#i could not fit all the songs into the graphic but did do this extra thing IUHGBSHJ | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

random-lil-illing · 1 year

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Call of Duty Ghosts headcanons bc im bored

things these hcs will not have: angst, nsfw, reader/ocs, death (i know ajax died but no he didn't. and logan didn't get kidnapped/taken by the federation wdym)

things that will appear: lots and lots of keegan, a lot of teen! keegan and ajax, logan and hesh, fluff, silliness, lgbtq+ themes, elias, merrick, some rorke, and a tiny bit of neptune and kick. Also riley is there!!! gotta love the dog. also theres swearing. oh and this is a somewhat long post

okay so first up teen keegan and ajax hcs (aka when they first joined the ghosts)

-they lied about their ages for the first few months and then randomly went 'yeah we're actually 16/17'. elias and rorke decided to keep them on the team bc they had potential. merrick was very against it at first but was like 'yeah okay'

-those two definitely confused everyone else with their slang just like hesh and logan do now

-they insisted they were best friends but nobody believed them bc they acted so fruitily with each other (it was all jokes they said)

-if we go with the keegan is trans hc i feel like ajax did a 'diy at home' top surgery

-speaking of the walker bros. keegan was their main babysitter, with ajax as second choice if keegan was unable to. elias paid him like 20-30/hour and gave him an extra thirty dollars if he gave keegan the kiddos before he had time to eat

-keegan was amazing at eyeliner (he still is but tries to convince the rest of the team he doesn't do it anymore. they know better than to believe him) and almost always incorporated it into his eye black for missions

-following this up ajax was the master of painting nails and no one was safe from painted nails until he turned twenty two, including logan and hesh as kids. the only one who was sort of safe was rorke bc ajax never had the patience to convince him

-keegan exclusively wore baggy, graphic t-shirts and sweatpants/jeans/shorts outside of missions. occasionally wore tank tops for training. ajax almost never wore baggy clothes, wearing form fitting clothes instead - tank tops, normal t-shirts, sweatpants, jeans, etc. The two always stole each other's clothes

-keegan had (and has) the absolutely strangest eating habits. cannot eat three full meals a day without complaining about being full, but two meals a day + a bunch of snacks before and after each meal is fine. refuses to eat something he had a bad experience with once in like second grade but will gladly eat something that could kill him. Cannot cook to save his life (can you tell im projecting)

-ajax on the other hand has fairly normal eating habits but could not cook at all back then. he's okay at cooking now, but he till refuses to eat anything raw (including sushi and raw vegetables) or anything too cooked (mushy vegetables and such)

-keegan definitely set curfews for everyone anytime they decided to go out. he wouldn't strictly enfore them but he'd be a bit upset if they weren't followed (he's anxious and cares abt his teammates just doesn't know how to show it)

-i feel like both listened/listen to ayesha erotica atleast a lil. obv they have other music they listen to (metal, rock, etc.) but they definitely have atleast five ayesha songs in their playlists

-keegan has no idea what the p in his name is for. his birth certificate says 'keegan p. russ' (or katherine p. russ if we go with the trans hc). he tried to ask his parents/siblings but they dont know either. ajax always joked its for 'pussy' and logan and hesh followed in ajax's footsteps

-you know those baby tees with like 'i <3 pathetic men' or 'i put the hot in psychotic' on them. yeah ajax and keegan have those but as like oversized shirts

-keegan rarely ever cried/cries bc hes always forcing himself not to. so to encourage him to cry when he feels like it the team gives keegan ten/twenty dollars after everytime he cries and they tell him to 'get himself something sweet to make up for the tears'

-on that note keegan used to have the biggest salty cravings but now he has a terrible sweet tooth. ajax used to like savoury but hes a sucker for spicy now

okay enough teen headcanons lets move on to the present

-we all know logan and hesh are gen z so i propose: the walker brothers confusing everyone with gen z slang/humour/behaviour. things like 'slay' or saying 'im gonna kms' at any minor inconvenience. logan saying 'nice girl dinner' whenever keegan makes his weird but lowkey bomb lazy food

-some of the ghosts (mainly keegan, logan and kick) listen to music on missions. they mainly have appropriate songs for the occasion like phonk or metal but sometimes when they're fighting or killing an enemy inappropriate music starts playing and they have to try so hard not to laugh. i mean keegan slicing someones neck with 'make u cum' by ayesha erotica playing in the background

-logan rarely swears but when he does they are the most brutally creative swears ever. i'm talking 'pussyy-eating son of a French whore' sort of shit, and worse. much worse. hesh swears regularly but gently, elias the same but a bit harsher, rorke swore like a sailor but gentler than logan, neptune only swears when other do, kick never swears (you gotta bribe him to do it), merrick only swears when hesh, logan and keegan can't hear, and keegan swears a lot but nobody ever catches him doing it

-sometimes the ghosts mix their masks up to keep the federation on their toes

-also lets pretend that at the end of the game elias didnt die and logan didnt get captured by rorke and ajax didnt die at the beginning bc that made everyone else sad which makes me sad and just no. no angst here (pls humour me sadness is a very uncomfortable feeling)

-they tried to have separate rooms at their base but eventually they all just moved into the same room minus elias bc they just feel safer that way

-riley is the community service dog no arguing. whenever someones having a panic attack riley helping them. nightmare? dont worry he sleeps in the same as everyone else he'll just cuddle you. trouble eating/doing something? he'll do it with you

-also keegan, kick and logan 100% spoil riley. everyone treats him amazing but these three treat him like a king

-also i think it'd be funny if atleast one of the ghosts kept getting riley's gender wrong and calling him 'she' 'good girl' etc. bc thats exactly what i accidentally keep doing

-riley's very smart but the one thing he doesnt get is why nobody will eat his dog food with him. his logic is that he can eat human food so that means they can eat dog food. the only person that has eaten dog food with riley so far is keegan bc he will eat basically anything as long as the texture/taste/memory with said food is fine

-speaking of which occasionally keegan will just crack an egg and eat it raw infront of the others bc he thinks their reactions are funny. nobody else but neptune and hesh find it funny

-one time kick switched out keegans eyeblack with sharpie ink and keegan couldnt get it off for a week and didnt speak to kick for a month, not even on missions. he had ajax talk for him.

-(over comms on a mission)

kick: hey keegan do you need help?

keegan, fighting for his life against about five enemies alone: ajax tell kick i am about to DIE

-i think it'd be really funny if the ghosts started a tiktok account where they pretended to be airsoft/military cosplayers. theyd get unexpectedly popular and people would be like 'yo wheres ur gear from' and theyd panic and respond with smth like 'we stole it from the government' so theyd just be known as THE anarchist airsoft tiktokers (theyd obviously use different names and masks than usual)

-keegan is the most innocent ghost regarding sexual matters. it was banned talking about/learning about in his house and he never bothered to learn later. he knows the basics (how sex/getting pregnant works) but otherwise no

-merrick, neptune and ajax never had siblings growing up so whenever they see logan and hesh fighting they always wait until either keegan or elias intervene to see if its serious (elias is their dad and keegan grew up with four other siblings). why not kick? kick can't be trusted to intervene if they were tearing each others limbs off bc he and his siblings chased each other with weapons for fun

-keegan loves sugar but doesnt like showing it so he just eats chocolate/ice cream/cake at like two in the morning

-also he moves around a lot in his sleep to the point he could go to sleep on his bed and wake up underneath the same bed like two hours later

-rorke and elias were definitely best friends i refuse to believe they werent. also rorke taught the walker bros how to swear

-the ghosts watch cartoons in their free time. anytime they have a free friday they have movie nights - not limited to cartoons but its mainly that. when they watched the barbie movie they wore pink (also yes they're all feminists no theyre not any -phobic/-ist)

-i know they would never meet him but if they ever met ghost (simon riley) theyd make fun of his accent and maybe mask (especially the 'foap' side profile). they wouldnt take it too far tho i feel like they actually kinda like ghost. he wouldnt like them much tho i feel

-they have game nights and they have rules as to who can play what

-keegan cant play any card games bc he automatically wins everytime or he cheats, no inbetween. hes also banned from twister bc hes the most flexible

-neptune and merrick aren't allowed to play jenga (neptune cheats and merrick always gets way too mad about it). oh and neptune cant play would you rather bc he somehow always is the loser

-logan isnt allowed to play poker or go fish bc he cheats. he also cant play truth or dare bc he always picks truth and never dare

-hesh isn't allowed to play chess because he flips the board. also cant play 'sorry' bc he doesnt like killing off the other players

-kick isnt allowed to play any board game bc he somehow always finds a way to cheat

-elias isnt allowed to play would you rather bc he takes too long to decide

-ajax isnt allowed to play jenga, 'sorry' truth or dare bc hes either cheating or leaving halfway

-merrick also cant play twister bc he cant even do a crab for more than a second. neither can elias but he doesnt want to play anyway

-they have two groupchats - a professional, strictly bussiness one and a free time, silly one. sometimes they'll be talking about a target they have to kill in one groupchat and a minute later theyll be sending memes in the other one. they have the professional chat instead of meeting bc nobody likes those. sometimes someone (usually logan, hesh or kick) will be texting in the casual gc while theyre supposed to be talking abt important stuff in the bussiness gc and merrick or elias will go 'pay attention to the meeting boys' even tho there is no meeting

thats it for now lmk if you want more :]]]

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orquidaeas · 2 years

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TASK #04: PLAYLIST

the revenant, a gilbert orquídeas playlist.

PARTICLES | NOTHING BUT THIEVES. “oh, doctor, please. this don’t feel right. oh, can you give me something to get me through the night? oh, if it all falls apart and if this thing goes wrong, oh put me back together however you want.” // “my mind plays tricks. and i don’t sleep no more. and doctor, please. I can’t switch off.”

DON’T CRY FOR ME | STORMZY, RALEIGH RITCHIE. “in case you think i’ve changed and i’m different, i’m not keeping you at a distance. so have a thought for me, yeah. hold down this floor for me, yeah.” // “remember the time before things changed? back in the day. everything can stay the same. remember i came? remember my name? remember my face? i don’t wanna fade away.”

HANDS TIED | BILLY LOCKETT. “but wait, wait a minute. for a second i lost myself. for a second i lost my whole life” // “and i have days where i know i can't climb but i’ll survive, ‘cause you taught me that i fall in love far too easily.”

HOSTAGES | THE HOWL & THE HUM. “so meet me on the bridge, we’ll hand over our hostages. a fake silver ring, your books in foreign languages. you can keep the coat, it looks better on you. anyway, i’m fine, i guess the cold’s a state of mind.” // “and it wasn’t like you liked me for my sunny views on life. oh, i’m dead on the inside, babe i’ve known that all along. any time i tried to love you i got it wrong.”

ANGEL IN LOTHIAN | SAM FENDER. “back then the door was always open, i’d come and go, back and forth, anytime i need. but i’m needing it more now than ever, as i’m fading away. and i’d claw at the door every bad night, but somehow it’s blocked from the other side. claw till my skin falls apart. until i feel something.” // “and my brother was spiralling down, he said, ‘kid, it’s not me, it’s this town’.”

RED EARTH & POURING RAIN | BEAR’S DEN. “i was waiting for a call. a call never came, so i made my own way, and i can’t find my way back home again.” // “can’t you hear me calling out your name? i’ve got something burning, coursing through these cold veins. in the words we speak, babe, somehow i get lost in between when to suffer in silence or to break it all with each breath that we breathe.”

FUEL ON THE FIRE | BEAR’S DEN. “was it all in my mind? was i lost in my own head? worried about something i regret. is there anything i don’t regret?” // “fuel on the fire, now i’m burning up. fuel on the fire, i won’t let it stop. fuel on the fire, remembering how to love.”

AULD WIVES | BEAR’S DEN. “but i swam across the ocean to find your memory, a trace of all that you have left behind. and the auld wives swore that you were born to die without a child to call out your name. but i call your name.”

LAST TO MAKE IT HOME | SAM FENDER. “i’m godless and wrecked, but i can’t live by those stakes. the semantics are totally outdated. and the love i had is never enough. it bores me and leaves me frustrated.” // “i’m the last to make it home. i’m the last to call it off. i’m the last to meet my bed. and last to bring home the bread. and last to make it home.”

DEW ON THE VINE | BEAR’S DEN. “born to break or to last, is it all in the past? is that a scar or a birthmark? retracing this cold heart, and now i’m all out of thread, and i don’t want to die here.” // “keep chasing echoes of my mind, babe it’s a fine line, and i’m so far over it. and i know it. beneath it all i’m still broken, cut me out, cut it open.”

SPENT GLADIATOR 2 | THE MOUNTAIN GOATS. “like a spent gladiator, crawling in the colosseum dust, who can count on his remaining limbs all the people he can trust.” // “stay alive. maybe spit some blood at the camera. just stay alive.”

GABRIEL | BEAR’S DEN. “is this all i am? all i ever was? all that he has won is all that i have lost. won’t you hear me out, gabriel? can’t you see the shape i’m in? just don’t leave me alone.” // “it’s a part of me, gabriel, i wish i could deny. the face that i can barely recognise. he lives inside me everyday of my life, and i can hear him, screaming in the night.”

WORK SONG | HOZIER. “when my time comes around, lay me gently in the cold dark earth. no grave can hold my body down. i’ll crawl home to her.”

PUNISHER | PHOEBE BRIDGERS. “the drugstores are open all night, the only real reason i moved to the east side. i love a good place to hide in plain sight.” // “i swear i’m not angry, that’s just my face. a copycat killer with a chemical cut. either i’m careless or i wanna get caught.”

CONVERSATIONS WITH GHOSTS | BEAR’S DEN. “you needn’t be a chamber to house all the echoes and voices of those that have left you. are you talking to me or somebody that you once knew, passing through?”

SIX BILLION | NOTHING BUT THIEVES. “sometimes the cord likes to break. sometimes the light tries to bend away. sometimes you’re thrust against the wall. sometimes the world wants to see you crawl.”

THE ARCHER | TAYLOR SWIFT. “they see right through me, i see right through me. all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put me together again, cause all of my enemies started out friends.” // “i wake in the night, i pace like a ghost. the room is on fire, invisible smoke. and all of my heroes die all alone, help me hold onto you.”

LONGHOPE | BEAR’S DEN. “whispering, ‘please, don’t forget me’. my thoughts are all strangling, the words are all dangling before my eyes, but it’s getting so dark in here. i can’t really see anything clear. i’m just feeling my way through the winter night.”

IT WILL COME BACK | HOZIER. “don’t let me in with no intention to keep me, jesus christ. don’t be kind to me. honey, don’t feed me, i will come back.”

SEEN A GHOST | OLD SEA BRIGADE. “somewhere in my private screening i could hear a shadow screaming - you look like you’ve seen a ghost. kicking your mind back to someone you used to know. kicking your mind back to places i can’t go.”

HEEL TURN 2 | THE MOUNTAIN GOATS. “drift down into the new, dark light without any reservations. you found my breaking point - congratulations. spent too much of my life now trying to play fair. throw my better self overboard, shoot at him when he comes up for air. come unhinged, get revenge, i don’t want to die in here.” // “let all the trash rain down from way up in the rafters. i’m walking out of here in one piece, i don’t care what comes after. drive the wedge, torch the bridge. i don’t want to die in here.”

COVERED IN CHAOS | BILLY LOCKETT. “and i know i’ve been messing up lately, living on no sleep, barely alive. i’m covered in chaos, waking up nightly without you. and I’m fading deeper, losing hold of control.” // “and i’ve been kept straight by your hand, but now i’m gasoline, starting fired and washing sand with sea.”

THE PUGILIST | KEATON HENSON. “to remind me i’m living and that i still need it. you pulled me together with blood and soft stitches.” // “and i’m frightened to death you’ll forget me. don’t forget me. don’t forget me. don’t forget me.”

HYPERSONIC MISSILES | SAM FENDER. “when the bombs drop, darling, can you say that you’ve lived your life? oh, this is a high time for hypersonic missiles.” // “they say i’m a nihilist cause i can’t see any decent rhyme or reason for the life of you and me. but i believe in what i’m feeling, and i’m falling for you. this world is gonna end but till then, i’ll give you everything i have.”

MOTION SICKNESS | PHOEBE BRIDGERS. “i have emotional motion sickness. somebody roll the windows down. there are no words in the english language i could scream to drown you out.”

BLANKETS OF SORROW | BEAR’S DEN. “paralysed, your stubborn mind can’t see the woods behind the blankets of sorrow. no one could ever reach or pull you out. you’re sleeping as the sleet just falls, to crystalize your crimson thoughts. no more i’m sorry's. no, i’m not sorry anymore.” // “you’re praying on a driving snow (is that what you want?) to sail you back, to take you back home (don’t shut me out again). the bitter cold or the frost unknown. do i try or comply?”

SMOKE SIGNALS | PHOEBE BRIDGERS. “you. you must have been looking for me. sending smoke signals, pelicans circling.” // “i’m sleeping in my bed again, and getting in my head and then, walk around the reservoir.”

EVERMORE | TAYLOR SWIFT, BON IVER. “hey december, guess i’m feeling unmoored. can’t remember what i used to fight for. i rewind the tape but all it does it pause on the very moment all was lost.” // “and i was catching my breath, barefoot in the wildest winter catching my death. and i couldn’t be sure. i had a feeling so peculiar that this pain would be for evermore.”

MY TEARS RICOCHET | TAYLOR SWIFT. “i didn’t have it in myself to go with grace. you had to kill me but it killed you just the same. cursing my name, wishing i stayed, you turned into your worst fears, and you’re tossing out blame, drunk on this pain, crossing out the good years. look at how my tears ricochet.” // “if i’m on fire, you’ll be made out of ashes too. even on my worst day, did i deserve babe, all the hell you gave me? cause i loved you, i swear i loved you, till my dying day.”

THE STAR OF BETHNAL GREEN | BEAR’S DEN. “and lord, i’m alive. and maybe the star of bethnal green could lead us back to bethlehem. lord, i have tried.”

THE DYING LIGHT | SAM FENDER. “maybe i could use a hand. i must admit i’m out of bright ideas to keep the hell at bay. distractions only last a day. the night is so impossible, it haunts the few who dare to look. it’s marks are so hereditary. i’m terrified of having kids.” // “but i’m damned if i give up tonight. i must repel the dying light. for mom and dad and all my pals, for all the ones who didn’t make the night.”

SPIDERS | BEAR’S DEN. “your promises, they escape you. what’s another burden on the back of this beast? i can’t take back all the hurt i’ve caused. everything i love i have somehow lost. and it’s four in the morning and the spiders are crawling in my mind. replaying pictures of all that i can’t undo.”

BLUE HOURS | BEAR’S DEN. “if i could just break through the glass, if it shatters in my hands then it shatters in my hands. it’s a risk i’m willing to take.” // “why’d you answer in questions whenever i ask you why? don’t act like you’re so hard to find. i know where you hide. why won’t you just stay with me, why do you lie? why’s there always something keeping you up at night?”

#❛ GILBERT. | tasks .#❛ GILBERT. | character study .#i could not fit all the songs into the graphic but did do this extra thing IUHGBSHJ #th #ank u joey for the graphic ily #ptsd tw #spider tw

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pascalpanic · 4 years

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Blood, Sweat, and Tears (Javier Peña x f!Reader)- Chapter One

Summary: You live in Bogotá in the ‘90s, and work odd hours. No, you’re not a DEA agent, but a nurse. These odd hours prompt odd habits, like working out at 2:03 A.M. after a shift. Odd hours attract odd people, and you have a chance encounter with one DEA agent by the name of Javier Peña. Warnings: language, blood and violence (both graphic), descriptions of death and gun violence Chapter 1 W/C: 2.3K A/N: you guys! I am so in love with this fic. I already have quite a bit more written and can’t wait for you to read it! I hope you love it as much as I do! Javi deserves some softness... but not too much. this can’t all be fluff when you’re Javier Peña. Okay, this is not super canon-fitting of Narcos, I’m just gonna be honest with y’all. This is between the time of Escobar’s escape from La Catedral and his final capture and death, but also… Connie’s still in Colombia. Additionally, I don’t really have a year in mind, it’s just somewhere in that period. Please note that this is not a very lighthearted story- it begins with a death, though not of a significant character. Javier and reader both have some trauma, so please check the warnings of each chapter before you start reading. If you’re continuing on, I hope you like it! For the most part, if I use italics here when someone is speaking, it’s indicating that it’s in Spanish. I’m okay at the language, but I don’t want to butcher anything, so… just imagine it. Otherwise, it’s just the way anyone would use italics I guess.

next chapter

Chapter One

You watched a woman you didn’t know die in your arms tonight.

She was beautiful, all dressed up to go out and party, her makeup running down her face with tears. Her lips were the painted the color of the blood that trickled from the side of them, eyes glazing over as she coughed and coughed and ruined the beautiful dress she wore. The nurses had asked what happened, and she had told them, through gurgles of blood: she had slept with one of Escobar’s men. She got too close, learned too much, and they tracked her down.

She flatlined not long after telling the nurses around you. You had stood in the corner, paralyzed at first. You were an experienced ER nurse, nothing was new. You had seen patients die, but something about her was different. Maybe it was the way she reached out to you right before her body went limp. You didn’t make it to her bedside in time to calm her, the panic holding you down, but you finally took her hand right as she took her last breath.

After she passed, you threw up in the bathroom, shaking and clutching the toilet. The night air had grown unbearably hot and humid, causing your scrubs to cling to your skin, and the sweat from the heaving of your stomach didn’t make things easier on you. Lorena, a fellow nurse and your best friend at work, had found you and comforted you, rubbing your back and bringing you water. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t reverse what had happened.

Now, you sit on a bench in the staff’s locker room, redoing the ponytail holding your hair from your damp face. Your shift ended a few minutes ago, but you don’t know what to do now. You don’t feel like drinking; that would only make the visions swimming in your head worse. You know you can’t go home, can’t attempt to find sleep tonight. You look up and spot a bag with tennis shoes and spare clothing and settle your mind on at least one thing: the gym could do you some good. You change into the clothes and put the blood-spattered scrubs in the laundry pile.

As you leave, you give Lorena a little wave goodbye and exit the building. You’re hyper-aware of your surroundings tonight, and you groan as you look at your watch and notice that it’s precisely 2:09 A.M. here in Bogotá. The walk to your fitness club is short, but your step is slightly extra hurried and your hand is on your pepper spray the entire time, extra vigilant to the fact that a hit went down somewhere around here just a few hours earlier. Surprisingly enough, no one catcalls or bugs you tonight.

The little gym is run-down and dilapidated, and there’s no working air conditioning, but it’s the only one near you. You paid the small monthly membership fee to gain access, and you were going to use it to get in shape, you’d decided. As you swipe in and enter, the tiny fitness center looks more depressing in the fluorescent lights, no daylight to sugarcoat the atrocities of the center. There are two of every machine, a punching bag and a speed bag, two weightlifting racks, and a couple of benches.

It’s nice that you get to work out alone tonight, you tell yourself. Even better is the fact that you now get to control the music. Desperate for a taste of home, you flip the large boombox in the corner on and begin scanning the airwaves with the dial. There’s a station in town that plays American music, and you need it more than anything tonight. You listen carefully and nearly start sobbing again as you hear Billy Joel’s voice through the speakers. With a sigh of relief, you lock your bag in the rusty lockers in the corner and head to the treadmill. It’s a beat up old thing, but this is the one you always use. It provides a little bit of comfort tonight, the familiarity of it. You turn it on low and start walking. A few moments later, you up it to a jog, mouthing along to the words of the familiar song.

As the song ends, you push the buttons enough to enter a running speed. Your feet slam into the treadmill harder than normal tonight, feeling as overwhelmed as when you left the hospital. Your body finally works up a sweat, the physical stress overwhelming the mental stress.

As the events of tonight replay in your head to some other song from the late 80’s, your eyes start to water. Everything was so overwhelming, and your mind is just starting to process it. You finally allow the tears to fall, mixing with the sweat coating your cheeks. It’s hard to tell which is causing more of the mess, but you let yourself cry it out as you run for the next few minutes.

The next song that comes on is Venus by Bananarama. You almost chuckle at the fact that it’s a few years old by now, but the song is comforting. It reminds you of home, of a time before you had issues like these. You slow down the treadmill a little, singing to the words aloud once you catch your breath enough. Daring to do a little spin on the rolling surface, you groove along to the music, chuckling a little

After the first chorus, you hear a creaking noise and whip around to find a man standing in the doorway. “Jesus fucking Christ!” You shout before you can stop yourself, hopping off the treadmill and onto the non-moving one before you get flung off. Your heart is pounding from the running, only intensifying the adrenaline rush from the scare.

The man chuckles a little, but the smile on his face doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s tired- of course he is, it’s now 2:30 in the morning. “Lo siento,” you offer in Spanish, cringing at yourself and your reaction just now. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here this late,” you stutter, still panting from the running. He shakes his head lightly. “You’re American,” he says simply. In English, in a beautifully American accented voice.

Your sweaty brow furrows, a glimmer of hope sparking inside your chest as you notice that he speaks like an American himself. “So are you.”

He nods at that. “That I am,” he says as he puts his things in a locker, snapping it shut behind him. He looks at you for a moment. You’re not working at the Embassy, or he’d know you. It was rare to find an American down here that wasn’t working for the government somehow. He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, looking at how tired he appears in the big mirrored wall. He’s curious, but he’s exhausted.

You look at him for a moment. “You going to explain anything, like, tell me about yourself? Or do I have to go first?” You ask, hands on your waist as you hop back on the slowly moving treadmill, back into moving. He doesn’t respond. “Fine. I know you’re government. I’m not an idiot.”

He chuckles and tugs on his t-shirt, moving to the treadmill next to you and getting on. It’s been ages since you’ve held a conversation in English, and you missed this, missed how easily your first language flows from your mouth. “And you’re not.”

“Correct,” you nod, turning up the speed a little on the machine until you’re at a light jog. “My bigger concern was going to be why you’re here at 2-fucking-30, but I’m guessing I know the answer. You get called in around here for the hit?” He nods, starting the treadmill up and walking on it.

“You don’t have to be so guarded, Jesus. I fucking hate Escobar, I’m on your side,” you scoff before turning up the machine until you’re running once more.

Javier shrugs. “Makes sense. How did you know-”

“She died,” you say quickly and firmly, keeping your eyes straight ahead and looking at the room around you. “Add that to your file.”

He nods, understanding a little more now. You knew her somehow. He doesn’t say a word either, cranking up the machine and heading into a jog too.

A few more minutes pass of the two of you silently running next to each other, the American music still playing throughout the gym. It’s a comfort to Javier too. Tonight was shit for the DEA- they had known Escobar’s men would be around here. They had the intel, they had everything ready, but the men somehow had escaped and left a victim in their wake.

The frustration of everything, of the man being something close to home for you yet being a brick wall, threatens your eyes with welling tears again. “I just wanted to talk with an American,” you sigh and cross your arms, moving back into the walking stage of a treadmill.

The man next to you gives a similar sigh, stopping his treadmill completely and offering you a hand. “Javier Peña.” You take it reluctantly, feeling the sweat of both of your hands mix, and tell him your name before retracting it and stopping the treadmill too. “So, what brings you to the gym at 2:30?” He asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the center part of the treadmill.

“I’m a nurse. I work the graveyard shift. Bad night, a patient died because she got fucking shot for having a boyfriend and not knowing he was a narco, I need to get something out, I come here,” you shrug, unconsciously mimicking him by folding your arms as well.

He nods at that. “I’m here for the same. Shitty stakeout, I’m pissed off, I come here.” He leaves out the part about his favorite call girl being taken, and how he needed another way to get the rage inside of him out. He walks off of the treadmill and to the weight rack, pulling a bench beneath the bar.

You turn again and turn the machine back on, slowly jogging. “I see. Odd hours to be here, that’s why I asked,” you say simply. “And to see another American at such a time. I haven’t interacted with one since I came here.”

Javier nods, adjusting the weights on the bar. “Yeah. Weird,” he nods. “And that you’re an American who isn’t working for the government and you’re down here. What, you got a husband who works for us?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard for a moment. “No, don’t have a husband in the first place,” you admit, adjusting the ponytail holding your hair up. “It’s a long story.”

“We got time,” he shrugs as he gets on the bench beneath the rack, looking at you in the mirrored wall. Even with the sweat and the stress of working out, he notices that you’re gorgeous. You have a nice body, and even your face is pretty while you’re working out.

You shake your head. “Fine, if you really want to hear it.”

“Might as well. It’s that or more of this fucking Wham! music, and I’m sick of George Michael.”

“First of all, first person here gets the music, so mind your manners.” This finally earns a chuckle from the man, and you want to smile but it just can’t come. “I came down here with a man. He’s a citizen here. We were going to get married, but he left me. That was a couple of months ago now,” you admit, the tears beading in the corner of your eye again. “My work visa was still valid, and I renewed it so I can keep working at the hospital. I don’t really have anyone down here except the girls I work with, but I like helping out. They need me.” He nods a little as he listens, breaking his focus as he starts his reps with the bar.

“And you’re government, so that explains everything I need to know about you,” you continue to babble. “One of the girls I work with has a husband who’s at the Embassy. Murphy,” you say offhandedly.

Javier’s attention is caught, and he sets the bar on the rack. “Murphy?” He asks, and you turn your head to look at him and give him a nod. “No shit. That’s my partner.”

You chuckle slightly and look back at him, stopping the treadmill. “So you know Connie?”

Javi nods. “Yeah, great gal. She could do better than Steve,” he says, sitting up.

You laugh softly at that. “From what I’ve heard of him, I agree. She’s a really great girl, you’re right,” you nod in agreement, looking back at him. “She’s never mentioned you. She says her husband’s in janitorial, but we all know that’s not true. What, you guys CIA? DEA?”

Javier nods again. “DEA.”

“I see,” you say, folding your arms and leaning against the machine. “Can’t make you many friends around here. I learned pretty quickly to keep my mouth shut about being a gringa. They can usually tell though.”

“You’re right,” he chuckles and cracks his back.

You bite your lip as you look at him, your voice watery when you can finally speak again, suddenly overwhelmed by emotion again. “It’s nice to talk to someone in English again,” you admit with a forced smile.

He can read your eyes easily. You’re a nurse, and you told him that the victim died. You saw it. “It is,” he nods, reading your pain and trying to show you he empathizes with it. Your eyes are beautiful, he notices as he looks into them. So much more hope and trust than anyone else he works with, but the pain in them is unbearable. He looks away, leaning back on the bench to lift again.

“So where you from in the States?” You finally ask when the silence is too long.

“Laredo, Texas,” he chuckles. “Yourself?”

#javier peña x reader #javi peña x reader #javier peña #javi peña #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pascalpanic #narcos #narcos fanfic #blood sweat and tears

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beatleszeppelin · 3 years

Text

You're A... Inexperienced Chapter 2

Summary: On watch one night you find out some thing that Daryl has never done. And you offer him some experience.

Category: Friends to Lovers, Eventual Mild Smut, just a good ol’ time

Paring: Daryl x reader (second person)

Warnings/Includes: General Walking Dead grossness, Smut (but not in this chapter), swearing, use of weapons, non-graphic hunting, mention of past child abuse, (let me know if you see anything else)

Word count: 3k

Chapter 1 Masterlist

Chapter 2 Naked in a Lake

The next few days were fairly uneventful. Seeing Daryl only in passing. He stayed outside when you were in; you stayed outside when he stayed in.

Not even shifts brought you together. Since the fall of Woodbury, there have been plenty of new people taking shifts to give you all a break.

Most of your time was spent helping with the kids in the library when Carol was too busy doing important things to “babysit”. Or you occasionally helped out at the farm on the south side of the prison. Rick and Hershel had started it over the past few months, and already it had yielded some fine meals.

Those meals were also made courtesy of Daryl, who went out into the woods on the daily, not going far, but far enough to be out all day and come back with a belt full of squirrels and rabbits by night. You had no idea how he did it or how far he went, but he seemed to be used to the days of solitude, in nature alone.

That was all until he planned to go out a bit farther, only for a couple days, but that was more that he had been gone in a while, more than anyone had been alone for a while. When he shared these plans, you decided that you would go out hunting with him, you know, because there is safety in numbers, (and you were dying to see what he spent so much time doing everyday).

So when morning came, and it was time to leave you brought your bag and followed him to the gate. He squinted at you being blinded by the morning light that rose over the prison. “I’m coming with you, is that alright?” You asked him knowing that he couldn’t argue. You awaited his response, but it never came, instead he had the gate opened and held his arm out like a gentleman letting you lead.

You guys walked past the spikes that guarded the outside of the gates, just as the queens guards once did outside of Buckingham palace. Kicking rocks and dust clouds along the path, walking went fairly slow. Not much to say, not much to do this early in the morning. You hadn’t even waited for Carl and Carol’s shift, which normally signified morning, to start before you had left. (You were sure he had said good-bye to them, Rick, and Judith the night before though. He was good like that.)

When the sun, which was barely peering over the land when you left, had risen enough to give you a long shadow, stretched out in front of you; you decided it was time to eat. Taking the backpack off your shoulders, and unzipping it when it was in front of you, you pulled out a small loaf of bread. You broke it in half and handed some to Daryl. He gnashed into it like a rabid dog, grunting a thank you in between bites.

You nibbled off bites as you walked, trying to savor it as something to do. The scenery of trees and a dirt path was getting old. You couldn’t understand how someone could go out along this path all day every day.

It was hot, too. Hot and sweaty. By mid-day you felt as though you were dragging, lifting your legs in a pedantic manner. Daryl’s hair was stuck to his forehead, and he had stripped his poncho, just left in a cut off flannel. He seemed to be perfectly fine in the heat though, barely even touching his water.

You wonder if he stayed outside a lot before as well. There’s something about him that makes it so hard to imagine him in his house, in a domestic setting. Did he do the dishes, and make himself food? Was his room clean, did he make his bed every morning before work? Did he have a job? What did he do? But you know that wondering these things will only pass the time, because there is no way he’d ever casually mention his previous life.

People had tried guessing, to no avail. Beth’s new boyfriend, Zach, was the leader of the guessers, being followed by the children, and you’ve even discussed it with both Michonne and Carol before. It would really take something special to make him confess his stories to someone, who knows who could get that close to him though.

You spent the majority of your walk picturing him in an office setting, wearing a tie and answering phones. Or at a gas station glaring at little kids who try to stuff candy bars up their sleeves, scaring them into obeying the law.

Mechanic seemed to fit best. Not a sleazy mechanic that finds more things to break to get

some extra cash, but one that spends day and night tracking down an original piece to some old beat up motorcycle. He wouldn’t charge extra for labor, cause he’d be doing the thing he loved most. He would treat each bike as his own, tirelessly making it perfect until the finishing pieces were in their exact place, like the sprinkles on a sundae.

“Gonna cut into the woods, right here.” He nodded, directing you.

“Oh yeah, sorry,” you said, snapping out of your little daydream. “Ya’ okay?” He ducked down, meeting your eyes though his hair.

“Yeah, I’s just thinking.”

“‘Kay, just watch out in here. Can’t make too much sound.”

You walked through the dense forest, making as little noise as you possibly could. Heel, toe; heel, toe. Only cracking branches and crunching leaves every few steps, listening to Daryl’s deep steadying breaths in between.

He taught you how to lay traps, and snares; different knots and when to use them. By the end of the day you could set your own, with the reassurance that he would help kill whatever you caught. No matter how many walkers you would kill, and how much bad shit you’ve seen. It still felt weird killing animals to eat.

The trapping, and mapping out your paths came to an end as night fell. The darkness made it too difficult to achieve the superb knots you were tying, and the sub par snares that Daryl would set, so you two decided to call it a night, sleeping in shifts back to back.

The next day went the same, but it was now time for the actual hunting. You left the killing to Daryl, using your lack of a silent long range weapon, like the crossbow as an excuse. You guys sat up wind, and out of the line of sight of any animals that may pass. It was quiet, and you understood why he liked it.

Hunting wasn’t all killing like you had imagined; hunting was 99% sitting quietly in nature, 1% killing.

You can’t lie about the fact that when a deer came into sight, you closed your eyes and didn’t open them until you heard the click of the trigger on the crossbow. You didn’t want to see the animal die, but you can’t feel bad about how many people that deer could feed.

Daryl took care of the dirty work, cleaning, and “prepping” the deer to be taken home. You sat by and watched.

Once the task was complete, you started back for the prison, hoping it would cut some of the time of the walk back tomorrow. This time was cut short by the approaching darkness of night.

You two set up a small camp to spend the ever closer night. And with cans on strings, as tripwire, and your backs to each other, you two felt it was safe enough to get some rest, that was until the cans rattled.

The sounds of metal clanking, shook you from your not so deep sleep. You whipped around to see a walker reaching over your barricade of tangled fishing wire and old soda cans. It stumbled over and grabbed Daryl's boot, luckily he tied up his pant legs with cords to keep from being scratched. You scrambled over to a half awake Daryl and pulled his knife from his pocket, stabbing it into the undead's brain. He nodded graciously as you handed his knife back. You both sat still in the early hours of the morning, breathing heavily until your adrenaline died down.

Your eyes stung from lack of sleep, but it was nothing compared to how Daryl looked. His eyes were puffy, and had dark purple craters around them, and what little you could see of his eyes were bloodshot. His hair stuck up in every which direction, the bangs that normally cover his face, were defying gravity, and exposed his forehead.

“You can sleep, but let's face each other this time,” you planned.

“You sure?” he said groggily.

“Yeah, if you saw yourself, you’d be sure too.”

He scoffed, and pulled his vest out as an acting pillow, tucking one arm under it, and laying his head down. He fell asleep shortly, and you watched.

The expression he made was soft, and innocent, less like a child and more like a puppy that tired out running in a field all day. He subconsciously held his thumb to his mouth. He breathed heavily through his mouth, with quiet snores escaping occasionally.

You didn’t sleep at all that night, you couldn’t let anything disturb the peace. You weren’t tired, though, you actually felt like you had gotten a full night’s rest.

The two of you started home at the crack of dawn, with dull yellow light illuminating the grass you stood on. You took to the woods for your trek home, rather than the long road you took to get there.

Halfway through the day you happened upon a lake that looked beautiful, a direct juxtaposition to everything you had been used to seeing. The water sparkled, and light refracted off the ripples in every which direction. Birds made chirping sounds that echoed through the dense forest, and made a song through the trees.

Daryl grabbed a plastic bottle, and some of the sandy silt that covered the edge of the water, making a makeshift water filter. As he did so, you took off your shorts and threw them aside, wading into the water. The water was greenish, but you could see your feet, and the dust clouding around your steps. The water was warm enough to not give you the chills, but cool enough to be refreshing.

Once the water hit your hips, you took your shirt off and threw it a few feet away from Daryl, joining your shorts, and shortly after your bra. You watched him finish his contraption and fill it.

“Should have some water in an hour or so…” he looked up and saw you, then quickly looked back at his bottle.

“Maybe we could catch a fish or something, too,” you said, smiling at his back. “You should join me in here.”

“Nah” he shook his head.

“Yeah, when was the last time you got cleaned up?”

“I ain’t gonna, someone needs to be a lookout.” He looked up at you, standing his ground. “Anyway, I gotta piss.”

He started walking away and you yelled to him, “Yeah, sure you do, Dixon.” You splashed his way, but he had already walked behind the trees.

A noise came from your left, behind a couple of thick trees. Two walkers stumbled out, slipping on the sandy hill. You didn’t have any weapons on you, and getting back over to your clothes seemed like a death wish. They were closer to the clothes and things than you were. Daryl didn’t even have his crossbow with him, it was in the pile next to the water filter.

You yelled for Daryl, hoping he’d get back before the walkers could reach you. You yelled again, and it drew their attention. They were about at the edge of the water now, and you were fucked… but a whistle came out of the woods.

Daryl showed up and whistled loudly to catch the attention of the dead walking toward you. It worked. They started toward him at a slow pace, and you ran over to the pile of stuff. You picked one off with the crossbow. Daryl tripped backwards on a rock, and the walker stumbled towards him, wishing to bite into the leg that was trying to kick it backwards. He grabbed the rock, lifted it over his head, and smashed it down onto the walker, and hitting it again smashed his head open, covering Daryl in it’s blood. He leaned back and dropped the rock. He took a second to catch his breath.

“Hey, thanks” You said to him as you were naked and dripping like a wet dog.

He sighed and raised his eyebrows. Which you will take as a “no problem.”

Daryl’s hair dripped with blood, guts, and rotting chunks of flesh. His shirt was wet, red, and sweaty. The muddy sand covered his pants and hands, leaving him dirtier than before.

“I guess you have to join me now” you said, still mostly naked.

He begrudgingly kicked off his boots, and slid his vest off down his shoulders, letting it drop on the floor. He started walking to the edge of the water, when you had to stop him.

“What, NO!” You said haulting him, “You are not still wearing your socks.”

He took off his socks, and his pants. He walked into the lake, a couple feet in and the water hit the bottom of his shirt.

You never took Daryl as the type of person to not be okay with taking his shirt off, but here he was: standing in a lake with his shirt on, contemplating whether he should take it off or not. He stood there for a couple seconds before looking at you, and when you gave him a reassuring smile, he took it off. He looked good with it off, you didn’t see a problem, until he turned around.

He whipped around fast to throw his shirt on land, and as he did, you saw his back. He was covered in scars. Yeah, some could be new, from fighting, from surviving, but you take it he’d been surviving for a lot longer than the rest of you had.

The slashes that riddled his skin were old. He could have gotten most of them when he was still a kid. You swallowed hard, he turned and faced you but neither of you met each other's eyes. He got quiet. And as his hand pensively rubbed the back of his neck, as he thought about what you must think of him.

“Hey, come on in the water’s fine,” you said to ease the tension.

It seemingly worked, because the next thing he did was dive under, swimming to you in a second. The water rippled along the path he had swam, and broke around his emerging body. You met his eye. He nodded to you as a thanks, and you shook your head back at him in a no problem kind of way. This practice had become routine, it was easier than constantly owing thanks to the other person for some trivial task such as saving their lives.

He broke eye contact and looked down, “Still gotta piss.”

You snickered. Then stepping back a couple of feet you gestured for him to go right ahead.

He looked at you, head cocked a little, and then the realization hit and his ears turned bright red. He turned around, and you got a better look at his scars. Some were short slashes, some longer, and others crossed over each other. You couldn’t fathom the person that would hit a child, let alone Daryl; Daryl was sweet, and could never have done something that deserved this treatment.

He finished up and faced you, but didn’t meet your eyes. You got a look at him, the man that just pissed in the pool in front of you, his ears were red as well as his cheeks making a bridge across his nose. The blush trailed down to his upper chest in splotches, like watercolors splaying out.

He chewed the corner of his thumb and said, “Ya’ know, I used to piss the bed as a kid.”

“I mean we all did,” You said. “Come here.”

He complied, “Nah, I mean ‘til I’s like 8 or so.”

“Bend over,” you told him.

He leaned back and you started washing his hair for him, detangling it with your fingers, and picking things out of it like you were monkeys.

“I remember a couple times it happened, had to sneak out late at night and do my laundry in the bathroom, so no one’d hear me. But this once, my dad wasn’t home so, I didn’t get… but my mom had this whole ‘nother way of doing it. She took my clothes. Pinned me down, Merle helped. She put a diaper on me, made me sleep outside.”

“When you were 8?” You cupped some water and dumped it over his head.

“Uh huh, made me wear ‘em to school, too. Under my clothes. Said if I took ‘em off she’s gonna tell my dad, so I didn’t.” He went back to biting his thumb.

“That shouldn’t have happened to you,” you said, moving to wash his shoulders.

He shrugged, and flinched away when you ran your finger over a scar on his back.

“You know, stress and trauma cause children to start wetting the bed later on in childhood, it's called enuresis, it wasn’t your fault,” You splashed water on his shoulders, noticing the freckles made by the sun.

“Done?” He asked, standing up straight.

“What?”

“Am I done?” he asked and shook his hair out like a dog.

“Yeah, you’re good.”

Daryl quickly made his return to land, you however stayed in the water until the filter was done giving you each a bottle. Every once in a while you catch him glance over at you floating naked in the lake, but his eyes would quickly divert.

#daryl dixon #daryl x reader #twd fanfic #twd #daryl dixon fanfiction #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead #tw past child abuse #I love the lake scene

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blush-and-books · 4 years

Note

Canonverse, mutual pining, confession, and a guitar! (this is willies-skateboard btw) No pressure ofc! I bet you're getting a lot of these

lol hi!! i started combining a lot of these because they are so similar. yours and one that said “Canon-verse, mutual pining, confession, Perfect Harmony” fit really well!!!! enjoy :)

TW: blood?? its an analogy and its not like graphic i swear i just. started and couldn’t stop. sorry?

When Julie got home from school on a fateful Friday afternoon, she ran to the garage that has once again become her second home with the hope that the boys would be there.

(Well, specifically, Luke. But she loves them all.)

What she doesn’t expect to walk in on a nearly empty garage, except for the ghost who owns her heart, who has a guitar in his hands and is strumming away at a familiar song. A song that he didn’t know -- or at least, definitely shouldn’t know -- and humming along to the exact melody of the words.

He was playing the love song that she wrote for him to try and catch all of the love she had for him so that it didn’t accidentally overflow and come out at inopportune moments. Writing the song was almost a little like blood-letting; she did it to try and get all of the love out.

But just like how blood-letting wasn’t a medically effective method to treat sickness, writing Perfect Harmony did not dispel the butterflies in her stomach when Luke smiled a smile that was just for her, or the ache in her heart whenever he looked at her like he had struck gold. She was stuck loving a ghost. It didn’t help that this same ghost was able to hug her and hold her hand all of the time, either.

Now, those callused hands were plucking out the notes that she had written herself, and his head was bopping along with the beat, and it sounds almost exactly how she had imagined it but that was all it was ever supposed to be: Something she imagined.

Her blood was spilled on those pages; each drop of crimson laced with an overdose of affection.

And it was all bare to him now.

“Why are you playing that?”

Her voice is shakier than she has ever heard it before. Luke looks up from the paper that had the notes he was following, smiling wide -- but his lips curl down when he sees the mortified look on her face.

“You left it out in your room, and I went in there to find where I left my beanie the other night, and…” He trails off, moving the guitar from his lap to approach her. “Did I do something wrong?”

In any other case, yes. But she was just stupid. Luke is allowed to go into her room if he ever needs to, it’s more the snooping that she has a problem with -- but he wasn’t even snooping. It was out in the open.

She didn’t bandage her arm properly, and the blood continued to spill.

“No,” she croaks, looking intently at one of the plants back behind the grand piano. “No, I- I did.”

And then she spins around, because oh my God he found the song and oh my God does he know it’s for him, but the second she steps out of the garage, he’s poofing in front of her. She ends up running right into his chest, when he rests his hands on her upper arms to keep her in place.

“Jules, what’s up? Is something wrong with the song? I just saw it, and it was really good, and I thought we could practice it when you got home-”

“It was really good? That’s all you think?”

It feels like the wound has been ripped open. The song didn’t work, so she has to get out more -- and Luke is right here, and she’s shocked, so it looks like the blood will continue to spill onto him.

Can’t he see that she’s been bleeding for weeks? She’s tired. She wants him to stop the bleeding.

His thumbs trace soft circles against her shoulders as his eyebrows furrow together at seeing her anguish. “Well, I mean- It’s amazing, Julie. Everything you do is. Whoever you wrote it for is going to really love it.”

The blood is on his hands and he can’t see it.

God, she’s so tired.

“Do you?” She asks, heart racing in her chest trying to pump all of the blood out of her body and get her to stop feeling like this. His hands grasp around her arms tighter, like he’s shocked and is desperately hoping she’s saying what he wants her to be saying. “Do you really love it?”

Finally, he sees it. The crimson. The love dripping from Julie’s wounds, his name embedded in the DNA. His hands slide up her arms and to her neck, allowing his thumbs to resume their tracing along her cheeks and jaw.

“Do I love it?” He repeats, extra emphasis on the eye. Between his hands, Julie nods. Magnetically, he leans into her farther. “I do. I really love it.”

There’s a double meaning in there too -- Julie catches the small scratch on his arm opening up for her.

“You wanna come play it with me? I wanna show you how I was thinking of playing it on the guitar.”

The guitar. The beautiful guitar that played him in during her fantasy, and now she gets to hear it for herself, straight from his fingers. She wants nothing more.

And she tells him as much.

For the next hour, she sits in his arms, with his guitar being shared in her lap. His hands overlap hers and their arms are entangled, and eventually, they are distracted from the guitar and more focused on tracing the scars that they had inflicted for one another.

As his index finger runs up the inside of her forearm, right along her veins, she can feel her cut sealing together, and the bleeding has finally stopped. She doesn’t need to dispose of her love for him anymore -- not now that he’s wrapping her up in him, determined to show her all of the love from him she’s been missing.

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violetnotez · 4 years

Text

Ohohoho yes anon let’s turn this broccoli boi to the dark side 😈😈😈 also thank u @gallickingun for helping me with the plot!!!! And @jojosmilktea for hyping up my banner cause I seriosuly don’t know what I’m doing with graphics 😂😂😂

Izuku x reader

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 2700

Warnings: slight cussing

Summary: Izuku feels he is never going to get a chance to be close to you, being you two are so much more different than each other. But seeing you spar with Bakugo makes him decide that he has to shoot his shot-before it becomes too late.

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Y/n l/n.

Your name was written at the top of the page in Izuku’s messy handwriting, the name particularly more neat than the other names in his notebook.

Right under your name was a crude sketch of your hero suit, just like the rest of his pages of notes. Yours was somehow a little different, a little more detailed than the rest. It seemed to have more care put into it, as well as a lot more notes surrounding it than the other entries.

The other pages about the heroes and students he had encountered were much more simpler than yours, the writing only focusing on their powers and their notable strengths. You on the other hand, were different-Izuku had seemed to write everything about you he could fit into that initial page, the immense amount of detail eventually spreading out to the following pages.

No matter how he looked at the situation, Izuku knew he had fallen head over heels for you. He knew he shouldn’t have-it was like you two were practically in two different worlds.

You were blunt, assertive, and a little on the rebellious side. You acted first and thought of rules later, being the first to challenge someone to a fighting match, or agree to a dare no matter how risque it was. You were a risk taker, and you knew it, which made you such a perfect addition to Bakusquad.

Izuku,on the other hand, was nothing like that- he studied everyday like a good student, and always made sure to stay out of trouble as much as possible. He colored in between the lines, and he felt like he was so bland when compared to your wild spirit.

Even though you two were completely different in every way, he couldn’t keep you out of his head. You never seemed to look down on him, always greeting him with a warm smile and asking him how he was. Your laugh echoed in his head like a catchy song, and the way you would send him smiles from across the room made his heart race. Izuku was fully aware that he was most likely going to get his heart broken if he didn’t make a move soon, but he was content at the moment with admiring your beauty and resilience from afar.

“Cmon y/n, I told you not to go easy on me!”

Izuku perked his head up from his note taking, noticing that voice to be none other than Bakugo. Poor Izuku’s eyes were blown out of sockets, though, as he saw the scene unfolding in front of him.

There was Kachan, his friend and sometimes rival, toppled on top of you, his torso straddling your hips. Bakugo’s large hands had your wrists pinned to the ground, his powerful legs pushing yours into the ground to keep you from squirming.

Uncharacteristic anger bubbled inside Izuku as he saw Bakugo on top of you in such a suggestive pose. He knew you two were just training, but-he couldn’t help but wish that he was the one on top of you, not Bakugo. Heck, he just wished he was the one you asked for help with training and not Kachan. Izuku never wanted to feel like he was competing with his friend, but right now, he felt like he was-and he was losing.

It didn’t help either that you were close to Bakugo, always hanging out with him and his friends. You weren’t that afraid of his yelling and his threats, merely laughing at him when he was on another rampage. Bakugo seems to treat you like an equal, actually offering you compliments from time to time and allowing you to train with him. Izuku knew only a few people could earn Bakugo’s respect, and it couldn't be a good thing for his love life if his antisocial best friend seemed to take an extra interest in his crush.

Izuku watched as you laughed at Bakugo’s statement, your sweet laugh ringing like bells.

“Hell Bakugo, you thought that was me going easy? I was just getting started!” You scoffed at the ash blonde boy, your chest then connecting with his.

Izuku sucked in a tight breath, holding it in as he watched you wrap your legs around your opponent. You then quickly flipped your bodies around, landing so it was now you, not Kachan, who was on top. Bakugo took a large gasp of air, his lungs unable to get a proper inhale from the sudden movement.

You shoved his shoulders into the ground, shimmying on his chest to get a better grip.

“God Bakugo, you're so quiet!” You smirked, “Didn't know you liked being a bottom so much-“

“S-s-shut the hell up you damn idiot, I’ll fucking-“ Bakugo instantly started yelling at you, the twinge of red in his cheecks hard to ignore for Izuku. You continued to laugh at his reaction, your body shaking from the giggles as you continued to sit on his stomach.

Izuku looked down at his notebook full of notes about his devotion to you, sighing sadly-

Yeah, he had no chance.

As you continued to chuckle, trying to hold your grip on the aggressive boy under you, you looked to your left. To your surprise, you saw a lonely looking Midoriya under a shady spot of a tree, looking slightly sad as he stared down at his lap.

You and Izuku were pretty good friends, as you both seemed to have mutual likes and interests in and out of class. You didn’t talk much to the green haired boy, but you found him to be extremely sweet and quite attractive. You also didn’t socialize with him as much as you wished you did, but since you two were completely different friend groups, it made it quite difficult to hang out with the greenette.

You wished you knew what was going on in that poor boy's head right now, his head hanging low on his shoulders. He looked so defeated, his back arched as if he was carrying a heavy burden on himself.

“Shitty woman-your hurting my fucking wrists!” Bakugo spat out, his eyes filled with anger. You smirked at your opponent, knowing full well that was his way of “taping out”.

“Sorry Bakubro-,” you replied, rolling off his stomach as he rubbed his wrists tenderly, muttering about how “crappy” you were.

You ignored your friend’s remarks, making your way over to the poor boy underneath the cherry blossom tree. He didn’t seem to even notice you walking towards him, his hands resting sadly on his notebook in deep thought. You smiled softly at him-he looked so cute when he was thinking so intently, even if he did look a little solemn.

“Hey, Earth to Midoriya!” You hovered your hand over his eyes, breaking his daze.

“Oh-uh-y-y/n!” He squeaked, his body jumping from your sudden presence.

You laughed at his jumpiness, causing a red hue to grace his cheeks. Izuku didn’t even notice you sneaking up on him...but the fact he had made you laugh made him stomach feel warm and fluttery.

You stood in front of the boy, thinking it might be better to be at eye level with him.

“Mind if I sit?” You asked

Midoriya shook his head vigorously, his heart pumping wildly in his chest. “N-n-no, not at all!” He said enthusiastically, scooting over so you had more room.

You plopped yourself right next to him, seemingly unfazed by the sudden closeness. Izuku, on the other hand, was freaking out internally.

He could practically feel the heat radiating off you, your infectious personality seeping into his, brightening up his spirits. Your shoulder was resting on his, the breeze flitting through both your hairs. He couldn’t believe you had come to him, let alone sit next to him and want to talk. Even if you maybe had a thing with Bakugo, this was a win in his head.

You looked down at Midoriya's hands, noticing the slight shake in his fingertips. You smiled softly-this boy was too nervous for his own good.

“Are your hands doing okay-I know you train really hard,” you stated matter of factly, tenderly picking up one of his scarred and calloused hands with your own.

Izuku’s brain was about to explode-you were touching him now? Even though his brain felt fuzzy and full of static, he loved the way your skin felt against his own. It was just as calloused, but the skin was softer and feather light, the pads of your fingers tracing each scar like a message in Braille. You flipped his hand over gently, following the roads of his skin as you inspected his hand.

Each touch left a ticklish feeling that settled in his skin, the tingling simultaneously calming and accelerating his heart rate. God, he could get used to this.

“Their-their doing fine,” he stuttered out, his face engulfed in red.

“You sure?” You gave him a knowing look, a small smirk on your lips. “Cause you look like you punched a wall”

You giggled at his embarrassed face, your sweet voice making his heart thump against his chest.

“Well, since I’m still not used to my power yet, it takes quite a toll on my body,” he rambled , staring at the hand you were currently holding, “s-so I have to train extra hard to allow my body to fully grow to handle its power.”

You nodded your head, letting go of his hand and resting yours on your knee.

“That makes sense,” you agreed, resting your head on the trunk of the tree, “You got a hell of a powerful quirk if you have to train that hard...I've always admired you for that.”

Izuku’s head shot up in confusion...admired him? He thought you didn’t even notice he was alive! He stared at your profile, his eyes wide with confusion.

“Oh, it’s really not that big of a deal,” he rambled on again, scratching the back of his neck, “it’s expected of me to do that-“

“No it isn’t!” You argued back supportively, “none of us ever train as hard as you do! You always try your best, no matter the circumstances. Hell, I don’t even think Shoto trains as hard as you and he’s the one that came to UA off of recommendations!”

“Oh-oh it’s not that big of a deal, I promise-“

You were beginning to feel frustrated that this shy boy couldn’t take your compliment. Midoriya was too sweet and humble for his own good, and it took quite a lot to get him to believe your words. You took that as a challenge, and you were all up for it.

Your arm crossed over Izuku’s body, encasing him in your body so you could fully look at his face. His eyes were wide from your sudden movement, his freckles much more prominent as his cheeks were dusted with pink.

“You are strong Midoriya, and I have a reason to admire you,” you stated, your face a mere inches from his.

Izuku couldn’t move, and really, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. You were so close: he could see every beauty mark, every strand of hair that graced your complexion. He could even smell your perfume, a light floral scent that made his head swoon. He was feeling so awkward, not knowing how to react, but he wanted to stay like this forever.

You smiled at the young hero, taking his quiet demeanor as him surrendering to your compliments. You swung your body off of his, leaving a cold spot in Midoriya's stomach from moving away so soon.

“Which reminds me…” you began, your hands resting your stomach. “I wanted to see if you wanted to train tomorrow after class-I'd really like it if you gave me some pointers on my technique.”

“Oh-I’d be honored!” He exclaimed, but then chuckled nervously at a sudden realization.

“B-but I think Kachan wouldn’t like it if I were there…”

You cocked your head in confusion, staring at the greenette’s face, perplexed by his statement.

“Bakugo isn’t going to be there-it'll just be you and me,” you stated matter of factly.

Izuku instantly fidgeted, feeling dumb for just assuming it would you and all your friends. Of course if you asked it would just be him and you! He instantly shook off the embarrassment, feeling giddy from happiness. You had asked him-not Kirishima, or Shoto, or Kaminari, or even Kachan-him, to train with you. He felt like he was on top of the world.

But then the alarm bells began to ring in his mind, a memory flitting back into his head that was stopping him from agreeing instantly.

-----------------------

He was at the lunch table one day, staring sadly at your table full of friends. Right now, they were currently trying to throw pieces of meat into your mouth, the yells and laughs flowing over to his quiet table. You were laughing, trying to catch the small bits of food and looking like you were having the best time.

His friends noticed his saddened demeanor, following his gaze to your table.

“Midoriya are you feeling quite alright?” Iida asked as he looked down at the green haired boy, “you're staring quite intently.”

“Huh?” Izuku shook his head a few times, looking at Iida with rosy cheeks, “oh-oh I wasn’t staring-or looking at y/n-san…”

Uraraka giggled nervously, giving her friend a strange look. “Uh-Midoriya, Iida never said you were staring at y/n...just that you were staring-“

“Oh! Well - I was- uh…” he stuttered out, not knowing how to get out of the situation. He was cursing himself internally for basically admitting to his crush he had worked so hard to keep quiet.

Iida took a bite of his food, focusing his attention at your table as well.

“Y/n is truly a free spirit-she’s quite a rebel as well,” Iida commented.

“Yeah, it seems like almost every week Mr. Aizawa has to speak to her about something she’s done… she’s really nice, but she is a little on the wild side,” Uraraka followed suit, focusing her attention on a quiet Midoriya instead.

“Do you really like her Midoriya?” She asked, her wide eyes seemingly staring into his soul.

Izuku giggled nervously, fiddling with his hands. “I-I guess...maybe….”

Uraraka pursed her lips, giving Iida a pained look. They both cared for Midoriya dearly, but didn’t know much about you except you were one of the “wild ones” of Class 1-A. You and Midoriya seemed completely opposite, and both friends felt that this crush would end badly for poor Midoriya's heart.

Iida sighed again, looking at his blushing friend, “Midoriya, it is wonderful you find so much love and affection for y/n-“

“But this probably won’t end well. She’s friends with Bakugo, and all of his friends-she’s just so different from you Izuku. We just don’t want to see you get hurt,” Uraraka finished Iida’s statement, watching Izuku slump into his chair a little more.

He felt almost defeated-his friends were right, you two were in completely different worlds and values. No matter how much he tried to weave a plan or scenario in his mind that would somehow end in you two being together, it just never seemed to work out.

The bell rang for lunch to end, Izuku still slumped in his chair in defeat.

“Cmon Izuku,” Uraraka said sweetly, offering her hand to him, “let’s go to class,”

He got up sadly, his friend's words echoing in his mind as he walked to class.

They were right-it wouldn’t ever end well for him.

—————-

But now, seeing your waiting face so close to his, he couldn’t help but say yes. He had to at least try, to see if maybe you did have something between the two of you.

Forget about your wild personality, or the fact you two were so different, or the way you seemed so close to Kachan-he was going to shoot his shot, even if that meant he was going to get hurt in the process.

This was his chance-it was now or never.

Izuku took a deep breath, willing his heart to slow.

“I would-love to train with you...and-and maybe,” he gulped, feeling his heart beat fast against his chest, “we can get some ice cream after?”

You smirked at the blushing boy, having a feeling at what he was implying.

“Just you and me?” You mused, leaning into Izuku’s body slightly.

He nodded feverishly, feeling his confidence begin to wane slightly at your sudden closeness.

“Y-Yep! Just- you and me.”

—————-

Taggings (if ya want to be added, just shoot me an ask or comment on this post!)

@birds-have-teeth @gallickingun @yuueimagines @bnhabadass @dabis-devil @freckledoriya

#bnha #bnha x reader #bnhabookclub #izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #bnha izuku x reader #mha izuku x reader #midoriya x reader #midoriya x you #bnha midoriya x reader #bnha izuku midoriya x reader #deku x reader #bnha deku x reader #deku hc #deku #i

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prettypurpleorchids · 4 years

Text

Love To You

August Walker SongFic

Character Pairing: August Walker x Female Reader (non descriptive)

Word Count: 2,581

Warnings: 18+ Graphic Smut. Oral (male and female receiving), unprotected sexual penetration and some language. August Walker is warning enough.

A/N: A couple of years ago, I wrote this little fic for another character but as I was doing a readthrough of all my old stuff... I realized that this fit Mr. Walker to a T. I tweaked it a bit and decided to bring it back. Oh, and I really want to make love to August while this song is playing... just saying.

Song: I Just Want to Make Love to You by Etta James

I don't want you to be no slave.

I don't want you to work all day.

But I want you to be true,

And I just wanna make love to you.

You knew what you were doing.

The swivel and sway of your hips matched the music. The skirt you were wearing was riding high on your thighs and a light sheen of sweat was making your shirt stick to your body. But you didn’t care, you had a plan and you were going to see it through.

You knew he was watching.

The burning stare could be felt from your head to your toes. Of all the gyrating bodies on the dance floor, his eyes never left you. You liked this game. Cat and mouse. A hunter and his prey.

You knew he liked it too.

This wasn’t the first time you have played this particular game. It was a form of foreplay. The build up. The tease. The knowledge of pleasure that awaits. It made you shiver just thinking about it.

Love to you, ooohooo

Love to you.

You chanced a glance in his direction. He was holding a tall glass in his large hand, the amber colored liquor almost gone. He had a small smile playing on his lips under that bewitching mustache. One leg was bent at the knee, his foot resting on the other knee. He was leaned back in his chair. His dark curls were scraped back off of his forehead, most likely from raking his fingers through them. He looked casual. He looked relaxed.

But, you knew that wasn’t true.

August Walker was never relaxed.

He was electric. Mounds of pent up energy. It simmered just below the surface.

It was exciting.

Turning your back to him, you continued to swing your body to the beat of the bass. You ran your hands over your hips, up your sides and over your breasts. You outlined your curves in the flashing lights.

You waved away any other man who approached and wanted to dance with you.

This was only for him tonight.

All I want to do is wash your clothes.

I don't want to keep you indoors.

There is nothing for you to do,

But keep me making love to you.

Closing your eyes, you let the music guide you. A sensual dance. Even in a room full of people, you put on a private show.

You sank your teeth into your bottom lip. The anticipation was becoming too much to bear. But you were determined to win this game.

A warm hand clasped your elbow. Opening your eyes, you fully expected to see another willing dancing partner. You were surprised to see August standing next to you. His eyes searched your face a moment before he released your elbow and grinned.

He then started walking through the crowd of people on the dance floor.

He fully expected you to follow him.

You did.

Following the path he made, you watched his back. The move and stretch of muscles beneath his white t-shirt made your mouth water.

He stopped at the elevator and pressed the button. You stepped up beside him, waiting for the door to open. His arm brushed yours. You felt his fingers against yours. Neither of you looked at each other.

You clenched your thighs together.

You loved this game.

Love to you, ooohooo

Love to you.

August stepped inside first, raising his arm against the frame so the doors would stay open as you entered. You watched as he immediately hit the button to close the doors and then push the correct button for his floor.

The heavy doors shut with a thud. Or maybe that was your heart against your ribcage…

In a flash, you were pulled against his hard body and your back met the wall with force. The breath whooshed through your lips a second before his lips crashed on yours. Lust washed through your veins, thick and hot.

His lips coaxed yours open, his tongue diving in to dance with yours. It made you dizzy. The sensors in your brain firing rapidly. His hands skimmed your sides, stopping at your hips. There, they slid around to your ass, his large palms giving the soft flesh a squeeze.

Raising your hands, you snaked them under his t-shirt. You were rewarded with a deep growl as you snared your fingers in his chest hair and raked your nails down his rigged abdomen. His kiss became more urgent, the fire rising.

Your skirt was raised until his hands met bare skin. His fingers dug into your flesh a little harder, lifting your feet off the ground. His body crowded yours as you wrapped your legs around his waist.

August trailed hot, wet kisses along your jaw before landing on your neck. You opened your eyes with a sigh to see what floor number was shown on the digital display. Almost there.

And I can tell by the way you walk that walk.

And I can hear by the way you talk that talk.

And I can know by the way you treat your girl.

That I could give you all the loving in the whole wide world.

Clutching his shoulders, you moaned louder than intended when he pushed his pelvis into yours. The hard bulge in his jeans nestled against your hot center. Heat radiated through your body at the contact. You could feel the wetness soaking through the thin scrap of lace covering you and onto the fly of his jeans.

He mumbled something into your neck, his lips scorching a path to your ear. His teeth sank into the soft lobe before he growled into your ear, “Press the stop button.”

Blindly, you reached over and felt for the big red button. Finding it, you pressed it in. August held you securely against him as the elevator came to a jarring stop. He lifted his head to look at you, his eyes bright with lust, “I can’t wait, I have to have you now.”

All you could do was nod as he set you back on your feet. You wobbled on shaky legs, grabbing the handrail behind you for balance. Your combined heavy breathing was the only sound in the small space as August knelt in front of you. His hands roamed up your legs before disappearing underneath your skirt again. When they reappeared, he was pulling down your panties with them.

After assisting you out of them, he stuffed them in his pocket with a wicked smile, “You won’t be needing these.”

You sent him your own sexy little smile, “I wore them just to aggravate you anyway.”

He huffed out a laugh as he leaned forward. Your skirt was flipped up, baring your pussy to him. He licked his lips before pressing an open mouth kiss right above your slit. The scratch of his mustache and stubble made your skin quiver. A hand caught behind your knee, raising it to rest over his shoulder. You held onto the handrail tighter, bracing yourself.

August licked a long stripe through your pussy, stopping to give your clit a quick suck. Closing your eyes, your head hit the wall with a thunk.

He knew what you liked.

All I want you to do is to bake your bread.

Just to make sure that you're well fed.

I don't want you sad and blue,

And I just wanna make love to you.

The noises he made were lewd. The sound was graphic.

He ate you like you were the sweetest dessert.

He licked up your juices. He flicked and sucked your clit. He speared his tongue inside your cunt.

It was maddening. You couldn't stifle your moans any longer. They flowed through your lips with every breath.

He centered his attention on your clit. The little bundle of nerves was so sensitive now, you saw stars. His tongue circled and swirled. Your body wound tight, your muscles straining to keep you upright.

A heavy weight settled low in your belly. The pleasure was too much.

You shuddered and shouted. A brilliant light exploding behind your eyes.

Your bones felt heavy as August licked you through your climax. He pressed gentle kisses to your thigh as he let your leg fall down his arm.

Opening your eyes, you laughed at his smug grin.

When he stood back up, you gathered your strength and gave his shoulders a hard shove. He backed up a few steps, laughing at your attempt. Stepping forward, you shoved him again.

His back hit the opposite wall. He sputtered in surprise, but quickly realized your intent as you got down on your knees in front of him.

Love to you, ooohooo

Love to you, oooh

You made quick work of the button and fly of his jeans, reaching in the open wedge to pull out his impressive cock. The length and girth never ceased to surprise you.

He definitely lived up to his nickname of “the Hammer”.

You whimpered remembering how he felt inside you. You always felt so full and stretched.

A big hand cupped your jaw, his thumb sweeping across your cheek. You looked up at him as you leaned forward and placed a teasing kiss on the tip. His nostrils flared with his quick intake of breath. You kept his gaze as you licked your lips, preparing them to take his cock.

Wrapping your lips around the bulbous head, you pressed your tongue on the sensitive underside. His body tensed and he blew out a long breath. The hand that was on your jaw moved to the back of your head, anchoring you to him.

Swirling your tongue, you slicked him up good. You sucked in as you retreated, giving extra attention to the weeping tip. When you took him in your mouth again, you took as much as you could. He was stuffed into the back of your throat. He moaned low, letting his body rest heavily against the wall.

Starting a slow bob, you sucked him like your favorite popsicle.

And I can tell by the way you walk that walk.

And I can hear by the way you talk that talk.

And I can know by the way you treat your girl.

That I could give you all the loving in the whole wide world.

The hand on the back of your head started to guide your movements faster, holding you in place when he touched the back of your throat.

You could tell he was losing himself in the pleasure. Right where you wanted him.

Renewing your efforts, you purposely made pornographic sounds. You knew he liked that.

He was close. The muscles in his thigh were tense under the hand that you had placed there. His breathing was unsteady and choppy.

Right before you were sure he was going to come, he gripped the back of your head and popped you off his cock with an audible pop.

You pouted up at him, but he paid you no mind as he hauled you up. He kissed you roughly before pushing you back. You watched in confusion as he stuffed himself back in his jeans with a grimace and a curse.

Placing your hands on your hips, you waited for an explanation. August continued to ignore you as he released the stop button and got the elevator moving again.

Opening your mouth to ask just what in the hell he thought he was doing, he stopped you with a glance. Then he hauled you against him again, roughly circling your throat with his long fingers. He kissed you with an intense passion before leaning back and resting his forehead on yours.

“I could hear them working on getting the elevator running again,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t have had enough time to fuck you how I want.”

You shivered at his words. You were ok with that, you guessed.

The doors opened on his floor. He clasped your hand in his and all but dragged you down the corridor with his long strides.

He only fumbled with opening his door for a second.

Oh, all I wanna do, all I wanna do is cook your bread.

Just to make sure that you're well fed.

I don't want you sad and blue,

And I just wanna make love to you.

Once inside, he didn’t bother with lights. He locked the door and then in a flash, he was on you again.

Clothes were being shed with haste. You wanted to be skin to skin. Male to female. Soft to hard. He walked you backward to the couch. He sat first and then pulled you down to straddle his lap.

You both hissed as your dripping cunt slid along his hard cock.

He gripped your hips and steadied you over him, “Dance for me, baby.”

The raspy command made you moan.

Bracing your hands on his shoulders and your thighs around his, you lowered yourself onto him. Your walls stretched to accommodate him. A pleasurable pain. Your wet cunt made the glide smooth and easy. You stopped to exhale the breath you had been holding when he was fully seated inside. The fit was so tight, you could feel every pulse of the thick vein in his dick.

Rolling your hips, you undulated in a slow dance just for him. Each slow glide of his length in and out of your tight heat made you shiver.

August leaned his head up, capturing a hard nipple in his mouth. You rode him faster as he circled the bud with his tongue.

His teeth bit into your nipple, sending a lightning bolt of pleasure straight to your core. He growled when you clenched around him.

Your hips found a steady rhythm. And soon he was meeting you thrust for thrust.

It was a frenzy. It was lustful moans and long sighs. It was whispered words of love and sexy talk. It was hurried kisses and nibbling teeth.

You rode him hard. Not so much a dance now. It was more of being lost in pleasure. Your climax snuck up on you fast. Fire licked through your veins and you came with a raspy cry.

August buried his head against your breasts and thrust up into you a few more times before he was riding the high with you. He held your hips tight against him as he came. A shout left his lips as your quivering walls milked him of every last drop.

Falling against him heavily, you both worked to get your breathing under control. His arms wound around your back, clutching you tightly. You kissed his sweaty chest and couldn’t help but laugh. Your body shook with it.

“Ah, fuck babe, don’t do that,” August rumbled with his own shaky laugh. His softening cock was incredibly sensitive, still nestled inside your heat.

After a moment, he wasn’t so soft anymore. You leaned up and looked down at him with an incredulous look and then frowned when you felt your combined juices slide out of you and coat his cock.

“Again?” you asked.

He just shrugged as he flipped the two of you over. When he was settled on top of you, he grinned, “I have to make sure you’re well fed.” He thrust back into your welcoming cunt with a hard push. “I just wanna make love to you.”

Love to you, ooohooo

Real love to you, ooohooo

Love to you, ooohooo

#henry cavill #august walker #august walker fanfiction #august walker smut #songfic #love to you

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dc41896 · 4 years

Text

One Wish

I think this is the first time ever or in a while that I’m posting something on the day that I meant for it to come out lol😂. Hope you guys like it and that everyone has a Merry Christmas and a Happy Holidays💕!

Pairing: Chris EvansxBlack Reader

⚠️: Mentions of pregnancy, brief concerns about problems conceiving, fluff other than that though💕!

“Mommy!”

“Hey- what’s wrong?” Picking up your sniffling little one running towards you, he rests his head in the crook of your neck as a fresh set of tears begin to roll down his cheeks.

“River and Kyle were talking about Santa and the North Pole when their classmate interrupted saying how Santa wasn’t real,” Chris explains leaning against the counter still holding onto his son’s Spongebob backpack. “And apparently he called them babies if they still believed in him.”

“He is real...right?,” his tiny voice quivers breaking your heart.

“Do you believe he is?”

“Yes,” he nods lifting his head.

“Then he’s real,” you smile kissing his forehead.

“I knew it! I said so, but he won’t listen.”

“Well don’t worry about him. He’s just jealous because he’s probably on the naughty list,” you state causing a little gasp to leave his lips.

“That’s not good.”

“I know. But hey, why don’t you go wash your hands and then you can help me with cookies? Think that’ll make you feel better?”

“Mhmm! And watch Nightmare Christmas with Jack!”

“Yea bubs we can watch Nightmare before Christmas too,” Chris chuckles watching River excitedly climb down to get his bag and hurry to his room.

“Let me guess, Devin?,” you ask moving throughout the kitchen getting everything you’d need.

“Yep.”

“I know I shouldn’t say this, but that kid really gets on my nerves.”

“Babe,” he laughs with head slightly bowing forward.

“He thinks he knows everything and then his parents just think it’s sooo precious, ugh.” Stopping you from walking past again, you feel both of his strong arms hugging you to his chest rubbing up and down your back.

“Aww did Devin make you upset too?”

“Yes he did and I don’t wike it,” you answer poking out your bottom lip as you look up at your giggling husband. Leaning down, his lips sweetly peck yours twice before staying attached for a few seconds longer making you smile as his nose brushes against yours.

“Feel better?”

“Mhm,” you nod making him laugh once again.

“I’m ready!,” River beams running into the kitchen with Dodger on his heels. Stepping his bare feet atop Chris’, still in his sneakers, holding his arms up he lifts the excited child to sit on the counter beside him with legs dangling over the edge.

“Alright what kind of cookies do you want?,” you ask turning to the desert section of your cookbook.

“Chocolate chip! With extra chocolate.”

“Really? You sure you don’t want worm cookies? With extra slime?,” Chris jokes making River shake his head in disgust.

“Eww! No daddy, chocolate chip.”

“You hear that babe? He wants coated frog lip cookies. I’ve never heard of that but if you insist..”

“Noo chocolate chip!,” he giggles as his cheeks become covered in kisses from his father. Mixing all the dry ingredients in the large glass bowl, River carefully cracks the eggs, with the help of Chris, and adds the rest of the wet ingredients before moving to scoop in the chocolate chips. Multiple times throughout the process you have to stop them from trying to eat the entire bag only making them get more creative on how to sneak more when you weren’t looking.

Or thought you weren’t at least.

Once everything was cleaned following the cookies and dinner, and River got to watch his favorite movie while happily tapping his feet to every song, Chris took the yawning child to get ready for bed leaving you to do the same for yourself. As if on cue, by the time you were sliding into bed trying to get comfortable having showered and finished your full nightly routine, there was your husband softly closing the door behind him with a piece of paper in his hand laughing to himself as he approached the bed.

“What?,” you ask, amused as he lies across the foot of the bed propping his head up with his hand and bent elbow.

“River gave me his list for Santa that he made in class.”

“I’m sure it’s filled with toys,” you and Chris both chuckle.

“See for yourself.”

You sit up taking the red and green bordered paper from his outstretched hand preparing yourself for quite possibly the most outlandish requests from the current look on his face.

“Dear Santa, I’ve been really good this year,” you begin smiling at your son’s slightly shaky handwriting and occasional misspelled words. Continuing down the paper, Chris’ eyes stay fixed on you waiting for your reaction when you get to that special part.

From your extended pause and furrowed brows as you bring the letter a bit closer to your eyes, a chuckle leaves his lips as he crawls up the bed lying cheek down on the pillow beside you and his large hand slides under your, well his, oversized graphic tee gripping your hip.

“But what I really really want is a baby brother or sister this Christmas so we can play at home with mommy and daddy and all of us have fun,” you read aloud looking down at your husband.

“Yeaaa...”

“What are we gonna do?”

“Well,” he smirks gently draping your leg over his jeaned hip as his thumb grazes back and forth over your recently moisturized skin. “What kind of monsters would we be to not grant our child’s Christmas wish?”

“Chris you know it doesn’t happen that fast.”

“We could get the ball moving at least?” Leaning up to kiss your neck, you feel his teeth and lips taking turns nipping at your ticklish skin making you giggle as you try to nudge him off.

“Christopher..”

“Okay, okay. I honestly don’t know. We either tell him ahead of time, hurting his feelings when he’s already sensitive about Santa from earlier, or we wait that morning and he still gets his feelings hurt. Either way I feel like it’s a lose lose.”

“Pretty much.” There’s a comfortable silence as you both try to ponder the best option. His fingertips drifting up and down the back of your thigh still across him while you rake through his hair.

“Maybe he’ll get distracted with all his other gifts and forget about it?”

“You really think our son is gonna forget?,” he chuckles shifting to look at you with a raised brow. Moving to give you more room, you lie down with a sigh slightly concerning Chris with the conflicted look on your face.

It had always been the tale-tell sign that you were overthinking and your anxiety might soon take over. “Hey, you know this isn’t some way to force you to have another baby right?”

With a simple nod, your head moves to his chest and hand drops from his hair to the medallion crooked on his chest.

It’s not that you didn’t want to have another one, you were anxiously waiting for the day you’d hold that stick that read positive in your hand again, or the doctor to tell you congratulations as you sat on the obnoxiously loud paper covering the leather seat in the exam room. After your false positive last month though, doubt and worry began to overshadow that excitement.

“Talk to me,” he softly states bringing you out of your thoughts, his other arm wrapping around your body to rub your shoulder.

“It’s just...I can’t get what happened last month out of my head. What if it happens again and we find out I can’t get pregnant anymore? Or what if we do and get excited...and-,” Before you could stop them, tears trailed down your cheeks onto his shirt as he held you closer trying to soothe you.

“Shh, hey it’s okay.”

“What if it’s not? Whenever we’ve talked about kids you’ve always said how you wanted a big family with a house full of kids running around.”

“It’s not all about what I want though Y/N. This marriage isn’t just me.”

“I know but I still want you to be happy,” you mumble, sniffling as he sits up looking at you as if you were crazy.

“You think I’m not happy? Babe you and River both have made me happier than I’ve ever been and will always make me happy.”

“I didn’t mean that you weren’t happy now...,”

“What, you think if you couldn’t have anymore kids I wouldn’t be happy?”

Avoiding his eyes as you fiddle with the hem of your shirt, you hear him sigh as he leans closer holding your chin in his warm hand for you to look into his blue pools full of sympathy. “Sweetheart I didn’t marry you for your ability to have kids, and if you can or can’t doesn’t dictate your worth. I was just as happy when it was just us as I am now that we’re three, which won’t change if we become four, five, or so on.”

“I hope that so on doesn’t go on forever. I thought our absolute limit was four?,” you softly speak making him laugh.

“As I was saying,” he continues, the back of his finger wiping away your tears. “Would I mind having another? No, but only if and when you’re ready. And if you tell me now, tomorrow, or next year you’re done then that’s it, and I will still be the happiest man with my stunning, intelligent, hilarious even though she doesn’t think so wife, and perfect son who never fails to make me smile.”

Your hand finds the nape of his neck as you close the remaining space between you and your lips collide in a slow, yet passionate exchange as if both of you were trying to embed the feel and taste of each other’s lips on your own.

“Thank you,” you whisper, smiling against his now red lips.

“I love you Y/N. Remember that nothing will ever change that.”

“I love you too.”

———

The house is peacefully quiet as your eyes open to see the ground and trees outside covered in a light blanket of snow that still steadily fell from the grey sky above. Careful not to wake your husband who, from the sound of his snores, sounded like he was in a blissful sleep, you turn your body to face his planting your face in the crook of his neck arched perfectly for you to fit. A long, quiet breath leaving your nostrils as your lips curl into a smile, your arm falls across his tattoo littered abdomen and hand dangles along his side.

Your fingertios lazily dragging along his ribs eventually makes a small shudder spread through his body as he pulls you closer. “Hand’s cold,” he mutters with eyes still closed.

“Sorry,” you whisper slowly retracting your arm until his larger hand grabs yours bringing it to the side of his head as he trails kisses from your palm to the middle of your forearm. Long lashes fluttering against his cheeks, he reveals those heart stopping eyes as a drowsy smile appears on his lips.

“Merry Christmas beautiful,” he groggily speaks making you giddy from the butterflies in your stomach.

“Merry Christmas.” Your hands rest on either side of his head as you lower yourself meeting the corner of his mouth before moving to his pouted lips.

“Shh Dodgey let’s go look,” you both hear causing you to separate with knowing smiles on your faces.

“Let’s go before he opens everything.”

Natural light breaks through the thin curtains as you and Chris quietly make your way to the living room, him in his sweats and solid red shirt, and you in one of his hoodies on top of your own grey sweats. You both stop at the doorframe watching him walk all along the twinkling tree admiring his presents and even peaking behind to see what all was hidden along the back wall.

“Did you two start opening presents without us?,” Chris asks startling River before he smiles, running up to the both of you and hugging your legs that respectively stood right next to the other.

“Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!,” you and Chris speak at the same time as he lifts the excited child to sit on his hip. Both of you sandwiching him in as you each blow raspberries on one of his cheeks, an eruption of giggles soon follows after.

“Look daddy! The cookies and carrots!,” he shouts pointing to the table with two empty plates and half empty glass.

“I know! Santa wanted me to tell you thank you, and that the reindeer loved the carrots.” You have to stifle your laugh seeing your son’s eyes go wide in shock as he stares at his father with this new revelation.

“You know Santa?!”

“Of course! He calls parents throughout the year to help make his final decision on the naughty and nice list,” Chris answers, smiling when River turns to look at you with the same amount of shock.

“You too mommy?!”

“Yep! We had a long chat last night before he left.”

“Did he see my list? Is a baby coming?!,” he asks with big brown eyes looking back and forth between you and Chris. You knew this moment was coming, but you’d never be prepared for the hurt you’d feel seeing your baby boy disappointed.

“Um..as of right now there isn’t gonna be one bubs,” Chris answers leaving him confused as his little eyebrows furrowed together.

“Why?”

Meeting each other’s eyes, neither of you expected to be having “the talk” this early with River. But settling on the couch where he sat in Chris’ lap ready to intently listen to your every word, you’d just have to try your best.

“Well sweetie, it’s not really Santa who’s in charge of that. It’s the...um...baby fairy!”

“Baby fairy?”

“Yea, she’s the one that makes sure the baby is perfect. And once it’s ready, she’ll deliver it to the mommy’s stomach where it’ll grow until it’s time to be born.”

“How-how does she know when to make it mommy?,” he asks tilting his head.

“That’s a very good question. Um...well uh...Chris why don’t you answer this one?,” you suggest completely catching him off guard. His pleading eyes meeting yours that read “Too bad, I’m not doing this all by myself”. Clearing his throat, he nervously smiles down at River now giving him his full attention.

“Uh...she knows because...there’s a signal that rings a uh bell and that tells her to start working.”

“What signal?”

It was becoming increasingly difficult to hide your laughs seeing Chris redden by the second. You could swear you even saw a bead of sweat forming on his forehead as he nervously chuckled raking his brain for his next answer. Hearing your muffled snort, he shoots you a playful glare as you mouth a quick sorry before petting Dodger to distract yourself.

“The signal is a...um handshake. But it’s a very special one that is filled with lots and lots of love.”

“Oh...okay,” River replies, disappointment evident on his face that he wouldn’t be getting the gift he was most looking forward too.

“There’s one last important thing about the baby fairy though,” you state tilting his small chin to look at you. “She works all year round. So, just because there’s no baby now doesn’t mean there won’t be one later.”

At that, his cheeks perk to a smile and eyes become bright again as he crawls over to hug his arms around your neck.

“It’s not the signal, but I write her too just in case.”

“Sounds good,” you smile kissing his cheek. “Now go ahead and open your presents so we can go to grandma Lisa’s.”

He quickly scrambles to his feet motioning Dodger to follow and help unwrap the gifts making both you and Chris softly laugh as you scoot closer together.

“Very special handshake?,” you repeat in a whisper as he drapes an arm over your shoulders.

“Hey it’s the best I could come up with on the spot okay. And baby fairy? Why not stick with the stork?”

“Because a bird carrying a baby from who knows would’ve been more difficult to explain, and it’s the best I could come up with on the spot okay?” Mocking his voice, you feel a pinch on your side replacing the smirk on your face with shock from the small gape of your mouth. “Did you just pinch me?”

“I don’t know, maybe it was the pinch fairy,” he shrugs standing up to help River with his presents before you could do or say anything back.

Within an hour, the living room had turned into what you’d describe as the end of the workday at Santa’s workshop from the ripped wrapping paper that was scattered along the floor, along with discarded plastic and cardboard once containing toys that now lied out in the open waiting to be played with again. It made both of your hearts swell seeing how happy River was with each of his presents. Every few minutes he’d walk up to either one of you tugging you down to place a kiss on your cheeks adorably thanking you for everything. He wanted to bring all his new toys to Lisa’s so his cousins could see and play too, but was convinced to bring his top two after being told, and shown, that all of them wouldn’t fit in his bag.

Walking through your bedroom door that evening once returning home, the clock on the bedside table reads 10:13 pm as you both fall back on the bed. As usual, Christmas Day at his mother’s was filled with lots of laughs, exchanging of more gifts, food, playful sibling rivalry between Chris and Scott that ended in both of them being fussed at by Lisa and told to settle down once they got too loud, and of course the kids playing all day with their new toys.

Needless to say, you both were tired.

However, the house was uncomfortably more silent now with River spending the night and remaining weekend at his grandma’s along with his other cousins. It was something new Lisa wanted to start to give you guys a short break for yourselves.

“Babe? You sleep?,” Chris cautiously asks in a hushed tone.

“No, and honestly I don’t know if I’ll be able to. It’s different not having River here.”

It was his first time spending the weekend at someone else’s place, and while you knew it would be a good experience for him and he’d be fine, the protective momma bear in you couldn’t help but worry. Grabbing your hand, he lifts it to his lips kissing your knuckles.

“Yea it sounds even quieter that we’re alone.”

“Mhmm.”

“...And it’s gonna be like that the whole weekend,” Chris smirks, peeking over at you to see if you came to the same realization as him.

“Yep,” you sigh, eyes still towards the ceiling.

Clearly you hadn’t yet.

“First time we’ve been alone for that long since he was born. House completely to ourselves. Not worrying if he’s doing something when it gets too quiet because it’s only us.”

Giggling to yourself, you turn to lie on your stomach lightly trailing your nails from the hairs of his beard down the middle of his chest and abdomen.

“So what you’re saying is that we’re absolutely, utterly all alone? In this big, cozy house?,” you ask tracing the tattoo right below his bellybutton feigning confusion as a hearty chuckle escapes his chest. Sitting up on his elbows, his hand caresses your cheek as he leans forward teasingly brushing his lips against yours. His hand shifts to the back of your neck pulling you closer to connect your lips in a breath taking kiss that leaves you wanting more once he pulls away.

“Exactly,” he lowly whispers. “Thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yea,” you breathe out, biting your lip. “We have all the ice cream to ourselves!” A giddy smile forms on your lips hopping over your husband looking dumbfounded.

“Um y-yea...not really what I was thinking but..”

“And then after,” you start pulling him up to stand with you. “We can really start being alone. Like in the bed, and the shower, and the kitchen counter-.”

“And? You’re preparing for a busy weekend huh?”

“Plenty of chances to perfect that special handshake for the baby fairy,” you smirk. A squeal leaves your lips as you’re lifted over his shoulder with both hands inadvertently tickling your inner thighs from his grip.

“I like the way you think.”

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boymeetsweevil · 4 years

Text

the shape you make

Grouping: Reader x Johnny

Word Count: ~4.1k

Warnings/Themes: Halloweentown AU (again), body insecurity, slight allusions to speciesism, graphic smut, communication issues (as always), a very thirsty work friend

Summary: For both you and Johnny, there is something big holding you back from being intimate. At the yearly Harvest party, that something big becomes something known.

A/N: This fic is part of The Intimacy Anthology, and then Halloween came and ate it :) If you’re interested in the project and/or would like to see the works from the other talented artists, click the link!

“—I mean, we’re doing fine. I would say it’s perfect except for one thing.”

You frown down at the dragonling wriggling in your hands, partially in pity for him. Snickerdoodle is in for his first-ever check up and by the way he tries to burrow into the front pocket of your uniform, you can tell he’s uncomfortable. It’s likely that the coolant pills given to suppress fire during examinations are upsetting his stomach. You pat his rough belly.

The rest of your frown is dedicated to a predicament you face with your boyfriend.

You’ve been dating Johnny for three months. After being set up by two mutual friends who thought you’d be a good pair, you hit things off and decided to see where things would go. The issue was, while you’d had many a good conversation and even met his mother, you still hadn’t let Johnny get to know the real you. Which meant things between you felt too good to be true and you were preparing for an inevitable rebuff.

“What’s the problem again? He doesn’t want to go with you to the Harvest party?”

Your coworker Nautilanita ruffles her wings anxiously as she hunts for the correct syringe for dragon skin and a few treats to distract Snickerdoodle.

“No, we’re going to the Harvest party. The problem is that I want to go further with Johnny, but I don’t think I actually can.”

“Oh. That’s what I thought you said. But he’s literally perfect, so I figured I misheard you.”

You roll your eyes. Despite being pair-bonded to another lovely griffin for almost 13 mating cycles, something about Johnny turns your friend into putty.

“I think that’s the problem. He’s hot, he’s sweet, he’s funny—”

“Ehh. I don’t think I’ve heard a great joke from him yet.”

“He’s funny in that cute, corny way.”

“Fair.” Nautilanita approaches Snickerdoodle with a dried newt and distracts him just long enough to give him the first of his vaccinations. “So, what, you don’t like perfect guys?”

“It’s not like that. It’s more like he treats me like I’m perfect.”

“Okay, did you just come here to brag?”

The flat look on Nautilanita’s face is enough to startle a laugh out of you. You’re glad for the tiny distraction and allow some nervous energy to leave you.

“You know what I mean. There’s things he doesn’t know about me that I’m pretty sure could ruin us. I’m not the perfect person he thinks I am.”

“What does not perfect mean?”

Nautilanita hands you a needle and switches places with you, scooping up Snickerdoodle. You take up a new syringe to draw some blood from between his wings for the examination. With quick work, you watch the gold liquid fill the barrel of the syringe.

“It sounds dumb when I say it out loud,” you whine while taking the blood away to the chemistry machine. Nautilanita smiles softly at you.

“That probably means it is dumb. And that you don’t have to worry about it.”

“You’ve seen Johnny, though.”

“Yes. Of course I have,” Nautilanita sighs dreamily. If it were anyone else, you might get jealous.

“He’s athletic and super buff. He’s normal. And I...”

“Yeah, I’m gonna stop you there. This is dumb. Do you think Johnny is a shallow guy?”

“Of course I don’t. I know he isn’t.”

“Then do you really think he’s gonna just drop you because you’re not 'normal’? I still don’t even get what that means.”

“No, but—”

The machine beeps and Nautilanita hands Snickerdoodle back to you to collect the sample.

“But what?”

“But I what if he doesn’t want me? What if he can’t be attracted to me?”

“Have you and Johnny kissed?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“More than once?”

“Yes.”

“And has he ever initiated a kiss?”

“Sure, lots of times.”

“Then I think he finds you attractive.”

You grimace to yourself. It sounded so easy put that way though you weren’t sure if Nautilanita even understood your worry. Maybe sitting down at that Leprechaun-run cafe after work with Nautilanita would help make your predicament clear, but at the moment you felt too exhausted. In an ideal world, it would be just as easy as Nautilanita said.

“What do you think?”

Mark holds up two button down shirts to his front for Johnny to compare. One is a saturated red and the other is a muted periwinkle blue.

“Blue one, easy.”

“Thanks. I’d ask Yeri, but she’s gonna be working almost up until the Harvest party. You’re lucky.”

“I don’t know who you’re calling lucky. I put sweat and tears into my outfits because I pick them all myself.”

“That’s bull. That one with the turtleneck and chains two weeks ago? There’s no way that was all you.”

“What? Yes it was”

Johnny tries not to eye the Harvest outfit he has laying on the chair at the other end of his room. The one that he’d recruited you into helping him with, over the duration of several days.

“Hmm. Not even when you’re shopping? Like when you’re in the fitting room and kind of flirting a little bit? Not even then?”

“Didn’t know you were such a hoe, Mark.”

"I have layers,” is all he says with flushing cheeks.

He’s glad Mark didn’t notice he avoided the question because the truth is that he’s never had such a moment with you. He’d like to, though. He’d like to be able to take you shopping with him, like normal couples do. Maybe you’d manage to sneak into the fitting rooms and give him a stack of things you’d want to see him in. Maybe half the time he’d come out shirtless just to see your reaction. Maybe at the end he’d pull you into the fitting room with him after one too many appreciative glances from you. But he can’t.

You’ve actually never seen him shirtless. Despite the fact that his thoughts sometimes go that direction when at the gym. Despite the fact that all his friends, Mark included, seem to think he’s already long since seen you bare and bared himself for you.

“You okay?” Mark asks when the minutes have ticked by and the conversation has screeched to a halt.

“Yeah, yeah. Just thinking.”

“What about?”

“What if, just as a scenario, we hadn’t done anything other than kiss.”

Mark’s eyes widen in the middle of folding his shirts and though he tries to hide the reaction, Johnny catches it.

“You mean you and—”

“Yeah.”

“So, just a peck or...”

“No! It’s definitely gotten, uh, intense. But I haven’t ever taken off my clothes in front of her or anything.”

Mark tilts his head, eyes narrowed above Johnny’s head. “Because you don’t want to?”

“That’s the thing. I do. But I’m pretty sure I’m not her usual...type.”

“Have you gone through a catalogue of her past relationships and found her type?”

“No, but—”

“Has she said she doesn’t like certain things about you?”

“...No.”

“Then why do you think that?”

“Well—”

The chimes of an alarm on his phone interrupt his explanation. Johnny turns off the alarm and gets up to the bathroom. He leaves the door open, not worried about privacy in the company of his best friend. Over the sound of running water and the aerosol of shaving cream leaving its canister he continues.

“I don’t want to make things awkward for her.”

“I mean, if you want her to look at you that way, that’s important. Even if she does have a type.”

“Right,” Johnny mumbles while running his razor under the tap.

Mark comes to lean against the doorframe of the bathroom to hear better. Johnny’s lips purse at Mark’s reflection in the mirror. He feels torn.

“And if you’re wrong, then you can just move forward.”

“Right.”

Right?

This year, the Harvest party is being hosted at the mayor’s house instead of at a corporate venue. There are probably hundreds of guests on the property all milling about and giving you a calming sense of anonymity. Johnny texted you earlier that evening telling you where you could find him when you finally left the vet clinic and made it to the party.

A few friends stop you to make small talk and instead of telling them you have to go meet Johnny, you let them delay you. A nymph from work brings you to the large kitchen to eat some rare berries she brought. Another friend from work ushers you onto the main floor to spin you a few times while a song that you like plays.

When the song changes, you exchange goodbyes and stumble off from them. Unfortunately, you bump into Nautilanita, who you had also technically been avoiding.

“Look who it is,” Nautilanita‘s talons curve dangerously around the stem of a wine glass.

“Oh, hey.”

“Guess who I ran into half an hour ago.”

“Who?”

“Guess.”

“Johnny?”

“Mhm. Your boyfriend,” Nautilanita snaps. “Why was he asking me where you were? I had to lie and say you got held back at work.”

“You weren’t required to do that,” you point out. Nautilanita narrows slitted eyes at you.

“I’m guessing you haven’t sat down and talked with him yet.”

“I haven’t. I do plan to, though. I’m just...”

“Nervous?”

You nod and suddenly Nautilanita is grabbing your arm and pulling you over to a darker corner of the house. There’s a group of people huddled loosely near the basement door, light smoke wafting up from where their heads are craned down.

“What are we doing?”

“Getting you some extra courage.”

“Nautilanita,” you hiss before darting your heard around your surroundings. “Did you forget we have weekly drug tests at work?”

“I’m not getting you drugs. I’m getting you some courage. It’s legal, I think.”

You stand off from the group, confused, as Nautilanita chats with the lady in the middle of the huddle. A witch, based off the purple ring she wears. The witch reaches into her bag when Nautilanita does actually ask for courage by name. Nautilanita returns with a small bag of bright yellow orbs that flash welcomingly in the low lighting.

“Open.”

You open your mouth obediently and chew the little rubbery yellow ball until it bursts into your mouth. It tastes a bit like dish soap but you swallow it.

“How long does this last?”

“10 minutes.”

“You mean I only have 10 minutes to find him and tell him everything?”

“Well, 9 minutes and 55 seconds now.”

You push past Nautilanita to circle back through the crowd and climb the staircase to where Johnny said he’d be on the second floor. He’s not in the billiard room at the end of the hall, but someone there points you toward one fo the guest rooms. When you find him he’s sitting in an arm chair in a corner guest room, scrolling on his phone when you enter abruptly.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he puts his phone down and makes his way over to you. “Why are you out of breath?”

“I, uh, ran up the stairs.”

“You ran up the stairs to see little ol’ me?”

Johnny’s smile is bright and genuine and suddenly you feel a rush of something. It must be the courage. You throw yourself into his waiting arms and press your face to his chest. He should know, you think. He deserves to know.

You’re about to pull away and confess to him, but then he’s lifting your chin with a finger. His smiles bleeds into his eyes and softens into something you think you could swim in. He leans down and catches your mouth in a kiss.

Instead of worrying about the courage running out, you focus on the kiss. With your eyes closed you can properly lose yourself in the feeling of the hard muscle under his soft sweater. The sweater he chose after frantic consultation with you.

Emboldened by the way you relax into him, Johnny pushes further into your space. His bangs tickle your face when he swivels his head and presses a fuller kiss to your lips. Warm hands creep a slow path up from the flare of your hips to the hem of your work shirt. His breath hitches a little in a puff against your cheek when you push up into him and kiss him harder. His hands come to anchor himself on your lower torso again. This time your movements have pulled your work shirt up to expose your stomach.

The drag of the skin of his fingers on your lower back has you yanking yourself back with darting eyes and a shaky smile. It pains you to ruin the momentum of the moment, but you know that if you don’t explain yourself before your clothes are supposed to come off, you don’t know how things will end. You’re not expecting to look up and find Johnny’s eyes filled with something that looks akin to fear.

“Shit—I’m sorry.” He rocks back on his heels and lets his gaze bounce around the corners of your face looking for a cue. “Should we talk about this?”

You think about the 10 minutes you have, and how much of it could possibly be left.

“Y-yeah.”

You gravitate towards the guest bed and he follows with a flop.

“I hope you know I don’t want to pressure you into anything,” he offers.

“I know you weren’t. It was just getting kinda heavy there for a second.”

“And you don’t want that to happen.”

“I want to make sure you still want to.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because...I haven’t been totally honest with you.”

Johnny can feel the prick of sweat at his hairline and across his shoulders. He kind of wishes you would just tell him you know what he’s hiding so he can begin to adjust. He knows it’s not what Mark would suggest, but he doesn’t want to lose you.

“I know humans say they like magical folk, but being friends with the magicals and being with them is really different.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“And even if they really are fine with us, they probably still would prefer to be with other humans.”

He nods, and then replays your words in his head. You said ‘us’.

“Maybe you wondered why it’s taken us so long to be physical”

“I have, honestly. But that doesn’t mean you should rush to do that.”

“Well, it’s not because I really needed more time. It’s because I didn’t have the courage to before. I didn’t want you to see me like a monster from those old books.”

“Wait, are you saying you’re—”

Before he can finish his sentence, you reach for the buttons of your work shirt and undo them as quickly as you can with shaking fingers and courage long since run out. As the shirt loses its structure and falls away, he can see more of your skin than he ever has before.

Scattered in patches across your abdomen, breasts, and even your back are teal scales that reflect his shocked expression back at him in dozens of little frames with the clarity of a polished gem.

“I’m actually not human. I come from a long line of water sprites.”

The tears of shame in your eyes, another first sight for him, are the same iridescent teal and leave subtle crystalline streaks on their way down your cheeks.

He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t find actual words, and the laugh seems to jump from his throat. Low bubbling first it then grows as the seconds pass by. You look up from the bedspread because you can’t believe your ears. This isn’t at all how you imagined he’d react. He holds up a hand. He knows how bad the reaction is but he can’t help it.

When the laughter begins to subside a moment later, he attends to his own shirt. He hikes the material up over his head and reveals smooth skin. You’re not sure what’s going on at first, but then he removes the silver earrings he wears every day and fur begins to sprout from his torso, his forearms, around his face. His canines and nails lengthen before your eyes to sharp points. And suddenly you understand.

“I bought these from a witch who specializes in werewolf magic the day before our first date,” he reaches over and places the small silver hoops into the palm of your hand.

You look down at the jewelry and then back up at your boyfriend’s face. You’re surprised to see that he looks different, though not because of the sudden lycanthropic transformation. There’s a lightness in his eyes and length in his spine that makes you realize just how much his secret was weighing on him.

No words leave your mouth as you crawl into his space. A small smile graces his lips and he lays on his back to make room for you. You kiss him once more and you’re shocked at how different it feels to do so without a secret smothering everything. As you part his lips, Johnny lays his hands on your skin gently. When you don’t withdraw, he lets his hands wander.

His palms skim over the cold patches of scales like he’s trying to warm them. He likes the juxtaposition of the warmth from your skin and the cool brilliance of your scales. He likes the way they pattern on you, lining your spine and sloping over your roundnesses. He kiss parts he can reach on your shoulder and when you stop to let him move more, his kisses follow the trail below your collarbone and between your breasts. When he tentatively swipes his tongue over them, you sigh and sink more fully into his lap.

You pull at the thick hair hear the nape of his neck and redirect him back to your mouth. It doesn’t escape you that your bare torsos are constantly brushing. Your nipples harden when he hugs you to him and shivers at the cool patches meeting his skin.

“Are we going to?”

“Do you want to,” his breath puffs against the side of your jaw.

“Please.”

The press of your rocking hips against his reminds him of just how much clothing there’s still left to remove and how much skin there still is to marvel at. After switching positions, he has you on your back and makes a start on removing your pants. He makes quick work of them by trailing a claw under the stubborn button. When the slacks are gone, he looks over the splashes of blue on the inside of your right thigh, spilling over the front of both your shins, wrapping around your left ankle.

He starts there, with a simple kiss to the sparkle on your ankle and then continues. Like skipping a stone through cerulean waters, he kisses over your shins and makes his leisurely way over the hill of your knee. His tongue makes an appearance at your right thigh, where you had been praying for it. He lingers there until he’s certain the area is no longer untouched. There’s an urge to mark up the other thigh as well so there’s some symmetry. He follows the urge with your hand fisting in the thick strands of his hair the whole time.

“Johnny,” you groan when he takes too long trying to mirror the pattern of your scales with small nips to your skin. “When I asked if we were going to have sex, I was asking about today.”

“Sure, I’ve got you.”

He pats your thigh in a placating gesture, and then slides your underwear off at an obnoxiously slow pace with a shit-eating grin. You try your hardest to level a glare at him, but you break eye contact to gasp when he slides a gentle finger between your folds with no prior mention. You briefly consider just letting him continue, but you’re chasing a very specific sensation.

You rake your nails up the part of his back that you can reach, parting some of the fur there. The shiver that wracks through his whole back has you biting your lip in an attempt to stifle laughter. But it also has him shifting so he can hover over you, his hips occupying the place his shoulders once did. While he balances his weight on his knees and one hand, he uses the other hand to get just free enough from his pants.

He replaces his hand when the button, zipper, and the waist of his pants and underwear bunch around his lower thighs. You reach down before he can do anything else and see what he’s working with. Johnny releases a shaky breath while you feel him up, trace the trail of hair that run from his stomach to his groin. Your other hand runs up his arm in an idle fashion. It’s unintentional but, still, the feeling of your nails running over his skin feels like a live current, even through the fur.

The concentration he exhibits is clear as his head lolls forward. You stop your exploration and nudge him into action with a squeeze of your thighs. He still leans down to plant a kiss on your lips before hooking one hand under your back and around a thigh and shifting so you’re seated in his lap once more. You lower yourself onto him fully and begin rocking. You had been ready to take him early on but you’re wet enough to surprise him. He fights the instinct to pitch up into the wet heat until he’s sure you won’t mind.

When you start to get a bit frustrated with the angle, you push him back and brace yourself on either side of his chest. He lets out a long moan as you ride him, fangs glinting when he throws his head back. His hands come to pull you down onto him more firmly. He doesn’t realize that the prick of his claws on the swatch of scales that adorn your hip spurs you on as well. Each downward snap of your hips he meets halfway until he can feel the tell-tale signs of his orgasm coming. He’s not expecting you to reach down and brush a fingertip against the tip of one of his fangs. Carefully so you don’t cut yourself while you continue to bounce against him, you brush your finger across his lips. He’s not sure why, but it sets him over the edge and he spills into you.

You watch the way his face contorts with the pleasure and ache to join him. Grabbing one of clawed hands, you bring it to the apex of your thighs and he quickly guesses your need. He does his best to rub at your clit while the edges of orgasm fade away from his peripheral vision. It’s just slick enough to get you there, and you finish soon after his fog lifts.

The first thing you do is collapse onto him as you recover. Johnny tries to take deep breaths that you can match and eventually the two of you are letting out twin exhales. When you’re able to, you lift yourself just enough to kiss him again. This time it’s one soft singularity.

He sighs against your lips, and when he pulls back there’s a bemused smile on his face.

“I can’t believe you thought I was human.”

“Yeah,” you close your eyes. “I don’t know how we managed to fool each other for so long.”

“I was actually shaving five times a day since the first date.”

The thought makes you smile when you think back on all the times he would go to the bathroom and come back with a pink face.

“Now I’m sure you can guess why I never washed dishes at your place.”

“Would you get more scales,” he asks while brushing his thumb over the apple of your cheek.

“Close. My fingers would turn blue and web.” You wiggle them for effect.

“You know what? I don’t even think either of us actually said we were human. I guess we just assumed.”

You nod and wonder how things would have been if you came out earlier. The idea of surprising a Johnny that thought you were human on the 2nd date with webbed fingers makes you break your composure. He must follow your train of thought because he begins laughing too, shaking the two of you with the force. When you quiet down again, there’s a heavy calm settled in your ribcage. You suppose this is what courage can bring. Johnny rubs your back as you start to nod off. The last thought you have is that you’ll have to remember thank Nautilanita.

#nct fanfic #nct smut #nct scenarios #nct imagines #johnny scenarios #johnny fanfic #johnny imagines #johnny seo scenarios #johnny seo imagines #johnny seo fanfic

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passionate-reply · 3 years

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This week on Great Albums: one of my favourite “hidden gems” of the mid-1980s, Blancmange’s *Mange Tout* is about as extra and in-your-face as it gets, full of dense arrangements, gender-bending bombast, and musical instruments from Southern Asia.

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! This time around, I’ll be taking a look at one of my favourite hidden gems from the mid-1980s, the sophomore LP of Blancmange, entitled Mange Tout.

Despite their relative obscurity today, particularly in comparison to many of their contemporaries, Blancmange weren’t total strangers to the pop charts. Their first full-length LP, 1982’s Happy Families, would yield the biggest hit of their career: “Living on the Ceiling,” which peaked at #7.

Music: “Living on the Ceiling”

While it never got to be a chart-topper, “Living on the Ceiling” is still an unforgettable track in its own ways. Perhaps its most distinctive feature is its use of the traditional Indian instruments, the sitar and tabla. While 80s synth-pop is certainly full of Orientalism, most of the references you’ll find are pointing to the Far East, and the perceived aesthetic sophistication and techno-utopian futurism of China and Japan. Aside from certain works of Bill Nelson, Blancmange were pretty much the only ones engaging with South Asian musical themes. Blancmange’s instrumentalist, Stephen Luscombe, grew up in London’s Southall neighbourhood, which had a high population of immigrants from Southern Asia, which led him to a lifelong interest in Indian music. Combined with electronics, it makes for a totally unique sound, which ends up sounding better in practice than it might in theory.

While any time White European musicians turn to alternative cultures as artistic tools, there’s a valid cause for some degree of criticism and concern, there’s also an artsy, left-field un-hipness about Blancmange, who seemingly drew from Indian music not only alone, but purely for sonic enjoyment. Unlike the exotic fantasies spun by groups like Japan, none of Blancmange’s songs seem propelled by any specific idea or ideology about India, but rather seem to tackle common pop themes of love and heartbreak against a seemingly *non sequitur* musical backdrop. While we, as listeners, might have strong associations with particular sounds, this is ultimately more cultural than innate, and there’s really no reason why a composition with Indian instruments must revolve around some theme of “Indian-ness”; it isn’t like people in India don’t also fall in love. However you feel about these influences, the role of Indian instruments is only increased on Mange Tout, where they appear on multiple tracks, including the album’s most successful single, “Don’t Tel Me.”

Music: “Don’t Tell Me”

On Mange Tout tracks like “Don’t Tell Me,” not only do the instruments return, but so do the session musicians who had performed on “Living on the Ceiling”: Deepak Khazanchi, on sitar, and Pandit Dinesh, on the percussion instruments tabla and madal. “Don’t Tell Me” is a track with a lot of pop appeal, lightweight and singable, which makes it a bit surprising that it was actually the final single released from the album. It certainly impresses me that Blancmange managed to create such bubbly and finely tuned pop, given that neither of their core members came from any formal or technical background: Luscombe had had a history in avant-garde music ensembles, and vocalist Neil Arthur became interested in music via the DIY culture of punk. Their first-ever release, the 1980 EP Irene & Mavis, sounds more like Throbbing Gristle than Culture Club, but they somehow managed to arrive at something quite sweet and palatable in the end. That said, it’s also possible for sweet to eventually become too sweet--and this line is provoked on the album’s divisive second single, “That’s Love, That It Is.”

Music: “That’s Love, That It Is”

In contrast to the lighter “Don’t Tell Me,” “That’s Love, That It Is” is utterly bombastic, with a vicious intensity. The instrumentation and production style is dense to the point of being borderline overwhelming. By this point in his life, Stephen Luscombe had recently discovered that he was gay, and his time spent in nightclubs that catered to the gay community provided another pillar of Blancmange’s signature sound: the influence of the queer disco tradition, which is almost certainly the source of this tightly-packed instrumental arrangement style. Blancmange never seem to be mentioned in the same breath as other stars of queer synth-pop like Bronski Beat, Soft Cell, and the Pet Shop Boys, presumably due to the combination of their overall obscurity and the fact that Luscombe was never the face of their band, but I see no reason not to include them in the same pantheon of camp. Speaking of queerness, it’s also worth noting how Blancmange played with gender, particularly on their cover of “The Day Before You Came.”

Music: “The Day Before You Came”

A solid eight years before Erasure’s iconic Abba-Esque, Blancmange offered their own interpretation of an ABBA classic with “The Day Before You Came.” In their hands, it’s a languid dirge, and a meditation on quotidian miseries for which the titular event seems to offer little respite. The unchanged lyrics, portraying the narrator working in an office and watching soap operas at night, are subtly feminine-coded, but the deep and unmistakably masculine voice of vocalist Neil Arthur seems to muddle those connotations. While it is a cover, I’m tempted to sort it into the same tradition as Soft Cell’s “Bedsitter” and the Pet Shop Boys’ “Left To My Own Devices,” as a work which musically elevates the everyday life of a campily self-obsessed character to the sort of melodrama the narrator perceives it to have.

I’ve spent a lot of time praising the instrumental side of their music so far, but it’s also true that Blancmange wouldn’t be Blancmange without Arthur’s contributions. The presence of his rough and untrained voice, with the added gruffness of a Northern accent, draws a line between these tracks and a typical pop production, and he sells us quite successfully on the gloomy, ominous feeling of tracks like “The Day Before You Came” and the album’s lead single, “Blind Vision.”

Music: “Blind Vision”

On the cover of Mange Tout, we find an assortment of seemingly unrelated items, which form a sort of graphic wunderkammer against a pale beige backdrop. Perhaps the best theme that could be assigned to them is that of travel--we see several means of transportation, such as a boat, a motorbike, and an airplane flying above a map, as well as items that can be taken as symbols of exotic locales, such as a North American cactus, and an elephant and Zulu nguni shield from Africa. Only the harp is clearly evocative of music itself--and this instrument won’t even be found on the album! The album’s title, “Mange Tout,” suggests that we are getting “full” Blancmange, or “all of” Blancmange. Taken together, the cover and title seem to imply that this album is stuffed to the brim, and contains a whole world of musical ideas. I would definitely agree that that’s a major motif of the album: it’s audacious, explosive, and free-wheeling. It very much feels like an album that was put together on the back of a first initial success, with a pumped-up budget and bold creative vision, and hence pulls no punches. Perhaps the most compelling feature of Mange Tout, and the primary reason I recommend this album so highly, is its unbridled enthusiasm for what it’s doing. Even in its ostensibly experimental moments, Mange Tout feels not like an album that is “trying” something, but rather one that boldly and assuredly proclaims the things it does, and embraces a kind of “more is more” maximalism.

In hindsight, it’s easy to see Mange Tout as the creative as well as commercial peak of Blancmange’s career. Their follow-up release, 1985’s Believe You Me, is far from the worst album I’ve ever heard, but it definitely doesn’t feel quite the same as the “classic” Blancmange works, adopting a more middle-of-the-road, radio-friendly synth-pop direction, with less of the South Asian influences and experimentation that really set them apart in the saturated synth-pop landscape. While not a work devoid of merit, Believe You Me was a relative commercial dud, and the duo would split soon after, chiefly citing personal and creative differences--though they did have a brief reunion in the early 2010s.

Music: “Lose Your Love”

My favourite track on Mange Tout is “All Things Are Nice,” which, alongside the neo-doo-wop “See the Train,” would be classed as one of the more experimental tracks on the album. Full of tension, “All Things Are Nice” alternates between eerily whispering vocals from Arthur, and a variety of samples from other media--which was still a relatively cutting-edge technique for the time. “All Things Are Nice” is almost certainly the most conceptual track on the album: as samples discuss world war, and Arthur whispers that “we can’t keep up with it,” the song is probably to be interpreted as a commentary on the runaway nature of technology and so-called “progress” in the modern age. The titular assertion that “all things are nice” seems to be ironic--or perhaps it embodies a sheer love of chaos and unpredictability, for their own sake, which would certainly fit the album’s mood. It also feels like it might be a sort of defense of the album itself: like I said, *Mange Tout* is serving us “all of Blancmange,” and isn’t it fun to get to have all of something? That’s everything for today--as always, thanks for listening!

Music: “All Things Are Nice”

#music #great albums #blancmange

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scottymcgeesterwrites · 4 years

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Final Fantasy VII Review

Year: 1997

Original Platform: PlayStation One

Also available on: PC, PlayStation Store

Version I Played: PlayStation One

Synopsis:

The Shinra Electric Power Company rules over the city of Midgar, and the eco-terrorists AVALANCHE stop at nothing to try and prevent the life essence of the planet from being used as energy. Barrett, leader of AVALANCHE, hires a mercenary named Cloud Strife for their bombing mission on a Shinra Mako Reactor. Cloud doesn’t care much for the greater cause and only wants his pay. But then, after a mission goes awry, he meets Aerith, a flower girl who is the descendant of the Ancients. He quickly finds himself wrapped up in the greater conflict against Shinra.

Gameplay:

Final Fanatasy VII utilizes magic spells via Materia – little orbs that come in a variety of colors pertaining to the natural elements. You can mix and match them on your weapons and equipment, which gives you access to different spells and stats. All your equipment varies with the number of slots for how many Materia orbs you can put in. Leveling up not only upgrades the character but the equipped Materia as well.

Final Fantasy VII also uses an ATB system but is known for introducing Limit Breaks – finishing moves that build up after the character gets hit over time. Final Fantasy VI had a prototype called Desperation Attack – but it was very rare as it only appeared when your character had 1/8 of their total HP, and there was a 1 in 6 chance of performing the Desperation Attack after selecting Attack. I actually had no idea that was a thing until long after I finished the game, and never experienced it when I played Final Fantasy VI.

Graphics:

Out of all the Final Fantasy games, I have to say that this one has not aged well. It has the worst graphics of the entire series. The battle and cinematic graphics are passable.

(Most of the graphics power seemed to be put in Tifa’s, uh, bosom.)

But the characters in towns, the overworld, and in-game cutscenes are incredibly blocky. PC versions are supposedly sharper, but the PlayStation One version makes it nigh impossible to see any facial expressions.

The graphics are definitely a product of its time. I always say that the beginning of 3D gaming was essentially like puberty – awkward and full of zits. It wasn’t yet at that stage where it could be aesthetically pleasing. We marveled about it when it was first released, yes, but then we cringed in retrospect.

The environment backdrops however are probably the strongest points, where they capture the industrial nature of Midgar, the reactors and other such buildings.

Story:

Final Fantasy VII became legendary the minute Square released it. Every aspect was memorable. Part of it could be due to the fact that it was the first Final Fantasy game to enter the 3D realm. Another part was Tetsuya Nomura’s character designs, which hit the cool meter to the point of sub-zero.

The cinematics blew our minds. The opening action scene with Cloud, Barrett, and the rest of AVALANCHE attacking Shinra’s mako reactor is the most memorable opening to a Final Fantasy game. Period. Final Fantasy games really do know how to start at the right spot, no matter how good or bad the overall game is. The opening is always the best part.

Then there was the motorcycle chase. Cid’s airship. The gun fights. Battles with Sephiroth. The extra stuff to find, like summons and extra bosses. So much was jam-packed into the game.

But the story was the primary factor in making VII famous. It’s definitely one of the better ones. Man, the story became so famous that even gamers who haven’t touched a Final Fantasy game knew the major spoilers. It is the equivalent to knowing Darth Vader’s line, “I am your father” without having actually watched Star Wars.

Aerith (Aeris in the English releases) Gainsborough – the innocent flower girl who holds the secrets of the Ancients – develops a romance with Cloud and fucking dies at the end of Disc 1 by the main villain – Sephiroth. The scene shocked everyone and practically made headlines. Everybody has seen the horrible image in one way or another.

It seems to me that since Final Fantasy V, the stories have gotten more and more used to main character deaths, ultimately transforming into a heavy-hitting TV series rather than simply a video game series. In other words – it matured. Looking back, Final Fantasy IV appears to be child’s play and a prototype of later dramatic storylines with fully realized worlds.

Final Fantasy VII was also the first Final Fantasy game to create a world much like ours – one with cars and trains and airplanes and machine guns and even cellphones. The main city of Midgar reflects industrialization at its worst, with miles of slums and claustrophobic cities. Shinra Electric Power Company is a reflection of capitalism at its worst - a single entity in charge of so much that it’s pretty much the government. For the first time in a Final Fantasy game, you play as characters who dance between the morally ambiguous line of terrorism and activism. Funny enough, the theme of neglecting the planet resonates with us now more than ever. This game ended up being rather prophetic about the uncontrollable growth of corporations.

While the story is memorable with many intriguing elements, the plot itself is a tangled web. In my opinion, they really hashed in so many things that it’s easy to forget crucial details. It’s not straightforward, but at the same time everything does connect by the end. While Shinra is the driving force as a whole as the villain, Sephiroth takes over, then you learn about his backstory and then with the evil scientist Hojo and the extra-terrestrial Jenova and then “Weapon” and then the planet’s history and this and that and the other thing.

If I were to put Final Fantasy VI and Final Fantasy VII together and contrast them, as many gamers do, I would find that Final Fantasy VII is the summer blockbuster and Final Fantasy VI is the Oscar winner. Final Fantasy VII started introducing the sappy romance subplot to the series. A love triangle forms among Aerith, Cloud, and Cloud’s childhood friend Tifa. While there’s nothing inherently wrong with having a love triangle, the writing is like watching middle schoolers trying to express their feelings. Final Fantasy VI and Final Fantasy IV treated any romance with dignity and realism.

But maybe I’m being a bit harsh. After all, Cloud Strife did go through some suffering as an adolescent. His backstory clearly drives his antisocial behavior, so that becomes a good arc.

The goofiest but memorable part of the story deals with Don Corneo and Wall Market and running around store to store doing tasks in order to free Tifa from Don Corneo. It ends with Cloud needing to cross-dress as a woman to get inside Don’s mansion. Because, you know, it’s not like Cloud can just break in with his sword and Aerith’s magic or anything like that. But whatever. It’s anime.

The recent Final Fantasy VII Remake for the PS4 seems to streamline the story, and actually enhances the emotions they were trying to deliver in the original. I will be talking about the remake in a separate post altogether since I’m almost done with it at the time of this writing. But there’s a lot that I want to say about comparing and contrasting the remake and the original.

The latter half of the plot takes a couple weird turns. At one point, Cloud became catatonic and confined to a wheelchair.

That part of the game became the sluggish part for me. Sephiroth also tries to confuse Cloud, which confused me. Cloud apparently suffers from some alternate subconscious mumbo-jumbo and like. . .ungh. I get an aneurysm thinking about it sometimes.

Complicated plotlines like Final Fantasy VII start showing up from here on out in the Final Fantasy series. The trend of bishonen characters also begin here, bishonen being the Japanese term for “beautiful boy.” Cloud and Sephiroth have that look. The series starts hashing in sappier romances and much more of an anime feel.

Final Fantasy VII ultimately marked the start of a new era for the series – introducing both cool and overused tropes.

Music:

Hands down the best Final Fantasy soundtrack of all.

The entire soundtrack of this game is memorable. The opening tune, with its light twinkle when the stars show up, is enough to make any gamer know exactly what that’s from.

With a story set in a more modern world, we have music that is more modern. After Final Fantasy VI had a more serious and operatic score, Uematsu displayed his love of progressive rock here. The motorcycle chase incorporates a lot of synth, which was fitting for zipping through the streets of Midgar. However, Final Fantasy VII is the first Final Fantasy game without that familiar starting bassline for the battle them. The battle theme is instantly recognizable but also radically different from its predecessors. It’s dramatic and displays danger.

Meanwhile, the boss theme is one of the best boss themes in the series, or any video game really. It’s an electrifying progressive rock piece, and it’s my personal favorite boss theme.

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The more instrumental pieces are somber, given the dreary atmosphere of the planet. The world map music is very different from its predecessors. It’s romantic one moment, soaring the next, and then dips into foreboding terror. I guess that sums up the story of Final Fantasy VII.

And we cannot leave out One-Winged Angel, which I will talk about below.

Notable Theme:

Without a doubt, One-Winged Angel – played during the terrifying final battle against Sephiroth – is the most memorable piece of music in Final Fantasy VII.

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It may very well be the most popular song of the entire series. Nobuo Uematsu was inspired by Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. It’s a whopping 30 something minute classical piece. If you look it up on YouTube and browse through it, you can definitely note the similarities. However, Uematsu didn’t want some boring classical introduction to the piece. He wanted to add the destructive impact of rock. The theme has a very distinct stamping-your-foot-down quality to it.

I had noticed a certain piece-by-piece feel of the song and that’s exactly how Uematsu composed it. This is the only song that Uematsu has composed where he created several tunes in his head and then rearranged them to make a single comprehensive song.

If you want to get technical, One-Winged Angel is the first Final Fantasy song with lyrics. The chorus sings in Latin about Sephiroth’s burning anger, with some lyrics actually taken from the medieval poem Carmina Burana. It sounds fantastic when fully orchestrated.

In Advent Children, the animated sequel to Final Fantasy VII, the music is accompanied by hardcore metal. This new rendition really illustrates the destructive power of Sephiroth. Uematsu changed the lyrics for Advent Children. They are more original now. I specifically noticed the lyrics “Veni, veni, mi fili”, which translates to “Come, come, my son.” Sephiroth is inviting you so he can kill you.

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Uematsu has stated that the original orchestration didn’t sit well with him. As I suspected, Advent Children’s hardcore metal version is the one he preferred, the one he would have composed had he the technology at the time of Final Fantasy VII.

Verdict:

Another must-play for any RPG fan, even if you think it’s overrated. It’s a must-play because of its popularity, in the same way that people are wide-eyed when you say you haven’t seen Star Wars or such-and-such other popular movie. It’s a whole lot of fun, especially in the scenes that involve other forms of gameplay, such as the motorcycle chase and even a battlefield strategy game in protecting Fort Condor.

Direct Sequel?

Yes – first there was the CGI movie Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children.

I actually watched Advent Children before playing Final Fantasy VII. I had already known most of what happened in the game and Advent Children became a monumental craze when it first came out. Everybody was talking about it. Watching the sequel before playing the game skewers your interpretation of things. My first impression of Cloud was that he was always whiny and angsty, and meanwhile Tifa kept nagging him to move on. I felt really bad for Cloud losing Aerith.

Then when I actually played Final Fantasy VII, I saw that Cloud starts as this badass mercenary. Tifa is spunky and clearly is the better choice (IMO) but Cloud is enamored by Aerith after only meeting her briefly. WHAT? Cloud. Bro. Make a move on Tifa, you nitwit. Tifa is AMAZING.

Square Enix then continued the story with Dirge of Cerberus – Final Fantasy VII. This video game sequel focuses on Vincent Valentine, a fan favorite of the original game.

Let me remind you about something – the original game revealed Shinra’s inner deep secret experiments, namely with Sephiroth and Jenova. Dirge of Cerberus introduces an even deeper research team within Shinra called Deepground. I don’t know about you, but it already sounds like the start of a terribly redundant string of sequels, like how the Jason Bourne movies keep revealing an even deeper level of conspiracy theories. Vincent’s mysterious background is now fully revealed. He is defined by – guess what? – another angsty lost lover story, this time with a woman named Lucrecia. Now, okay, look, maybe I’m just being a dick about these types of love stories. But when it keeps popping up within the same series in the same manner, I start asking if you have anything else to offer on your menu.

Lastly, there is the prequel for the PSP – Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII. Of all the games in the Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core has received the most positive reception. If anything, play that after playing Final Fantasy VII before bothering with anything else.

Oh, and of course there is the Final Fantasy VII Remake, which we thought wasn’t going to happen for the longest time but they finally released it in April 2020. More on that later after I finish it, and after I post my entire series of Final Fantasy reviews!

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hookedonapirate · 4 years

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Through the Rising Tide

Thank you so much for the beautiful graphic @itsfabianadocarmo!

Summary: The Jones brothers are polar opposites. Liam's the safe and honorable one, straight-laced and straight as an arrow. The good son.

Killian's the dangerous one, the bad boy with tats, leather jackets, a motorcycle and a questionable past.

The only things they have in common are panty-melting sea-blue eyes, the flat they share in Storybrooke and a rare blood type.

Oh, and apparently their taste in women.

Or rather, one woman.

Feisty.

Blonde.

Gorgeous.

Green-eyed Goddess.

Killian saw her first, but she chose his brother—the nice guy over the playboy. And even though she’s dating his brother, it doesn't make him want her any less. If that's not bad enough, she moves in with them and he has to pretend he's not completely in love with her. His life could not get any worse…

Until Liam dies in a tragic motorcycle accident.

Leaving each of them with one half of a broken heart.

Now Killian and Emma are left helping each other pick up the pieces.

Just as they're beginning to learn how to live in their new reality, another riptide pulls them further into the deep end when she finds out she's pregnant with Liam's baby.

Notes:

Starts out as Jewelled Swan. Don’t like, don’t read!

Thank you @ultraluckycatnd for looking it over!

This story was inspired by Baby Mine by Kennedy Fox, and I loved the book so much and thought it was very much underrated. I’ve wanted to write a fic like this for a long time now because it’s one of my favorite tropes, but after I read that book, I just had to write my own take.

The title comes from the lyrics of the song, Lay By Me by Ruben. The particular line goes like this:

"I hope you know through the rising tide

That I'll be here and you can lay by my side"

If you've never heard it, I recommend giving it a listen. It's an amazing song and very fitting for this story.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VFJbLzEtoZw

P.S. In case you're unable to read the shoulder tattoo in the picture above and are wondering what it says—

"There is no happiness without tears

No life without death

And no true love without heartbreak"

Rated: Explicit for smut (including sexual fantasies, masturbation, implied and detailed sex, etc.) and language (lots of F-bombs).

Also available on: AO3 FF.N

Catch up: Ch 1 // Ch 2 //

Chapter 3

One Year Later…

With a sleepy groan, Emma shoots out her hand to silence the loud, annoying noise coming from her phone. “Ugh…” She drops the device on the nightstand and retreats underneath the covers, not ready to get up yet. She’s never ready to get up in the morning. She rolls over to her other side, seeking warmth from the body lying next to her. She wraps her arms around his torso and buries her face in his chest, not wanting to leave him. But she has to get ready for work. She hates the thought of leaving his arms, though. They fit so well together like this, like two puzzle pieces.

She knows the longer she lies here like this, though, the stronger the urge to stay will be. She attempts to force herself out of bed. She kisses her sleeping boyfriend’s forehead and starts to get up. His strong arms pull her back to him, his hands latching onto her hips, pulling her on top of him so she’s straddling him. Emma emits a sleepy moan when she feels his thickness pressed against her core.

“Where do you think you’re going, love?” he asks, his voice groggy with sleep as he wraps his arms around her to ensure she won’t leave him.

“I have to go to work,” she groans, clearly not happy about it. When he tightens his arms around her, she wiggles in his hold and laughs, trying to free herself, but honestly, she’s not trying very hard.

He caresses her cheek and pulls her in for a lazy kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to taste her. She moans against his lips, her body tingling and molding to his as she rocks slightly against him, her arousal coating his hard length as he arches his hips into her, seeking more friction. Friction she desperately wants to give him.

But as much as she wants to get caught up in the kiss, in the effect he has on her, as much as she wants to just give herself to him and ride him into the next world, she really has to get up and go to work. She breaks the kiss, as painful and difficult as it is. “Babe, you’re not making it easy,” she says breathlessly.

He pouts as he looks up at her, his crystal blue eyes boring into her green ones, not making this any easier. No, the way he’s looking at her right now makes it ten times harder.

“Sure you don’t have time for a quickie?” he begs, releasing a small groan of desperation as he palms her naked breast, brushing the pad of his thumb over her nipple, making it hard.

“Babe, if you make me late—” Her pleas are instantly silenced when he moves his hands to her ass and squeezes, pressing her more firmly against him.

He flashes a devilish smirk, one tainted with mischief that she only witnesses when they’re either talking about sex, having sex or about to have sex. “Then I’ll get to fuck you for the next hour.”

Emma had actually planned on getting up, but when she feels Liam’s lips on her neck and his teeth nibbling her skin, when she feels the head of his cock at her entrance, all bets are off. A moan tumbles from her lips and soon, Liam is grabbing her hips and sliding into her. Emma sits up, placing her hands on his chest in total submission and rocks her hips back and forth, eager to have him completely buried inside of her.

“Oh, fuck, Emma. . .”

He reaches for her breasts again and squeezes as she rides his dick. She’s so glad she’d set her alarm clock fifteen minutes early like she always does because she knows nine times out of ten, she’ll let Liam get his way. It's their morning routine.

But she can’t help it. Her boyfriend is so irresistible. The way he flips her over, sending Emma to her back, the way he pounds into her so rough and hard like he can never get enough of her. The way he kisses her so deeply and passionately, making her head spin. The expression on his face as her walls grip his cock, the way he groans, setting her skin ablaze. And the way he’s kissing her after it’s over, both of them breathless. When he pulls out, the way he kisses every inch of her on his way to her satisfied core, his cum dripping from her entrance as she combs her fingers through his curly brown hair. The way he laps up both of their orgasms from her cunt until her walls are fluttering around his tongue. She can’t help but give in to all of it.

Emma’s fingers clench around his hair as she screams through another incredible orgasm. “Fuck… Liam!”

And once she's able to reassemble herself and jump out of bed before he can talk her into cuddling or going for another round, she immediately hates having to leave him. But now she must.

Emma throws on some clothes, making sure she’s dressed appropriately in case she runs into her other roommate as she heads to the bathroom. The big, blissful smile plastered on her face instantly vanishes, though, her nose scrunching in disapproval when she steps on something and looks down, spotting a red, lacey thong on the floor outside Killian’s bedroom. A thong that is not her own.

What the actual fuck?

She grimaces and kicks the fabric aside like it’s contaminated with a deadly virus. She’s not surprised though. Disgusted, yes, but not surprised. Killian is always bringing a different woman home with him, and she and Liam always have to hear the noises coming from his bedroom. Therefore, they never feel bad when they’re going at it in their bedroom, and don’t even bother being quiet.

Sometimes she thinks the two brothers are engaging in some sort of weird contest, trying to see who can make the woman they’re with scream the loudest. She gathers it’s a pissing contest between the two brothers to see who’s the better bloke in the sack or to see who has the bigger cock. So Emma always makes sure she’s extra loud to let Killian know just how good his brother is in the sack. And so far, none of the women Killian’s brought to his bed have outmatched her.

Emma grins at the thought as she continues to the bathroom to relieve her bladder. She also thinks about how much things have changed since she came here to Storybrooke. She’d never meant to start a relationship with Liam, or anyone for that matter, when she’d ran into him outside his bar the night they’d met. They had exchanged phone numbers and he’d asked her out the next day, to which she’d reluctantly accepted. She was reluctant, not because she wasn't attracted to him—because God, she was—but because she still had a strong fortress surrounding her heart from when Neal had shattered it to pieces. But when she’d learned Liam too was cheated on by an ex, they had bonded over their heartaches, and she thought they could help each other heal. But they did so much more than that.

Emma fell for Liam and she fell hard. He’s much like a teddy bear, only soft on the inside, not the outside. He’s kind and loving and warm and best of all, he makes her laugh. When she’d discovered how good he was in bed on top of all his amazing qualities, she thought he was too good to be true. He seemed like the total package. He is the total package. But still, she’d kept waiting for the other shoe to drop; it never did, though. Or at least, it hasn’t dropped. yet.

Once she's under the shower stream, she’s wetting her hair and singing the first song that comes to mind. Titanium by David Guetta.

“You shout it out, but I can’t hear a word you say. . .”

After nine years, she still sings this damn song. But it’s so perfect for the shower because the lyrics are ones she can easily belt out, the words echoing beautifully off the bathroom walls.

She’s been singing in the shower since she was eight years old. Her brother would always pound on the bathroom door when she was taking a shower, and yell for her to stop. It was like that when they lived in the same house growing up and it was like that after she moved in with him and Mary Margaret. She has to admit, she misses annoying the hell out of her brother.

Bang, bang, bang.

“Would you stop your bloody awful singing?!" Killian shouts through the door. “Some people are actually trying to sleep around here!”

Now that she lives with Liam, she has his pain in the ass brother to annoy. As fun as that is, it’s not really the same.

Emma doesn’t stop though. Instead, she grins to herself and lathers shampoo into her hair, closing her eyes as she makes sure to sing even louder and more obnoxious.

“You criticize, but all your bullets ricochet. Shoot me down, but I get up. . .”

Ever since she moved in with her boyfriend eight months ago, Killian has been a pesky thorn in her side. He’s been nothing but a nuisance. From leaving his dirty dishes in the sink to sleeping with a different woman almost every night to pissing her off every chance he gets. He’s always trying to bring her down, always finding new ways to push her buttons. She’s not sure exactly why it all started. Maybe because he’s held a grudge against her since she chose his brother over him. Or maybe because he thinks she’s trying to steal his brother away from him. But either way, she’s not giving him the satisfaction of letting him get to her. Or at least letting him know he gets to her.

Emma starts shouting out the lyrics, each word louder than the previous one, purposely trying to get a rise out of him, just like he always does to her.

“Shoot me down, but I won’t fall! I am Tit-aaaaan-iiiiiiiuuuuuum! Shoot me down, but I won’t—”

The whine of the faucet interrupts her, and suddenly she's shivering, no longer feeling the hot water spraying her skin. What the fuck? One second she's rinsing her hair and the next, the bathroom door is slamming shut and she’s just standing there in the bathtub with shampoo dripping down her face and no water to rinse it out with.

That damn bastard turned off the shower!

“What the hell?!” she screeches, her words garbled when the shampoo drips into her mouth. She spits it out and spins around, blindly reaching for the towel on the rack, yanking it off the bar and wiping her face with it. “You asshole!”

She steps out of the tub, blood bubbling under her skin as she wraps the towel around her body. Okay, pounding on the bathroom door is one thing, but shutting off the water while she’s taking a shower is a whole different level of asshole for Killian Jones! And she won’t stand for it. She’s not letting him get away with this.

She marches out of the bathroom and down the hall, leaving a dripping wet trail of soapy water behind her. But she doesn’t give a fuck at the moment. She rips his door open and storms into his room without any sort of grace. She hurries over to his alarm clock, which he leaves on his dresser across the room so he'll have to get up to turn it off. He does it so he won’t be tempted to hit the snooze button and fall back asleep.

Killian’s in his bed with the covers over his head as Emma turns on the music and cranks up the volume. She immediately spins around and scurries out of his room, her heart hammering in her chest, but when she makes it to the doorway, she can feel his hand gripping her arm as he turns her around and presses her firmly against the wall, just outside his door.

She loses her breath.

He doesn’t say anything at all; he just stares at her, a mixture of emotions written all over his face. She can’t tell if he’s pissed or irritated, or if the look on his face is just pure hatred for her. Or if it’s something else entirely.

Emma loses a breath when he closes the gap between them until their bodies are pressed together, his face inches from hers. He still doesn’t murmur a word, just stares at her.

She gulps when his eyes flicker over her face, and it almost seems like he’s going to. . .

No, no, no, that can’t be. She knows for a fact she’s just imagining things, because Killian would never try to kiss her. Not only because his brother is dating her, but because he hates her with every fiber of his being; he’s never said it out loud, but she knows deep down he does.

Killian’s still staring at her and she’s so stunned in her spot, she can’t even move. As his eyes move to her lips, she swears she stops breathing, her heart pounding in her ear. He hasn’t looked at her with anything apart from hatred since the night they met.

He quickly amends his stare, his eyes snapping to hers, regret clouding his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispers huskily and releases her, dashing to his room and slamming the door behind him.

What the hell was that?

He may have been able to move, but she feels like she’s superglued to the wall. She can still feel his palms on her wrists like he’s still pinning her, but he’s not.

“What the bloody hell was all that racket?”

The sound of Liam’s voice makes her heart jump into her throat, and she has to peel herself from the wall. When she does, she feels a million times lighter. She blows out a long breath. A breath she feels like she’s been holding this whole time. She turns to Liam and gets on her tiptoes as she wraps her arms around the back of his neck, kissing him chastely on the lips. “Nothing, babe, it was just your annoying brother hollering at me for singing again and telling me how awful of a singer I am.”

“Don’t listen to him. You sing beautifully,” Liam assures her sweetly, kissing the tip of her nose. “I love your singing.”

Emma smiles at his compliments, but her face twists at the memories of Killian turning off the water on her. “I never do listen to him, but that asshole shut off the shower on me while I was in there. And I had shampoo in my hair and it got in my eyes and mouth.”

She can see the anger spiraling through her boyfriend, his features appalled. “He did what?!” Liam lunges toward Killian’s door, but Emma moves in front of him and places her hands on his chest to stop him.

“It’s fine. I got him back.” She smirks. “I turned on his music and cranked up the volume.

“I know, I could hear everything,” he grumbles, his eyes focused on Killian’s door. Emma’s still standing in front of him so he won’t go charging in there, but he manages to pound on the door. “What the fuck, Killian?! You don’t go into the bathroom while Emma’s using it! She lives here, too, you wanker!”

“I already told her I was sorry!” he calls through the door.

Emma furrows her brows. She thought Killian had said he was sorry for pinning her against the wall and almost kissing her. Or at least, that’s what it seemed like.

“Sorry, love,” Liam murmurs, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her forehead. “My brother’s a pompous arse sometimes.”

She can’t disagree with that. This is far from the first time Killian’s been a jerk to her and it won’t be the last. She wishes she and Liam could get a place of their own. What she wouldn’t give to be able to get up in the morning and prance around the apartment half-naked, or even naked if she so chose to be, not having to worry about annoying roommates who only stir up trouble and tell her she’s an awful singer. She knows her boyfriend wants to be close to his brother, but still, how does Liam not get sick of Killian’s shit?

“It’s fine,” she assures him, looking up into his warm blue eyes. “I just can’t wait until we get a place of our own. Just you and me.”

A serene smile stretches over Liam’s lips as he gazes into her eyes and caresses her cheek. “I can’t wait either, baby.” He turns her toward the wall, pressing her back against it, much like Killian had done a few moments ago. Emma moans when she feels Liam’s thickness digging into her thigh. “Then I would get to fuck you whenever I wanted without worrying about my little brother pounding on the wall, telling us to stop.” He lifts her up and she instinctively wraps her legs around his waist as he buries his face in the crook of her neck and gives her a few gentle thrusts. Emma tilts her head back and moans, loving the way his cock feels pressed against her center. He’s wearing boxers, but she can still feel every inch of him.

“That would be amazing,” she murmurs breathlessly as he leaves a trail of kisses down her neck.

“But it might not be such a good idea because then I would never want to leave. I’d want to stay home and make love to you all day.”

Emma laughs as his words vibrate against her skin. “You’re insatiable.”

“Can’t help it, love. You’re so bloody gorgeous and perfect. And when you have something rare and precious, you hold onto it and never let it go.”

Emma’s heart warms, a blissful smile curving her lips. Liam’s sweet lines, no matter how cheesy or sappy, are just some of the reasons why she fell in love with him. He always knows what to say to make her feel special. Emma fists her hands in his hair and pulls his face to hers, capturing his lips for a heated kiss.

Killian’s bedroom door opens, and he barges through the hallway, bursting their cozy, quiet bubble. “I can’t wait for you two to get your own place either. Then I won’t have to hear you two fucking every goddamn second of the day,” he grumbles as he marches down the hall.

“Oh, like we’ve never heard you fucking one of your many conquests!” Emma hollers after him.

“Whatever, I’m taking a shower. I’m late for work and you’re taking too damn long.”

Emma’s eyes widen when he disappears into the bathroom, and she releases herself from Liam’s hold and follows Killian, but before she can stop him, he slams the door in her face.

She’s seeing red as she wiggles the knob and is even more pissed when it’s locked. “You asshole! I have to rinse the shampoo out of my hair since you shut off my shower before I could!”

He answers by turning on his heavy metal music.

Emma lets out a frustrated scream and pounds on the door. So much for being at work on time today.

She’s fucking pissed and about to kick the door, but Liam’s warm arms instantly put her at ease.

“Come on, baby, don’t let him get under your skin. Let me make you breakfast while you wait for the shower.”

Emma relents and goes to her room to grab her bathrobe. She rinses her hair off in the kitchen sink as Liam starts the coffee.

~*~

Killian’s still cursing to himself when Emma’s in the shower for the second time that morning. He tugs on his shirt, hating himself for what he’d done earlier in the hallway. He never should’ve pinned her against the wall and almost kissed the bloody hell out of her, but he’d reacted before he could control himself.

When he had pressed her into the wall, she was standing there, dripping wet in nothing but a towel. He can still see the wet spots on the carpet where her hair had dripped to the floor—in his bedroom when she marched in here to turn on his music and outside his door. He’d damn near drooled when he gazed upon the soft swell of her slick breasts, and couldn’t help but notice her pebbled nipples underneath the thin cotton. He could feel her taut nipples against his chest when he pressed himself into her. She was so fucking sexy, and he wanted to pick her up and carry her to his room and have his way with her. Or seeing that she was naked underneath the towel, he wanted to lift her up and just take her there against the wall. It would have been so easy to slide inside of her and just fuck her senseless. Neither of those scenarios was an option, obviously.

Killian sits on the edge of his bed, sighing into his hands. As much as he pretends to and wishes he actually hated her, he’s unfortunately in love with her. After he found her in his kitchen wearing Liam’s shirt a year ago, he did everything he could to forget about her. He's tried sleeping with other women, he still tries that method, but it never bloody works. It only makes him wish those women were Emma. It makes him want her more. It makes him feel more lonely than he already is.

Maybe he would've been able to forget about her if she hadn't kept showing up here. And it was bad enough when she and Liam had their sleepovers all the time, but then she moved in eight months ago because she was sick of living with her brother, and Liam was sick of not waking up next to Emma every morning.

Killian hates living here with Liam and Emma. He hates having to hear them fuck in the bedroom next to his; he hates having to hear them speak to each other like they’re so fucking in love. It makes him sick.

He hates having to witness every milestone in their relationship. He had to listen every time Liam went on about how he was falling for Emma and how she was his soulmate. He had to hear about it when Liam told him he had finally professed his love for her; he had to hear about it when Liam said he could no longer stand living without her, and how he wanted to ask her to move in with him. Liam sought Killian's approval, which he reluctantly gave, and had to hear about Emma’s reaction and how excited she was when she said yes.

Killian’s had to listen to every conversation Liam and Emma have had when they’re all home at the same time, he’s had to watch them feed each other, he’s had to witness one of them going into the kitchen, grabbing a can of Reddi Whip and heading back to their room countless times. For the past year, he’s had a front-row seat to Liam’s and Emma’s relationship, and he’s hated every fucking second of it.

In the beginning, Killian had hoped their relationship would be temporary. Emma had been cheated on, too, just like Liam, so they had that in common and it was something they bonded over in the beginning. Killian thought they both just needed to cleanse themselves from their cheating exes, and that they were using each other to do that, but nope. What they had in the beginning went beyond helping each other heal. And Killian can’t blame his brother for wanting something more with Emma. She’s the whole fucking package and Killian knows this just as well as Liam does. It’s the reason why Killian hasn’t been able to tame his feelings for her, even though he knows she’s completely off-limits.

He’s happy for Liam, he really is. He’s glad Liam found someone as amazing as Emma. He’s glad Liam is happy. He just wishes he’d never met her at the bar that night. He wishes he’d never set his sights on her so that maybe then he wouldn’t be pining for his brother’s girlfriend. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so head over heels for her. But then again, maybe he would still feel the same way about her, no matter how or when he met her.

Maybe it’s his fault though. He knows his feelings for her would be so much easier to deal with if he didn’t live with her.

There have been so many times he told himself he was finding another place to live, but at the end of the day, he talked himself out of it because why should he leave? This was his apartment long before Liam even met Emma. Hell, this was Killian’s apartment before Liam moved in with him.

Killian moved here after he graduated from high school and his first roommate wouldn’t leave after not paying his share of the rent for six months. Killian could have gone to court, filled out the paperwork and served him with an eviction notice, which would’ve given his roommate a month to move out. But Killian had another idea in mind that would speed up the process, and all he had to do was beg Liam to go along with it. He got the idea from watching an episode of Friends. The One Where Eddie Won't Go. Chandler couldn’t get his annoying, nut job of a roommate to leave, so when Eddie returns to the apartment the next day, the lock on the door has been changed, Chandler and Joey pretend they don’t know Eddie and they act as though Joey never left.

So Killian had something similar in mind. Liam showed up at his apartment and went into the roommate’s bedroom. Together, they gathered his things and started moving them to the front lawn. When the roommate returned later that day, the locks had been changed and Killian opened the door after he heard the incessant pounding and pretended he didn’t remember having another roommate besides his brother. When the guy refused to leave, Liam stood at the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, and his intimidating height and size compared to the scrawny, short lad who stood in the hallway, finally left with his tail between his legs.

When Liam went back to his and his girlfriend’s flat that night, he walked in on her while she was banging some other guy in the bed they shared. Not wanting to be reminded of what he’d witnessed when he slept in his bed every night, he’s the one who left and never came back. Liam and Killian have lived together in this flat ever since then. And they never heard from Killian’s old roommate ever again.

So, why should Killian be the one to leave?

Then again, if he stays, his feelings for Emma might become even more difficult to shake off.

Right, like he could shake them off. If he could, then he would’ve done that long ago.

~*~

“Killian, can I talk to you for a moment?” Liam asks the next day when he steps into the apartment, shutting the door behind him. It’s Saturday, so neither of them is working, and Emma is out shopping with her sister-in-law.

Killian’s carrying a mug of freshly brewed coffee as he leaves the kitchen, catching the serious expression on his brother's face and in his tone. He's a bit nervous if he’s being honest, certain Liam’s going to chew him out for shutting off Emma’s shower yesterday. Killian was out the door before Liam could say anything to his face about it. He supposes he deserves the lecture, though; he was kind of an arsehole to her. Okay, he was a huge arsehole. But she was being so loud. And yes, she has the voice of an angel, but it doesn't give her the right to wake up the entire apartment building. Prepared for an arse chewing, Killian raises his free hand in surrender. “I promise I didn’t see anything. I was only trying to get her to stop singing—”

Liam shakes his head before Killian can finish, and drags a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. “That’s not what I want to talk to you about.”

“Oh. Okay, what is it then?” Killian asks, noticing how nervous Liam appears to be.

Liam motions to the living room, so they both head to the sofa and take a seat. He draws in a shaky breath and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a velvet box.

Killian’s eyes widen in horror as he stares at the object.

No, please tell me that’s not what I think it is. Please, Liam. Don’t make it so.

Killian gulps thickly, unable to remove his eyes from the box. He’s never prayed for anything in his entire twenty-three years of living on this earth, but right now he’s praying that whatever’s in that box is not a diamond ring.

But judging by the smile cracking Liam’s lips, he already knows the words on his tongue before he speaks them. “I’m asking Emma to be my wife.”

Heart meet dagger.

Killian feels like the wind has just been knocked out of him, all of the air in the room suddenly gone.

Liam cracks open the box, showing Killian the ring. It’s a princess cut diamond with a white-gold band. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

Liam’s waiting for some sort of approval, but all Killian can do is stare at the ring and feel a stab of jealousy. He knows he should be happy and supportive, but he still can’t help but want Emma to be his and not his brother’s. He knows Liam deserves a woman like Emma, though, and she deserves someone like Liam. He’s a good man, and if Killian were forced to pick someone besides himself, he’d pick Liam every time. And if he had to pick someone for Liam, there's no doubt he’d pick her. But that doesn’t make this any less easy.

Killian clears the frog from his throat. “It’s stunning,” he says with a smile, trying to keep his tone even. “It’s stunning, just like Emma.”

“That’s exactly what I think too, little brother.” He blows out a wobbly breath. “I’m so bloody nervous about asking her to marry me. We’ve only been together for a year. Well, almost a year, but I know she’s the one for me, Killian. I know it deep in my bones. I’ve known since the night I met her.”

Killian wants to say he knows the feeling.

How is it even possible he and Liam felt the exact same way about the exact same woman that exact same night?

She made her choice though, regardless of the chemistry between her and Killian.

He also knows how Liam feels because, apart from that first week he and Emma were together, he hasn’t exactly kept Killian out of the loop. So Killian’s known every goddamn step of the way how Liam has felt about her. “How will you ask her?”

“Well . . .” Liam runs his hand through his hair nervously and stares off into space, as though he’s playing the scenario in his head. “For our one-year anniversary, I want to have a picnic on the lake where we went on our first date. Which reminds me . . .” Liam looks at Killian, appearing a bit skittish about something, “I wanted to ask you if I can borrow your motorcycle.”

Killian furrows his brows. “But you hate my bike. When I first got it, you kept telling me how dangerous it was, and when I taught you how to ride it, you said you never wanted to be on it again.”

“I know… but I want this proposal to be special, and I always catch Emma staring at your bike whenever we’re getting into my car.”

“You do?”

“Aye. And she’s mentioned she’s never ridden a motorcycle before, so I wanted her to have that experience. I want to do something with her she might enjoy before I pop the big question, you know? So she doesn’t think I’ll be one of those vanilla husbands who doesn’t know how to have fun.”

Killian’s heart clenches. How many times has he dreamt about taking Emma for a ride on his motorcycle? How many times has he dreamt of having her arms wrapped around him, holding him tight as they rode his bike?

“Then after we eat and have some wine, we’ll walk along the beach, and when the moment feels right, I’ll get down on one knee.”

Killian swallows hard. The scenario Liam is painting sounds absolutely perfect, and he knows Emma will love it. He knows Emma’s not a grand gesture type of lass, and what Liam has planned is the perfect combination of grand and simple.

“So, what do you say, can I use it?”

When Killian witnesses the spark in Liam’s eyes, he can’t help but say, “Of course. You can use it for as long as you’d like.”

“Thank you, Killian,” he says appreciatively, clasping his hands together as he leans forward and perches his elbows on his knees. “I also have another favor to ask of you.”

Killian quirks a brow as he sets his mug on the coffee table. “I’m afraid to ask.” He laughs, but he actually is afraid to ask.

Liam chuckles. “Relax, I only wanted to ask if you’d be my best man. You’re not only my brother . . .” his face grows serious as he looks Killian dead in the eyes, “you’re my best friend, and I couldn’t imagine anyone else standing up there beside me as I marry the woman of my dreams. I imagine it’ll take a while to plan the wedding, and the earliest it would be is next year, but—”

“I’d be honored,” Killian cuts him off, swallowing hard. It feels like Liam just drove the dagger deeper into his chest.

As honored as he is for Liam to ask him to be his best man, he can’t stand at the altar and watch the woman of his dreams marry his brother. He just can’t. But he can’t possibly tell Liam that.

A big grin overtakes Liam’s face as he pulls Killian in for a big hug.

“I’m happy for you,” Killian expresses hoarsely, trying to ignore how crushed he feels. “You deserve it, brother,” he says genuinely.

“Thank you, Killian. That means a lot,” Liam says as they break the hug. “Now just hope I can grow some balls to get down on one knee, and pray she says yes.”

“She’ll say yes, I know she will, Liam,” he says sincerely, patting his brother on the shoulder. He knows deep down Liam and Emma are perfect for each other, no matter how much he wants to deny it.

“You really think so?” Liam is asking hopefully.

And right now, Killian can’t help but smile. If Liam were proposing to any other woman, Killian would be so bloody happy for him. So he shoves away the fact that it’s Emma they’re talking about so he can just be there for his brother like Liam needs him to be. “Aye. There is no one more perfect for you than her.”

Liam grins from ear to ear. “At least we can agree on one thing,” he chuckles. “I love her so bloody much.” His face suddenly clouds with something Killian can’t quite put his finger on, and once again, Liam appears to be nervous. “That brings me to the final thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Okay,” Killian gulps. He has a bad feeling about what the next thing might be, though it can’t possibly be worse than telling him he’s proposing to the same woman Killian’s completely in love with or asking Killian to stand beside Liam as he watches Emma marry someone else.

“I need you to be nice to Emma,” he says in a condemning tone. “She thinks you hate her.”

Guilt clenches Killian’s heart, and as much as he knows he should be nice to the woman who will be Liam’s future wife, he knows agreeing to be nice to Emma is like agreeing to jump into quicksand.

For the past year, Killian’s had to pretend to hate Emma because he knows if he and Emma end up becoming friends, then he’ll be tempted to act on his feelings for her, and he can’t let that happen. He can’t do that to Liam. So, there’s only one other option.

Killian has to move out, and he needs to move out soon. Until that happens, he has to throw on a smile and pretend everything is hunky-dory. “I don’t hate her,” he manages, trying to shove all of his emotions down his throat.

“Good, then act like it. If she says yes when I propose, she’ll be your sister-in-law soon, so get used to that idea.”

Killian tears his gaze from Liam, unable to look at his brother right now. He feels like his ears are bleeding. Like his heart is bleeding. Liam has no idea how much his words just gutted him. He could never get used to being Emma’s . . .

No, he can’t even think about the idea. He could never consider Emma as his sister-in-law, and there’s no way he could ever be a brother figure to her. There’s just no bloody way. He’s wanked off while thinking about her for crying out fucking loud.

“You don’t have to worry, I promise I’ll be nicer to Emma.” Even as Killian makes the promise, he can feel himself being pulled in by the quicksand.

“Thank you, Killian.”

When they stand, Killian tells him he’s going to the gym. He needs to relieve some of the pain bubbling inside his chest and figure out how the bloody hell he’s going to win this internal battle inside him, or if he ever will. He should have seen this coming though. He knows Liam has been serious about Emma from the beginning.

He changes into his gym clothes, and once the cool breeze hits his face, once Liam is no longer near him, he can finally breathe, but even then, the surrounding air feels paper-thin. He’s barely able to suck in enough oxygen to make his heart not feel so heavy.

He puts on his helmet and hops on his bike, driving out of the parking lot and trying to figure out how the bloody hell to get out of this predicament.

As much as he loves Liam, he can’t fucking do this. Any of it. He can’t be Liam’s best man, he can’t give a best man speech and tell everyone how bloody happy he is for the bride and groom while he’ll actually be dying inside. He can’t live with them for one more bloody second, and he sure as hell can’t be her brother-in-law.

Which leaves Killian with only one choice.

He needs to get out of Storybrooke. And he needs to get out soon.

Tagging people who have shown interest. Let me know if you would like to be added or if I missed you. @itsfabianadocarmo @resident-of-storybrooke @snowbellewells @onceuponaprincessworld @viajandosinalas @teamhook @captainswan-shipper88 @jamif @katielovesstarcrossedlovers @uhthreeyuh @lfh1226-linda @babyyouremyqueen @sthonour @julesep3026 @fairytalewhispersinmyheart @andiirivera @wefoundloveunderthelight @wickedsw4n @eleveneitherway @eherron14 @ouatpost @transparentclodsludgeweasel @stahlop

#jewelled swan #captain swan #js ff #through the rising tide #my fic #cs ff

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tsarisfanfiction · 4 years

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One More Stuffed Toy

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: John, Alan, Scott, Gordon, Virgil

I managed another one! Today’s #fluffember offering is for the third prompt ‘Together’, so of course we’ve got all five boys here! (As a side note, FFN is still messing around with my fics, so I’m only going to be posting here and on AO3 until next weekend. Maybe FFN will sort itself out by then).

The arcade is loud and chaotic, but John doesn’t care, because his brothers are with him.

The hustle and bustle should bother him. An introvert who only ever wanted to socialise with his family when socialising was required “you can’t be a recluse forever, John!”, the complete and utter lack of silence surrounding him was as far from his comfort zone as he could be. Children shrieked, dodging around adults and immovable objects alike, while frantic parents chased them. Teenagers laughed too loudly, too freely, for the drinks in their hand to be anything but alcohol, and the young adults were worse – most likely because they didn’t have to hide what they were drinking.

Chocolate and candy was trodden into the carpet beneath his feet, discoloured patches also implying drink spills both from that day and many, many previous days, and the haze of smoke creeping in from the nearby window suggested a group of smokers and vapers had taken up residence too close to the building. Security wouldn’t do anything about it; they never did.

Interspersed between children’s screams of joy and drunken rowdiness was the unmistakable clink, clink, clink of tokens slotting into machines and spilling out en masse to roars of delight. Closer to his current position, the thud, thud-thud, thud of feet not quite in sync with the music that blared out of ancient machines and the thwack, thwack, thwack of hard plastic hitting hard plastic – interspersed with groans and cheers when it instead went clatter – assaulted his ears.

He should hate it. Too many bodies in one place; too much noise, no concept of personal space – it fit his personal brand of hell as if it was made for it. Maybe it was. But those out of sync thud-thud-thud feet belonged to Alan and Scott, having some ridiculous dance off on a DDR machine that was held together with spit and a prayer at this point in its existence – he was sure it had been old when Grandma was young – and the thwack-thwack-clatter of a chipped puck on an air table that barely produced any air anymore was drawing noises of defeat and triumph from Virgil and Gordon.

The arcade was ancient, dating back at least a hundred years, but for all that it was run down and a hang out for truants and the like, it was fun. John never visited by himself, the atmosphere really too hellish without the barriers of his brothers, but when the five of them wanted to get out of the house for a bit and just have some fun, he tagged along with no complaints.

He didn’t play on the DDR, not after falling over one time too many. He didn’t play air hockey, either, after the puck kept hitting his fingers rather than the plastic lump it was supposed to. The digital games had terrible graphics, not even holographic they were so old, which hurt his eyes, and everything else was too rigged, too noisy, too much of a waste of money to bother with.

The claw, though? Perfectly positioned between the DDR – Alan hadn’t beaten Scott yet, despite vows to the contrary – and the air hockey table – Virgil and Gordon were a pretty even match, but there was something just a little bit more vicious about Gordon’s hits – it let him use his brothers as a barrier against the rest of the world. And he was good at it. Already, he could feel security’s eyes on him, but they wouldn’t come over.

They never did, anymore. Accusations of cheating hadn’t done them too well years ago when Scott had got involved, affronted and furious that they’d think he’d do that and forced them to watch as he beat the machine again with pure skill, and Scott’s vitriol was something even security didn’t care for the hassle of. Besides, they pumped enough money into the arcade, now that they had extra money to spare, that it wasn’t worth the company’s while to ban them. John still felt their eyes on him, though, as he guided the claw deftly along its slightly rusted, halting pulley system.

It was Alan’s turn today. Actually, it was Scott’s, but Scott didn’t care for stuffed toys anymore – not even ones won for him by John – so Alan got the lucky extra pick (it alternated between the terrible two; Virgil refusing the extra whenever offered) and today he wanted the red bear. Alan always wanted the red things.

The toys were the only thing in the arcade that looked younger than fifty. Covered in dust by virtue of the fact that the only person that could ever win at the claw was John, the pile of toys still didn’t look freshly new anymore, but condition never mattered to them.

To John, what mattered was the challenge (less of a challenge now he had it down to an art, but it still required a measure of concentration). To his brothers, what mattered was that he’d won it for them, a gift from brother to brother.

Under his fingers, the claw descended down, down, down, and snagged the chosen bear snugly around the middle. No hanging by a thread, no fear it wouldn’t survive the journey to the chute. Nice and secure, perfectly done as always.

For all the dust, it was still soft when he collected it from the dispenser, ignoring the rolled eyes of spectating security. He gave it a quick brush and blow to get the worst of the dust off, before turning to the DDR. Scott was, as usual, winning, quick on his feet and reflexes honed in a way their youngest brother just couldn’t match, and John watched with a small smile on his face as the song ended, Alan letting out a theatrical groan. Scott ruffled his hair encouragingly, “next time, kid” spilling from his mouth as always, and John took his cue.

“Alan.”

The blond shot around, hands flying to catch the tossed toy. He assessed it silently for a moment, clearly checking that it was the right one – a habit taught to him by Gordon, who could never resist claiming John had got the wrong one even though that had never happened – before bursting into a giant grin, DDR defeat already forgotten.

“Thanks, John!” The bear was crushed to Alan’s chest, making him look even younger than he was.

John smiled back at him, sparing a momentary glance for Scott, who looked every inch the proud big brother he was as he ruffled Alan’s hair again, to quick protest. “Any time.”

“Me next!” sounded from behind him, and he turned to see Gordon standing, arms crossed but air hockey striker still clenched in his hand, a couple of steps away from the table. Behind the blond, Virgil rolled his eyes in amusement and sent the puck into the abandoned goal a few times. The old, digital scoreboard that couldn’t show complete numbers anymore switched to one in his favour.

John sighed, but gestured to the claw. “Which one?” Gordon ran the two steps’ worth of distance and pressed his face to the glass, fogging it up with his breath and leaving prints when he pulled back.

“That one!” he declared. A goldfish, this time. It was always aquatic for Gordon.

“I’ll see what I can do,” John agreed, inserting a token to restart the game. It was enough for Gordon, evidently, as he turned back to his game with Virgil and squawked when he saw the new score line.

John ignored the ensuing commotion as he stretched his hands and clicked his fingers. Time for the next one.

#fluffember #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #john tracy #scott tracy #virgil tracy #gordon tracy #alan tracy #thunderfluff

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thoughtfullyyoungduck · 4 years

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Ashamed

Summary: Could I request one where Eddie is ashamed of the scar on his chest from Pennywise and that he refuses to take his shirt off for any reason until Richie confronts him and tells him that the scar is a reminder of his bravery and he takes Eddie's shirt off and kisses it?

A/N: I hope you enjoy and I’m so sorry it took so long! I’m a bit behind on my request but I promise I’m trying to finish request every day so to everyone who has requested stuff, I promise it’s coming!

warnings: there’s a sex joke in here, and a sex reference (not graphic at all)

Eddie has contemplated before on hanging up a towel over the mirror any and each time he’s in the bathroom by himself. He’s never executed the plan, Richie’s too observant for that too work and would notice but straight away, leading to questions Eddie’s ashamed to answer, but whenever Richie is away on tour or a show, he’ll prop the towel from one side to the other, obscuring the view of his chest.

He’s never been very confident in his appearance, but he wasn’t hyper aware of it like he is after the Pennywise accident either. He didn’t have to be. For years Myra smothered him with her self-presumed love and adoration, picking out the clothes he wore and buying all the creams and aftershave she treasured, and Eddie followed her in those things without stopping and thinking about what he liked and how he wanted to sell himself towards other people.

Once, he was gifted a perfume bottle from one of his coworkers, a secret Santa gift, and when he sprayed it on to go to work the next day, Myra picked up on the change and gave him a piece of her mind. She reamed Eddie about not remodeling himself to be accepted by his peers, not mulling that maybe the Eddie she prepared and drilled every morning was not the real Eddie. There were threats being ushered, like Eddie cheating on Myra and switching perfumes to galvanize his mistress, and no matter how many times Eddie tried to reason with her, she was dead set on the idea.

He tossed the bottle out that same day, immensely guilty that he gave Myra grounds to question him. She was right after all, Eddie was married, and he didn’t have to make anyone happy except his wife, not even himself.

Post Derry him is happier. So fucking happy he gleams and elates every morning awakening in Richie’s arms, or the other way around, nosing behind Richie’s ear to get that one little inch closer, turning off the alarm and dosing an extra hour, work suddenly coming second for once in Eddie’s life. Richie had that effect on him, made him long to be near him twenty-four/seven,

But he also feels worse, and that can be tracked back to the long, vertical scar smacked in the middle of his chest. It’s starts in the mornings, but in a stand offish way, the insecurities bubbling on the edge of his mind loud enough that Eddie knows they’re there, but not so ample close that Eddie nitpicks and examines them, yet.

And at first it wasn’t even that bad, Eddie mostly enthralled with moving his stuff in and out of houses, and fitting as much RichieandEddie time into their shared schedule to gain back what they lost over the years, the underlying doubt and terror every time he caught a glimpse of the scar background to the best moments of his life.

It only really became a problem the first time Eddie and Richie made love to each other, and Eddie refused to take of his shirt. The pleasant, hot and vastly attractive sight of Richie’s slightly pudgy stomach and thighs, and his clean, smooth chest Eddie could run his fingers over and not bubble once incited a deep meekness and carved him hallow. Emptied by the idea that he’s horrific and undeserving of the adoration so blindingly clear in his boyfriends eyes.

Most off all, the scar is reminiscent on the clown trauma, proof that Pennywise maintains some sort of power over him, in comparisons to his friends and Richie, who moved on with their lives. It distinguishes him from the group, and not in a good way. In a way that shines a bright neon spot over Eddie’s head, accentuating his cowardness.

The reflections displayed in the mirror exhibits his slip up, his idiocy to entertain the idea of him being strong enough to defeat Pennywise all on his own, he wants nothing to do with it. The scar tissue puckers up his skin and his disgust is so deeply rooted that he didn’t even bother to check up on it for months after Derry, to assure it didn’t fester.

So no, Eddie doesn’t conceal the glass whenever Richie is home, but what he does do is strip down everything except for his shirt when slipping in the shower, towing the shower curtain and tossing the shirt out, rumpled on the floor, via the small slit.

The wrinkles in his shirt agitate him, but are a small price to pay for preserving his sanity and spirits. In the shower he resolutely does not look down at all, his eyes trained on the ugly pattern of tiles Richie claimed came with the house when he bought it, but Eddie suspects he just really fancy’s it.

Eddie always neatly packs his new shirt on the countertop, effortlessly accessible from the lavatory so he can dry off and pull on his shirt without drawing his own attention to his chest.

Stowing away his insecurity is a weight he’s been holding over his own head, so dangerously close to imbalance and tumbling over that Eddie feels shifting his attention from it slightly will let it all crash down on him. Because Richie has a tenacious personality, and once he catches a whiff of it, he’ll cling to the smallest straws to get to the bottom of it.

The schedule Eddie’s built has never been interrupted before, Richie knowing, or at least being tricked into knowing, and understanding that the bathroom serves as Eddie’s sanctuary, a place for being alone and restocking and regrouping his overactive mind. The interference in the schedule is Eddie’s own wrongdoing, for glossing over the fact that they had a dinner party to attend to, and dragging out his time in the bathroom for way too long plus forgetting to grab a change of clothing.

He only addresses the issue at hand when the shower runs cold and he’s bordering on being late, contemplating his options with his hands resting on his hips. Richie always sings a derivative of a song before entering a room, transforming the lyrics in a way that fits in Eddie and Richie’s life, as a substitute for knocking as that’s boring according to him, but Eddie discerns tiny snores emerging from the living room, so Eddie hurriedly dries off and dons his underwear, training his eyes down casted to not look at the mirror.

He wastes a long time debating on what to wear, matching multiple t-shirts to the pants he has elected to wear, unbeknownst that the snoring in the other room has ebbed away. This is an important business meeting with Richie’s new manager, one that will lift up his spirits and encourage him to fly solo, writers free, and Eddie can’t afford to mess this up. He’s scrutinizing an oxford-button-down forest green shirt, analyzing if there’s a spot on the fabric or if it’s a trick of the light.

Hearing the caroling a smidge too late, Eddie has no time to slip in the shirt before the door cracks open, Richie’s wild curls sticking out in every direction and his pants too low, pulled down from the movements he slanders during sleep.

‘I was about to call the ambulance and ask them to assemble a rescue mission’, he quips, feet padding the carpet of the bedroom lazily.

The weight Eddie’s been bearing up dislodges and veers menacingly to the edge, a gust away from keeling over the edge.

‘Get out’, Eddie says calmly the first time, contorting his body so his upper torse is veiled from Richie’s observation, the button-down serving as a shield of sorts. ‘Get out’, he clamors, a panic attack lurking in the shadows and prowling on his burst of utter panic.

‘Eds’, Richie says perplexed, his eyebrows contracting, his droopy eye more squinted than it is with his face slacked.

‘Get out, I don’t want to see you’, Eddie hisses, witnessing the decay of Richie’s happy face, teetering away backwards and back out in the hallway.

Eddie swallows, the door obstructing his outlook on Richie, and appareling his shirt so fast it tears around the sleeves, pretending he didn’t hear that. His instincts lure him to hide under the covers and wait for the whole thing to blow over, but his comments hurt Richie and his instincts were formed his primary years, while living with his mother, so he does the exact opposite.

‘Rich’, he groans, eyeing Richie leaning on the counter, his body jutting out, dancing on his feet and shelving the cleaned dishes.

‘Richie stop.’ Eddie plasters himself against Richie’s back, fitting so perfectly like puzzle pieces, like a riddle so complicated that’s been solved. He hooks his chin over Richie’s shoulder, kissing the underside of his jaw.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled.’

‘No it’s fine, it’s my fault. I need to learn how to knock. I didn’t mean to agitate you.’

‘You didn’t agitate me. I know I say you do all the time but somehow everything you do is endearing, not irritating.’

‘Careful Eddie Spaghetti, you’ll give me a big head.’

‘I can do that tonight if you’d like?’ Eddie teased, the tight knot in his heart uncoiling at the rumbling of Richie’s laugh.

Richie rotated in his arms, front to front, hugging Eddie back in equal fierce as Eddie did too him.

‘Forgive me?’

‘That depends my good follow, however shall you atone me?’ He released Eddie with one arm, using his hand to tap his chin thoughtfully. ‘Hm, perhaps with a reason as to why?’, his British accent lacing his words.

‘Rich, I really don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Come on,’ Richie pleaded, pouting with his bottom lip. ‘How can I help if you won’t tell me what’s going on?’

Eddie sighed, his arms cave in and the weight collapses down upon him. ‘I just don’t want you to envision this’, he says, unconsciously smoothing down his shirt on the spot his wound is located.

‘Envision what? You?’

‘No’, Eddie explains miserably, ‘I mean the scar, the disfigurement.’

‘Eddie’, Richie gently chuckles, ‘I don’t give a shit about that.’

‘That’s because you haven’t seen it yet. It’s so ugly and,’ Eddie interrupted himself, unwinding from Richie to give himself some breathing space. Being near Richie is intoxicating, but he needed to think clearly.

‘And what?’ Richie pries.

‘How much of a coward I am okay? I don’t want you to look at me and realize how much better you can do.’

‘Eddie, do you honestly believe you’re a coward?’

‘Yeah.’ Shame flooding the tips of his ears, making it harder to engage the conversation, when all Eddie wanted was to leave and go the this dinner.

‘Like I told you down in the sewers, you’re braver than you think, Eds. I’m the one who aimed higher and scored the jackpot.’ Richie asseverate.

‘You keep saying that but I’m the only one idiot enough to get injured.’

‘That’s no true, I strained my leg muscle.’ Richie states, twisting his leg, reliving the memory of the shards of affliction lodging in.

‘Seriously, maybe you’re the only one that got hurt, but you survived. Who in the world can claim there’s so badass that they lived through being shish kebabbed? By a demon from outer space no less.’

‘No one I guess.’

‘No one, erase the “I guess”. Give yourself some credit.’ Richie says firmly, outstretching his arm and then thinking better of it. ‘Can I touch it?’

‘Richie,’ Eddie hesitated, eyes flitting around the room as if to plan his escape.

‘I’ll be really gentle. And if you don’t like it I’ll pull back straight away.’ The soft tone settles Eddie somewhat, and with a hesitant nod, Richie slowly inches closer. He goes so leisurely, as one would approach a feral kitten, but Eddie keeps the parallels to himself, Richie will tease him relentlessly for it.

Eddie expected Richie to slide under his shirt from the get go, but all Richie does is pet his chest on top of the shirt, mapping out the area and feeling where the scar is located.

The area is strangely sensitive, a reason why Eddie has to douche it softly as opposed to the harsh scrubbing he’s used to doing to every other part of his physics.

Only the barely-there, soft touches of Richie’s fingers pawing, tickles Eddie, realizing a breathless hum as he gets acquainted to Richie and him converging in that spot.

Eddie giggles, Richie steadily ongoing his ministrations, until the notion borders on too much, and he plummets to his knees.

He kisses top of the blemish, all the way to the underside, blowing a raspberry there as if the normal kiss wasn’t ticklish enough.

Eddie cackles, halfheartedly shoving Richie backwards, his worries fizzling out into the night. The smooches leave a trail of slobber from Richie’s mount, wilting spots on his blouse Richie’s manager will discern him in.

‘Richie stop, you’re going to ruin it and we have to leave soon.’

‘Nah, I cancelled.’

‘You cancelled? Why?’

‘Because the love of my love, my Eddie Spaghetti, my Eds, gave off the impression he was in a pretty foul mood.’

‘Was I that obvious?’ Eddie grumbles, fingers racking lovingly trough Richie’s curls.

‘No, I just have a knack for you. Anyways I rescheduled.’

‘Oh Rich you didn’t have to do that. What is she going to think of you?’

‘I don’t care. Look, if she’s striving to be my manager she best believe that my career always come second. You’re my number one priority, no matter what.’

Eddie’s eyes turn bloodshot, blinking rapidly to contain the upcoming flow of tears. Richie presses a final kiss, then resurfaces upwards, a lopsided grin grazing his face.

‘You’re not going to take it off?’ Eddie inquires fretful, not sure what he wants the answer to be.

‘No, later, when you’re more at ease. But Eds, I need you to know, I’m going to look at it, and all that will be going on in my mind is holy fuck. That scar is symbolic for how strong and daring you are, and how glad I am to have you here breathing with me. That motherfucking clown tried everything, and he still couldn’t kill you. You know why? Because you’re a stubborn little basterd, and also indestructible. And I love you so much.’

The taste of salt explodes on Richie’s tongue, surprisingly, he hadn’t got a clue he was crying in the first place.

‘Great, good job idiot. Now look at us, two blubbering idiot sniffling in a kitchen’, Eddie grumbled, but he was smiling so wide the dimples in his cheeks were distinguishable.

‘I love you too.’

#reddie #reddie imagine #reddie fluff #My writing #the loser club imagines #it chapter two imagine #richie tozier imagine #eddie kaspbrak imagine #Richie x Eddie

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