shewillreadyou @sweatyrysconnoisseur @taniasethi @tessa-liam @texaskitten30 @thefrenchiemama @thegreentwin @twinkleallnight @yourmajesty09

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TBOI Headcanons: Horsemen

Death

He/him

He’s...nice. Not a good person by any means but he’s the most polite of the bunch. Kind of strange though. Creepily calm, a bit sarcastic, and he has a pretty morbid view on the world.

Reserved and usually grumpy. He can be rather chipper off-duty, though. Putting up with the others takes a lot of energy from him.

Tired....

A bit neurotic but good at coming off as a down-to-earth guy.

He’s the most book-smart of the bunch and he’s fairly wise. A bit emotionally stunted, but he tries his best to be mature and make the right choices.

Death is more than a bit nihilistic and pessimistic. He has a hard time just... caring, mostly about himself.

Not to say he’s completely apathetic, he can be pretty empathetic but he tries not to act on that too much because if he did his job would have broken him by now.

He likes to think he’s got it all under control, but he does not. He’s more prone to pettiness and stupid decisions than he’d like to admit.

That being said he’s been pretty good with like. Growing and maturing though. He’s changed more than he realizes in just in the past.... decade or so ago. A bit of a late start for an immortal but hey at least he’s slightly less of a scumbag.

It’s usually not easy to anger him unless he’s really tired or something’s already set him off. When something does piss him off badly he’s a bit prone to freaking out. He’s not very good at handling his emotions. 

Sees his own job as a necessary evil, because hey, someone’s gotta do it.

Interested in botany/gardening, as well as literature.

Genuinely nice- or at least polite- to the kids when he’s not supposed to be murdering them. He sees no reason to go out of his way to do so, especially since unwarranted cruelty towards others has only bit him in the ass.

Famine’s older brother. The two have always had each other’s backs.

Diligent, and always considers the logistics to things instead of acting on emotion alone.

Protective of the other horsemen.

Pretty short tbh

His horse’s name is Chili.

Famine

She/he (bigender). You can use both interchangeably or only use one set, she doesn’t care. Fine with they/them too but it’s never really clicked w/ him enough to be preferred.

Usually prefers more masculine terms (brother, sir, mr...) but fine with anything.

.Flips between bouncing off the walls and having no energy whatsoever.

Impulsive, she’s got terrible judgement and has the most idiotic of ideas sometimes.

Fairly easygoing, tries to forgive and forget and doesn’t let little transgressions get to her

Actually pretty damn sad. Needs some self care but never looks after herself.

I mean she’s optimistic and usually happy but like. There’s always just a bit of sadness, you know? He’s dealt with a lot and it’s definitely taken its toll on him.

Disaster Lesbian

Tries to be a graceful loser but she can get a bit more competitive than she’d like to admit.

Has a hard time relating to others and considering how they feel, at least when it comes to anything more complex than “bad thing happened now I’m sad/mad” He’s a drifter by nature, always onto the next big thing for a quick thrill.

Eats a lot. It’s never enough.

Plants and a good deal of food will decay if she touches them, or even gets too close to them.

Like his brother he has some interest in nature. Famine is more on the adventurous side, though. She’s tried to live off the land a few times with varying success.

Named her horse Frisk

Pestilence

He/him

Calm, quiet, but also a pessimistic jackass.

Always in a bad mood. I mean, he’s permanently sick with just about everything contagious and deadly. You’d be grumpy, too!

Surprisingly high pain tolerance. A good deal of his nerves have probably just.. shut down or something. Or maybe he’s just numb to everything after a lifetime of pain.

Sleeps a lot

Dislikes his situation a lot, but doesn’t mind the company of the others.

Lazarus is terrified of this dude. The other kids are mostly grossed out or annoyed by him.

Likes to be alone.

Fairly smart, but comes off as absent minded bc he’s pretty much too sick to function. He slips up a lot and he’s pretty damn clumsy

Probably the most rational of the bunch, when he’s not in airplane mode. 

He’s also got a fairly strong moral compass. He doesn’t really like fighting the kids unlike War and Famine. Or just having to go up against people in general. Hell he hates the fact people get sick because of him. At the very least Pest has higher standards and is fairly transparent

But that isn’t to say he’s a good person. Yeah he doesn’t go out of his way to hurt others for shits and giggles and He’s Not Conquest but he doesn’t ever object to any of the shit the kids are put through and well. Yknow he still does kill them. He will also encourage some of War’s antics when it’s against someone he dislikes.

Tries to be as supportive as he can for the others. He knows he can’t do too much without overexerting so he tries to be encouraging and comforting as he can.

This compassion usually isn’t extended to humans, though.

Not very emotive, the only emotions he ever really expresses would be disdain and mild concern.

Not very fond of Conquest but they don’t hate each other. They actually work together well, too.

Friends with Mahalath. They’re pretty close!

His horse’s name is Moses.

War

He/it

He’s not very friendly, he’s pretty defensive and always on edge.

Out of all the horsemen, he’s probably the one closest with the Beast.

Lots of scars n injuries, it’s practically stitched together

One gold tooth

Impulsive, prefers solving issues through violence than through reason.

He can be fairly clever, though.

Intentionally angers/upsets others, likes causing problems and ruining things for people.

Desires wealth and power

Gets burnt out pretty quickly.

Emotional, insecure, and sensitive, and he hates this part of him. Definitely overcompensates for it.

Explosive temper, quite literally. Catches fire when upset and explodes if it’s more intense. Damage done to him also makes it happen. It’s not entirely voluntary but can be held off, and his “sobbing” sprite is him doing exactly that (but he’s probably also trying not to cry lmao). In the Ultra War fight, however...

Its daily routine leaves a lot to be desired. It wakes up, goes to work, then it goes home and just. Sits and rots.

Also, his diet is god awful. Please just eat a fruit or vegetable for once maybe you’d feel better goddamn.

He cannot remember if his horse is actually a horse or not but uhh he named her Bellum.

Conquest

He/they.

High and mighty sort of attitude. Can be very selfish. Stubborn, set in his ways. Gets defensive if you call him out or tell him he’s wrong.

Gay + nonbinary but in the closet (and denial) about both of those things. They’re trying to unlearn years’ worth of internalized bigotry.

Used to be worse, now trying to unlearn his toxic behaviors. But he’s still awful.

Doesn’t remember anything before their death. However they’ve held very strong Christian (specifically Catholic) beliefs all their life and they have a pretty black and white way of thinking.

Very cold and clinical. He has a bit of a temper but there’s a sort of calmness to everything he does even when he’s pissed.

Just as argumentative and aggressive as War but like more of a threat.

The others call him Connie sometimes, especially Death, who practically almost always calls him by this nickname.

Doesn’t harbor ill will towards Pestilence. They might have been overshadowed, but it’s not Pestilence’s own fault. If anything, being out of the spotlight has been good for Conquest, even if they do miss the attention sometimes. The only reason the two dislike each other is because their personalities clash.

Now if there’s anyone he hates that would be the Headless Horseman. Fuck that guy amiright

Very protective of Death. The two are close, Death is probably the only person who is consistently nice to him.

Utterly terrified of needles (hypodermic, not sewing needles, though he’s not good with sharp objects tbh) and medical stuff makes him anxious

Seems very... off. Just weird vibes but no one can pin point what about him is wrong.

Oh uh and his horse’s name is Josephine.