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discordantwritings · 8 months

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Guiding Star (Jinbe x Reader)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, gn afab! reader, monsterfucking, Jinbe has two dicks, oral sex (m receiving), double penetration, belly bulge, Jinbe talks you through it

WC: 4.6k

Summary: You have a big, giant, fat crush on your newest crew mate, Jinbe. You don’t hold out any hope that he likes you back but you’ve been convinced you should at least give it a shot. Who knows? Maybe he does like you back.

Notes: if jinbe is OOC I’m sorry but I watched every clip and video I could get my hands on. I just had to write some monsterfucking ok? Ok.

It’s embarrassing how much you’ve been staring at the newest crew member. But how could you not?

Jinbe, former warlord and knight of the sea was now the helmsman for the Thousand Sunny and you found him occupying your thoughts quite frequently. At first you were intimidated by him- incredibly tall stature and his battle prowess left nothing to the imagination of what he could do to anyone who got in his way. But as you saw him around the ship and his interactions with your fellow straw hats you saw a different side of him.

He was kind, he was polite, and the way his laugh boomed through the decks always made you smile. It was like he’d been a crew member for years now, fitting right into everyone’s routine effortlessly. You hadn’t talked to him one on one a lot but every time you did it was a wonderful conversation. If he let you you could probably sit and listen to his stories for hours on end.

And there was… well…

He was hot.

Sure, maybe he wasn’t everyone’s taste but you honestly couldn’t wrap your head around why more people weren’t swooning over him. He was at least three feet taller than you and almost entirely muscle. Not that he looked it but when he easily hefted barrels over his shoulder like it was nothing you could only imagine what it would be like to be picked up and maneuvered around so easily. And when he lets his kimono fall past his shoulders and simply knot around his waist letting his broad shoulders and wide chest out-

God.

You were spending too much time around Sanji.

You honestly don’t mean to be a pervert. You spend a lot of time kicking yourself internally for how far your brain has traveled into the gutter. Most days you try not to spend too much time around the fishman, worrying that he will catch you staring or pick up on your feelings. That would just ruin everything- you might like him but chances are he wouldn’t return the emotions.

“You’re thinking about him again.” Robin’s voice startles you out of your thoughts and you whip around to see her standing there, arms crossed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You try to play it off, but Robin is clearly not having it.

“You have that love struck yet sad look on your face.” Robin states as she sits down next to you. “You’re thinking about a certain helmsman.”

You sigh. Robin had picked up on your crush probably before you did. It was nice to have someone to confide in but it was still embarrassing. “Maybe I am…”

“How many times do I have to tell you to just go talk to him?”

“See it sounds easy when you say it like that but you know it’s more complicated.” You sink back into the bench, arms folded.

“And avoiding a fellow crew member and constantly moping around isn’t making things complicated?” You cringe because of course she is right.

“But…” You lean onto Robin’s shoulder. “What if he doesn’t like me. I mean- it’s more likely that he doesn’t like me than he does really considering…” The whole human and fishman thing.

“You don’t know that. And even if he turns you down he’s a kind and understanding individual. He would never hold it against you.”

“You’re so smart…” You mumble into her shoulder.

“Yes, yes.” Robin pats your head. “Now what do you think about talking to him tonight.”

You shoot upright. “Tonight? That’s so soon I don’t-“

“He’s going to be up late redirecting our course so you can approach him when no one else is around. And it’ll be on deck so you can run away if anything happens.”

You think it over. Of course that seems like a good plan. But could you actually go through with it?

“Fine.” You relent, sagging back into the bench. “Tonight.”

“Good.” Robin claps her hands together. “This will be great. Trust me.”

And you do trust her. Enough to let the anxiety stir in your stomach for the rest of the day as you waited for the hours to pass by. Dinner was awkward for you, Robin shooting you looks as you tried not to make eye contact with anyone, afraid people will see how nervous you were. But dinner was over fast enough and everyone slowly made their way to bed. All except you and Jinbe. Slowly making your way up to the helm under the light of the stars you saw him.

Seeing him at the wheel sent a wave of calm over you. He was always so capable and you know that your crew and the Thousand Sunny were safe in his capable hands. Jinbe must have sensed you hovering as he glances over your way. A large smile comes over his face when he realizes it’s you.

“You’re up late.” He comments, not fully turning away from his duty but keeping an eye on you.

“Oh, yeah, just…” You walk the final strides to be next to him- not close by any means but average conversation distance. Hopefully. “Wanted to talk.”

“Oh?” Jinbe drops one hand from the helm to face you properly. When his attention is on you you feel your heartbeat quicken and your nerves rise.

“I uh… I’m really not sure how to say this…” You can’t make eye contact with him, eyes glued to the planks of the deck.

“If I’ve done something to offend you-“ Jinbe sounds concerned and that sends a pant of guilt through you.

“No! Nothing like that actually-“ You take a deep breath. You just had to rip off the bandaid. “I like you. In a romantic capacity.”

You want to fling yourself off the deck and let the ocean take you for how awkward that just sounded. Still unable to look at him you’re left wondering what is going through his head as silence hangs in the air.

“Ah. I understand.” Finally comes Jinbe’s response. It’s just what you’re expecting, something small and polite that hints that you should drop it. Of course. At least it’s over now and you-

“I feel the same way.”

What?

Your eyes dart up from the deck to Jinbe’s face and you see him smiling wide, all teeth. You search for some hint of a joke or deception but can’t find it. He turns his attention back to the helm, turning it ever so slightly and leaving you to flounder.

“Oh. Okay then.” Was all you could think to say, standing there wondering what the hell just happened.

The sound of the water lapping against the boat was barley audible over your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Do you go now? Do you stand here? Are you supposed to be saying something?

“Do you want to see something?” Jinbe’s deep voice grabs you out of your thoughts to see him looking down at you. You nod, and he steps back from the helm and motions for you to take his place.

With slight hesitation you step behind the wheel. You feel him move behind you and you realize when you hear his voice next to your ear that he’s kneeled down.

“So if you look up here…” His hand travels past your shoulder, pointing. “Do you see that bright star?”

He’s so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your neck and you have to purposefully slow your breathing. You follow his finger and look up into the night sky. It takes you a second to find it amongst the hundreds of brilliant lights but eventually you do- one shining just a bit brighter than the rest.

“I think I do.” You whisper, not trusting yourself to speak louder.

“That’s the star that navigators use to anchor everything. Nami and I split the job of directing the ship but she always gives me directions in relation to that star. Almost every single person on this world uses that star to guide them.”

You’ve heard mention of this star before, being on the sea for as long as you had, but the way he explains it to you and how he’s practically surrounding you while he does so is a whole new experience. “Wow.”

“It’s one of those things I remember when we all get so caught up in our differences. We all have more in common than we might think. We all have the same stars.” His hand falls and it skims your side as it does so and you shiver.

“That’s beautiful.” You say, still staring up at the stars.

“Not quite as beautiful as you.” His voice had dropped an octave and the way it reverberated through your chest made your breath hitch.

“You can’t just say things like that.” You know your face is completely flushed from his words and how damn close he was to you.

“Why not? I thought you liked me.” His tone was teasing and you huffed.

“Yes- but- this is all so embarrassing.” You bury your hands in your face, mortified about how poorly you were handling everything.

You felt large hands gently turn you around and you wanted to retract further out of sheer embarrassment. Even though you have your eyes screwed shut under your hands you still feel his gaze on you.

“You’re going to have to look at me at some point.” You can hear the humor in his voice and you suck in a breath and drop your hands.

He’s on one knee in front of you but his face is still a bit higher than yours. It’s closer than it’s ever been before and you find yourself scanning his face and taking in every detail. The way his fangs shine in the moonlight, his smooth blue skin, and the deep scar across his right eye. You can even see a faint blush creep over his cheeks, a deep purple against light blue.

“If I didn’t know any better I would think you’d never seen a fishman before.” He says, taking you out of your trance.

“I just- you’re so handsome.” You admit, finally able to lock eyes with him.

“It’s not often people say that to me.” It’s his turn to break away from your gaze.

“I don’t understand that at all. But maybe I am glad no one snatched you up before I could.” You feel emboldened by seeing his reaction to your compliment.

“Just maybe?” Jinbe’s eyes find yours again as his hand finds your shoulder. You lean into the touch as his thumb rubs small circles into your skin.

“I’m really glad no one snatched you up before I could. And also that you like me as well.”

“You really thought I wouldn’t?” His motions don’t cease and you feel your nerves leaving you.

“I really did. I mean I was terrified you would think I was some pervert or something.” You admit.

“Pervert? Why?” He sounds genuinely confused.

“Well- I mean-“ You shift on your feet slightly. “I might have been staring at you. A lot.”

“Hm? Really now?” A finger comes up to your face and brushes across your cheek. “And while you were staring… what would you think about.”

His words make your stomach twist in anticipation and your breath quickens as you debate what to say. You could play it off, say something that would leave him thinking you were more put together than you were but with the way he’s looking at you…

“A lot of things. Mostly about how big and strong you are. How it would feel to touch you- be touched by you.” Once you started speaking the words just tumbled out. You searched Jinbe’s face for a reaction and are relieved to see him break into a huge smile.

“This might be too forward of me- and tell me if it is- but I could touch you. If you’d like.” He was so polite and so kind.

You lean into his hand, still on your face. “I would really love that.”

“Perfect!” His voice followed by a booming laugh makes you giggle. He stands up and you remember just how tall he is, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “Hold on.”

You’re confused for a second before Jinbe easily scoops you up and throws you over his shoulder. You let out a small yelp that devolves into more giggles as you’re carried off. Even though you’re facing backwards you can tell where he’s going pretty fast- taking the ladder up to the crow’s nest. Typically unoccupied at this time of night it’s the one place on the ship you two could get some privacy.

He slides you off his shoulder gently and you have to take a second to reorient yourself. While you balance, Jinbe sits down on one of the benches and waits patiently for you. Once you collect yourself you take the few steps over to Jinbe, slotting yourself between his wide legs so you can get as close to him as possible. You pause, face hovering only inches from his as your eyes scan his face.

“You sure?” He asks softly, a finger moving a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yes.”

He looks at you for a moment more before finally moving in to kiss you.

It was unlike any other kiss you’d had before. His lips were surprisingly soft and smooth as they pressed against yours gently. He moved slowly and he was able to keep his tusks from scraping you. You felt their presence though, cool and hard on the sides of your mouth. The kiss was was everything you thought it would be and more.

You found yourself leaning into him, supporting yourself on his shoulders as large hands came to gently hold you at your sides. His hands encompass your waist and heat pools in your stomach at that fact.

You loose track of time kissing him as your hands and his explore each others bodies. His skin is smooth and cool under your touch, different but not unwelcome. Rough fingertips find your skin just under your shirt, raising it up a few inches just so he can feel you. The two of your drift like this for what feels like hours until the heat under your skin builds up and you need more.

“Jinbe-“ You whine as you break away from the kiss.

“Hm? What do you need?” He asks, his thumb rubbing circles into your hip.

“Can I-“ You fight through the embarrassment and sink down to your knees in front of him. Your hands smooth over his thighs as you look up at him. His eyes are wide in surprise and lust and you see his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

“You don’t have to. It’s…” He trails off but your hands are at the knot in his kimono, slowly untying.

“I want to. Please?” You bat your eyes and he’s gone. He nods and you finish your work on the knot and gently part the fabric.

Of course you had thought about what he would look like. Rumors about what fishmen genitalia looked like always hung around but you never met anyone with first hand experience, no one you would trust to actually have a real story. You had ideas, hopes maybe, but what was sitting in front of you was beyond what you imagined.

Mostly because there was two of them.

Two smooth members were erect and flush against Jinbe’s stomach. Starting off thinner and tapering to impossibly thick at the base they look like they could have been one larger cock before being split down the middle. Just one of them was far larger than anything you’ve ever seen and both of them together? Well you know there’s no possible way all of him will fit inside you. But that doesn’t mean you don’t want whatever your body could possibly take.

“Like I said- you don’t have to-“ Jinbe’s slightly nervous voice sounds above you and you realize you’ve probably been staring for a while.

“No!” You answer, embarrassingly eager. “This is-“

You can’t find the proper words so you decide to show him.

Taking the right one into your hand you press a kiss to the very base, enjoying the way he shuddered under your touch. You continued upward, pressing sloppy kisses and leaving his cock slick with your saliva. After thorough attention you repeated your actions on the other. You watch as Jinbe’s hands fist in the fabric pool around his thighs, relishing in the small grunts and groans you are able to get out of him.

Satisfied with your preparation you bring both your hands around both his members, pushing them together as you slowly pump down and then back up. You hold your hands there and take both tips into your mouth. Above you Jinbe hisses and you feel one of his hands shoot up to the back of your head. He just holds it there, fingers weaving into your hair but you know he’s holding himself back.

Your tongue swirls around the tips as you take more into your mouth. You don’t get far but that doesn’t seem to matter to Jinbe as you feel his fingers grip your hair tighter as you work. Pulling off you stop holding the two together and instead gently maneuver them apart, running your tongue down through the gap as your hands gently worked up and down.

“Fuck-“ You don’t think you’d ever heard Jinbe swear before but the husk in his voice sends a fresh wave of heat to your core. “You feel so good.”

His encouragement is all you need. You take just one of his cocks in your mouth this time and you’re able to take him farther down. Flattening out your tongue and relaxing your throat you’re able to take almost half of him down your throat. His hand grips your hair tighter but doesn’t hold you down and the slightly pain of having your hair pulled keeps you grounded. You keep him there as long as you can until you have to pull yourself off, saliva running down your chin as you pant for air. As you catch your breath Jinbe’s hand smooths over your hair and you hear Jinbe whispering soft praises to you. Finally ready, you take a deep breath and repeat your motions to the other cock as you slowly pump the one covered in your saliva. When you go to switch back the hand at your head stops you, gently directing your gaze up.

“Get back up here.” The soft but firm command has you standing up immediately and he pulls you into a kiss.

There’s more heat in it this time as his hands move from your waist, over your ass, and to your thighs. With little effort he lifts you up and onto his lap, never breaking the kiss. You feel his hands come up and around to the waistband of your pants and you get the message. Reaching down you quickly unbutton and shove them down along with your underwear, maneuvering yourself so you can get them off and fling them to the side somewhere. You hover over his lap and with your knees on his thighs you remain face to face with him.

One of Jinbe’s hands stays at your waist, holding you in place while the other finally dips down between the two of you to where you need him most. Cool calloused fingers find your folds and he hums appreciatively.

“Soaking wet just from pleasuring me?” He smiles and you bury your face into his shoulder, embarrassed.

You feel his fingers part your folds and you feel the press of one large finger at your entrance. It has no trouble sliding in with how soaked you are. You moan into his shoulder and your arms come up to latch around his thick neck. The finger gently pushes in and out of you, the slick sounds filling the space.

“I have to ask.” His voice reverberates in your chest. “Do you want me inside you?”

“Please Jinbe.” You’re surprised at how needy you sound, practically whining.

“Then I’ll need to work you open.” Even just that promise has your breaths coming heavier.

A second finger finds its way to your entrance, gently sliding in next to the first. You already feel full and wonder what exactly you’ve gotten yourself into. But when he slowly scissors his fingers open you forget everything.

“Jinbe-“ Your fingernails can’t dig into his thick skin but that doesn’t stop you from trying.

“I know, I know.” He presses a kiss to your cheek. “You’re taking my fingers so well.”

You moan at his words as he continues to slowly work you open. It’s not too much longer before you feel a third finger threatening to join the other two.

“You can take it, just relax.” You do your best, taking deep breaths as a third thick finger enters you, making you feel impossibly full. His words, the slow but calculated actions, the feeling of fullness, it’s all too much.

“Jinbe- I’m- fuck-“ You stutter out unable to fully form a sentence.

“It’s ok, just let go. It’s alright just relax.” The hand on your hip runs gently over your side and you fall apart.

“That’s it. So good for me.” Jinbe whispers into your ear, his fingers still slowly working in and out of you through your orgasm. You press kisses to his shoulder as he keeps moving inside you, continuing to stretch you out.

“I need-“ You’re cut off by your own moan as Jinbe’s fingers hit that spot deep inside you.

“Tell me what you need love.”

You groan in frustration and pleasure. “You- I need you inside me please.”

“Anything you want.” His fingers pull out of you and you whine at the loss.

You look down between your bodies and see him take both of his dicks into his hand, using your slick to coat them. Mesmerized and a bit intimidated you stare down as both tips get aligned with your entrance.

“You don’t have to do this, it’s ok if we stop here.” His thoughtful words make you look into his eyes and you shake your head.

“No, I want this, as much as I can take.” You press a kiss to his mouth that he eagerly takes.

You have to pull away from his mouth as he enters you, one hand guiding himself and the other hand on your hip slowly pushing you down. Your mouth hangs open as you feel him enter you, stretching you out already. Focusing on your breathing you rest your forehead on Jinbe’s shoulder as you slowly sink further down.

“That’s it just breathe. You’re taking me so well.” You can hear a strain in his voice signaling that this is effecting him just as much as it is you.

“You’re- fuck-“ You swear loudly as you feel him gently touch your cervix. “That’s-“

“I feel it, it’s alright, I’ve got you.” Jinbe holds you up with one hand, allowing you to take the strain off your legs. You know you aren’t taking all of him in you, still a few inches away from his base.

The stretch feels impossible- like you’re about to split down the middle. You would be lying if you said it didn’t hurt, but you breathed through that pain and with soothing words from Jinbe in your ear you slowly begin to relax. Face still buried in Jinbe’s shoulder, you feel the hand not holding you come around to your front and a calloused finger presses against your clit. You try to say something, but you can’t form words, only moans and whines into the smooth skin of his shoulder.

“It’s okay love just let go.” He rubs slow circles into your clit.

“I don’t-“ You whine, embarrassed how fast you are already at your edge again.

“I want you to let go. Come apart on me. Just for me.” His words are like honey and you can’t help but grind on his finger pushing yourself over the edge.

“That’s it that’s-“ Jinbe groans as he feels your walls flutter around him. “You feel so good around me- so good.”

You push yourself up a bit so you can look at Jinbe. His face is just as flushed as yours, stormy eyes dilated with lust. “‘m ready.”

Jinbe nods and slowly lifts you up and you feel every inch dragging out of you before he lowers you back down. You watch Jinbe’s jaw go slack and you feel a a tinge of pride knowing he’s just as effected as you are. Watching his face you see his gaze go down between the two of you. The hand not moving you skates up over your stomach and you look down.

Underneath Jinbe’s palm you see your stomach bulge out with every thrust. His palm presses down against the bulge and it’s a sensation you’ve never felt before and both you and Jinbe moan loud.

“See me filling you up? You’re taking me so well watch-“ His voice is breathier and faster and you know he is getting closer to falling apart.

You’re mesmerized, watching him go in and out of you, seeing and feeling the stretch. You don’t know how your body will ever be the same after this, how anyone else could ever compare when you’ve been pushed to impossible limits by Jinbe.

“You like that don’t you?” Jinbe says, feeling the way your walls flutter as you watch him. “Are you close? I’m almost there-“

“Yes- shit I’m close-“ You tangle your hands in Jinbe’s hair, gripping right to ground yourself.

“You feel so good falling apart around me- need to feel that again- can you do that? Just for me love?” He moves you faster up and down as he pleads with you and for the third time tonight you cum.

Almost completely out of your body you still feel Jinbe moving in and out of you, still chasing his end. His careful movements stutter and you know he’s almost there.

“Jinbe- I want you to finish inside me- please-“ You whine, overstimulated but still needy.

That seems to be all he needed and you feel him thrust up into you one last time before releasing inside you. You feel him filling you up an impossible amount, his cum already spilling out of you and dripping down below.

He gently pulls you off of him and holds you close, a hand smoothing your hair as he whispers praises to you as you regain your senses. It’s not long before he’s standing up with you still in his arms and before you know it you’re in the showers and Jinbe is carefully washing you off in the warm water.

By the time you’re cleaned up you feel alright to stand, wrapping yourself in a bathrobe as you cling to Jinbe’s side. You know he has to go back to his watch but you don’t want to leave him and he senses that.

“You can stay with me, if you’d like.” He offers as the two of you walk out of the showers. You nod and he immediately picks you up again, carrying you back to the helm.

He sits on the bench of the deck, leaning back as you curl up and get comfortable in his arms. Under the stars and in the arms of your new lover you fall asleep, excited for what your new relationship will hold.

#one piece x reader #one piece x you #discordantwritings #x reader #jinbe x reader #jinbei x reader #jimbei x reader #I think that’s all the spellings of his name

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smallnico · 6 months

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durge desensitizes to casual positive affection and friendship compilation

also known as real feline durge hours. esper's companions look at them and say Is Anyone Gonna Manhandle That Murderous Twink and then not wait for an answer. contexts/explanations under readmore for the curious

lae'zel and esper do morning exercises and meditation together. most of the time they pass the time in silence, but sometimes they're joined by the local wildlife. esper is a great fan of showing their friends things they might find interesting as a form of affection instead of words, especially with lae'zel, since they have a common discomfort with small talk.

esper doesn't like looking at themself in the mirror, so their makeup is always ancient and haphazardly applied, a fact that distresses the more image-conscientious shadowheart. she and esper have a sibling-like relationship fuelled by mutual amnesia and goth solidarity, among other things, but sometimes a sister has to take it upon herself to fix her stinky sibling's wings.

i already expanded on wyll and esper's dynamic a bit in this piece and i didn't feel like drawing the same thing twice, but suffice it to say, they have absolutely no idea how to talk to each other, but still look out for each other. the joke here is about how i've done a couple of long rests in-game with just alcohol i've found. hey 5 camp supplies is 5 camp supplies

jaheira unearths esper's forgotten mother issues. no real things to add here. no thoughts only cub.

gale said way back in act 1 that esper reminded him of tara, and esper isn't leaning into that on purpose per se, but as i said for lae'zel, they like getting their friends things those friends might enjoy. they also love chaos. show your evocation wizard some love by bringing him extremely destructive spells to play with. show your durge some love by casting chain lightning and letting them watch

i have no justification for this one lmao. esper isn't a Huge fan of being picked up and hefted around like a sack of oats, but maybe they should've thought of that before being small and scoop-uppable. socially, esper and halsin don't click especially well, but esper is fundamentally a creature, and therefore pretty easy for halsin to understand. obviously they don't mind that much :J

esper and karlach voted two most touch-starved nerds in faerun, they help each other cope by sleeping in a cuddle pile like cats. karlach runs warm even after getting her engine tuned up, but esper doesn't mind. she's cozy

astarion is by far the person esper is the most verbal with, probably because he's the only one who really thinks the durgeisms that slip out are funny and #relatable. everyone else errs on the side of caution with esper, but astarion knows he's allowed to take liberties with them, and he does. they have the same sense of humour. these two freaks are completely insufferable together because they're vibing so hard on a level incomprehensible to everyone around them, but astarion can put a stop to esper's self-destructive internal stress engine, and esper can drag him into helping and working hard. the others have no choice but to tolerate them as a couple because no matter how unhinged they are as a unit, they're so much worse for society on the whole as individuals. do not separate them

if you read all this, hope you enjoyed this illumination of esper's party dynamics, i love you <3 enjoy

#smallnico art #baldur's gate 3 #the dark urge #bg3 #bg3 dark urge #bg3 lae'zel #bg3 shadowheart #bg3 wyll #bg3 jaheira #bg3 gale #bg3 halsin #bg3 karlach #bg3 astarion #bg3 companions #esper #smallnioc #bg3 comic #durgeposting

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bumblekastclips · 3 months

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Happy Throwing Him Thursday!

KYLE CROUSE: Next question is from @rabbithaver. “In 2018, you wrote IDW Sonic #14, which contained panels of Silver being thrown by the ankle by Metal Sonic. On May 19, 2022, tumblr user @catgirlkirigiri posted those panels with the caption, 'Happy Throwing Him Thursday.' Now, every Thursday, Sonic Tumblr celebrates by partaking in throwing Silver. Each week, participants render their followers' dashboards unusable by reblogging those panels dozens of times in a row. People have drawn fan art. There are multiple videos of people throwing their Silver plushies, including one of him being hurled off a five story balcony. In celebration of the two year anniversary of the first Throwing Him Thursday, would you both please rank Sonic characters based on how far you think you, personally, could throw them?” [TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: The balcony mentioned was seven stories, not five, which is much funnier.]

youtube

IAN FLYNN: [in exaggerated horror] Two years?! KYLE: [laughing] IAN: My poor boy has been yeeted for two years?! KYLE: He’s getting yeeted! He’s getting yeeted like crazy! IAN: I feel bad! KYLE: [laughs] IAN: I’m glad folks are enjoying themselves, but… what have I done to the poor boy? KYLE: [still laughing] Ah, well, I mean, the fandom got a— the fandom got attached to it. To be fair, you know. You did it once. [chuckles] IAN: And really, the credit should go to Tracy Yardley and the other artists for rendering it, but hm… KYLE: True, true. [chuckling] IAN: Half-tempted to sneak in a panel somewhere. [as Sonic] “Happy Thursday, Silver!” [as Silver, panicked as he’s being reminded of his trauma] “WHY?!” KYLE: [erupts into laughter, then as Silver] “What is this?!” [laughs] Man, if you made a reference to Throwing Him Thursday, I think the— I think there’s a lot of Tumblr people who would melt down. In a— you know, in a good way. IAN: [chuckling to himself] Shadow just puts him off a— puts him out a window. [as Shadow] “Huh, is it Thursday already?” KYLE: [laughing] Oh, man… IAN: Anyway, characters that we could throw on a Thursday — or any day, really. KYLE: Any day. I could throw— I could throw— I could take Charmy. [chuckles] IAN: Yeah, Charmy, Cheese… KYLE: But then I’d have to contend with not being able to throw Vector and Espio as they murder me. [laughs] IAN: [chuckles, then as Vector] “Nice arm there, Kyle! Wanna see how [unintelligible] it is?” KYLE: [laughs] Oh! IAN: And I imagine Cream, but only because she wants to, like, take off, so she’s already got her ears ready, and you’re like, out in an open field, and it’s like throwing a kite into the air or something. She’s having a grand time, just, “whee!” KYLE: Yeah, she can fly. [chuckles] IAN: Uh… how heavy is Tails, actually? KYLE: Eh, I don’t think Tails is very, uh, heavy, and he’d fly, so… you know IAN: I’m gonna look this up real quick. KYLE: You could throw Froggy a little bit— [stuttering unintelligibly] a little bit far. You know. IAN: [as Big] “Once.” KYLE: Once. [laughs] IAN: Huh! Actually Tails is like, over forty pounds! KYLE: Okay, he’s a… IAN: That’s not really a throw, that’s more of a heft. KYLE: He’s a beefy— he’s a beefy boy then, huh? Wow. [chuckles, then reading chat] I’m being told that Ray was born to be yeeted. [laughs] IAN: [chuckles] You know that’s what he and Mighty do all the time. KYLE: Of course! IAN: It’s kinda like— it’s like with Cream! KYLE: Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah. IAN: [as Mighty] “Ready, little guy?” [as Ray] “Ready!” Woosh! KYLE: Yeah, pretty much, exactly. IAN: How much does Orbot weigh? KYLE: He’s pretty small, but he’s also a robot, so who knows how dense he is? Uh… IAN: If he even has an official weight… [Googling] Uh, he is— holy crap, he’s over sixty pounds! KYLE: Yeah, I was gonna say, he’s probably real dense. He’s got a lot in him. [chuckles] IAN: [sigh] I could probably pick him up and hmph, but yeah, I ain’t throwin’ that. Goodness. KYLE: The irony is that you’d think Cubot would be the dense one! IAN: [chuckles] Well, now I’m curious, if Orbot is sixty-six point one pounds… KYLE: He would be one really heavy bowling ball, at least. [laughs] IAN: Self-steering, no less. KYLE: Yeah! IAN: [Googling] Oh, wow. Cubot’s, uh, almost eighty-six pounds. KYLE: Oh! He’s dense— he’s even more dense! IAN: He’s a hefty boy! KYLE: [laughs] IAN: So, yeah.

KYLE: Nice. [chuckles] Yes. Ah, yes. [reading chat] Cubot, the honorable— or, Orbot, the honorable Whipple. IAN: [snickers] KYLE: Welcome to the Whipple family. [chuckling] I don’t know if we could really throw any of them? I mean, sure, a giant mech could throw Jewel, as we’ve established previously, but I don’t know if I could. She’s pretty— she’s pretty big for a bug. IAN: Yeah, I… she might need to be hefted, not really thrown. KYLE: Yeah, yeah. You could throw a chao. IAN: Yeah. KYLE: You can throw Marine, maybe. IAN: Well, now I’m curious, uh… Charmy’s like twenty-two pounds. KYLE: Why is he so freakin’ huge? He’s a bee! [laughs] IAN: And I would imagine Jewel’s at least that weight, so… KYLE: Y-yeah…? [stuttering] How heavy are pounds on Sonic’s world?! IAN: [laughs] I mean, you could still maybe throw Charmy, but you’d have to put your back into it. You’d have to, like, limber up first. KYLE: Yeah! IAN: And just because we brought it up, you know, the idea is Cream’s just kinda using this as an excuse to be thrown, but— [Googling] she’s twenty-six pounds. She’s barely heavier than Charmy. What in the world? KYLE: [chuckling] What? What?! IAN: But yeah, I could definitely pick her up over my head and kinda, fwoop, and then she’d flap and she’d fly, and she’d have a fun time. KYLE: Yeah, yeah… yeah, yeah, I think they’re all a bit too heavy. It’s that— it’s that dang Beach Ball Head Syndrome they got going on. [chuckles] Those giant heads, you know?

EPISODE THUMBNAIL by @kiimeranova (lines) and @nintendoni-art (colors)! Exclusive Throwing Him Thursday Variant HERE!

—— TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: Please remember that nothing that is said on BumbleKast is canon! It’s just some guys and their opinions occasionally spitballing ideas. If you don’t like an answer, you don’t have to take it as Word of God or anything like that. It’s all just for fun!

#silver the hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog #idw sonic #sonic idw #throwing him thursday #metal sonic #sth #bumblekast #ian flynn #kyle crouse #bumbleking #tumblr #Happy Thursday everyone! Hope you're all doing well :)#Youtube

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journalofimprobablethings · 4 months

Text

following the echo down

Jon looks up at Tim, whose eyes are fixed on the road, two fingers tapping out a rapid tattoo on the steering wheel. Who, Jon realizes, hasn’t actually looked at him once this whole time.

“This is real,” Jon says. His voice is hoarse with disuse.

Tim’s fingers go still on the wheel. He finally looks over at Jon—just a quick glance, before he returns his gaze to the road.

“Yeah, Jon,” he says. He sounds exhausted. “This is real. Put your seatbelt on.”

Anyone in need of some Circus-related JonTim angst?

Tim rescues Jon from the Circus in this one, and Jon isn't quite sure why. They both get a hug. It doesn't really fix things.

Full fic is below the cut, or you can read it on ao3 here.

-- It takes until Tim dumps him unceremoniously in the passenger seat of a battered Mini parked outside the wax museum for Jon to realize that this might actually be happening.

When Tim first appeared, kneeling in front of his chair to undo the ropes on his ankles while hissing at him to wake the fuck up, Jon, he was certain he was hallucinating.

He’d long given up on the idea that anyone was coming for him. Georgie at least might have wondered where he went, but since he’d told her he was moving out, he wasn’t sure even she would notice anything amiss. And the others…well. He supposed they were probably grateful he was making himself scarce.

And even if one of them had thought to wonder, and cared enough to look—it wouldn’t have been Tim. Not now. Not after everything that had broken down between them.

So he simply watched with a detached kind of interest as Tim picked at the knots at his ankles, then his wrists. He panted with relief when Tim pulled the gag from his mouth, but still made no effort to move on his own–if this was a hallucination, or a dream, he was afraid any movement he made would disrupt it, and he would be back where he’d been for weeks: shivering against the cold metal chair, trying to ignore the ache in his shoulders or the prickle of rope on his wrists.

He didn’t respond when Tim asked if he could walk, and he didn’t resist when Tim huffed in frustration and lifted him out of the chair, hefted him against his chest, and started for the door.

When the mannequins finally appeared at the other end of the room to give chase, Jon closed his eyes, hoping he could somehow keep this from becoming a nightmare by sheer force of will. Even in a dream, he didn’t want to see Tim get torn apart.

And so he didn’t see how close their pursuers might have gotten, or how Tim got them out of the museum. He only knew that suddenly, he felt the cool air of an early summer evening against his skin, and heard the sound of a car door opening, and now—

And now he’s sitting in the passenger seat of Tim’s car, with a soft, slightly pilled blanket on his lap, and Tim is slamming the driver’s side door and growling at him,

“Put your seatbelt on. I don’t need you flying through the windscreen.”

He doesn’t wait for Jon to do so before he slams the car into gear and screeches away from the museum.

The details of it all are too real and specific and irritating for his mind to have conjured. There are crumbs on the seat under him, pricking at his thighs. The car smells of stale coffee and damp, like maybe someone left a wet umbrella in the footwell too long, and the water seeped into the carpeting. Jon looks at the blanket in his lap and realizes that he recognizes it—Tim made it years ago, when they were in Research and he tried out crocheting to see if a handicraft would help soak up some of his endless, restless energy. It was the only thing he’d actually finished.

Jon looks up at Tim, whose eyes are fixed on the road, two fingers tapping out a rapid tattoo on the steering wheel. Who, Jon realizes, hasn’t actually looked at him once this whole time.

“This is real,” Jon says. His voice is hoarse with disuse.

Tim’s fingers go still on the wheel. He finally looks over at Jon—just a quick glance, before he returns his gaze to the road.

“Yeah, Jon,” he says. He sounds exhausted. “This is real. Put your seatbelt on.”

Jon does what he’s told. His hands are shaking so much it takes a couple tries, and by the time he succeeds, they’re on the motorway, the museum long gone in the distance behind them.

–

They don’t speak again for the rest of the drive.

At first Jon steals glances at Tim every few minutes, waiting for—he’s not sure. An explosion, maybe. A torrent of blame for forcing Tim to risk himself to rescue Jon’s useless, scrawny ass. In another life, he might have hoped for—even expected—some concern. Soft questions about how he’s feeling; whether he wants to talk about what happened (he doesn’t). Assurances that he’s safe.

He knows better than to expect or hope for something like that now.

Jon pulls the blanket up over his shoulders and tucks his knees up against his chest, grateful for the novel sensation of being completely covered and warm. When it’s clear that Tim has no intention of talking, he leans his head back against the headrest and stares out the window, watching the headlights and night-time shadows streak past.

It’s hard to believe there’s a whole world out there, a world that kept on going the whole time he was trapped with Nikola. Kept right on going, perfectly fine, without him.

He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, and closes his eyes.

–

It’s not a surprise when Tim pulls up to the Institute. Jon doesn’t have a flat anymore, after all, and Tim doesn’t know Georgie’s address. And there was never a question, really, whether Tim would want Jon to stay with him.

Getting out of the car is an awkward shuffle, as Jon first tries to pull himself out under his own steam, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly around himself, but quickly discovers that his legs can’t hold him up just yet. Before he can say anything—an apology? a request for help? He’s not sure which—Tim is there, scooping him up just like he did at the museum.

Luckily, it’s late enough that there’s no one there to see.

When they make it down to the Archives, Tim deposits him on the break room sofa and disappears before Jon can find any words to thank him.

He supposes it doesn’t matter so much, in the end. Tim rescued him, brought him somewhere safe. It would be too much, surely, to ask him to stay.

At some point he’ll have to get up, find something to put on. For the moment, though, he can’t bring himself to move.

Jon pulls the blanket closer and looks around. The break room looks the same as it always has: the battered table with a wad of paper underneath one leg to keep it level, the mismatched chairs, the pile of old crossword-puzzle books that Jon is pretty sure were here when they all arrived. The corkboard by the door is covered in curling notices of workers’ rights and old post-it doodles. They’ve been there so long that Jon doesn’t remember who drew them. He wonders if any of them are Sasha’s.

It’s all so mundane, and familiar, and Jon doesn’t entirely know how to process it.

He knows this is real. It is.

But he doesn’t know how to reconcile a month of ropes and invasive plastic hands and constant, low-grade terror with the brightly-colored mugs sitting in the dish rack by the sink.

After everything that’s happened, you’d think he’d be better at this—handling the cognitive dissonance of eldritch horrors existing alongside the mundane details of daily life. But somehow it still surprises him.

His thoughts are interrupted by the break room door opening–it’s not loud or violent, but nevertheless Jon startles so hard he almost falls off the sofa. He clutches the blanket and breathes deeply, trying to calm his rabbiting heart.

“Sorry,” Tim says, though he sounds like he doesn’t know if it’s true.

“I-it’s all right,” Jon says. “I—” he takes another breath. “I thought you’d gone.”

Something undefinable flits across Tim’s face.

“Just went to grab your clothes. Here.”

Tim holds out a neatly folded stack that Jon recognizes. He’d taken to stashing a spare outfit in his desk, for the days that he stayed at work too late to catch the Tube home.

He hadn’t realized Tim knew about it.

“I—thank you.”

He takes the clothes, expecting Tim to leave again immediately—but instead Tim just turns his back and studies the old doodles on the corkboard, clearly giving Jon space to get dressed.

It should make him feel embarrassed or awkward, but instead he finds that he’s oddly grateful not to be left alone.

Slowly, Jon begins the painstaking process of putting on clothes for the first time in a month. His joints are stiff and his fingers clumsy, and it takes about three times as long as it normally would. But still, he manages, and the relief at finally being clothed loosens just a little bit of the tension in his shoulders.

He takes the blanket from where he’d laid it on the couch and begins to fold it.

“All–er—-all done,” he says.

Tim doesn’t turn around straight away. Instead, he puts his hands in his pockets and studies his shoes. “I need to tell you something. Before—before we talk more. And I think—” he hesitates. It’s the first time in months that Jon has heard him sound so uncertain. “I think I need to make it a statement.”

Jon blinks in surprise.

“Are you sure?” Jon asks. “I just—you—”

“Yeah, I know. You don’t have to tell me.” Tim huffs an angry sigh. “I don’t want to—to offer up this story to some spooky eldritch power. But I—you need to hear it. And I think—I might not be able to tell it any other way.”

Jon hesitates.

“Okay.”

Then Tim turns and holds out, of all things, a tape recorder.

For a second Jon just stares at it. It makes him think of that first time, back at the beginning, when Tim unearthed an old recorder at his request. When none of them knew what it meant, or what was coming.

It’s ironic, he thinks, that Tim was the one to bring the first recorder into the Archives, when now out of all of them, he’s the one that hates them the most.

“Tim, are you—”

“Don’t ask me again.” He shakes the recorder at Jon. "Let’s just do this.”

“All right.” Jon takes the recorder, goes through the motions of checking the tape inside by rote. He’s not looking at Tim when he starts the recording, but out of the corner of his eye he can see Tim stiffen at the click and hiss as the tape starts up.

“Statement of Timothy Stoker,” Jon says, “regarding…” He looks at Tim, questioning.

Tim takes a shaky breath. “The disappearance of… of my brother, Danny, four years ago.”

Right. God. Okay.

Jon looks once more at Tim, searching his face for…what? Hesitation? Fear? Tim catches him staring and glares back.

“Get on with it, then,” he says sharply.

Jon looks quickly back down at the tape recorder in his hands.

“Right. Um. S-Statement begins.”

–

They stand in what feels like an infinite stretch of silence once Tim finishes.

Jon had offered none of his usual follow-up remarks, simply waiting to make sure Tim was done before saying quietly, “Statement ends,” and clicking the recorder off.

The ticking of the break room clock seems suddenly loud and insistent in the silence left behind.

Jon remembers when Tim first arrived in Research, the intensity with which he pursued sources about Robert Smirke and his architecture. He’d wondered, at the time, if Tim had had an experience like his own, a reason he’d come to the Institute beyond curiosity about the paranormal. But it wasn’t something that you could bring up in casual conversation, was it? And so he’d never asked.

He wonders if anything would have been different, if he had.

They’re still standing awkwardly in the middle of the break room, Jon clutching the recorder in both hands. He finally moves to set it down on the table, and it’s like a spell breaks over them—Tim takes a ragged breath and turns his face away, scrubbing angrily at his cheeks with the heel of his hand. Without the recorder to hold, Jon twists his fingers together into anxious knots. Even before all this, he was never much good at giving comfort.

“I’m so sorry, Tim,” he says.

Tim lets out a short bark of bitter laughter. “Yeah. Well.”

“Is that why…?” Jon lets himself trail off. He realizes he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

The question seems to hit Tim anyway. He tenses, his arms crossed, his hands clenched tight on his upper arms like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I couldn’t—I wasn’t about to let them take someone else I—”

He stops himself, and Jon can’t help looking up at Tim’s face, meeting his eyes for just a flash before Tim looks away.

“Someone else,” he finishes. “Not if I could help it.”

Jon nods. It helps, in an odd way, to know that there was a reason Tim came. To know that Tim still thinks of him as enough of a person to be worthy of being saved, the way he couldn’t save Danny.

“I’m sorry I’m not him,” Jon says. “I’m sorry you couldn’t—”

“Don’t,” Tim says. “Just don’t.”

Even from several feet away, Jon can see the tension in Tim’s jaw, the taut bunch of his shoulders. Every instinct he’s developed over the past few months tells him he should stop talking—but he needs to say this. If he doesn’t say it now, he doesn’t know if he’ll get another chance.

“I know it can’t fix—I know it’s not—” He stops, trying to find a way to phrase what he wants to say without hurting Tim more than he already has.

“You saved me,” he says finally. “I didn’t think anyone would—”

Tim flinches, and Jon stops again.

Oh. He hadn’t thought that would—

Hm.

Another try.

“I-I don’t want to think about what would have happened if you hadn’t come. You saved me, Tim.”

Tim says nothing. He doesn’t move, still turned partly away, carefully not looking at Jon the same way he’s been not looking at him all evening.

Conversation over, then, Jon thinks. He’s said his piece, and Tim heard it. That’s all he can do. And he’s tired; his legs are starting to tremble with the strain of standing.

Jon starts to turn to go, to retreat to Document Storage and his sad little cot.

Then Tim moves towards him so fast that Jon flinches back on instinct. But instead of the expected blow, Tim pulls him into a fierce hug, so tight that it momentarily leaves Jon breathless.

It’s a strange hug. There’s no tenderness in it; Jon gets the sense that it’s not a hug for him at all, not really. It’s Tim’s way of assuring himself that Jon is here and real, that he succeeded, that at least in this one small battle against the Circus, he won.

Jon falls into it anyway. He lets himself bury his face in Tim’s shoulder, wrapping his arms up around Tim’s middle as tightly as he can manage, as if to say I’m here. Tim shudders, but he doesn’t let go.

“I’m still so angry with you,” he says into Jon’s hair. “I don’t know if I ever won’t be.” He takes a breath. "But I’m glad you’re okay.”

Jon can’t find any words to reply. He just tightens grip a little in what he hopes is a clear enough expression of acknowledgement, and thanks.

They stay like that for a moment, holding each other fiercely, a warm, steady anchoring in this strange moment.

Finally Tim’s grip loosens and he pulls away. Jon lets him go.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I am sorry. For everything.”

Tim’s lips twitch in a tiny, bitter smile. “I know,” he says. “Me too.”

After that, it doesn’t seem like there’s much more to say. They stand again awkwardly for a moment, not looking at each other, before Tim finally clears his throat and hooks his thumb towards the door behind him.

“I’m gonna–”

“Oh, yes,” Jon says. “Here, don’t forget your—” he grabs the blanket from where he’d left it neatly folded on the sofa, and holds it out to Tim.

Tim looks at it for a long moment, then glances up at Jon.

“You hang onto it,” he says. “It gets cold down here.”

Jon hesitates, then lowers the blanket.

“Right. I—thank you. For—” There are so many ways to end that sentence, but Jon finds that he’s run out of words. “Well. Thank you.”

Tim nods, and for once, Jon feels that they have actually understood each other.

And then Tim’s gone, the door hissing gently closed on its hydraulic hinges behind him. Jon stands for a moment, holding the blanket close to his chest.

Tim’s right. It is cold down here.

Jon makes his way on autopilot back to Document Storage. He doesn’t bother taking off any of his clothes, even his shoes. He spent too long with nothing to wear, and the idea of undressing—

Not tonight.

He curls up, fully clothed, on the creaky old cot. With Tim’s blanket wrapped around him, he actually manages to be warm.

Within minutes, he’s asleep, and for once, he doesn’t dream.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #timothy stoker #jontim #jontim friendship #tma fanfic #fanfic #scribblings

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xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 2 years

Note

Hi! I love your writing, and I'm usually just a lurker, but I love the verse so could we get more secret!reader with her cat?

Bruce paused outside the door, hesitating.

Jason had said you were... better. And you did know who he was. Hopefully you didn't register him as a threat. He didn't want to ruin the progress you'd made. You'd been out more.

Not coming with Jason to the house. Not unless Damian asked you to come look at one of his animals. Even still... you didn't stay long. Just long enough to do whatever check-up, vaccination, or nail trim he'd asked for help with.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, knocking on the door. He had some money for you. As he understood, you didn't need it really but. If you were going to be their on-call veterinarian, he should probably pay you.

Locks disengaged. Bruce counted four and nodded to himself, only to have to blink for a second when you opened the door. A massive orange cat sprawled across your arm like a baby.

"Is that a house cat or a tiger?" Bruce asked, watching you heft him closer.

"A cat, we think," you answer, stepping back just slightly to let him into the entry way. "Jason isn't-"

"I came to see you, actually," he said, pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket.

"Why-"

"Some money for taking care of Damian's zoo," he explained, giving you an apologetic smile.

"It's fine- Oh good lord Elmer," you break off and adjust the cat who'd started to slide off your arm. His front paws twitching aimlessly.

"Is he okay?" Bruce asked, setting the envelope on the little kitchen table, frowning.

"Just stoned," you snort. "Jason left the catnip on the coffee table and Elmer- well." You gesture to him with your free hand and turned to lay him on the sofa in a sunbeam.

Bruce chuckled, "Can I pet him?" he asked.

"I don't think he'd even notice," you tell him. "He's pretty out there."

Bruce waited for you to move away before he moved forward, mindful of your nerves. He could see the tension in your body as you rubbed your shoulder and pressed your collar closer to your neck. Insecure of the scarring and your voice. And he reached forward. Strokin the orange fur and smiling to himself when he heard the metal file rasp of his purr. "That is a huge cat."

"Do you want something to Drink? Jason said he'd be back soon if-"

He could smell coffee and so he nodded. "Coffee would be nice. It's cold out today-"

"So cold Elmer can't find squirrels to growl at out the window," you snort, going to get him a drink.

"Attack cat, huh?" he said to the cat, snorting as he took a seat on the sofa, stroking the cat gently. And he took a minute to look around.

It was clear you loved the cat. There was a nice cat tree. No real discernable cat smell. And some toys- traces of catnip on the rug still that the vacuum hadn't picked up. And he could tell Jason had probably given you free rein to decorate. It wasn't as... Spartan. And the furniture was fit to sit on.

"He thinks so," you snort, "Silly old man. Creamer?"

"Please," Bruce said smiling. Your voice, while not loud, was clear if you listened but he could see why you'd hesitate to say much. This was the longest conversation Bruce had had with you. And when you come back to the living room, proffering his coffee, Bruce stood slightly to take it. "Thank you," he said.

You nod and smile just a little, "You didn't have to pay-"

Bruce held up a hand and shook his head, "I didn't realize Damian had been bringing you to take care of... Well. All of his animals. It's for your time if nothing else."

"It's not a problem," you answer, looking away. "It gets me out of the house. And I miss- well. I'm supposed to be presumed dead and-"

"It's hard to have a clinic when you're in hiding," he finished, smiling wryly.

And when you nod, shoulders sagging slightly, he could see why Jason was so protective of you. What had happened to you was an injustice. You'd been hurt. And you continued to be hurt. It wasn't just your big over-bright eyes. It was the heart. You wore it on your sleeve.

The Garage door opened and you looked that way, startled and Bruce felt himself tense for just a second. Until your shoulders relaxed again at the sound of Jason's boots on the floor.

"Hey," Jason said, glancing between you and Bruce. He'd noticed one of his cars parked on the street, "the demon try to take in a little of puppies again?"

"No," Bruce snorted, "Thank god. I just came to thank Y/N. And pay her for being his personal vet."

Jason nodded, crossing the floor to kiss the side of your head and give you a squeeze, "Is there more coffee?" he asked, "It's freezing."

You make a soft affirmative noise and slip out of his grip, retreating into the kitchen to make him a mug, ignoring his protests that he could get it and looking down at the cat who was now ineffectively trying to wash his face- staring vacantly at his outstretched paw. "Damn," Jason said, "Just go to sleep buddy."

#Jason Todd #jason todd x reader #secret!reader #ask answered #minors dni

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delta-pavonis · 1 year

Text

Fic: Send a Thank You Note

(a continuation from Jo and Hob BFF shenanigans... @teejaystumbles you wanted to know what happens next!)

Dreamling || Rated E (CW/tags: nsft, getting together, this is really just an excuse for a bit of smut, Dream is a smartass (affectionate), bisexual Hob Gadling, just because Dream is on top doesn't mean that he doesn't want to take dick)

"Hob," Dream stops in the shadow between two streetlamps. Perhaps that is why his expression seems darker when Hob turns to him, one eyebrow raised, and nods for his friend to continue. "Was Johanna Constantine accurate in her assessment of your desire for me?"

Hob flushes again. Not quite the shade that Dream had observed on him earlier, but it's close cousin. It is sweet. And probably answer enough. But he waits to hear what Hob would say.

"Ah, well..." Hob meets Dream's eyes despite the butterflies trying to make him turn tail and run. One hand flies up to tug at his ear and Hob feels fifteen shades of 1789 all over again. "She does like to embellish the truth, and it is not like I am beholden to exactly what she said, but it isn't like I am against somethi-" He is stopped by delicate fingers on his jaw.

Dream has stepped into Hob's personal space, knows he is closer than the propriety of this age would dictate, which is exactly his intention. He takes a moment to marvel at the warmth of Hob's skin, its texture from stubble, how it trembles when Hob sucks in a breath through his teeth.

The hiss of air draws Dream's eyes to Hob's mouth in a way that is too heated to be unconscious. Hob has wanted this, to just be touched by Dream, by his Stranger, for so long. He lists forward, he can't help it, and when those fingertips press just a little more firmly into his face Hob swallows hard, licking his lips.

The sound that catches in Dream's throat upon seeing that tease of Hob's tongue should embarrass him. It should. He is a King. He is more than a god. He is Endless.

He, as the current turn of phrase goes, doesn't give a single fuck.

Dream might as well sky-write his intentions in lightning for how slowly he moves forward. Hob feels the anticipation as a physical weight pressing into his chest, restricting his breathing to shallow huffs. Dream's palm slides up to cup the stubbled jaw and he leans imperceptibly closer. They don't even close their eyes, Hob lost in endless blue even as their noses brush and Dream's lips touch the barest bit to his.

Hob is the one who caves, bends like tall prairie grass in the wind, hands grabbing at Dream's coat as he closes his eyes and kisses Dream for all he is worth. If he is only going get one shot, he might as well do it right.

But the answering rumble that comes from Dream - part growl, part purr, part groan - causes something in Hob to snap.

The kiss becomes a battle and before Hob can muster his forces for a second attack, he has backed Dream into a wall with a thud.

He opens his eyes. And sees dark green with very familiar brass numbers.

Not a wall.

Hob has Dream pressed up against his front door. Which was previously three blocks in front of them.

But Dream is still kissing him like the only air he can breathe is in Hob's lungs, so he doesn't have time to worry about it.

Dream takes his hand out of his coat pocket, dropping any remaining grains of sand, and pushes off the door with his hips and shoulders. After a twist, Hob's back hits the door harder than Dream's did, the door knocker rattling and a low moan pouring into Dream's mouth. He grabs Hob's thighs just beneath his ass and hefts, sliding Hob up the flat surface until he is at least a head taller, until he can suck on that tempting throat and feel those moans from the outside.

Hob clings to Dream's neck and shoulders, head falling back and Jesus fuck if he knew being manhandled like this was such a turn on he'd have sought out beefier partners sooner. Then teeth bite into his neck hard and Hob yelps.

"Do not dare think of others whil-" Hob's tongue in his mouth stops Dream from continuing that sentence for a solid two minutes. When they part, he has other priorities. "Daydream of your bedroom."

Dream's voice is a command and Hob immediately has the room in his mind's eye, imagines pushing Dream down into his sheets, crawling over him and then there is a strong breeze and...

It is a simple trick to take the location from Hob's mind, step them into that dreamspace and then from there into its Waking World counterpart.

"Bloody hell." Hob looks around, wide-eyed. When he turns back to Dream his pupils are blown and his mouth sinfully red. "You are going to explain that to me." He looks down, gets distracted, and starts biting at Dream's lips again. "Later. Explain later." They tumble into the bed, completely clothed, shoes still on, and Hob is about to pull away to say something sensible like "We should talk about this first," but then he hears Dream's fingers snap and suddenly there is not a scrap of fabric between them. "Oh, fuck me."

Dream hums, pressing as much of his skin to Hob's as he can manage and still maintain the boundaries of this form. "One of many options." He finds that the hollow above Hob's clavicle tastes lovely when sweat beads there, laps it up in long swipes that make the human beneath him shudder. "Is that what you would prefer?"

"Oh god," Hob wraps a leg around Dream's hip and grinds them together. "Anything." He repeats the motion and they both groan. "Everything. Yes."

Hob's incoherence strokes Dream's ego and he preens as he sits up, straddling Hob's thighs. The distance allows him to take in Hob's wrecked state, his mussed hair and flushed cheeks and sweat-damp chest. Their cocks brush against each other and Hob hiccups out a groan. When he wraps a hand around Hob the human arches and wails, clawing at Dream's thighs.

Dream knows what he wants, gives a thought to preparing this body for it, adding oil to make slick body parts that are not usually so. He lets go of Hob's dick and crawls forward, one hand on Hob's chest. "While I do abhor proving a Constantine right..." he reaches back and grabs the base of Hob's cock.

"Fuck! Dream we haven't oh Christ you are wet and open." Hob goes from alarm to awe to ecstasy in half a heartbeat, so quickly he feels dizzy. Then Dream starts to sink down and Hob holds on to bony hips for dear life as he watches his cock disappear into Dream's body. When Dream is fully seated Hob falls back into the pillows with a sob. "Dream. How?"

He plays with Hob's chest hair, runs nails over a peaked nipple, as he speaks. "I am the Shaper of Forms, Hob. I can take whatever form you, or I, need. Or want."

Hob tries to process that for a minute, staring up at the ceiling. "You... we are going to need to have a looong conversation after this because otherwise my bi ass is going to lose my job for not showing up for the next three weeks."

Dream laughs, a rumbling chuckle that Hob actually feels in his cock. "What a shame it would be," he starts rocking his hips, dropping down on just about every word, making Dream's speech keep time with the fucking, speeding up as he goes, "for you to be jobless. To have so much free time. Whatever would you do with yourself?"

"Alright, you sassy minx," Hob snaps his hips up as he pulls Dream's hips down and there, that made the eldritch being in his lap really moan. He repeats the motion until they have a rhythm, until they are lost to it. "Close," Hob whispers too soon, "I can't..."

Dream drives himself down harder and relishes Hob's cry. "We can strive for stamina later," he takes one of Hob's hands and wraps it with his own around his cock, fucking into the channel made between their palms. "Come for me, Hob. Please."

It is the please that does it, makes Hob arch and roar and come so hard he almost-

And then Dream's hand clamps down with his, what Hob would have thought would be painfully tight around his lover's cock, and his pale, lithe body, too, arches and then clenches so fucking tight around Hob that it stretches his orgasm longer, pulls more semen from his body in an impossible, lava-hot rush.

Dream watches as his own spend shoots up onto Hob's neck and face and even into his hair. Their is an additional frisson of pleasure that runs through him that he has marked Hob in such a way. He reaches up and smears some of it onto Hob's lips, who sucks at it greedily with a little whine.

Hob pulls Dream down onto the bed, a quiet grunt as his soft cock leaves his lover's body. His lover. They are on their sides, facing each other, and Hob's hand finds Dream's on his hip, tangles their fingers together. The silence that falls between them is warm with smiles and humid breaths.

"Hob, I know that humans do not always..." Dream frowns, gathers his words, and tries again. This is always where the Prince of Stories trips up, when trying to tell his own. "I realize that acting on physical attraction is not an indication of romantic intent. I would know your intentions, if only to moderate my own actions accordingly."

It takes a second for all that to filter through Hob's sex-addled brain, for him to parse the meaning of so many multisyllabic words, but when he gets it Hob can feel his eyebrows knitting. He traces Dream's cheekbone back to behind his ear and further to cup his skull and bring their foreheads together. "Listen carefully, my Dream," Hob hears his friend's breath hitch at that and he smiles, "Yes, as I have recounted the last one-hundred and thirty odd years to you it has probably been clear that I have been what most would characterize as a shameless slut. But if anything could temper me..." Hob takes a shaky breath. "I have wanted to approach you with romantic intent since June 8, 1489, when I realized how long, truly, it would be until I could see you again. So no moderation is needed, dove." He kisses Dream once, just a chaste press of lips. "Because I want all of you."

Dream surges forward and over Hob, gripping the strong muscles of his neck as they open to each other. They part because they are both grinning too widely, laughter too close to the surface, for their mouths to easily fit together.

"Oh gods," Hob giggles, "I am going to have to tell Jo."

"About that," Dream hums, all imperiously satisfied smile, "I might have let images of our, ah, activities filter into her dreams."

"Oh no, Dream. You didn't!" Hob is overcome with a fit of guffawing laughter that doesn't slow until his diaphragm hurts. "Are you telling me that you sent her the metaphysical equivalent of a picture of us in bed?"

Dream lets himself be distracted by the movement of Hob's neck, by tasting the curves of the muscles of his shoulders. "Perhaps."

Hob lapses into a fit of giggles again. "She is going to kill you."

"I would like to see her try." Hob can feel Dream smile into his skin. "Because I have a feeling if she truly has ill-intent then she will have to get through you first."

Hob laughs again, fingers tugging at Dream's hair until their eyes meet. "Aye, you are probably right, love. You are probably right."

#Dreamling #Pavonis writes

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aceofshitposts · 1 year

Text

Well I've been tagged in a couple different wip games but honestly have just had nothing to show for them lmao but uh I've had this rattling around in my head for a while so I hope this makes up for it a bit lmao

Tim hikes his backpack up higher on his shoulders, weaving through the throngs of people in the airport. He got a few odd looks from the security people but even with hands clumsy with youth he was able to forge a convincing enough letter from his parents about him travelling to meet them.

It's before disaster, everything is a little relaxed and therefore it's simple, really, to get through with minimal fuss.

Tim isn't entirely sure how he ended up here, in a body too young and too healthy but he's never been one to waste an opportunity. He's perhaps lucky this was one of the weeks between boarding schools, where his mom pulled him out due to her beverage dissatisfaction with various school curriculums. It meant they were out of the country but he was still in Gotham and not being watched over by any teachers.

Gate 57B. This is where he should be. Tim scans the people sitting in the uncomfortable plastic airport chairs, all waiting to board. It's not a particularly busy flight so it's easy to spot.

Off white hoodie and baggy jeans, clothes designed specifically to not draw attention and disguise body shape. Black hair falling over turquoise eyes that are focused on the rough looking paperback in his lap. There's a duffle bag sitting against his beat up sneakers that Tim just knows the contents of without even trying.

"Jason?" Tim asks coming to stand in front of the other teenager with both hands gripping his backpack straps. He's aiming for curious. Disarming. He can't be too formal or Jason will really know something's wrong and not the way Tim wants.

Jason raises his head lazily. Like a bored teenager being called to answer a question by a teacher. But Tim can see the immediate suspicion, the slight tensing of Jason's jaw and the way his eyes scan Tim to identify threats.

Tim isn't a threat. Not yet, anyway. Not like this. He can sneak around undetected, can forge papers and send anonymous emails to Batman while hiding amongst a throng of other school kids. His mind remembers, knows all the how's, of course, but his body lacks the muscle memory to truly execute anything beyond simple defense moves.

Frustrating, honestly, but probably to his advantage right now. He still has his mind and that's the most important part.

"Do I know you, kid?" Jason asks.

"No" --not yet-- "but I need your help."

Jason raises a single eyebrow and Tim makes a bit of a show of inhaling deeply, gathering courage and whispers, "I need Robin's help."

Jason's eyes widen, all pretenses of calm evaporating with a single startled inhale.

It's a little bit of a gamble, Tim knows. But it's a calculated gamble. Telling Jason the truth was out immediately, as was telling Bruce. Waltzing up to Jason to tell him if he boards that plane he was going to die would probably only embolden him further. Telling Bruce would send him into protective parent overdrive. He was trying, Tim knows, to give Jason some space and independence.

Pleading for Jason's help, for Robin's help, it was at least going to get Jason interested. Tim being a kid was also in his favour. Even as the Red Hood, Jason always had a soft spot for kids in need. And with Jason knowing what he currently knows about his mother, that she was an emergency doctor in the Middle East, he would probably rationalize that his mom won't be upset if he shows up a little later than expected.

"Now boarding Flight AA6237, please form a line with your passport and boarding ticket ready."

That's Jason's flight. If Jason gets on that plane Tim still has backup plans but it would be so much easier if Jason just came with him.

Jason stands suddenly, hefting his duffle bag onto his shoulder with one hand and grabbing Tim's sleeve with the other.

"Alright kid, bathroom's this way," he says with maybe a little more volume than strictly necessary.

Tim beams, genuine and wide. Jason was at least going to hear him out. Jason Todd wasn't going to die, not today and not tomorrow or the next day.

This was only the first item on Tim's list but, it was a start.

And if for a moment, only a second really, Tim forgets about a terrible future, about the pain of a blade against his throat or a batarang in his chest or bruises and missing spleens and deaths and revivals, and simply relishes in the thought that Robin was now urgently leading him somewhere more private to probably interrogate him--

Well. That's just the adrenaline.

It doesn't mean anything.

#astrix writes #astrix au ideas #jaytim #Technically pre ship but you know.#I have all sorts of things planned in this au lmao #this past knows no future

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dullgecko · 28 days

Note

Two things, 1) sorry if this is long and I ramble and 2) even if this is a pretty light hearted headcannon, I'm going to add a trigger warning just in case because I don't wanna trigger anyone on accident.

TW: Knife

I feel like Fabian would buy the bad kids knives. It started with Kristen, she is their healer and only has her staff as a weapon. Then it was Adaine and Fig because they are also magic users and, even though they have better weapons than Kristen, it is always nice to have a secret knife. He made it very clear that he knows they can all hold themselves great in battle but it is good to have a weapon that none knows about. He got ones for Gorgug and Riz because he didn't want them to be left out and also just in case. He also got himself one. Riz is scary with knives. I have a few thoughts about what kind he would get them but I wanted to know what you think he would get them!

Kristen LOVES her knive, Fabian got it when he went to visit his grandfather over a long weekend. Its small and the blade is as sharp as a scalpel which he thought was fitting given it was for their primary healer (thats also what she ended up naming it, because she thought it was funny). It wasnt specifically forged for her but Telemaine had a lot of elven forged blades lying around that he had apparently forged for 'practice' thousands of years ago and had just tossed in a corner that he let Fabian take. Its incredibly light, and the handle is covered in beautiful engravings that Fabian did himself with the help of Telemaine. He even gave her a matching scabbard, so she can clip it to the back of her belt so she has easy access if it's needed.

Once he decorated one for Kristen he realised that it would be weird to just gift ONE friend a custom blade, so he just decided to engrave one for all of them.

Adaine gets a very short dagger, small enough to be kept hidden under her jacket as a backup. She hasnt acually used it in a fight yet but it makes an EXCELLENT package-opener. Even though she's constantly using it to cut through cardboard, the dagger hasnt lost any of its sharpness yet.

Fig doesn't seem to really understand the concept of a HIDDEN blade, given that she's constantly fidgeting with hers at every opportunity. Hers is an incredibly thin stilleto dagger that when she's not messing around with it she keeps it tucked into one of her boots.

Gorgugs, Fabian thinks, was his grandfathers attempt to make a machete. It's massive for a half-elf but just the right size for their barbarian to keep hidden on his person. Somehow, despite being made of the same elven metal as all the others, it's also incredibly /heavy/. The heft of it probably would help a normal blade cut through thick vegetation but the keenness of the blade makes the weight totally unnecessary. Gorgug dropped it once and it buried itself up to the handle in concrete like it was hot butter.

Fabian had a tough time finding something that he thought would be functional for Riz, given his size, but he ended up settling on a pair of karambits with rings on the end so the goblin could spin them around to adjust his grip. He thought the claw-like shape and small size suited the goblin the best and he was pleased when he absoloutly LOVED them. Riz immediatly ended up readjusting his loadout to incorporate them in a holster hidden against the small of his back under his vest. They become Riz's favorite close-range sneak attack weapon and Fabian thinks of them as his friends 'backup claws'.

Riz is by far the best out of all of them at combat with daggers even though he prefers to fight long range and USUALLY if he gets in close he defaults to his claws and teeth. He'll use blades up close if he knows whatever they're fighting tastes bad though (he has a particular dislike for biting undead enemies), some things he also just doesnt want in his mouth (plant monsters can be tricky and he has more than once had to pop some allergy medication after a fight because it left his mouth incrediby itchy).

#dimension 20 #fantasy high #d20 #riz gukgak #bad kids #fabian seacaster #gorgug thistlespring #fig faeth #adaine abernant #kristin applebees

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sunlightandsuffering · 6 months

Text

POSTING JEDI AU BC I WANT IT TO SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY BC I LOVE IT AND IT'S SO CUTE !!!

Jedi AU

Mikasa comes to Eren at sixteen, prim and shy, but ever eager to please. Eren is twenty-one, and he is not at all impressed with the assignment.

Everyone else heralds it as an honour, what a big achievement to have your own padawan learner when he’s barely an adult himself.

Eren on the other hand sees the ‘honour’ for what it really is: babysitting. And not just for him, but for Mikasa as well.

Because his own master had been drawn away on other assignments, missions that Eren couldn’t go on. And the Jedi Order couldn’t have their most rebellious young master running around the galaxy unsupervised. So, they’d given him Mikasa and said here, teach her. They’d successfully saddled him with more responsibility than he’d ever wanted and effectively knee-capped him from doing anything too crazy… Not that the things he did were ever really that crazy, they just weren’t so perfectly in line with the Jedi Order’s world philosophy. She’d stepped off the ship in a blaze of barely contained excitement, he could tell, even as quiet as she was that she was practically bursting with energy, but she’d been raised by the order, so what could he really expect? Orphaned at a young age and found miraculously on the burning remains of her planet, Mikasa had been taken in by a wandering Jedi and raised at the temple.

For all intents and purposes, she was the perfect specimen, everything a Jedi should be and so not who Eren had wanted to teach.

She’d looked up at him dutifully, waiting to be spoken to, eager to receive orders and Eren knew immediately she was going to be a problem. They were so diametrically opposed it was laughable, and he thinks the Order probably is laughing at him, payback for causing them so much trouble over the years. Eren sighs, reaching his hand out for a shake, “I’m Eren Yeager, I’ll be your new Master.” “I’m Mikasa,” she tells him sweetly, finally letting a small smile overtake her lips, “I look forward to working with you.” Oh, this was going to be a struggle of epic proportions, he can already tell.

The longer Eren spends with Mikasa, the more sure he is that the Jedi Temple moulded her to be everything he isn’t, to be his worst nightmare personified.

Because that’s exactly what she is.

“Well, Master I think we should follow Jedi protocol, and it says to call –” “Mikasa,” He tells her warningly, and she shuts up, her mouth pursing shut, she’s used to it at this point.

This is how 90 percent of their discussions go these days. “The other masters will be mad,” she sing songs as Eren drags a droid away from the wreckage of the ship he’s trying to access.

Eren sends her an unimpressed glare over his shoulder, grunting as he hefts the droid out of the way, “Yeah, well the Jedi Order can stuff it, there’s a lot of things they get mad at me about.” “Why do you insist on doing everything incorrectly? Maybe if you did things the right way like I tell you to, then you wouldn’t get in so much trouble.” “Who’s the Master here, Mikasa?” She shuts up again, huffing in irritation and Eren has to remind himself it’s him, he’s literally the master here, their very small age gap and her immense knowledge of Jedi principles blurs the line sometimes. He’s only five years older, sometimes it’s a little hard to boss her around so much, especially when to top it all off she’s almost as good of a fighter as him. He curses away to himself as he steps into the abandoned ship, because of course, he had to be paired with the most gifted Jedi of the new generation, topping even him in her midiclorian count and with the uncanny natural ability to simply kick ass. Her fighting skills are amazing, almost on par with his own, her only fatal flaw is perhaps that she’s such a rule follower. It blinds her in other aspects, makes her too trusting, too sweet.

Something that could one day get her killed. Eren looks back sharply at the thought, his pain-in-the-ass little padawan nowhere to be found, standing guard until she’s given another order, proving his point. Eren sighs, “Mikasa, get over here brat.” He hears her make a little noise of affront at being called a brat, she gets all cute when she’s huffy, like an angry kitten, and then there are footsteps as she enters the ship. She’s hurrying so fast she runs right into him and Eren grunts as her little body collides with his at full speed, but he’s quick to steady her, firmly grasping her shoulders.

“Mika,” he chides softly, “Be careful okay, and remember to follow me okay, what if there were still enemies out there, what if something happened to you?” There’s a pretty blush staining her cheeks, but still, she protests, “I can take care of myself!” Eren quirks an eyebrow up at her, his hands rubbing softly up and down her biceps, “And what did I say about that?” Her cheeks puff up as she repeats his words back to him, “I can’t say that until I can beat you in a spar three times in a row.” “And have you?” He questions, because yeah, sometimes being her Master is a little bit fun. “No,” she grumbles out in irritation and he smirks, giving her a playful love tap to her cheek before letting her go, and she gasps in response, “Eren!”

“Master,” he corrects easily, already slipping further into the ship to investigate, and now he’s really pissed her off, her usually sweet, quiet presence raging behind him. She’s stomping around the ship, showcasing her rage at being spoken down to, and Eren can’t help his smile as he inspects the engine controls, trying to grasp what exactly went wrong here. He hears something fall but doesn’t look back, engrossed in attempting to revive part of the ship, maybe he can find an old flight path if he gets it going.

His fingers fiddle with buttons and wires, all the while Mikasa seems to be making a lot of noise behind him, a lot more noise than he thinks he’s ever heard her make before. Mikasa really is the perfect padawan, or well she probably would be for any other Jedi – intelligent, kind, brilliant fighting skills, quick on her feet – all qualities necessary in a great Jedi.

Eren would have preferred someone more flawed, an orphan with maybe a bit more emotional damage he could counsel, someone more similar to him. Not quite such a rule follower, someone he could really bond with, who might look up to him.

Mikasa isn’t any of those things. Except for right now, it seems as Eren turns around finally after something else goes crashing to the ground. His padawan is glaring at him from where she’d very obviously knocked something over, sweet, docile Mikasa who never allows her emotions to get the better of her is evidently, very displeased with him.

And most interestingly, demanding his attention, even more as she stares him down, those quicksilver eyes raging, purposefully knocking something else right off the shelf next to her. She’s exactly like a cat, a displeased little creature that gets what it wants. Eren can barely repress his smile, maybe there’s still hope for him yet, some fire in those pretty silver eyes of hers.

He’s almost giddy at the thought because maybe she’s not a completely lost cause, maybe he can still corrupt her just a little, mould her into being a truly great Jedi instead of a standard foot soldier, someone who thinks for themselves, assesses the situation and decides the next course of action instead of consulting the damn Jedi temple on everything. “Miki,” Eren hums, and she perks right up at the name, it’s one she favours and something he doesn’t call her often, reserves it for special circumstances. “Are you mad at me?” “What gave you that idea?” “Miki,” he chides, beckoning her forwards, and she stomps towards him angrily.

She stops just before him, glaring up at his tall frame, evergreen locked with silver and Eren smiles, full and genuine at the cute little expression of rage on her face, eyebrows knitted together in irritation. “Tell me what’s wrong?” “Master, you always dismiss me! And you rarely let me fight, even though I can. At the temple I was the best, I beat all the other kids, and I- I was so excited when I found out I’d be training under you, but you never let me show off, never let me fight.” She deflates towards the end of her monologue and Eren hums in acknowledgement, “It’s not because I don’t trust you Mikasa, I’d just rather watch you fight in more controlled environments first. It’s only been a few months, I don’t want to throw you head first into battle.” “But-” He tuts her, his hand slipping up into the tangles of her hair, pushing her bangs back behind her ears, he’s always had a fascination with that sleek pretty black hair of hers, how soft it is, how it feels under his fingertips, “Don’t worry I’m going to let you fight Mikasa, but once you can beat me three times in a row, which I know you will do.” He gives a soft little yank at one of the dark strands of her hair, “You’re a great fighter Mikasa, brilliant, especially with your lightsaber, but you fight predictably. Just like the Order teaches, the same spar you’ve done a hundred times. That’s not how real enemies fight, that’s not how I fight.” Eren smirks, his hand combing out her hair now, something Mikasa leans into, has always enjoyed the rare time he shows her affection.

“I fight dirty, and I always win. There’s a reason I’m so revered at the temple, that my missions are always successes, albeit with perhaps more damage than I’d usually like. It’s because my methods differ from the Jedi temple, and I think that’s something you need.”

“Oh,” she murmurs softly, eyes now shut, like a cat, as he continues to finger his hands through her hair, his other one slipping up to join in the soft thick strands. She makes a little noise of contentment as he gathers the thick dark mop of her hair in his hands, leaning in as he styles it into a makeshift bun, using his own hair elastic to fasten it at the base of her head. He presses a soft kiss to her temple as he finishes, affection she’s never had, that Eren can’t help but give, something the Jedi Order frowns upon but Mikasa needs more than anything, such a touch-starved child.

His hands skim down now, settling over her shoulders, “Do you understand now? It’s not because I don’t trust you, it’s because we’re already training Mikasa, and if I have my way you’ll be the best Jedi the order has ever seen.” “Even better than you?” She breathes curiously, her eyes soft and warm now, pliant, heather grey. He chuckles, “Of course, you’re my padawan after all, you’ll have to be better than me.” Mikasa smiles, such a full and beautiful smile, so bright he almost has to look away, “I have to train all those bad Jedi habits out of you though, I think they sent me the worst recruit they could find.” At this, she smacks him and Eren cackles, pinching her side.

“At least I know how to cook.” Eren guffaws, “Barely!” “I’m better than you!” “Not by much.”

Sometimes, Mikasa wonders how Eren ever thought she wouldn’t fall in love with him.

Force, how the Jedi Order had thought she wouldn’t fall in love with him? It’s like they were hoping for it. Even when she was younger, she could remember hearing about the trouble-making padawan that no matter how he went against the Jedi temple rules, never had an unsuccessful mission. She had been enamoured, who was this boy, this legend in the making? And then as she’d gotten older, moved up the ranks herself, set to become a padawan, she’d seen him in action and she’d been star-struck. Only once in battle before she’d been ushered away to safety, only a glimpse, but the way his hair had stuck to his forehead, slick with sweat, blood spattering his tunic, forearms pulled taut as he held his light-saber. He’d looked like a vengeful God, and for reasons unknown to her, she hadn’t been able to get him out of her head ever since. He’d appear in her dreams, always standing over her, shirtless, saving her life, the lines of his back cut like there should be wings there.

She’d seen him only once more before she’d become his padawan, and it had only elevated him further in her mind, up high on that pedestal she could never reach, never even hope to touch. He’d been in the middle of the council, and she’d been sneakily walking by, only to hear the voices of the council. And Mikasa, ever the dutiful student, hadn’t been able to help her curiosity. What she saw had been the dressing down of a lifetime, as Eren stood in the middle of the council, being utterly ripped apart for his most recent mission. She’d been nodding her head along, agreeing, until Eren had finally defended himself, speaking of all the lives he’d saved.

That had shut them up rather promptly, and Eren had been smirking when she’d finally disappeared down the hall, her heart beating with far more than just the adrenaline of listening in on a top-secret meeting.

Because Eren had looked particularly handsome that day, his hair windswept against his cheeks, the long cloak the Jedi typically wore conspicuously absent to display lean muscle instead.

And now, at sixteen, the peak age for puberty, when hormones are running high, especially in battle, the Jedi Order had thought it was a great idea to pair her off with a handsome rebellious twenty-one-year-old? It was cruel, to be honest. Everyone else she knew had older men with beards for masters, shrivelled up and half dead. And here she was with probably the best-looking boy she’d ever seen in her life, and he was around her all the time. Mikasa knew she would be a good Jedi, it was what she was born and raised for after all, she’d spent countless hours sparring, mastering her use of the force, everything to be the best she could possibly be. But lately, she finds what is thwarting her the most is the whole ‘no attachment’ part of being a Jedi.

Because it’s becoming really hard for her not to get attached.

Eren steps out of the bathroom, clad in only a towel, his other hand occupied in drying his long hair, water dripping down the divots of his abs. Her mouth suddenly feels very dry, and he sends her a wink as she eats her soup. Yeah, it’s becoming really, really hard for her not to get attached. He disappears down the hall to his quarters, and Mikasa spends ten minutes fanning herself, chanting the Jedi Code over and over again.

No attachment, absolutely none, not allowed!

But really in hindsight how did they expect her not to fall in love?

Eren is passionate, almost to a fault, and since she’s joined him on his missions as his padawan she’s realized that he’s particularly passionate about her safety.

In a way, it’s kind of flattering, and in other ways, it makes her heart almost beat out of her chest.

He’s always saving her, even when she doesn’t need saving, he’s always there. And afterwards, he’s scolding her for ever being in danger in the first place, as if it isn’t part of both of their jobs.

But it’s afterwards, that’s the part she adores the most, after the lecture and the yelling when he’s tucking her into his chest and whispering into her hair how much she scared him, that she shouldn’t go out and be so reckless. To which she always replies cheekily, “Isn’t that what you trained me to do?” He always pinches her side for that particular comment, but it never gets old, being wrapped in the warmth and safety of his arms, it feels like coming home, like safety in a way the Jedi temple never has.

“Mikasa,” Eren chastises her from the head of the ship where he’s piloting them off towards some faraway planet for their next mission, ready to shoot them into hyperdrive, “What are you doing?” He can tell she’s up to no good just by the sound of her footsteps, how she tries to soften them just slightly, her breathing clipped as she tries not to let him hear her. He spins in his chair to find her slipping out of his room, and he quirks an eyebrow curiously, repeating his question, “What are you doing?” She winces as she’s found out, slumping in place. She’s cute, adorably messy all dolled up in her pyjamas, hair tucked up behind her in a messy bun that he aches to pull into a proper one. Always her damn hair.

“I had a nightmare,” she murmurs, “I was gonna go sleep in your bed.” “C’mere,” he beckons her, his hands just itching to properly tie up that silky hair of hers and almost as soon as she’s within reach he’s dragging her to his lap, turning her around. She shuts her eyes blissfully as she leans back into him, her head tilted against his shoulder as he massages her scalp, gathering the sleek strands into a soft bun at the base of her skull, one that won’t come out so easily like hers did. “What was the nightmare about?” He murmurs as he ties it up with her pretty red ribbon. “Losing my parents.” She doesn’t miss a beat, and Eren sighs as he turns her in his lap, her hair now secured properly. “Are you scared?” She shakes her head, grey eyes tearing up, “I just miss them.” And before she can stop herself, the tears are rushing down her cheeks in hot streaks, more than Eren is equipped to deal with. He sighs, rough hands coming up to wipe at her tears tenderly, “I’m not going to bed anytime soon I have to pilot us to the next planet, but why don’t you sit with me? You can keep me company.” “Okay,” she murmurs through her tears and Eren settles her in the chair next to him, piling her up high with a soft fuzzy blanket as he tucks her into the large swivel chair. “Better?” He asks, and she nods, wiping the rest of her tears into the blanket and Eren smiles, his hand finding her knee to lovingly stroke, “You’ve got me now, I’m here, and I’ll never leave you.” “What about,” she sniffles slightly, “What about when I become a master in my own right?” Eren chuckles, “We’ve got a few more years but even then I think I’ll keep you around Miki, you’re not so bad.” She smiles through her tears, resting her head on her knees as she looks at him, “Would you have stayed with your master if you could?”

Eren shrugs, his hand still resting on her knee comfortingly, and Mikasa shivers as he strokes over sensitive skin not covered by her blanket, his hands so big and warm.

“Probably if I could have, but you know the council wanted me doing my own thing, cause less chaos that way, you know how it is.” It’s quiet for a moment and Eren smiles at her softly, squeezing her knee, “But I’m happy how things turned out, I got you instead and that’s not bad at all.” Her breath hitches and she feels like she can’t breathe, her eyes drawn towards his lips and the chiselled cut of his jaw, so brutally beautiful, the harsh angles of his face contrasted with the soft length of his eyelashes, those brilliant green eyes. He’s stunning, and she just wants to lean across the controls and kiss him, has to grip the arms of her chair just to stop herself.

That night she falls asleep encased in his arms, even better than his bed, warm and protected. She’s only mildly upset the next morning when she wakes up in her own bed, devoid of her master, no evidence it had ever happened at all. Except when she glimpses her reflection in her bedroom mirror and where she expects to find bedhead sticking up at all angles, she finds only perfectly smooth plaits, meticulously woven and expertly banded together.

Mikasa is not oblivious to the fact that Eren has needs, more carnal needs, it’s something she’d discovered a few months into her apprenticeship. She’d seen a pretty girl leaving his rooms as she reported, bright and early, ready to start the day. Eren hadn’t exactly been thrilled to see her, looking a little worse for wear. He’d grumpily told her to come back in an hour.

She’d left wondering what this awful feeling in her gut was, this painful sorrow she didn’t understand.

The feeling had only grown with every subsequent girl she saw him with, how he’d pick them up in different worlds between missions, shooing her off to her quarters and telling her not to knock on his door that night. The deep selfish part of her always wondered what he’d do if she did knock, if she claimed to have a nightmare, would he drop everything for her, push the girl out the door to tuck her into his arms instead? The only thing stopping her from testing the theory was her Jedi training, and her strict promise to herself not to get attached.

She’s not attached already, she’s absolutely not! Well… maybe she is, just a little bit.

And as she teeters on the edge of seventeen, a few months until her eighteenth birthday, her attachment becomes more and more apparent. She’s been with Eren for almost two years now, watching him, learning from him. She’s intimately familiar with him, his every quirk, every preference, how he likes his breakfast, how to beat him in a spar.

It’s becoming dangerous, just how well she knows him, because she’s starting to notice things… things she has no business noticing.

Like his obsession with her hair, how he can never seem to pass up the opportunity to touch the long sleek strands, or how he fusses when she leaves it loose sometimes. He always claims it’s unacceptable for battle, too much of a liability, but Mikasa thinks he just likes to touch it, and she won’t complain. She’s grown to love it, the feeling of his hands in her hair, battle-calloused hands working at her scalp so gently, plaiting her hair with expert precision.

Mikasa absolutely refuses to admit that she ruffles her bedhead up a little more than she should, that she enjoys how he fusses over her in the morning when it’s particularly wild. Mikasa has noticed this obsession with her hair also seems to extend to his overnight guest preferences. At first, it had pained her to see all these beautiful women slip from Eren’s quarters, long sleek dark hair, always a shade of dark brown or raven as her own, and always long and silky. Temptresses, Mikasa thought of them, beautiful women with perfect bodies, and long flowing hair, styled in a way Eren would never allow her to even think of. To leave her hair loose was to be killed in battle, and it was something her master adamantly refused, always pulled the pretty dark strands taut against the back of her head in some sort of twist.

She tugs on her long strands self-consciously as she sips her morning tea, awaiting the exit of Eren’s visitor from last night. She’s thought about cutting the strands short, but she thinks Master would have even more of a conniption about that, and if nothing else she loves how he touches her, can’t help but finger the strands, comb his hands through the silky locks.

Mikasa prides herself on how perfectly taken care of it is, always smelling of lavender and sage, preening when Eren notices the scent. There is the click of a door and Mikasa’s head snaps up, torn from her daydreams and she spots her, a blonde today, the golden colour more bronze, so dark it almost borders on brunette. And as they lock eyes, Mikasa’s mouth twists up in disgust, because she’s discovered another preference of her master’s, one she hadn’t been sure of, but today confirms it.

He prefers Jedi women, to anyone else.

She’s not sure when he picked up this proclivity, probably only in the last few months, but recently it feels like every girl she sees exiting his room she’s also seen around Jedi headquarters.

It’s awkward, but at least they don’t linger.

Because Jedi don’t form attachments… Thus, Mikasa cannot be forming an attachment. And there is, therefore, zero reason for her to be excited about the prospect of Eren preferring Jedi women, hopeful even. Why should she be excited about that? Why would she? She’s not attached, not at all.

She’s also not jealous of the pretty blonde Jedi she’s seen around Jedi headquarters, that she’s seen Eren talk to more than she’d like. Mikasa does not fume silently as she watches the woman slip out of Eren’s bedroom, Jedi robes askew and with a slightly guilty look on her face. “Mikasa,” She whispers, shocked as she stands in the main lobby, a stand-off as she notices Mikasa seated at the ship’s helm, glaring miserably at Eren’s door. “Misha,” Mikasa responds coldly.

Internally, she chastises herself, the ever-present voice of the order in her ear, urging her to call this woman ‘master’, to give her the respect she is owed. Mikasa takes a cue from Eren for once and continues to simply glare at the woman instead, the petty part of her refusing to even stand to greet her. “What are you doing up dear? I umm I hope we didn’t wake you –” “You didn’t,” Mikasa retorts, cutting her off, “But you should head out, Master and I have to leave soon.”

“Oh,” Misha mumbles, looking slightly put out, “Well could you pass along a message for me?” No, no she will not, but Misha doesn’t have to know that. “Tell him I’m around here a lot if he ever wants to…” Misha trails off and Mikasa wants to growl at her, how inappropriate the request is. The Jedi Order trained part of her kicking and screaming in her head about propriety and attachments and the fact that this is her fucking superior, asking her to proposition her own master on her behalf. But instead of saying anything, Mikasa forces a smile, just the smallest twitch of her lips, snuggling further back into her chair, “I’ll be sure to relay the message.” Misha smiles, “Thanks Mikasa, you’re a promising padawan I know you’ll do great things.” Yes, yes she will, but she doesn’t need this woman to tell her that. “Goodbye Misha,” Is Mikasa’s only response, a dismissal, and she can’t resist the cruel smile of triumph at how Misha deflates. The woman linger for another moment, glances back towards Eren’s door one more time as she leaves, looking slightly put out by the entire interaction.

It is a small consolation to Mikasa, especially when Eren asks about her a few hours later, looking glum. “Did you see Misha when she left this morning?”

“No,” Mikasa tells him primly, “But when we were fuelling up I saw her laughing with Master Reiner, they seem quite close.”

“Oh,” Eren replies, looking slightly put out, “I umm didn’t realize they knew each other so well.”

“Neither did I,” Mikasa comments casually, beginning to steer the ship out of the port, a responsibility Eren has finally allowed her again after the meteor incident.

“But they must be quite close,” She continues nonchalantly, “She was touching his arm, they seemed so comfortable together.”

Eren says nothing and Mikasa presses her lips together to repress her pleased smile as Eren drops down into the seat next to her, a hand slipping up to affectionately tug at her bangs, “Don’t crash the ship again please.”

She beams at him, “I’m only as good as my teacher, Master.”

“That’s it, give me the wheel, brat.”

Life is good.

#jedi em au #jedi au eremika #jedi eremika #lys's drabbles

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xiaoluclair · 1 year

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20. clumsy attempts at flirting for lestappen pretty please?

okay confession, i have no idea what clumsy flirting even is beyond accidentally knocking over an avalanche of canned jalapeños onto you and your crush in the middle of a bend and snap. so i have a feeling this probably is not quite clumsy flirting but also i did not want to let the flow get away from me so eeeeeeenjoy!(?)

clumsy flirting attempts // lestappen // [ rating: T ] word count: 2.5k . yeah. not beta read either or checked over very well 😁

Max opens his front door and steps on a green bean. It's lying a foot away from a litre Tupperware box of... Max squints. Green beans.

He gives the hallway a cursory glance, then hefts the box into the kitchen and shuts the window his sister must've opened before she left the evening before. Something about needing more fresh air. Whatever, thinks Max, and grabs a pen to tick get green beans off the to do list on the refrigerator. He's not trading pneumonia for a tablespoon of chilled plant piss.

"Hey." Dilara gives him a smile, little Jerry stood between her legs and intently jabbing at a Samsung screen. Some garbled trumpet plays whenever he presses it. "How much were the beans?"

"Beans?" asks Dilara. "Oh, for your shopping? Around nine euros for a pack from Vie Claire."

"And you had, what, nine hundred euros to spend?" laughs Max. "Can you text me your account details for money transfer? My mum would probably shunt my d— um, dining table if I let someone spend that much on me."

At first, Max thinks he is about to get a smack for nearly cursing a three year old's ears. Then Dilara says, "I think. I am not sure what you are talking about."

So Max paints the picture from this morning and little Jerry stops trying to break his mum's phone with his thumbs to listen too. "You were the only one I talked to about it," as the elevator doors open and the three of them spill out into the little lobby.

"Someone might have overheard?" offers Dilara.

"Piano has beans," little Jerry informs Max sagely and Max.

Max snaps his fingers and says, "Of course, thanks mate."

Because piano has beans. Duh.

Max does not so much forget the bean incident as have a million other things piled on top of it. And then it gets lost somewhere. Maybe under a cupboard, or shoved between the radiator and the wall.

"It is broken, I think," says Max. "And the plumber said he is not free until the twenty second, so I guess that is me in socks and coats for the next three days."

Peter makes a delighted sound, a very different reception to Max's earlier lamentings on the lack of cat food in stock. "Did I ever tell you how my wife and I met?"

"Yeah," says Max, "on Gwyneth Paltrow's second cousins's niece's friend's friend's yacht's coach."

"Really?" say Peter. "Wow, that must have been fun. But the other time we met was — can you guess?"

"No."

"When my plumbing broke, of course! She was my neighbor, said I could take the left side of her bed for sleeping because the guest room had a fresh coat of paint. Of course," his jaw makes a quaint leer, "there was not much sleeping at all."

"Lovely," says Max, "I am going to get more gin. Happy birthday again."

Cue the next evening, and the doorbell rings. The peephole shows a slightly stretched suit, slicked back brown hair into a dramatically wide ponytail. Max sets down the last of the bean casserole, opens the lock, loops out the chain.

"Hello," he greets politely.

The woman with, actually, a normal sized ponytail gives him a grin. "Broken radiator?" She picks up the handyman's box of utensils next to her foot. G. MANNI, reads the orange block along the side. "I've got you covered."

"Are you a friend of Peter's?" asks Max.

"Who?" she says.

"Just a— never mind." Max waves her in.

What a bewildering scenario, he thinks later as he tugs off the three pairs of socks from his feet.

The radiator scenario would probably have suffered the same fate as the beans if Max did not, only the next morning, find 7kg of cat food waiting on his doorstep.

"Like angels dancing on my eardrums," Arnaav is saying when Max goes to wish them. "I asked him to record me a song as a present as a joke and he actually said I could listen to a demo."

"Wow," says Gertrude, "you lucky thing, you."

"Arnaav," says Max, "congratulations."

Arnaav beams. "Thank you."

"What was it, three years? Four?"

"Five actually. Masters with industrial placement. A dockyard up in Andora, lots of very ripped Italian men."

Max grins. "That sounds very lovely."

"Of course," continues Arnaav, "it seems like very ripped men are closer to home than I remember."

Gertrude giggles at that. Max feels his eyebrows arch together.

Arnaav gestures them both to follow into the kitchen. "Seriously," they say as they pass Frankie tying up a bright blue sausage balloon into a bright blue sausage dog to little Jerry's delight, "do you think I should shoot a shot? There is no way a guy like that is single though."

They are looking at Max imploringly. Max says, "Go for it." Then, "Who are we talking about?"

Gertrude chokes mid-chew on a bite of grape and gouda. "Gamer boys," she sighs, "always stuck in their computers."

"For once, I agree." Arnaav shakes their head. "I would point him out, but he's at his brother's for the weekend."

Dilara and Mag come laughing in then. "Mag," says Gertrude urgently, "Max does not know about the new tenant."

Which is how Max finds out, in the following five minutes, that the hottest man on the planet (Dilara's words, not his) has apparently been living two floors down from him since early November.

"Always fingering his music into late hours of the night," says Mag with a flushed sigh. "Have you ever wanted to be music so bad."

"Okay," says Max, and he takes the bottle of vodka and chugs for a little while.

The scenarios keep scenarioing. Max finds a wheel of cheese and two pounds of tomatoes in the mail. A couple days later, thirteen rolls of cat-patterned wrapping paper to replenish his dwindling stock. Then a stack of coupons for free petrol refills at any Shell in France.

It comes to an apex when he gets called down to the lobby to pick up an €800 gaming headset. Max takes it back up to his apartment and leaves it by the couch while he unlocks his phone.

Whoever keeps buying me things, it is very kind but please stop.

It is pretty late, so Max does not expect any replies. Does this have anything to do with the beans? says Gertrude barely a minute after he has sent it.

I think so, says Max.

amx is being sent things? asks Peter. *max.

Do not be jealous peter, says Dilara, I am sure we can find you your own courter.

Max blinks. Courter?

Person who courts someone else. Gives them presents to woo them that sort of thing.

I do not have a courter.

Sure you don't ;D

I don't.

HEY, Arnaav comes barrelling in, SHUTU P AND LET ME ENJPY THE MISIC.

its very lovely, agrees Peter.

Hey, has anyone added Charles? asks Mag.

Max, who does not particularly care for any person named Charles at the moment, least of all whether or not they've been added or deleted, whacks up the heating on his way to bed. He is about to turn off the light when a smack sounds from the balcony. Sassy makes a petulant expression when Max turns on the outside light.

"Idiot cat," he tells her, then slides opens the door. Immediately, the lethargic sound of piano floods into his ears. Sassy slinks inside as Max blinks.

His phone buzzes again. Mag: God I want him to play me like that.

So apparently Max's entire apartment complex spends their nights having a massive orgy to the new guy playing the piano. Charles, he gathers, playing the piano.

Charles gets added to the WhatsApp group too, renamed JDM GC (NOT FOR THIRSTING). His profile picture is black and white and contains three people, none of whom Max has seen before. He thinks they must be brothers.

not for thirsting? is the first thing Charles says. is this an inside joke i need to beg to be updated on? 😂. Max sees Mag is typing... pop up then disappear.

A few minutes later, he finds himself in a new WhatsApp group. JDM GC (FOR THIRSTING). Charles is not in this one. I'd make him beg, says Arnaav into it.

Same, says Mag, 💧.

Max thinks the exclusion is probably for the best.

He flies back in from iRacing contract negotiations a day before the Christmas Party. In the time left, he unpacks, laments to Dilara on the lack of green beans in store (“Christmas time,” she sympathizes), streams until two in the morning. Periodically checks his doorstep just in case.

Everything is fine. Then he returns from another green–beanless escapade and on his mat, is a parcel. Inside the parcel, is a dark blue wooly sweater with an outrageously bright design of red and green animals and a manger on the front, yellow sheen emitting from the neck hole.

There is a note.

Merry Christmas x.

Max takes it in, puts it on. Stares at himself in the mirror. Takes it off, wraps it up, and leaves it on the torn parcel paper to return later. He can give the money to the New Year's party.

When he takes the elevator down to Dilara's apartment, he is immediately accosted by Gertrude and slightly less accosted by little Jerry. "Max!"

Mistletoe hangs from the ceiling. Max takes the kiss she plants on his mouth with his hands on her arms to make sure it does not turn into Human Bowling, then blows out a breath. "Do you know who keeps giving me shit?"

Gertrude's brow furrows. "The beans?"

"The same person, yeah." Max rubs his temple. "It is starting to piss me off. I asked them to stop and they have not."

"Maybe it is someone not in the building?"

"Unless they bugged the place, no." Max sighs. "It was always ridiculous but now it is even more ridiculous. The whole 'courting thing' too is just stupid."

Litter Jerry looks up, Samsung held slightly precariously in his chubby fingers. "What about—"

"Charles!" erupts Gertrude brightly, looking into the distance. Max twists on the spot but there's just empty hallway. The stairwell door swings a little. Gertrude sways on the spot slightly.

"Let's get you inside," says Max and herds her back into the celebrations. At the jerk of his head, little Jerry sighs a great sigh and ducks under his arm, back into the loud apartment.

Nothing. Max opens the door: nothing. Max enters the lobby: nothing. Max gets his mail: nothing.

Max gets on with his life. Nothing.

Max sits on the balcony at night and listens to the silence. He checks the messages on his phone. Maybe he broke his hands, muses Dilara.

both of them at the same time? says Peter.

I just saw him, reports Mag, in the elevator. His hands are fine. Really really fine.

Back in JDM GC (NOT FOR THIRSTING), Charles simply says he has taken a break due to 'lack of inspiration'.

I will gladly inspire him, says Arnaav in JDM GC (FOR THIRSTING).

Not if I inspire him first, replies Mag.

Max keeps out of that one. Max keeps out of most of it, and: Nothing. The little Merry Christmas note stays in his nightstand and Max just. Forgets to take it out every single night. Whatever.

By the time Peter's New Year's party rolls around, life has settled and Max starts the year off drunk, happy, and listening to little Jerry toot Anaconda on the trumpet while next to him, Peter makes out with his new fiancée as of three seconds ago. Max has never seen her in his life.

The next morning is a slow one. For one, it is already eleven when Max cracks open his eyes. He rolls over. A chilled breeze stirs the hair on his arms.

He blames the alcohol for accepting that as he does. Getting out of bed, taking the wrong door to the bathroom and finding a closet instead. Taking the right door to the bathroom and the Palmolive soap has been replaced by a pot of L’Oreal Paris hair mask.

Then the cold wind comes back again and Max peers past his headache to see the window cracked wide open. He looks back to the mirror. He is naked.

“Shit,” says Max, with feeling.

A snore comes from the bedroom. Apparently Max bypassed an entire human being too. Stupid, useless alcohol. He’s going to go back to his place, take his stash of gin, chug it to forget this ever happened.

For now, he puts on his clothes. Rumpled, clearly discarded without much care. But on. Then he takes a look around. Lots of red. A centerpiece of fake roses sits atop an electric piano. The front door is the same as his. A shelf of photos over the TV contains the same three recurring men. In the corner of the kitchen, there is a large cardboard box held shut by a loaf of 50/50. Max moves it off and takes a peak. Inside is roughly two hundred bags of green beans.

The mop of brown hair forms a person eventually. Max has found an OralB tube by then and used his finger as a makeshift brush.

"Morning," says Max when they arise.

Charles takes one look at him before falling back onto his pillow. "Shit."

Max spends the first afternoon of 2024 swallowing Aspirin and slightly burnt Eggos. Suffice to say, Charles is a terrible host. And yet Max is still here. Pretty privilege. Hottest man on the planet, remembers Max. Yeah, okay.

He swallows, nods to the box in the corner and its counterpart bread loaf. “So were you the one stalking me?”

Charles chokes on his protein smoothie, glowers. “I was not— stalking, I was just. Courting.”

“Courting,” echoes Max. “Dilara’s going to have a fit.”

Charles stares at him. He was not in the WhatsApp group at that point so he wouldn’t know. Real funny, Max thinks to the universe. Great planning.

“So you, what,” he says, “bugged the building?”

“I just overheard sometimes,” says Charles. His cheeks are a vibrant, sick red. Fucking fresh air lovers.

Max thumbs his own temple. “What do I owe you?”

“What?” asks Charles, stupidly handsome and stupidly stupid. His fingers wrapped around the bottle are messing up Max’s already messed up mind.

“For all the shit you got me. If you say anything less than a thousand, I will know you’re lying so what do I owe you?”

A moment passes in which Charles blinks at him, Max realizes Jimmy and Sassy are probably upending the microwave, and Charles blinks some more. Then: “A date?”

“You are the worst flirter I have ever met in my life,” Max tells him sincerely. He slides off the stool and kisses him on the mouth. Charles drops the protein smoothie. The bottle breaks all over the floor.

Max buys him sixteen more.

#fic: mv1.cl16 #f1 rpf #xiao: writes #lestappen #this got far too out of hand im sorry #it's just SILLY #ladies and gentleladies . it is just. silly.#i think bc it has general similarities with another fic that my wife let me braindump into whatsapp so i was already feeling the vibes #god bless same sex marriage etc etc

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ryndicate · 1 year

Text

As you wish ⨳ Thorkell

Pride is not worth dying for.

notes: this will probably be updated with smut at another time, it's been sitting in my drafts for a bit and i just don’t have the brain for adding the spice rn </3 but i really enjoy the idea, and the next part will have a fun little plot twist sooo yk. hehe. enjoy my little story dump for now. drabble length, less than 1k.

warnings: wrote this from the time period of the series itself, so pls note that reader was sold to her husband! time period misogyny! also blood/death mentions

By expanding, you are consenting to viewing adult/dark content, and all warnings listed above. 18+ Minors DNI

Blog Rules/DNI

"IS THERE ANY OTHER MEN WORTH A DAMN IN THIS DAMN PLACE OR DO I NEED TO MAKE MYSELF WELCOME IN THE NEXT?"

The giant of a man leers around the destroyed hall, one eye clothed the other crazed. His face and clothing are splattered with blood, the same which drips from the flat blade of his remaining axe. The other still lays embedded in your husband's—former husband's—chest plate.

The other women lay cowering beneath the tables, some silent and shaking and other's shaking and crying. You, however, remain seated at the head table, as you have been since this giant and his men stormed the lord's hall.

His shoulders seem to sag as his bellowed call goes unanswered, and he shakes another stream of red onto the floor. His stare rounds the room and this is the moment you choose to stand, and he notices. His expression doesn't seem to change as you round the table, brows set, but his head tilts as you gather your skirts and crouch by the dead lord's side.

"He was almost worth the effort."

You glance up at him, finding the giant standing above you. He gives you a broad smile and his expression, misplaced in the chaos around you, recalls to you something you already knew, but had forgotten. His appearance meets the description; towering height, tall blond hair tied back in a headband, muscular beyond reason.

"I imagine there aren't many men worth your effort, Thorkell the Tall," you return impassively.

"Those are pretty nice words to give your lover's killer," Thorkell banters with you far too easily.

Resolutely, your hand closes around the shaft of the axe in the corpse, and it takes you great effort to pull it free. Besides the incredible heft, there is nothing special about it. But still, you trace its blade almost lovingly, fingers smoothing down from iron steel to the pine finish. You pay the blood no mind.

The enemy warrior doesn't tense, doesn't stiffen, nor show any sign of threat. You don't imagine you pose any to the likes of him, even with a weapon in hand. You tilt your head back to gaze upon his face as you lift the weapon towards him in offering. "That man was my husband, but I have yet to take a lover in this lifetime."

Thorkell pauses only a moment before accepting his axe. "Yet?"

You smile at him coyly. "If you so wish, I yet have a life ahead of me. I choose to be optimistic."

"Yer placin' your life in my hands?" He rumbles now, scratching his head with a slow forming grin. He’s peering at you closely now, and you can only hope you’ve got his attention.

"I was one of the many slave wives of this hall, but it was me you saw seated at my master's side. I can be valuable to you, if you wish to buy me."

"And who's to sell you then if your master rots at my feet?"

"My cost is them." You step closer to the giant, catching his gaze and purposefully drawing it towards the women still trembling on their bellies. They certainly haven't escaped his notice, nor his followers'. "You nor your men are to lay a finger on them. Allow them the choice of their own freedom, and in return I am whatever you wish of me. My fate lies with you now, Thorkell the Tall."

“Any of them English?”

You tilt your head curiously but answer him all the same. “No. Each of us are a spoil of conquest. Our homelands are elsewhere.”

Thorkell hums to himself and rests his axes on his shoulders. He seems to be mulling over your words, and you’ll take that for what it is, holding your head high and not allowing yourself to tremble after coming this far. Coming this far means nothing if it ends in naught. You are not scared of this warrior. You are not scared for even your own life. Your last few years have been hell under your former lord and way he treated you. Your only peace has been the kindness shared between the other wives and servants, so failing to save them is the only thing you fear. If you can do this for them, even if it leads to more suffering or your own death so be it. You will stand tall.

“As you wish then.” A weight leaves your shoulders for a bare moment, but he continues, and it begins to thump and patter as you try to keep a calm expression. His cheer remains untouched; there’s something deeper in his eyes now that calms you somewhat, though you don’t quite understand. “I like ya. Not like most dames, I’ll give ya that. So, I’ll give ya the chance to prove yerself.”

“To prove myself?”

The warrior turns his back to you and slams both axes into the wood of table, shafts held aloft from how deep the blades sink in. It’s loud, frightening the other women into short shrieks as they curl in on themselves. “Men! We’ll be resting here tonight and taking advantage of their fine hospitality. Anyone who touches the women here will be responsible for the stain on my honor and will answer to me. If ye be so bold, I look forward to it. We'll rejoin Askeladd in the morn.”

Some of his men laugh, cheer. Others look chastened, intimidated. You resonate with both. You imagine there are few who would find themselves at perfect ease with such a formidable fighter.

Thorkell turns to face you, grin still in place, and you find yourself cast in his shadow.

“Show me to yer dead lord’s chambers. They’re ours for the evening.”

#vinland saga x reader #thorkell x reader #vinland saga #thorkell the tall

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highqueenofelfhame · 1 year

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a/n: okay so chapter three of this might be up before ten of ciwyw simply because i'm excited about it and it's already like halfway done. i'm sorry if this is disappointing news BUT i promise it's a really really good chapter with delicious content. love u, thank you for reading <3

rowaelin // 5.6k words // skoh masterlist // masterlist

“I wish I could tell you guys about this bullshit, but it’s fucking classified,” Aelin hissed into the cell phone she had sandwiched between her ear and shoulder. To their credit, Elide and Lysandra tried to disguise their laughter on the other end, but it came back muffled all the same. The two were drunk on a beach somewhere in Ellywe, and it showed.

Everyone knew that Aelin joining the Cadre would be a disaster one way or another. When the idea was proposed to her, she turned it down. Three different times. The bad blood with Rowan flowed so deep that she didn’t care about an increase in pay or the less boring missions that came along with it. Truthfully, she would rather be lost in the Staghorns somewhere with Aedion’s unit or back in the desert with the one that showed up to take over for the Cadre.

Yet when Darrow approached her with the idea a fourth time, stressing how much they needed an extra person, she caved. The claims that she was the only person fit for the job had gone to her head a little bit, and it was biting her in the ass. He had even brought in her Uncle Gavriel to talk to her about going. The bastard knew that it would sway her, and it had worked. Now that this mission required them to be married, she was pretty sure it had been in the works for a little longer than they knew, and convincing Aelin to join them was the final piece of the puzzle.

Currently, she was quickly washing her hands in a bathroom at the Rifthold International Airport. The flight had been sixteen hours, and she was desperate for a bath that didn’t require body wipes to make her smell decent. The boys were probably waiting for her, but she didn’t care. Rare was it that she could use her personal phone to call her friends, and godsdammit, she was going to take advantage.

“Is he still an ass?” Lysandra asked as Aelin ripped a few paper towels from the dispenser to dry her hands.

“Of course he is. He has the nerve to act like he’s the one that was scorned! As if I didn’t fight tooth and nail for our relationship to work until the physical and emotional distance was too much to deal with.” She huffed as she poked her bags with her boot, fingers pulling her braid over her shoulder just to have something to do with her hands.

“I mean, you have to come to some sort of truce to make it work,” Elide piped in, crunching sounds filling the space between words while she snacked.

“I know. Gods, I know. It’s just harder than I thought it would be.” Aelin sighed, her chest decompressing as several women scurried into and out of stalls around her. “I should go.”

“Where are you, anyway?” Lys asked.

“I can’t say, but I can allude that I’m closer to home.”

“Can you get a normal job? You coming on vacations would be fun.” Elide’s sad-drunk tendencies were starting to peek through, making Aelin smile.

“If Rowan doesn’t kill me first, I might end my active-duty career as soon as possible after this shit is done.” It was only half a joke. Being this close to Rowan was already far more taxing than she imagined. If anything, she thought they might ignore each other and carry on with their jobs like responsible adults. Sure, she knew her old wounds were tender at best, but the explosive tension was slightly unexpected.

The three muttered their goodbyes as she hefted her bags onto her shoulders and filed out of the bathroom, immediately spotting Lorcan and Rowan’s heads towering over everyone else near the exit to baggage claim. Aelin forced her shoulders back and stood straight as she could.

Approaching Rowan was a battle of its own sort. She had to be ready for a fight constantly. There was just no way of telling if she was walking straight into the line of fire or not.

~*~

The house they would be living in was beautiful. It was a large estate sitting on the cleaner side of the Avery River, nestled back in a little grove of oak trees. A large iron gate kept any outsiders from easily getting onto the property, but it was so far off any main road that they didn’t anticipate trespassers being much of a problem.

Not that it really mattered– every inch of the land surrounding the house was under twenty-four-seven surveillance that they could watch from inside. The day before, a tech team had come in to set up all the equipment they would need for quick and secure communication with their superiors. Though the equipment they used was always the best the Terrasen government had to offer, it was always a little more fun to use when stationed in a big city.

Though the house had six bedrooms, they quickly learned during the initial walk-through that three were being used for mission-related activities. One room comprised a large desk and about a dozen monitors for surveillance; another had enough desk space for all six of them with room to spare, and the third was primarily for communication. It was filled with phones and computers connected to a highly secure network that, in theory, was breach-proof.

That left three rooms for the six of them to divvy into, and Aelin tried to cut the corners of arguing with who was sleeping where by quickly voicing her own option.

“I’ll room with Fenrys. Lorcan and Rowan can share and–”

“No.” Rowan’s response was immediate and flat. A single eyebrow quirked up as she slowly pivoted on one heel to look at him. His eyes, however, were on Fenrys. It had been years, and apparently, their casual affection was still grating on his nerves like soft cheese.

“No?” She questioned, arms folding over her chest. Rowan slid his gaze to her face as the others took a few casual steps away as if they would rather be anywhere but in the middle of their divorced parent’s fight.

“No.” The word was harder, more final this time.

“Fine, you and me then?” She threw a hand in the air for sarcastic flair and laughed sardonically. Surely he would drop his weapons and retreat with arms raised, but he didn’t. It surprised everyone in the room, herself more than the rest.

“Fine.” Shock washed over her in a static wave, running across her body like an electrical current. Everything buzzed from her fingers to her toes as he told no one in particular, “We get the master.”

Nobody was going to disagree with his claim. The two of them needed as much space between them as possible. With all the tension and white-hot energy, they could hardly share a room for meetings, much less a bed. Mala must have boiled his brain to sludge during their stay in the desert. He clearly wasn’t thinking things through.

She was further surprised when he yanked both their bags off the floor where they’d dumped them upon entry and headed toward the north wing of the house. Aelin glanced at Lorcan, hoping he would have something to say on the matter, but he shrugged and grabbed his own bags, shouting that Vaughan was with him as he did. Fenrys, at least, looked as confused as she felt.

“Have fun with… whatever the fuck that was,” Connall told her, the three remaining men collecting their bags from the floor.

“You really put your foot in your mouth this time, didn’t you, babe?” Fen drawled, ruffling her hair and following his brother.

“You’re all traitors!” She called as they dispersed, leaving her to begrudgingly march toward the room Rowan had claimed for them. Their low chuckles followed her down the hall, and she was pretty fucking sure she even heard Lorcan laughing with them.

When she reached the master bedroom, she was pleasantly surprised at the size of it. A king-size bed was centered against one wall, each side with its own lamps and nightstands. The large bay window on the right side had a bench perfect for reading in if she ever found herself with downtime. There were two doors to the left of the bed. One led to a large bathroom with a shower and a huge bathtub that she would most definitely be soaking in soon. The other was a walk-in closet that rivaled the one she had at home.

It was also where she found Rowan.

Each side of the closet had plenty of drawers and space for hanging clothes and a dozen or so cubbies scattered about. Rowan stood to one side, unpacking his clothes and placing them into drawers. She pretended she didn’t notice that he had chosen the left side– the same as when they lived together.

Aelin followed suit, kneeling on the floor by her bag and dividing things amongst her drawers. Since they were in need of civilian attire for the mission, she would be going out to purchase new things sometime tomorrow before the real work began. For now, she just wanted a shower and a nap.

Rowan had slipped out moments before she was finished. Once satisfied with her portion of the closet, she entered the bedroom to find him peering through the curtains, eyes scanning the backyard. He didn’t seem to notice her, or if he did, he chose to say nothing. Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her arms around her body and steeled herself for another fight.

“Is it okay if I shower first?”

“Yep.” His fingers released the curtain, and it slipped shut, the sheer fabric not doing much to shield them from the outside world. Aelin made a mental note to get some blackout curtains tomorrow, both for safety and to keep the early morning sun out when she had the luxury of sleeping past five am.

“Are you sure?” For once, she wasn’t pushing to get on his nerves. If he wanted the bathroom to himself first, she would allow it if it meant no verbal sparring.

“I already said yes, Aelin.” The edge of his words was sharp and short as a brand-new dagger. So much for not fighting.

“You don’t get to do this.” She blurted, fingers gripping her shirt tightly.

“I don’t get to do what, exactly?” Rowan looked at her then, eyebrows slightly raised and shoulders tense. At his sides, his hands were rolling up into fists.

“Be pissy about our sleeping arrangements when you’re the one that booted out my perfectly good option.”

“You were doing it to fuck with me, and I’m not giving you the satisfaction,” he said calmly, taking up a casual fighting stance: feet shoulder-width apart, arms folded over his chest, muscles coiled and ready to strike.

“I was doing it because I highly doubt the other three would want to catch me in any state of undress accidentally, and only me and Connall can handle Fenrys full time,” she shot back. Her fingernails dug into the skin beneath her shirt like they would sew her up if she fell apart. The tendons in Rowan’s neck were visible, hard lines. If she were closer, she would probably be able to see his pulse pounding against his skin. “I don’t know why you think I’m just here to fuck up your life. I didn’t even want this job to begin with.”

Hating that she was the first to retreat, she walked to the closet to gather what she would need for her shower. Footsteps followed her, stopping in the doorway as Rowan asked, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Which part?” Aelin plucked a pair of boring cotton underwear from the drawer.

“That you didn’t want this job.” Selecting a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, she turned to face him with her facial expression calling him ten kinds of stupid.

“It means that I didn’t want this fucking job.” Maybe she drew out every word a little more slowly on purpose to needle beneath his skin. The feathering of his jaw said it worked.

“I understood that part.” He sounded frustrated, his fingernails white where they pressed into his biceps. “You didn’t ask for the transfer?”

“I turned it down three times. In the last few weeks, Darrow was up my ass about it. Even had Uncle Gav try to convince me, so I caved. Did you think I asked for this to come rain a special kind of hell down on your head?”

“I wouldn’t put past you,” he retorted, and something in her broke. Just a little bit.

“Contrary to whatever bullshit you’ve made up about me to craft me into your villain, I was perfectly content to never see you again. I don’t want to work with you, I don’t want to share a single molecule of oxygen with you, and I don’t want to constantly be ready to fight with you at the drop of a hat. This isn’t what I wanted for my career or my personal life. I’m here because I took an oath to protect my country, and despite my multiple refusals, they wanted me here with this unit.” Aelin shoved past him, her shoulder ramming into his arms as she did. “Do us both a favor and get over yourself, Rowan. This self-centered bullshit is exactly why I fucking left you.”

Though she hadn’t meant to be quite so dramatic, the bathroom door slammed in his face when she closed it. The sickly feeling of guilt washed over her at the look on his face. That last hateful sentence wasn’t even supposed to be said out loud. Did she even mean it?

Aelin didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she finally heard his footsteps retreat from the room and a heavy exhale whooshed from her lungs.

~*~

“Aelin, I–” His hands reached for her, but she smacked them away hard enough that it stung his palms.

“No, no, no. I told you a thousand times if you took another deployment, I was done. And there is just no–” Aelin let out a gasping sob, one hand on her heart and the other wrapped around her torso. Unable to stop himself, he tried to pull her to him. If he could just calm her down, it would be okay.

Before his fingers could even graze her skin, she stumbled backward. A gust of wind had rain blowing at him from behind. He wasn’t sure if his face was wet with tears from his eyes or the sky.

“Baby–” The back of Aelin’s wrist pressed to her mouth and did nothing to muffle the sob. Knowing he was the source of her pain had him wishing for a lightning strike.

“There is no coming back from this.” The words were almost carried away in the storm. Not once had he ever heard her speak so softly, so broken. Tears streamed down her cheeks and neck, soaking the collar of her t-shirt while she shook her head and pointed for him to leave with a shaky finger. Her other hand was still pushing her heart back into her chest. “There is no coming back.”

The front door slammed in his face and triggered a final fissure in his heart that had his heart and soul shattering into a million jagged pieces on the rain-soaked ground.

A firm hand on his shoulder made him jerk forward, twisting on his heel. A soldier through and through, he started to go on the defensive. Just as he reached for his attacker, he realized it was Lorcan and dropped his hands, shaking his head to clear his mind of the memory.

Lorcan’s eyebrows knit together in confusion as he said, “I said your name twice.”

“Sorry. What’s up?” Rowan hadn’t meant to be so wrapped up in his thoughts as he stood on the back porch. A mirror image of the gloomy gray sky reflected on the surface of the swimming pool. The sound of the door slamming in his face still echoed in his ears, but he didn’t know if it was the past or present that haunted him. Probably both.

“I want to go over what needs to be done this week,” Lorcan told him, nodding toward the house. Through the windows, he could see everyone lounging on the couches and chairs that made up the formal living room. Each of them held a folder; Aelin’s was in her lap, where she curled up in the corner of the couch. Deft fingers twined her damp hair into a braid over her shoulder. Lorcan’s eyes followed his gaze as he braced his hands on his hips. “Do you need to talk about it before we go in?”

“I don’t know what there is to say.”

“Look, I am by no means any sort of authority on relationships, but the fact that you two can barely be in the same room without starting a fight shows how deep it all goes. You sure as fuck aren’t over it–” Lorcan gave him a stern look when he opened his mouth to object, then continued, “And neither is she. You can both act like you don’t care, but you do. At some point, an olive branch needs to be extended one way or the other. Otherwise, it will stack up to messy mistakes in the field and you’ll both drag everyone else down with you. I can’t allow that. So find a truce. Wave your white flag if you fucking have to. Talk about it. Fuck it out. I don’t care. But don’t let it compromise the job.”

Rowan nodded, hands sliding into his pockets as he took a deep breath. All of those things were easier said than done. If they were ever going to talk it out, they would both have to come to some peace with the past and present. Right now, he wasn’t sure how to do that. His behavior had clearly torn into her with a jagged blade, the same way her leaving him did. Both had raw, gaping wounds that were still bloody from the battle. The time apart had done nothing to heal either of them. If anything, it made it worse.

There wasn’t ever supposed to be so much distance, time, or emotion stretched between them, to begin with. Rowan could strut around like he didn’t care all he wanted to, but he did care. Looking at her made it hard to breathe.

“Did you ever, at any point in your relationship, tell her about what happened to Lyria?” Lorcan asked, just as Rowan took a step toward the house. His teeth snapped together so hard that it hurt, narrowly missing a bite of his tongue. “Maybe start there.”

“I don’t think it would matter at this point.”

“Not that I don’t think she’s a swaggering asshole ninety-nine percent of the time or anything–” Rowan snorted, looking back at Aelin through the window. She was looking back. “– But she isn’t a bitch. Not all the time, anyway.”

Part of him wanted to throttle Lorcan for talking about her that way, but their personalities had always been mixing oil and water. Even still, Lorcan would never hold his personal relationship against her. She was far too good of an asset.

“Can I ask something of you?” Rowan inquired, restlessly scratching the back of his neck. His eyes didn’t leave Aelin’s, and she tilted her head curiously. Almost as if, despite their fight, she was trying to inquire if he was okay.

“Of course.” Rowan sidestepped out of view, not wanting her to read his lips as he looked at his commander. Lorcan leaned against the table that decorated the patio, an open and caring demeanor slipping into place.

“If anything on this mission goes sideways, if it ever comes down to a split second when it has to be her or me… I don’t care if it’s a temporary thing where you come back for me later or we’re both bleeding out somewhere, whatever the situation is. If shit goes down and it’s her or me, you take her.” Green eyes bore fiercely into onyx ones. Lorcan’s eyes widened in surprise and something that looked a little like fear.

“Rowan…” He wasn’t one to leave a man behind, but Rowan knew all too well that sometimes it became a necessary call to make. When forced with a split-second decision about who lived or died, the luxury of time to juggle your choices didn’t always exist. This oath would take the struggle out of it.

“Promise me that you will get her out first.” He hated the way his voice cracked like the fissures in his heart. Hated that he was prepared to fall to his knees and beg if it might save her life at any point in the future. Yet he knew that he would if Lorcan refused. The bad terms he and Aelin were on didn’t matter. Rowan would never forgive himself or his comrades if he woke up and something had happened to her. “Promise me, Lorcan.”

He wished he could tell himself it was for selfish reasons. That he was asking to clear his conscience should it ever become a reality. Deep down, he knew it had nothing to do with that, though. It had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with her and the wildfire of unresolved feelings that haunted his waking and sleeping hours.

Rowan tried to get over her. Attempting to lose himself through sex with other women had been a fruitless endeavor. No amount of boiling showers had made him feel clean, like any level of intimacy with someone that wasn’t Aelin left behind an oily residue he couldn’t wash away. After the third time, he quit trying. It felt too much like cheating on her, like betraying her, even if she had been the one to leave him.

He had followed her career over the last two and a half years. Though she had passed on another deployment when she thought he would too, months after the breakup, he heard she was back in it. Lorcan had passed him details of her missions, and Rowan had a mental list of every injury she had ever received. Nothing had been remotely close to life-threatening, but he felt every one of those wounds like they’d happened to him. It had been difficult not to follow up with her directly to see if she was okay, but she was better off without him. Of that, he was certain.

Being part of the same unit, he would do whatever he could to protect her. It hadn’t surprised Lorcan when Rowan declared he would always choose her first the morning she arrived. The commander made him swear that it wouldn’t compromise any missions, and it wouldn’t. But for Rowan, if the choice were anyone else or Aelin, he would save Aelin first. Now he needed to be sure someone else would choose her over him.

“Okay. I promise,” Lorcan finally swore, his eyes saying that he hoped for all the world it never came down to it.

When they made their way inside, there were two seats available. One was smack dab between Aelin and Fenrys; the other was an overstuffed chair near the window. Rowan knew for a fact that the two blondes had been sitting side by side moments earlier and knew that one or both of them had done this on purpose. They lived in a constant state of scheming and had been driving Rowan insane from the moment their friendship began.

Lorcan hijacked the chair, which left Rowan to drop onto the sofa between Bonnie and Clyde. He swore the commander was fighting off his smirk while settling into the chair away from the drama. Bastards. All of them were bastards. It was starting to feel like everyone had been part of a private meeting on the best ways to drive Rowan insane with Aelin around.

“Here,” Aelin said softly, nudging his arm with a folder. Nodding his thanks, he flipped it open and began skimming the pages while Lorcan got into what the next few days would look like. Every breath he took was more shallow than it needed to be, but he would lose his mind if he inhaled deep enough to smell her jasmine shampoo.

He tried to focus on Lorcan’s words, but sitting beside Aelin was a distraction in itself. The promise their commander had just made soothed a small part of his chest, even if he thought she would throttle him if she ever found out about it. The woman beside him was more than capable of taking care of herself, yes, but Rowan needed that security blanket to fall back on if things went to hell.

Aelin nudged him with her elbow, and he blinked, looking into her quizzical gaze. It was strange to find a hint of concern hidden behind the brilliant band of gold around her iris. With a shake of his head, he looked at the folder in his lap and tuned his ears to Lorcan’s voice. Right. Now was definitely not the time to think about this.

They would start by surveilling the notorious Glass Castle. It was imperative they find out how easily the outside guards could be distracted and bribed. While they had inside contacts close to the prince working with them under extremely delicate conditions, they needed to see if anyone was willing to waver. Finding the weak links could lead to it all being over before an assassination attempt began.

The Prince’s closest and really only friend was his captain of the guard. Through their contacts, he agreed to work with them on the castle’s blueprints and help them however he could. If everything went smoothly, nobody would die, lose their jobs, or be accused of treason, and in the process, their president would be safe from the fallout.

“We need to take passport photos in the morning, and someone is coming by tomorrow afternoon to stage some pictures of our Duke and Duchess over here.” Rowan and Aelin’s heads both snapped up at neck-breaking speed.

“What?” Rowan said, eyes darting to Aelin. There was no way in hell she would be okay with this.

“All of the royals in Fenharrow have websites,” she answered for Lorcan. “Do I get to wear a pretty gown?”

“You’ll wear whatever shows up, and you won’t give anybody any shit about it,” was the commander’s flat response. Aelin’s smoldering gaze told him she would do as she pleased, but her eyes wandered back down to the pages in her lap. If the wardrobe weren’t to her taste, they would surely hear about it no matter what Lorcan said.

“Box dye is going to absolutely ruin our hair.” Rowan didn’t know anything about that. According to his passport, he had blonde hair and brown eyes. Curiosity got the better of him, and he leaned a little toward Aelin to see what hers said. With a flick of her wrist, it was turned toward him so he could see better. Red hair, green eyes. Rowan had a hard time imagining it.

“Are you going to complain the whole time?” Lorcan snapped. Aelin, to her credit, grinned.

“Maybe. It’s fun getting under everyone’s skin so easily.”

It felt like a jab with one of the daggers she favored. A quick stab into his back, the twist of the blade as it sunk deeper. Rowan sat up straight and tried to keep from crumpling the papers in his hands.

It might not be an outright bloody war, but every vaguely altruistic word that left her mouth made him tenser than any gunfight ever did.

~*~

A book lay open upon the pillow in her lap, eyes skimming the pages when Rowan soundlessly opened the door and slipped into their room. He was clearly hoping she would be asleep when he came to bed to avoid any awkward interactions or heated arguments. Aelin was too tired for anything beyond a few pulled punches tonight and closed her book. The t-shirt he wore was pulled over his head in a single, fluid motion, and he slipped between the sheets. After placing her nightly read on the bedside table, she snuggled under the blankets. Rowan was on his back staring at the fan when she turned her light off. Aelin lay on her side, facing him straight on.

“This is… weird,” he admitted as the air deflated from his lungs in a deep sigh.

“Sleeping together or, however fake it may be, being married to me when you never wanted it in the first place?” Aelin wasn’t sure why flames kept spewing out of her mouth every time they spoke. Closure was what she was after, yet she knew it wouldn’t come this way. It was more of a defense mechanism than anything else.

“We aren’t doing this tonight, Aelin. I’m tired.” Rowan rolled onto his side, facing away from her, hand smacking at his pillow before he settled against it.

Through the dim moonlight slipping through those sheer curtains, she could make out the scars on his back. Some she knew, others she didn’t. Without thinking, she reached out and touched one she didn’t recognize. Rowan’s inhale was sharp, shoulders expanding and muscles tightening beneath her fingers. As tense as he was, his body betrayed him in the form of goose flesh over his skin.

“Rowan?” Aelin must have been imagining his jagged breaths. It sounded too much like shredding self-control to be real.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry. For today, I’m sorry.” Doused in a burning tension, she traced her fingers over another pale scar on his back. Tears pricked her eyes over the featherlight touches she made, at the emotion that welled up in her throat. This sort of casual intimacy used to be second nature. Aelin hated that her fingers craved to touch more of him, all of him. They never thought about touching before; they just always were. It had once been necessary, vital even. Now he was a coiled asp ready to strike, waiting for the fighting words she couldn’t find.

“Okay,” he finally whispered back on an exhale.

“I didn’t mean to slam the door, either. I know you won’t believe me, but I–”

“I do believe you.” Her throat was suddenly tight as she swallowed, dropping her hand from his back. Sometime soon, she would ask how he got those new markings. Maybe Fenrys would have the answers if her cowardice won over and she couldn’t ask him herself.

“Okay,” she parroted, the word muffled by the blanket as she pulled it up and tucked her face into it.

Seconds stretched into minutes before he rolled onto his back, head turning to face her. With her eyes more adjusted to the dark, she could tell he was looking at her. They didn’t say anything, just took each other in. It was the first quiet moment they’d shared since her arrival. Somehow, the heaviness of this moment was far more abundant than the times they were yelling.

“Were you talking about me when you said it’s fun to get under our skin?”

“I’ve always liked getting under your skin,” she teased, but he didn’t smile. Aelin’s own faltered, mouth twisted to the side as she considered it. Yes, she had. “It is fun but… I didn’t mean it quite how it sounded. I haven’t been picking fights with you the last few days for shits and giggles. I’m sure you aren’t doing it for that reason either.”

It’s what she wanted to believe, anyway. Perhaps it made her naive, but she knew Rowan. Even if they hated each other, they didn’t like causing the other unnecessary pain.

“Why are we fighting then?” The bald vulnerability he gave had her mouth parting in surprise. Of all the ways she saw this first night going, a calm discussion was nowhere on the list. Murder definitely was, but this?

“I don’t think we know how to be around each other like this,” she said slowly. “We had moments of bickering when we first met, sure, but…”

The words she wanted to say would strip her a little more bare than she wanted to be, yet she wasn’t ready to let the moment go. Rowan saw her hesitation and waited patiently, eyes scanning her face as though he could sneak into her mind and steal the thoughts for himself. Tomorrow the fires would rage again but for tonight? Tonight she would settle close to the truth without laying it all at his feet.

“But?” Aelin sighed and shook her head.

“We’ve always been intense,” she shrugged a shoulder. “Now that we aren’t in love, I guess it’s just going to be in the form of verbal sparring and screaming matches. Maybe a few physical blows during training.”

Aelin averted her eyes, slipping her fingers out from beneath the blanket to inspect her nails. It probably looked as stupid as it felt, considering she could hardly see, but Rowan didn’t call her on it. Nor did he point out how unlike her it was to balk from a conversation, yet here she was, being a coward and avoiding his gaze. It was a half-truth wrapped up in a teasing taunt at best and clearly not the answer he sought.

It wasn’t fair that he still had her tied up in so many knots. For years she paraded around, pretending she was over it and it didn’t matter anymore. Not being in love with Rowan was one of the biggest lies she’d ever told, one she whispered to herself every time she found him looking at her. It was a foolish, stupid mask she wore to hide the pain of the ugly, bleeding truth of everything.

Rowan handled it better than she did, and it hurt more than she would ever admit.

@elentiyawhitethorn @autumnbabylon @fancysludgeshoelamp @wordsafterhours @live-the-fangirl-life @the-hospitality-of-knives @tangledraysofsunshine @readandlisten @westofmoon @rowanaelinn @morganofthewildfire @writtenonreceipts @feynightlight @emster1622-blog @scarblx @thefaetrove @loveyatopluto @actuallybarb @peppermint-fae @the-devils-own @scottmcgivemeacall @livingmylifeforme @wordsafterhours @foreverfallingforthestars @llyncooljones @emily-gsh @loosesimplicity @emilyrose111294 @charlizeed @aelinchocolatelover @cretaceous-therapod @sayosdreams @fireheart-violet @the-regal-warrior @backtobl4ck @shyvioletcat @bellasbookboyfriends @icantfindmychashma @swankii-art-teacher

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literalite · 5 months

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I remember you saying you liked young justice so I wanted to know who's your favourite character or the one you think is most like you? I've been attached by the hip to this show since I was 13 so I'm a little... not normal about it lol.

also opinions on s3?

YES oh my god it was like formative media for me genuinely and i still love yj dearly i was rewatching it like last month actually along with yaboyroshi's reactions to it 😅 we are both a little not normal about this show dw 🤝🏼 im putting the rest of this under a cut because i start Yapping

my fave characters were dick, artemis, jaime, bart, and zatanna! dick i was Obsessed with from the moment i laid eyes on him in hindsight for gender reasons, probably but artemis always meant a huge deal to me as a kid because she was like the only vietnamese character (and with a skintone like mine!) that i'd ever seen on a screen. i loved everything about jaime's character and personality and arc and i had a really soft spot for bart because characters who are very outwardly upbeat and fun but are going through a lot of shit and hiding it are my favourites ever usually 😅. i also liked rlly them as a duo. zatanna's sort of cool-girl sass was always really fun to see and i think especially in s4 where her sort of less-rigid morality had more room to shine, really made me appreciate her character more. OH also when they introduced cassandra wu-san/orphan in s3 i like literally cheered out loud 😭 shes one of my fave characters from dc comics in general, so i was already biased towards her and i really liked her depiction and the room they made for her arc

i'm actually not sure which character is the most like me... i think because i watched it so young a lot of the characters kind of made their way into my personality in one way or another. i think irl im most like dick but it could be wishful thinking 😅 i'm not as cool as he is for sure

season three.... i'm kind of on the fence about it? i will say though i think it was a little rough with the dialogue especially, and i definitely didn't bond as well with the outsiders as i did with the original team and then the s2 cast. violet was the most likeable of the group by far but i think i was really put off by the fact that they kept killing them 💀 like i get that you guys can do this now with the higher rating but there are better ways to show off your newfound creative freedom than repeatedly brutally killing them. it was offset with the majority of the other characters suffering from basically no visible injuries too- if they'd been hit with bruises or scrapes or broken bones or ANYTHING and reduced the harm dealt to vi then i would've been less urgh by it.

i also wish they'd introduced victor a bit earlier into the season instead of spending sooo much time with brion because cyborg's story felt a little tacked on at the end, and um i was annoyed by brion from the jump 😭😭 tried so hard to sympathise with him because to be fair he went through a Lot but he just kept being such an aggressive ass to like everyone. which i guess was the point.. didn't make it any more fun to watch though.

i do like that they kept with the huge mass of entangled threads of the plot that were to me the hallmarks of the earlier seasons, picking apart scenes to try and work out how things interconnect was always my favourite part. i think the cast of the show at this point for what they were trying to do and focus on may have exceeded the show's bounds though- it was still a compelling narrative but i imagine for a casual watcher who isnt as meticulously invested in who is who and can recognise adaptations of arcs from the comics it can get very confusing or frustrating. its hard because i Love the og cast too but i think with s3 they couldn't decide on letting them go or letting their new characters shine and it ended up muddying the waters a bit, with the outsiders suffering the most from it due to no nostalgia or prior narrative heft to keep them from looking secondary to the original members of the team.

with s4 they chose to throw their lot behind the old team, which i appreciated and it neatened the rough edges of the show more, but i do still miss the s2 cast quite badly so i actually kind of wish they'd kept expanding the cast but just narrowed focus onto the new characters for every season. the title of the show is young justice, so i personally would've liked to keep seeing a focus on the newer and rising heroes of each successive generation as opposed to returning again and again to the originals

sorry that this is such a wall of text 😅 but i think this is one of the shows that i could genuinely just like sit and talk about for ages and ages... even the characters i dont like at all have a fair amount of gravity and heft to them that i love. wally is still alive btw i will never stop believing 😤 get that man out of the speed force!

#sorry that i talked so much here ive been losing my mind to assignment stress all day so writing about something i actually give a rats ass #about is such an. air being let out of a balloon noise moment idk im tiiired but we move 😤#ask #reply #bonneblah #TYSM FOR THIS BY THE WAY! slightly off topic but i was making the og team in cas the other day but i never finished 🤔🤔 I SHOULD FINISH

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joleneghoul · 1 year

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This is going to be less of an essay and more of a disorganized infodump where I just ramble about my favorite character Rip has a relationship with and that's Jeff Smith.

I actually find Jeff to be more important to Rip's entire story and character background than Booster. There will also be some mentions of Bonnie because the Rip, Jeff & Bonnie dynamic is pretty important.

Though partially that is because the erasure of Jeff is what has made Rip such a boring character to read within post 90s Booster Gold stuff.

Jeff Smith is probably one of my favorite characters nobody really knows about and comics forgot about (until recently, but I'll get to that).

To sum it up quickly, Jeff is Rip Hunter's partner in the broad sense of the term. He was Rip's mechanic, his best friend, his scientific other half, and even once a cowboy (howdy).

More under the cut because this info-dump got long!

Jeff was Rip's partner from Rip's first ever appearance in showcase #20 and stuck with him onward to the 90s. While the stories had Rip's name on them, Rip and Jeff were postured as more of a duo than otherwise.

Bonnie and her brother Corky were along for the story but not as front and center as Jeff and Rip, hell even the story starts with Rip telling them to stay home while him and Jeff test their time machine by going on a jaunt to the prehistoric together.

The time sphere was first and foremost a creation of Jeff and Rip's scientific and mechanical prowess put together. I find it more interesting this way than if Rip were some sort of solo genius.

Later within the Rip Hunter series from the 60s-70s Jeff Still plays the role of Rip's partner, even saving Rip's life multiple times over. A characteristic that is strengthened as time goes on with Jeff is that he is the more calculated and thoughtful one of the pair. This remains the case in the Time Masters 1991 series.

Jeff, much like everyone gets a redesign for this series and a bit more heft to his character motives/personality. This is a series (while not good) that follows a linear story line instead of a collection of adventures so it was needed. I honestly only reread issues of this series for Jeff because I like the way him and Rip's relationship is handled here, as it strengthens the fact that pushing others away can only hurt everyone involved and being alone can be worse than your fears.

He is introduced not only as Rip's partner but his best friend. According to Rip, Jeff is one of his only close friends on account of his obsessive personality. A lot of Rip's own characterization in my opinion mirrors someone who has OCD. His obsession becoming stopping what he saw the future became while in Booster Gold vol 1. Hell...Will Magnus tells him he's paranoid.

Specifically I think the relationship Rip has to his paranoia and fears vs the relationships he has with others is really interesting. This, while comes up with Rip's relationship to Bonnie, is shown mostly with his connection to Jeff.

Jeff throughout the series is the one to break through to Rip even as he pushes others away at everyone's expense. This is shown in the start when Jeff breaks Rip out of spiraling overthinking, bringing him back with his logical thinking. Then all the way to the end when Jeff comes up with the idea of how to fix the time sphere, while Rip was caught up in his own paranoia and had at that point pushed everyone else away or caused them to leave him.

ALSO Jeff has to tell Rip to trust BOOSTER, who in retrospect is Rip's father. I just find that interesting.

Now, I'm going to be talking about subtext which is just how I interpreted things not saying they were intentional but it's just what I picked up on. Also I have a lot to say about how Bonnie is treated I really hate it because she's so disrespected when shes supposed to be equals to Rip but- a rant for another time ig.

The relationship between Jeff, Bonnie, and Rip (and Cave but not really tbh) are at the forefront of the interpersonal drama. It's worth mentioning that every scene Bonnie has romantically with a man (like Jeff or Cave) is mirrored immediately with Jeff and Rip. Specifically usually when Bonnie struggling with her own relationships vs when Jeff and Rip are coming together.

There is when Jeff shows up to Rip's office in a green trench coat (not pictured in this panel bc he took it off) and sits on Rip's desk to tell him he'll be his partner. Then within the same issue Bonnie in her green trench coat trying to seduce Cave (who is HER scientific partner) by getting on his desk- but then getting rejected.

Then again when Jeff chooses to leave Bonnie (in bed) to go be with Rip VS the end of that issue when Rip solemnly makes the choice to leave Jeff (in bed) to go chase his own hubris. (later we see Bonnie make the choice to steal the time sphere and go live in the future and make her own life teaching people post nuclear war, thank god she didn't end up with any of these men after all that)

Also side note- When Jeff and Rip go to ancient Atlantis together that's practically the first time in issues we see either of them really happy since like, issue 2. The only thing that tips Rip off is once again when someone brings up his paranoia. Also they get these gay earrings.

Anyways at the end because Rip ends up alone, without Jeff who was his only close friend, Rip realizes that time changes everything and to not be so worried about the literal end of the world- and that hopefully in time even he can change and be a better person to others.

....WHICH I feel is totally ignored and thrown away later on when Rip returns as Boosters son and Jeff was erased from the picture entirely (Bonnie still managed some appearances in other media but Jeff did not- not even in lot so I've heard..which is odd because that was inspired BY time masters). Rip became characterized as the lone mysterious savant who always has a plan (or can easily figure one out).

Despite the reader knowing his secret that he is Booster's son, we do not tend to get to see much of their family relationship since Rip is more shown as a mentor than anything else. Otherwise Rip is used as a narrative device for stories to bring in a little time travel spice if Booster or that one treadmill isn't available.

I actually find the more interesting Booster and Rip interactions being the ones where Rip is shown to be overwhelmed, in the wrong, or confused instead of the "guy who knows everything". Sadly we don't get to see this often.

Jeff after over 30 years has come back to comics but not in a way I really like, he just doesn't feel like himself at all but neither does any of the time masters. We haven't seen him much yet but I'm just not excited because the reason we have this "loner" characterization of Rip still is because of the same writer who's bringing them back- and yet again its a case of "Rip is running around alone" "ah that's just Rip". Like I thought we went over why that's bad for him LOL.

Anyways I guess the moral of this infodump/rant is this:

FUN FACT TIME:

Jeff and Rip met at MIT where they were both top of their classes!

He is as smart as Rip who is classified officially as a super-genius.

Jeff according to the DC ttrpg books is as wealthy as Ted Kord was when he was still apart of Kord industries.

He also apparently has connections to the Metal Men and Magnus still while Rip does not.

#rip hunter #jeff smith #srry this is a mess im laying down w.o glasses and out of my mind #rip: hi me: WHERES THE REST OF YOU

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