#i think i will take into the consideration of limiting my time here holy fuck 😭

[wolfertinger666]

btw i do NOT feel like a bad person for telling people to fuck off cuz they are actively transphobic to me and hide behind their transphobia with accusations that I "fetishsize" transmasc people

[depressedhouseplant]

🔞 Just Fucking Write - Day 32 🔞

Prompt: Continuation of Yunho x Fem!Reader

Tags: Unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, squirting, creampie, pet names

A/N: You can find part one here

I did exactly as Yunho said. I excused myself, went back to my room, and tried to clean myself up. The dress was ruined. Fortunately it wasn’t the one I’d be wearing for the wedding tomorrow. Then I would’ve been in serious trouble. My panties were soaked from both slick and, apparently, come. I threw them out, took off my bra, and decided I had enough time to shower before dinner was over.

I’d just put on the robe after my shower when I heard a knock.

“Coming!”

“You will be,” Yunho smirked at me when I opened the door. He was still in his suit.

“Going to Walk of Shame it later?” I asked.

“I was hoping you’d ask me to spend the night and I could sneak back to my room in the morning so yes. If you’re not okay with that though…” he trailed off.

“I definitely want you to spend the night,” I pulled him into the room. “You finger me in public, ruin my dress, and you’re still worried about overstepping.”

“I have a large glass of Respect Women juice every day. Habit,” he replied.

“Has any woman ever turned you down?” I asked.

“A few. A few men too, if that part of my sexual history interests you,” he said as I pulled him down on the bed with me.

“I suppose we should go over our experience, but I trust you so I want you to raw me,” I hadn’t exactly meant to put it that way.

“I had come prepared, but I guess I won’t be needing it,” he laughed as he began getting out of his suit. I felt myself getting wet again as I took in the long lines of his torso and well defined abs. When he was down to just his underwear, he stopped.

“Anything off limits? Anything you prefer?” he asked.

“I mean don’t pee on me or anything,” I said.

“I was thinking more along the lines of can I call you pet names,” he replied.

“Oh,” I felt myself blush a little. “Pet names are fine.”

“Good. I’ve always wanted to call you ‘baby’ and now I can while fucking you,” Yunho and I had known each other for almost ten years since he was my sister’s finance’s best friend and that’s how long they’d been together. I’d never gotten any indication until tonight that he was interested in me.

“You’re blushing again,” he pointed out.

“Stop making me blush!” I put a pillow over my face. I heard him laugh then felt him get back on the bed.

“How do you want me to take you?” he pulled the pillow back.

“On my back. No one had ever made come on my back,” I said after some consideration.

“I like a challenge. Of course, now I’m naked and you’re still covered. We can’t have that, now can we?” he pointed out. I wiggled out of the robe and he began running his hands down my body. “Better than I imagined.”

“You imagined this?” I asked.

“I’ve imagined a lot about us, Y/N. I never thought I’d actually get to do any of it,” he kissed right below my belly button while teasing my nipples. I felt myself get wetter. What the hell was this man doing to me?

“Fuck,” I breathed.

“I’d mark you up, but I don’t want anything accidentally showing,” he said.

“My sister would kill both of us for ruining her pictures,” I laughed a little.

“Exactly,” Yunho agreed. He sat up between my legs and began running the tip of his cock over my folds. I realized I hadn’t actually seen his cock yet so I propped myself up on my elbows.

“Holy shit,” his cock was almost the size of those joke dildos.

“Think you can take me?” he asked.

“Definitely,” I nodded.

“Perfect. You ready?” the tip of his cock was barely inside me.

“Fuck me,” I told him.

“I’ll take that as a yes then,” he replied.

“Yes,” I confirmed. He slid into me and I couldn’t stop the obscene moan that escaped from my mouth. I’d never felt this stretched before. He definitely wasn’t kidding when he said his cock was bigger than 3 of his fingers. He leaned down to kiss me and I started devouring his mouth as he moved his hips. I felt him smile against my lips as he weaved his fingers in my hair.

“Wanted me that bad too, baby?” he teased.

“Want you so bad,” I repeated as he began to speed up. Just like his fingers, his cock was hitting every sensitive spot inside me. Sex had never felt this good before. I had a couple guys I hooked up with regularly, but nothing like this. Nothing that made me want them so bad I started fucking myself on their cocks.

“You’re gonna squirt again,” he hissed into my ear.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I just do,” he smirked. I could feel the heat building in my hips, my pussy start to flutter, and that feeling like I needed to pee. A few moments later, I was coming. I’d also never had an orgasm sneak up on me like that before. I felt it in my whole body.

“That was…fuck…” I panted.

“Still want me to come inside you?” he asked.

“Fuck yes,” I gasped.

“Of course, baby,” he propped himself up on his hands over me and began fucking into me so hard the bed was moving. Then, out of nowhere, I came again. He came a few seconds later, growling and bucking his hips into mine. He carefully lowered himself onto me when he finished.

“I knew I could fuck a second one out of you,” he said smugly.

“I’m officially never having sex with anyone other than you again,” I announced.

“So my evil plan worked,” he chuckled.

“Yes, yes it did,” I replied.

[neallo]

maybe matt actually just directly messages mello on facebook with the griffiths observatory photo, so it's like:

- (12:43 PM) matt: [image attached] where did you say you lived again??? 🤔

mello sits there just staring at his phone for, like. probably at least two full minutes. he is having a full-on crisis but on the outside he's just squinting at his screen. finally he replies—

- (12:46 PM) mello: are you serious?

- (12:46 PM) matt: as a heart attack!! 🤓

- (12:47 PM) matt: we're here for the next two weeks actually. math symposium. i'm just tagging along cause i can work remote

- (12:47 PM) matt: and cause i have to keep my subscribers happy

- (12:48 PM) mello: please don't take this as me giving a fuck about what you do, but what the hell do you have subscribers for?

- (12:48 PM) matt: oh i meant you pal

- (12:48 PM) matt: you're subscribed to my near newsletter

- (12:49 PM) matt: i have a limited time only meet and greet option for you. since you're his #1 fan and all

mello scoffs.

- (12:51 PM) mello: fuck off

- (12:52 PM) matt: aw cmon you don't mean that

- (12:52 PM) matt: [image attached] look how cute he is!!

the photograph is of Near eating an ice cream cone. there's melted vanilla ice cream dripping down his arm. it's both devastatingly cute and unsettlingly hot to mello. he feels like a creep, actually, because he still doesn't even know if near is aware of his and matt's correspondence. he suspects he's not.

- (12:55 PM) mello: this whole thing is weird as hell and kind of creepy, honestly

- (12:55 PM) matt: little late to complain now, man.

- (12:56 PM) matt: you've been replying every day for like, three and a half months

- (12:57 PM) mello: you're the one who started emailing me

- (12:58 PM) mello: which, by the way, you've NEVER explained your reasoning for, jackass

- (12:59 PM) matt: i guess i can tell you now

- (12:59 PM) matt: but first you have to tell me what YOU think my reasoning was

mello frowns. he isn't really sure, so he goes with what he figures is the worst-case scenario

- (1:01 PM) mello: i assume he complained about me being a bitch to him on the phone or something, and you decided to fuck with me as revenge or whatever

- (1:01 PM) matt: wow i think that's the worst guess you could've come up with buddy

- (1:02 PM) matt: like that's soooooo off base. really really dumb. i feel bad for you right now because of how stupid that guess was

- (1:04 PM) mello: i'm this close to blocking you, fuckwit

- (1:04 PM) matt: getting creative with the insults i see. expanding your repertoire. love to see it honestly

mello just sends matt a screenshot of the whole ‘are you sure you want to block’ thing

- (1:05 PM) mello: [image attached]

- (1:06 PM) matt: holy shit man, come on. be cool

- (1:06 PM) matt: seriously, you'd regret it for real

mello is, at this point, filled with bloodlust and halfway wondering if he can get to griffiths before the two of them leave just so he can wring matt's neck, somehow restrains himself from hitting the block button and responds with considerably more grace than he thinks matt deserves.

- (1:07 PM) mello: if you don't tell me right the fuck now i'm going to track your stupid ass down and strangle you to death

- (1:08 PM) matt: FUCK, OKAY FINE

- (1:08 PM) matt: he has a thing for you

mello grits his teeth.

- (1:09 PM) mello: do you think i'm fucking stupid?

- (1:10 PM) matt: no

- (1:10 PM) matt: i think you're certifiably insane. that's not really relevant right now though

- (1:10 PM) matt: i'm not kidding around

mello's breath catches in his throat. he doesn't reply, just watches matt type.

- (1:11 PM) matt: this might come as a massive shock given the objective facts about near (which you are familiar with) (from the newsletter) but he doesn't actually date very much

- (1:11 PM) matt: he doesn't really click with most people i guess?

- (1:12 PM) matt: but he seemed to like you right away

- (1:12 PM) matt: he's pretty shy though

- (1:13 PM) matt: and no offense but you're not that easy to chat up

- (1:13 PM) matt: so i thought i could give it a stab, cause i feel like if people knew him better, they'd really like him, you know? and, like— worst came to worst i decided i could act like it was a big joke. but you kept replying, and i thought maybe he might actually have a shot

- (1:14 PM) matt: my own read of the situation is that you're down bad but lemme know if you haven't figured that out yet

- (1:14 PM) matt: it would be so cool if you have but you do technically have two weeks to get your shit together, so

- (1:17 PM) mello: what made you think he liked me

- (1:17 PM) matt: 😃😃😃😃😃

- (1:18 PM) mello: would it fucking kill you to just answer my goddamn questions like a normal fucking person

- (1:18 PM) mello: because at this rate even if it would kill you it would still be in your best interest

- (1:18 PM) matt: ooh is there a threat incoming

- (1:18 PM) mello: since if you died by my hands it would be slow and horrible

- (1:19 PM) matt: i was right!! 🎉🎉🎉

- (1:19 PM) matt: anyways i need an answer from you first actually

- (1:20 PM) matt: on whether you're into near or not. cause, like, i don't really feel like it's right to invade his privacy like that if you're not into him

- (1:21 PM) mello: you have quite literally been sending me photographs of him behind his back for months, but okay

(girl who was supposed to write 3k of vaguely serious pining tonight, or at least some weird smut) so about the furby au...

uhhh okay im gonna TRY to come up with some additional thoughts since i am going to the trouble of making this post. i guess one question is— does mello RESPOND to the emails??? probably. he loves to be mad about stuff and he hates not being heard when he's mad about stuff. so like. initially he's just replying to the emails from matt with “i hate that stupid fucking furby” and “how much money do i have to give you to set it on fire, or at least stop emailing me” but when matt points out that mello could just auto sort the emails to spam mello pretends as if he doesn't see that one. eventually, as mello's responses become marginally less hostile, matt is like 😌 it's time to up the ante. and begins including his Fun Near Facts. these include but are not limited to:

- he took college level differential equations when he was 14! 🤓 (mello response: okay, so he's a loser??)

- he's not a loser he's REALLY cool (note: matt loves to lie. or he actually has an unrealistically kind view of near's swag levels) (mello does not dignify this with a reply)

- he loves talking about math! don't worry though it's really easy to tune it out and he doesn't really care if you're not listening (mello response: i don't know why i would need to know that.)

- one time he saved me from drowning 😳 (note: matt also loves to embellish. near “saved him from drowning” by telling matt to not try his luck at jumping over a river, which wasn't actually even deep enough for him to drown in)

uuhhhhh okay running out of matt's fun facts about near BUT. the point is that he is wingmanning so hard. i guess another question is whether or not near picks up on the fact that matt is regularly taking candid photos of him? my thought is no. i could see near being sort of a space cadet in this respect tbh; if he's absorbed enough in something he tunes everything else out)

hmm. genuinely running out of steam so lemme just jot down a few more ideas and then someday maybe i will add more when more comes to me.

- near: lives in... actually, fuck it, NOT new york. he and matt room together in minneapolis. near is in a PhD program for math— either complex analysis or topography. idk. something. matt is a programmer of some kind bc i am not creative.

- mello: i think i already said but he lives in LA, works for the mob. probably isn't really that Into It but he got in when he was pretty young and it's not like he has a lot of other options at this point? i imagine it isn't something he spends a lot of time angsting over but he's probably kinda unfulfilled.

OH okay sorry i got an idea. these stupid emails from matt go on for a few months, with mello gradually responding in very slightly less mean ways & occasionally asking questions,,, and then one day the Daily Near Email comes through and it's a picture of near somewhere in LA. probably griffith's observatory actually. and matt (knowing full well from mello's social media that he lives in Los Angeles) captions the image something like “where did you say you lived again??? 🤔”

okay now i'm REALLY out of ideas. not sure how the fact that mello has barely Actually spoken to near would be resolved!! thanks for listening to the Morgan Being Deranged podcast, tune in next time for another incredibly niche stupid idea 🥰

[no-droids]

Brown Eyes

Part Nine of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 10.1K dont. just dont

Warnings: Smut, AS ALWAYS.  Canon typical violence, verbal references masochism/pain kink (NOT ACTUALLY EXPLORED IN THIS CHAPTER MY DUDES, JUST HINTED AT/DISCUSSED), slight degradation, exhibitionism, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, a bit of ass play (!!!), FLUUUUFFFFFF

***

“What?”

“Hm?”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s the hold up?”

“I’m just…”  The helmet looks you up and down, considering.  You scrunch your nose at him and rock back and forth on your feet impatiently as he sighs.  “It’s going to be like teaching a foundling to read.  I’m just trying to figure out where to even begin.”

“Because it’s so fucking pretty here, I’m just going to pretend you didn’t say that,” you say pointedly, looking around at the vast field of flowing grass surrounding the two of you and breathing in the warm, fresh air into your lungs.  “Your vibe is clashing, Din.”

“Because I don’t really know what that means, I’m also going to pretend you didn’t say that,” he returns, and the child’s giggles float up alongside the breeze as he chases after another, slightly smaller green reptile that you also currently have no name for.  He tilts the beskar thoughtfully at you, and you squint against the way the sun catches the visor directly in your eyes from this angle.  “What do you want to learn first?”

“I want to shoot a gun,” you blurt without thinking.

“Okay, hand-to-hand it is,” he nods firmly, and then pats his unarmored chest with one bare hand.  “Hit me.”

You blink down at the dark fabric stretched across his left pectoral, and then back up at the metallic visor staring back at you.

“Hit me,” he says again in response to your silence.  “Hard as you can.  Right here.”

“Are you sure?”  You ask, lifting your gaze up to him once more with a twist of your mouth, already out of your comfort zone.  “What if I hurt you?”

“Are you fucking kidding?”  He actually sounds… pissed off.  “Hit me.”

You immediately shove your hand up against his chest in response to the sharp order, and your palm makes a quiet slapping sound as it collides with what feels like solid rock concealed underneath black fabric.

Din says absolutely nothing.  Almost a… forced silence.  Like what he wants to say will very likely be vaguely mean and dismissive of your feelings, so he’s keeping his mouth firmly shut under the helmet.  He just pats his chest again, each one purposeful and distinct, easily making twice the amount of noise hitting himself as you did hitting him.

You ball your fist up this time and whack him with it, considerably harder this time and even making a solid thud against his pectoral, though he doesn’t even move a fraction under the blow.

“I am…” he tries to choose his words carefully after another moment of purposeful silence.  “…insulted.”

You grit your teeth and raise your arm up and back, swinging it out at him as hard as you physically can, but then the curve of his broad shoulder suddenly jerks back just before you can touch him and your fist is caught from the side with a gentle grip.

“Better.  You wound up that time, that gives you momentum.  But never come at someone like this,” he tells you, lifting your arm back up to the way it was before and then slowly hinging it down again against his chest.  “This is how you were going to hit.  See how your pinkie is taking the brunt of the punch when you come down at it from an angle like this?”  He pushes your fist against his chest a few times to demonstrate your pinkie squishing against the solid plane of muscle.  “No matter how hard you hit me, your hand is going to take that much force, too.  That attempt had about half the power you want, but you might’ve broken your finger if I let you make contact like that.”

“Half the power?”  You narrow your eyebrows at him.  “You’ll break my whole hand.”

Din angles your wrist straight and pushes your closed fist against his chest again, this time head-on instead of at a downward angle.  “Always try to use these first two knuckles to reinforce against the impact, they’re the strongest and best aligned with the bones in your wrist.  You should also physically brace yourself for it.  Flex your arm—create as much rigidity around your joints as you can, keep your fist clenched tight to maintain integrity of the soft tissues in your hand, and your body should protect itself against the blowback as long as you land right.  Try again.”

You diligently wind your fist up again and then go to snap your arm straight forward this time, but he steps up and catches your elbow before you can even move.  “Wait.  Look at this—see this chicken wing?”  He flaps your elbow back and forth while his other hand holds your fist in place next to your head.  “This is no good, this is where you’re losing half your power.  And having your arm up like this is making you open to rib and kidney shots.”

You squirm to the side when he taps the bend of his knuckle against your kidney, and the vulnerable spot is tender even though he barely uses any force.  “I’m winding up,” you inform him with a huff.

“You are,” Din acknowledges.  “But your movement is limited like this.  See where your elbow is compared to your center of gravity?”  He flaps it again, and your shoulder pulls uncomfortably when he pushes it back just a bit too far.  “You’re restricting yourself, look.  Your shoulder is in the way, this is as far as your body will let you go.  You’re also using up too much energy trying to swing your whole arm around just to make contact; it’s sloppy technique, it slows you down, and it’ll tire you out.  But, if you wind up like this—” Din lowers your elbow until it rests flat against your side, and then hinges it backwards instead of up near your head, “—see how much further away your elbow is from your body now?  Instead of swinging outwards, think of a slingshot forwards.  Use explosive, forward momentum that you generate from your shoulder—you’re aiming for a sharp, streamlined jab.  This way you conserve energy, produce twice as much power, and your arm now covers up all this important stuff under here,” he explains, trying to tap his knuckle against your side once more but being blocked by your forearm.  “Good?  Now go again.”

He lets you go and steps back, and this time you instinctually plant your foot behind you to give you a solid base foundation that’ll allow you more room to twist, your physics brain lighting up as soon as he said slingshot.  His helmet quickly drops to your stance and then immediately lifts back up to your face again.

You do exactly as he said—you wind back, keeping your arm tucked tight to your side, and then explode forward with a sharp spin of your shoulder and snap of your elbow, colliding your clenched fist into his chest as hard as you possibly can.

He grunts and takes two steps back.

You howl.

“FUUUUUCK!”  It gets lost in the giant field of grass as you clutch your fist, torn between cradling it to your chest like a baby and shaking it out violently at your side like… something distinctly not a baby.  You settle for just bending over and holding it tightly to your stomach, eyes clamped shut and screeching with such fervor that the back of your throat stings sharp with it.  “WHAT THE FUCKING—FUCKFUCKFUCK—!?”

“Good!”  Din encourages over your wailing.  “That was good!  How’d that feel?  Holy shit—that felt good.”

“What’s the point of hitting you when it hurts me and makes you feel good!?” You cry out over your shoulder, somewhere between genuine hatred and agony.

“That was perfect,” he tells you immediately, almost sounding vaguely… out of breath behind you?  “Don’t change a thing—that’s how you punch every single time from now on, okay?  That’s how hard you hit.  Fuck, that felt fucking good.”

The… something in his voice is enough to take your mind off your throbbing hand for just a second, quickly snapping upright and whirling around to face him with your eyebrows very, very narrowed.  He stands there in front of you and you continue to eye him with as much silent skepticism as you can express, until the both of you speak at the same time.

“What was that?”

“Let’s go again.”

Neither of you move, and you feel like your face is scrunched up as tiny as possible at him right now with dubiousness.

“Let’s go again,” Din suddenly grunts out, hooking an arm around your elbow and tugging you to face forward once more.

“Did that turn you on?”  You ask him bluntly, your battle wound completely forgotten by your side.

“I swear if you don’t—”

“You get hard when you get hurt?”  You ask dumbly, all sorts of lightbulbs suddenly illuminating in dusty, cobwebbed corners of your mind.  Maker, that would explain so much.  “Is that why you wanted a handjob immediately after I burned a knife wound shut on your back?”

“You wanna learn how to punch today or you wanna learn how to block?”  Comes through the helmet, thoroughly unamused at your antics, but you just break into a mischievous little grin in response and push just one more button of his, knowing he’s only mostly joking.

“I’ll punch you,” you purr.  “Hold your arms up, show me your ribs.”

There’s a split second of silence before he quickly snaps his fist to his chest once again, oh, but it’s enough.  Your shoulders do a little victory shimmy and have to bite your lip to keep from beaming at him, so unbelievably proud of yourself for being able to read him this well without seeing his face. 

But—for the very same reason, you also plant your foot behind you and wind your arm back once more, knowing you were already treading on thin ice.

“Am I gonna have to start calling you chicken wing?”  Din suddenly barks out, a split second into your forward launch.  You almost stumble into him with all the generated momentum and catch yourself just in time, eventually stepping back and resetting with a frustrated huff.  Purposefully tucking your arm tight into your side, you pull back once more.

He mmphs when you make equally hard contact in the very same spot but he doesn’t move this time, and you somehow forgot how horribly painful it is to slam your clenched fist directly against a solid object with all your strength—much less, the second time around.  You attempt to deaden your response as well, but he has the luxury of the helmet to shield his face.  Silencing your scream just makes yours contort unattractively in front of him while your eyes clamp shut and you clutch your wrist, trying to bite back the crippling pain.

“Other hand—use the other hand instead,” he tells you quickly.  “You have two of them.”

“I used to!”  You snarl through the way you can’t even flex it anymore, how your muscles aren’t working through the angry sparks of acute sensation jumping down your fingers.  “Your stupid fucking pecs just broke my good one!”

“Want me to kiss it?”  Din asks—quickly, almost like he can’t help himself, and the snarky tone of it through the modulator coupled with the throbbing pain makes you grit your teeth.

“I used to love your body,” you lift your head and growl up at him while you cradle your swollen claw.  “Why did you take that from me?”

“Give me your hand,” he says calmly, holding his palm out for you.

“No,” you spit, the pain making you stubborn and resistant to anything you don’t immediately offer yourself, but he’s not impressed.  Din easily catches your elbow and brings it up, his other hand gently lacing through your fingers even as you try in vain to pull it away.  “Stop it—”

He completely ignores you and looks back over his shoulder at the kid, dwarfed by the tall grass and continuing to hop around behind what will likely be his lunch, before the helmet turns back to you.  “Eyes closed.”

“This isn’t fucking funn—”

“Close your eyes,” he tells you once more.  “Don’t open them.”

You take a deep breath and grind your teeth, not wanting to be treated like a baby.  It irks you that he’s dedicating so much time and effort into just infantilizing you and your very real pain.  Though, the pain is so real that it makes it almost impossible to express the sentiment—it comes out sounding childishly short and bratty.  “It hurts.”

“I know,” is all he says, soft and lilting and quite possibly as gentle as you’ve ever heard him.  “Close your eyes, sweet girl.”

His tone of voice is the only thing that compels you to listen.  You finally do as he says and flutter your eyes shut, overly aware of the hard grimace on your face now that you can’t see anything.  One of his hands releases you while keeping your numb fingers laced between his, and then a few seconds pass, before you suddenly feel soft lips pressing against your knuckle.

You hiss and tighten up on instinct, more in fear of the pain than the pain itself, but he holds your hand steady as he carefully trails gentle presses of his lips against your knuckles.  After a moment, you breathe out shakily, your eyebrows lifting just slightly at the sensation—before his mouth opens and his warm tongue glides delicately across your sensitive skin.

You gasp and your fingers twitch in between his, suddenly able to move again.  They knock against cool metal as his tongue slowly drags down the valleys between your knuckles—but then Din abruptly drops your hand at the sudden sound of sunshine giggles coming from afar.  Your eyes pop open just as his helmet is yanked down over his jaw once more.

“Let’s…”  He clears his throat through the modulator, taking a small step back.  “Let’s go again.”

***

You collapse down into a pitiful little pile on the grass, trying to catch your breath.  This is ridiculous.  You somehow have tender bruises all over your body and yet you’re the only one who’s done any sort of hitting whatsoever.

“That’s fine, we can take a break,” Din says gruffly from above you, but you’re too tired to even comment on the sarcasm.  You just groan, flopping down flat on your back while he sits in the grass next to you and silently waits for you to start breathing normally again.

“I hate this,” you pant, resting your numb hands against your forehead and squinting against the late afternoon sun.  “I don’t like this.  My body hurts and I barely did anything.”

“You’re good at it,” Din is quick to respond, and the blunt sincerity in his voice takes you aback, making you glance over at him in shock.  “I know,” he nods once the beskar turns and he sees the look on your face, “I didn’t expect it either.”

His tendency to compliment you while simultaneously insulting you doesn’t go unnoticed, but if anything, you decide to take it as a testament to his honesty and comfort in your presence.  Clearly he’d have no issue telling you if you were terrible at this.

Instead of responding, you lace your fingers behind your head and continue to just lay there, closing your eyes against the warm sunshine.  It’s gorgeous here, you get why this planet is renown throughout the galaxy.  Perfect weather, stunningly green rolling hills for miles, the gentle breeze dancing through the tall grass, brilliant white clouds suspended against a beautiful blue backdrop.  The only thing that’s missing is—

“When can we go see the ocean?”  You blurt up at the sky, unable to stop the words before they’re out of your mouth.

“What ocean?”  Comes tiredly through the modulator, monotone and filtered as he shuffles into a more comfortable position.

“Any of them,” you immediately respond, shrugging your shoulders against the grass.  “The closest one.  I’m not picky.”

“…Naboo doesn’t have any oceans,” Din tells you blankly.

You startle slightly, jerking your head over at him.  “What?  But—but I saw it through the transparisteel when we dropped.  This whole planet is practically covered in water.”

“It is,” he agrees with a tilt of his helmet, following you with the visor as you finally scramble to sit yourself upright.  “But it’s all one big… body of water.  Locals call it the Abyss, it stretches across the entire planet through a system of underground caves and tunnels.  It only surfaces as rivers and lakes and swamplands, though.  No ocean.  Not really.”

“Oh.”  It’s blank, but it’s… lacking.  The sun glinting against metal gives you an excuse to subtly turn your head away from him, and you hold back your sigh of disappointment.

“What’s the matter?”  He grunts after a moment, somehow succeeding in sounding mildly disinterested while still bothering to ask.  He props his knee upright to rest his elbow on it, apparently able to read you better than ever as well.

“Nothing,” you say on instinct and shake your head, already knowing it’s dumb.  You’re being dumb, there’ll be other planets with oceans—you just haven’t had the opportunity to go to one yet.

Din doesn’t say anything after that, but he also keeps the helmet subtly turned towards you, like he’s just… waiting.  The quiet almost doesn’t sound quiet anymore, not when there’s such a loud unspoken question still lingering in it.

“It’s just,” you say after a moment, trying to smile, but it doesn’t feel real.  It’s nothing more than a movement your mouth makes and it feels at odds with the mild disappointment you’re trying to hide.  “I used to be a moisture farmer.  Back on Arvala-7, where we first met.”

His continued silence tells you nothing.  You don’t know whether he’s confused and you should elaborate, whether he understands and doesn’t need an explanation, whether he’s interested or disinterested.  Nothing.  So after another few more seconds of nothing, you decide to keep going.

“There's something about water that just… hits different when you spend your entire life on a planet without any,” you say quietly, picking at a few blades of grass by your knees instead of looking at him.  “When I was a little girl, I used to think it was as rare in the rest of the galaxy as it was where I was born.  A limited resource you had to farm from the atmosphere to drink, because it didn’t occur naturally in liquid form.  It was… valuable.  Delicate.  Crystal clear—never saw more than a few dozen gallons of it at a time.  Something to be cherished.  Something you’d never want to waste even just dipping your hand into, because the dirt on your skin would contaminate it.”

You smile once more, but this time it feels a little bit better.  “You know… the first shower I took on the Crest the day I left that Maker-forsaken planet was the first time I ever felt my hair get wet.  We only ever had sonic showers on Arvala-7.”  And stars, the memory of it makes you want to shudder.  Ultrasonic waves vibrating the dirt and sweat off your body sounds a lot more thorough than it actually is.  You never felt truly clean until you were soaking wet on the Crest with shampoo in your hair, giggling like a child in the fresher while you made yourself a soapy little beard.

It springboards into another memory—the moment you first reached for a towel after showering, catching a glimpse of your hands and startling at the sight of your wrinkled, pruny fingertips.  You’d never heard of such a phenomena before that point.  You thought you’d asked Kuiil about everything, but to be entirely fair, he might not have even realized it happened, not from the leathery texture of his xenospecies’ skin.  The questions he did answer for you were plenty though, and you suddenly remember something he said to you years ago that was so jarring and unexpected that it’s stuck with you to this day.

“Kuiil told me once that water was loud,” you suddenly hear yourself say, and though your soft laugh is nostalgic and sincere, you don’t know why, but you instantly tear up as soon as the words leave your mouth.  “Loud.  How could—could water be loud?  What… what noise would it make?”

You sniff and continue to pick at the grass, a bit more vigorously this time, purposefully keeping your eyes down and blinking quickly.  “He said… he said streams and brooks… b-bubble.  They bubble.  And rain… rain is like static—like white noise, but… natural.  Not generated by a machine.  He said the ocean is the loudest, though.  It roars.  It’s powerful.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat and glancing up, you try to distract yourself from the memory of your close friend by looking out at the wavy grass, trying to see if you can spot the kid being dwarfed by it.  You can’t, not from this low angle, but you can still hear him playing happily in the distance.

“I’ve seen all the others now, thanks to you,” you confess quietly.  “Rain, rivers, lakes—but I always wanted to see an ocean.  A big, scary one, where the sound would just be… deafening.  Water, tons of it, crashing up against rocks and filling the air with mist.  Used to dream about them.  Wanted to see something I used to think was rare fill my entire field of view.  Wanted to see something I always thought was precious turn into something formidable.”

Din continues staring silently at you through your peripheral while you keep picking at the grass absently.

“I just—I don’t know.”  You finally look over at him and sigh, smiling softly and shrugging your shoulders.  “I just always dreamed of a place where I could go, a place where I could open my eyes and all I’d be able to see—all I could hear—was water.”

You stop talking after that, having run out of things to say and realizing you probably shared a little too much without ever being prompted.  The sunlight is gentle and easy, however, and it encourages you to close your eyes and just breathe, letting silent, eternal gratitude to the man next to you fill you.  You’d never know any sun that isn’t harsh, you’d never know the greenness of the tall grass in this sprawling field had he not found you, given you a chance to tag along the galaxy with him and his carnivorous little sidekick.

The sun begins making you sleepy the more you sit here in the middle of paradise, eyes closed and tasting the gorgeous air in your lungs.  But eventually, Din stands up and steps in front of you, opening both of his bare palms towards the setting sky and bouncing them up and down a few times.  “Up.  Come on.  I’ll teach you how to throw an uppercut before nightfall.”

You groan but lift your hands in his direction all the same, trying not to wince while you make grabby fingers at him, your knuckles slightly bruised and red.  He sighs and wraps his hands purposefully around your elbows, urging you up as he takes a few steps backwards.

It’s awkward.  You’re still feeling lazy and droopy-eyed, and the cool shadow he casts makes you even more sleepy.  You think he’s going to help more than you have to pull yourself up, and he clearly thinks he’s there to be your platform instead of your forklift.  What results is just you being dragged uselessly by your arms in front of him, until your torso and legs are stretched in an uncomfortable J-shape on the ground and your forehead bumps into his lower tummy.

He stops and holds you there, before grunting out, “Use your feet.”

“Just let me fall,” you tell him, your lips brushing against the dark fabric while your shoulders and spine pull tight at this angle.  “Just leave me here like this.”

The sigh he makes above you feels like he puts his whole entire being into it.  Din leaves you propped up against him for a second while he grumbles and readjusts his hold further up near your shoulders, before he maneuvers you until you’re gently settling down on your knees in the grass.

You think (hope) he’s going to release you and let you take a nap, but then you gasp when he shifts and the toe of his boot suddenly wedges itself between your closed thighs.  He lifts up on your arms just slightly, enough to take the weight off your knees so he can swipe his foot out and kick one of them open, before plopping you back down again and letting you go.

Up until that point, you’d been good.  You were content with being boneless for him and seeing how he’d deal, but then he gracefully crouches down in front of you and wraps one powerful arm around your back, hugging you tight to his chest.  Din’s open thighs frame your kneeling figure and you can feel his cock pressed against your tummy from this angle, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

For some reason, he decides to take this next part slow.  Maybe it’s because he can probably feel the way your heart is starting to kick up against his unarmored chest right now, but he drags it out.  Broad shoulder dropping and his helmet finding a home in the crook of your neck, Din braces you to his chest with one arm while the other slithers down the curve of your ass and then under—his forearm pressing firmly between your cheeks and then his open palm flattening tight along the length of your pussy from behind.

You moan softly next to the helmet while he works the thick muscles in his thighs to gradually lift you both from the ground.  Maker, the tips of his fingers are curved hard against your slit through your pants while he rises, pulling you up until gravity causes your thighs to slowly meet around his hand and your legs to dangle.

The feat of strength turns you on just as much as his choice of positioning does.  Fuck, you know you’re not the lightest person in the galaxy, but Din carefully sets you down on your feet without even so much as a grunt of effort, his hand staying tucked tight between your legs for longer than necessary.  Biting your lip and pressing your face into his shoulder does nothing to stop the quiet whimper you make when he decides to grind his strong fingers up into you just a bit.

“Din,” you whisper, wanting to melt into him, but then he’s instantly ripping his hand away and taking a step back.

You nearly fall over at the sudden lack of support after relying solely on him for it for so long, but you don’t even have enough time to open your mouth in upset.  There’s just a split second before a green blur bursts through the tall grass with a squeal and trips over the baggy potato sack around his body.

It’s like it happens in slow motion.  You both watch as he flies forward, skidding more than once on the ground and then landing face-down on your shoe, the little thump on your foot feeling so adorably anticlimactic after all the buildup.

Nobody moves for a second, except for the way your eyes flicker up at the visor currently tilted towards the ground.  You can tell Din is just holding his breath, just waiting to see if—

A hiccup.  You see broad shoulders tighten under the dark fabric, and then a sudden piercing wail is released against your shoe.

“Shit,” Din curses, already scooping the little thing up and bouncing him slightly to pacify him.  You bite your lip against the way his ears flop from the movement and he screams even louder.  “Hey hey hey, stop.  Stop it.  Stop crying.”

“Uh oh!  Where’d your little friend go?”  You ask while Din immediately turns the kid around to face you, your voice pitched soft and high in your register as you step closer.  “Did you eat him already?”

He just shudders out a cry, probably an affirmative, his mouth dropping and his little teeth peeking through while he sobs and his giant eyes well with tears.

“Shit,” Din curses again, this time in defeat, but you won’t give up that easy.

“Hey—hey goose, wanna see me beat your daddy up?”  You ask, lightly booping the little bump of his nose.  “Huh?  Wanna see me fight?”  You pull your top lip up into a ridiculous little snarl and flex your arms threateningly, and the sobs suddenly stutter to a stop within a few breaths.  “Op, yep.  See—he knows I’ll kick your ass, Din, he just got scared.”

“Please,” the modulator pfftts quietly, but the kid just blinks at you while you keep growling.

“I’ll hurt him real bad,” you promise him, putting your fists up in front of you and bouncing your weight back and forth like a prized boxing champ.  “I’ll, uh…” your list of trash talk repertoire is admittedly rather short, and both of them wait in silence for you to figure it out, the bigger one a lot less entertained than his miniature counterpart.  “I’ll punch him just.  So hard.  So hard that… it’ll bruise.  Yeah—I’ll make him bleed underneath his skin.”

“No, this is good, keep going,” Din encourages after a moment of awkward silence.  “Maybe you’ll be able to find your way there at some point.”

You ignore him, bobbing and ducking and then popping him one good in the shoulder with an accompanying vocal sound effect—except you quickly jerk your hand away and shake your wrist out, staring up at the helmet like he deeply offended you and mouthing, “Ow.”

A smile.  The smallest ghost of one, but you see it on the kid’s teeny green mouth when you flick your eyes down to him.

So, Din spends the rest of the lingering daylight teaching you the proper uppercut technique while he cradles an adorable little bug-eyed baby in one arm.  You keep making faces at him while throwing your fist up against his dad’s extended, downturned palm, until he finally starts giggling again.

***

Whelp, turns out you’re a fucking idiot.  Or maybe just a selfish bitch, either way.  Not a good look.

You thought, from the way the lovely afternoon went, that you were getting better at reading Din.  Knowing when to joke around, when to keep pushing, and when to stop talking, all from just his body posture and tone of voice alone.  But you’re also an idiot, as you’ve already established.

As you three headed back to the Crest through the dusky twilight evening, you remember telling Din that if there weren’t any oceans on Naboo, then you’ll at least be able to sleep in a bed on this planet.  A real one, one with a—oh stars, an actual mattress.  The word alone sent shivers down your spine, and the baby cooed while blinking his eyes slowly, well on his way to being tuckered out from the long day outside.

You don’t remember Din directly responding, but then again, that isn’t really all that rare in the grand scheme.  Granted, he was arguably more talkative today than ever before, and he did get a little bit quieter after that, but still, you couldn’t have known.  Only an incredibly hyper-observant person would’ve noticed in the moment—you’re lucky you can even recall this much in hindsight.

Though, this next part should’ve been more of a direct giveaway.  Once you were in the Crest, he put his armor back on.

You still didn’t think.  It’s such a normal thing, the beskar fitting tight to magnetic plates around his shoulders, thighs, and chest.  It’s normal, he wears it all the time.  Having him walking around in broad daylight sans armor and gloves today was odd, that was the outlier.

He flew the vessel to the nearest town, a quaint little village on the edge of a gorgeously full forest.  The ride was as gentle as possible—you were feeling soft and decided to hold the baby as he drifted off instead of placing him in the quiet darkness of his cradle.  The ears tend to make things a bit awkward, but after months of practice with it, you’re now a pro at rocking the little guy to sleep in your arms.

Din’s continued silence didn’t bother you—or really even register, considering you were trying to be quiet as well.  He slung your go-bag around his shoulder and pressed a few buttons on his vambrace to set the kid’s sphere protocols to follow behind him, before pressing a gloved palm to your lower back and leading you down the ramp, the sleepy baby tucked tight into your arms.

There were people in the village mingling while you three walked down the cobblestone path to the nearest inn, giving your ragtag group double-takes as you passed.  The innkeeper, however, was blind.  Not only did you not receive the same terrified courtesy the barkeep on Canto Bight had afforded you before, but he was clearly used to spotting and swindling newcomers, sightless or not.

“Only room left’s a suite,” he drawled, the cloudy whites of his pupils hovering just between your left shoulder and Mando’s right pauldron.  “Five hundred credits a night.”

The color drained from your face, your heart doing a giant flip in your chest and completely fucking up the landing.  You turned to Mando to reassure him that absolutely nothing about this was necessary, but he was already dropping the ridiculous amount of credits on the desk without a single word.

That should’ve been the nail in the coffin, to be honest.  His immediate willingness to hand over that many credits without the slightest protest, grumble, or sigh was the kicker—that’s how you should’ve known something wasn’t right.  He didn’t even allow you to split the cost when you offered to reimburse him on the way to the room.

But again.  You’re an idiot, so.

At least the suite is gorgeous.  Slightly old-fashioned and moonlit enough to skip even flicking the lights on, illuminated by large open windows with views of the village streets and sprawling mountains and forest beyond.  Everything inside is either cream or white, so clean and soft, and being able to feel the breeze billowing through the gauzy curtains is just.  After months of traveling in that enclosed ship, it’s restorative.  Almost nothing in here is made of metal.

So it’s not until right now—almost immediately after you settled the kid down into the incredibly large guest bed and walked into the master bedroom to find Mando sitting perfectly still on the edge of the mattress—now something feels off.  He looks so out of place as you quietly snap the door shut behind you.  The enormous floor to ceiling window decorating the far side of the room bathes him in pale light, highlights the blaster marks and bits of dirt clinging to the beskar as he sits on the bed.

“You’re going to get the sheets all dirty,” you, an idiot, tell him, your voice barely above a murmur.  “Take off your—”

“I can’t,” he rushes, though he jumps up from the mattress all the same.  You snap your mouth shut and freeze.  “It’s safe here but it’s… it’s still not a good idea, not if I want to sleep.  Not with people around, and all these… windows.”

The words send you reeling.  You had no idea, you thought… “Oh.  I’m sorry, that—”

You immediately go silent, feeling absolutely fucking awful.  You didn’t think.  All you could think about was that bed underneath you, and you maybe… blindfolded in some way?  And then of course, him, in it—completely naked, helmet off, and laying next to you.

“You’re okay,” Mando tells you with a shrug, not sounding like… anything.  He looks like he’s about to say something else—his chestplate lifts with an inhale as he turns to you, but then seems to stop right as he’s about to speak.

“Shit—please sit on the bed, I don’t care if you’re dirty,” you quickly say, just as he blurts out, “You can still take your clothes off though.”

You blink at him for a second, not sure you heard him right.  “…What did y—”

“You can, uh.”  His voice is soft.  “I can… lay down.  On top of the sheets.  In my armor, just like this, and then you can take your clothes off and just.  Rub up on me a little bit.  If you want.”

A shudder quite suddenly rockets down your spine at the tone of his voice, the quiet, slightly hesitant murmur through the modulator.  The gulp you take is audible through the room, the only other sound being the closest trees rustling in the breeze outside.  The spread curtains dance with it, but they’re too sheer and light to make a noise.  “O-Okay.”

“Yeah?”  He asks lowly, and you quickly nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper, your body beginning to tingle, “sit—sit back down.”

He goes to move but then abruptly stops, and you hold your breath while you watch the visor jerk just a fraction to pin you in place.  Something instantly feels… different about him, a silent shift taking place within just a singular moment.  Like he all of a sudden realized that he didn’t actually like that very much.

Instead of acquiescing, Mando slowly steps in front of you, straightening up to his full height and absolutely dwarfing you with it, and your palms start to sweat.  Maker, when he speaks, it sends shivers down your body and the last thing you hear in his voice is hesitation.

“Take off your clothes,” he tells you, a dangerous edge to his soft tone.  The quiet dominance in it feels like the floor beneath you rumbles from it.

On instinct, your eyes flick over his shoulder to the open window and the village outside.  It’s barely been a few hours since sundown—townspeople are strolling down winding streets in the distance, ghostly moonlight mixes with the warm glow from large oil lamps lining the pubs and street corners.

You look back at him barely a split second later as he stands there in front of you, waiting.

You startle and immediately move to grab at the hem of your shirt, and your fingers unintentionally tremble as they start to pull it up. 

“Stop.”

His voice breaks through the silence, the modulated order halting your movements immediately.  You blink up at him, letting your shirt drop back down again, and Mando takes a second to look back at you, studying you from under the beskar.

“Go stand by the window,” he suddenly says, lazily tilting the helmet to gesture at it.

Your blood pounds in your ears during the still moments following, the thrill of it making you nearly go deaf for a second.  After you recover from the visceral heatwave that rockets through you, you slowly walk over to the window and then turn your back on the ballooning curtains to look at him.  The beskar is still pinned to you over his shoulder, though the rest of his body hasn’t moved.

“Turn around,” he tells you, and you shakily do as he says, rotating to face the open window.  You’re close enough to make out people’s expressions from here—friends mingling as they stroll down the sidewalk, their mouths moving but their voices and laughter muted at this distance.  An outdoor restaurant serving local cuisine to patrons and out-of-towners, a violinist and cellist performing a silent duet on the street corner.

There’s shuffling behind you.  The creak of the bedframe as he lowers himself on it and moves around, before eventually coming to a rest in what you assume is a comfortable position.

“You can keep going,” eventually comes his filtered voice from the bed.

Your eyelashes dip and flutter as more hot sparks of arousal kindle deep in your floor muscles.  Lifting your shirt up over your head has never felt like such high stakes before, but even as the fabric falls to the ground, your gaze continuously searches for anyone outside who may catch a glimpse.  Though, you’re not sure if it’s in dread or some kind of sick excitement.

The breeze hardens your nipples while you work at your pants, and the hair on your arms stands up when you remember who’s behind you, silently watching you get turned on by this.  Along with your underwear, your pants are pushed down your thighs, but instead of moving back from the pool around your ankles, you take a purposeful step forward towards the open window.

“Fuck—you dirty little thing,” you hear him breathe out, and a shiver rolls through you.  “Tell me how many people you can see right now, count them.”

You try your best, but give up halfway through and provide a rough estimate.  “F-Fifteen.”

“Scanner says seventeen from here,” Mando challenges lowly.  “Seventeen pairs of eyes that can look up any second and see your naked body.  Stripped bare, shaking, vulnerable.  Your gorgeous fucking tits.”

As hard as your teeth dig into your bottom lip at the rasp through the modulator, your nails dig into your palms even harder.  Still, you don’t move, and the open drapes flick and brush against your thighs as you hold there, the gentle wind doing absolutely nothing to cool your flushed skin down.

And oh, he waits.  He’s good about that, especially when he can probably read your infrared signature through the helmet right now.  You’re surprised you haven’t outright blinded him by how white-hot your body feels.  But after what feels like a small eternity, he eventually murmurs, “Come over here.”

Once you turn around and see the way he’s just laying back on the bed, relaxing and enchanted with the show, it’s a miracle you don’t trip on anything with how quickly you hurry towards him.  You’re already standing next to the edge of the mattress by the time you even register his body is subtly tilted so that his boots are hanging purposefully off the side of it.

Regardless of the hard dominance he’s exhibiting, the symbolic gesture somehow feels like it flips a switch inside you and lights up pure, aching adoration for him.  But against every instinct screaming at you to just scramble on top of him and show him how much you appreciate his thoughtfulness, you wait.  You wait for him to tell you what to do.

His glove lifts, comes up to gently touch the side of your face and cradle your jaw, and you have to clamp your hands together to stop yourself from reaching for him.

“Are you wet?”  Mando murmurs, sounding like his lips barely even brush against each other when they move under the beskar.  You don’t trust yourself to say anything without it turning into a desperate plea, so you just close your eyes and jerk your head in a nod, feeling your cheek graze against the leather on his palm with the movement.  It’s hard to swallow when your mouth feels so dry, and he lets you just suffer there and tremble for him a little while longer, letting out a quiet hum through the modulator as his thumb carefully rides the line of your cheekbone.

Maker, where does all this fucking patience come from?  Under normal circumstances, Mando is probably one of the most impatient people you’ve ever met, and yet.  It’s like he stores it all up.  Hoards it and refuses to dip into it most of the time—perfectly content to have a quick temper in most interactions, if only so that he can keep it handy for moments like this.  If only so he can have a seemingly endless supply of patience to sustain him while your average-sized stockpile is gradually and inevitably being depleted.

“You want to get up here with me?”  He asks quietly, and stars, that’s still not a directive, no matter how much it could casually imply one.  The ridiculous thing is—he never even told you this was expected of you.  Not once did he tell you to follow his words like they're gospel, not once did he say there was something wrong with speaking directly to him without prompting, or acting without explicit instruction.  He never even implied anything like that at all, but you still hold your body completely rigid as you jerk a nod against his palm once more.

Stars, it just isn’t fair.  He doesn’t look any different from how he looks every single day—there’s no patch of golden skin to tease you, beskar is covering him head to toe, but you’re hotter for him than you think you’ve ever been.  He’s stretched out long on the bed, a portion of him darkened by your silhouette but the rest bathed in gorgeous moonlight, breathing slow as he takes you in.  You stare silently at the visor, and for some reason, you—you’re quite suddenly struck with how gorgeous he could secretly be under there and you’ll just… you’ll never know.  You know his hair is thick and dark, you know the softness of his mouth, the sunkissed color of his skin, the prominent nose and straight teeth on the rare but blissful occasions he’d let you kiss him.  His eyes, though.  They could be any color.  Your credits have been on brown for a while, but the thought of you not knowing for sure… the thought of you actually having to ask him something like that is just—it makes you ache to touch him even more.  To give him something tangible at least, when you know the only way to ever have a true visual connection with him is with a dark visor between you.

You try to let the sentiment transfer through your needy expression, hoping he can read it from there.  His cock is hard—you can see it in your peripheral, pressing up against the dark fabric of his pants, but it’s like you’re the only one who notices.  He’s still admiring your face, or fuck, maybe he’s looking at your body—you can never tell for sure, but regardless, you stare purposefully at wherever you think his eyes ought to be, silently pleading with him and starting to get desperate.

Finally—fucking finally, the helmet rocks to the side just slightly, just the smallest tilt of his head towards his body, but the nonverbal invitation is enough.  Air you didn’t realize was even in your lungs suddenly whooshes out of you as you all but launch forwards onto the mattress to try and climb on top of him.

—Except, then his hand quickly drops from your face to press firm against your thighs, blocking the way your far leg tries to lift to swing over him in a straddle.  Disappointment crashes through you with an audible whimper and you start to panic a little bit as you shakily plant both knees back on the bed, wondering what you possibly did wrong.  Was it because he didn’t specifically say it was okay?  Was he just testing your obedience?

The beskar vambrace feels cool against your burning skin, and you try not to let the trembling of your body manifest itself in your breathing as Mando lazily drags his glove along your thighs.  Neither one of you says anything as he eventually trails his hand back and around, leather fingers coming to a rest between your legs while his thumb rides high, just under the curve of your ass.

And then he slowly starts pulling, before he gradually leads the leg closest to him up and over his body instead, until you’re settling into a straddle on top of his hips.  Backwards.

Everything in you shudders violently as both gloves gently trail up the length of your naked back, letting you brace your hands on the beskar strapped to his thighs and settle on top of him.

“Look at that,” he hums, letting his hands fall back down to the meat of your ass, grabbing handfuls of it and squeezing hard enough to make you bite back a gasp.  “Fucking pretty.  Pretty girl.  Stars, I fucking love looking at you, know that?”

The praise makes you mewl quietly and spread your knees even further, dropping your hips down until the underside of his cock presses up tight into your aching pussy.  You arch your back and walk your hands forward just a bit, just until you’re holding onto his knees and you have the right angle to start slowly rocking your body back and forth.

“Maker,” you whisper, your head tipping back while you drag your pussy against his pulsing erection, and his hands keep massaging your ass while the words start falling out of you now that you released the floodgate.  “Maker, I love your body.  So big, and—and strong.  Fucking hard, thick cock.  Fuck, I love your cock.  I love how fucking hard you get—”

“Bend over,” Mando breathes out behind you, his hands suddenly releasing fistfuls of your ass to grab around your hips and bring you to a stop.  “Fuck, keep talking like that, but show me your—just let me… let me look at it.”

Your heart slams against your sternum, your clit pulsing against the hard ridge of his cock, knowing exactly what he’s talking about.  Slowly, you bend your upper body over until your tummy lays flat along the cool beskar shielding his thighs and your tits are pressed against his kneecaps.  Your arms are long enough to rest your hands on his ankles like this, and your thighs are spread wide to keep your cunt pushed up against his cock.  But stars, you know he has a perfect view right now.  The slick lips of your pussy smearing against his dark pants, both holes on full display for him in the moonlight.

“Keep—Keep talking,” Mando reminds you after a moment, sounding painfully turned on while his cock jumps against your clit.  “Keep going.  Use it, get yourself off.  Let me watch.”

“Fuck, I love your cock,” you hear yourself repeat, breathless and needy as your hips start grinding down against him once more, the words coming from you without giving them any thought whatsoever.  He grunts and pushes it up for you, letting you get at it easier.  “I think about it all the time.  Think about the first time I felt it, how you were already rock fucking hard for me when I touched you.  You came so quick, right in my hand, in your pants—it was so fucking hot.”

“I’d had—” he grits out in his defense, “—shit, I’d had a… a rough day, and your hands were.  Fuck, s-soft, and—”

“Maybe,” you concede, biting your lip and closing your eyes against the swirling pleasure spreading hot through your body, the heat that burns you alive hearing the familiar warble through the modulator when he’s starting to lose himself in pleasure.  “Or maybe it was because you were half-conscious with a brand new scar on your back.”

His filtered groan rolls down your spine and his cock pulses hard against your cunt through the fabric of his pants, making you spasm in delight.  Fuck, your head drops down completely, just dragging yourself back and forth on top of him as you chase your orgasm like this.  Shameless—your ass flexing in front of him with every roll of your hips, your lower muscles fluttering with every drag against his cock.

“Fuck—fuck, let me touch your asshole,” Mando whispers suddenly, lifting himself up on one elbow and dragging the other hand up the curve of your cheek.  “Just—just a little bit, I won’t pu—”

“Oh stars above, fucking please,” you gasp against one of his legs, nearly jerking back against his hand as your pussy fucking leaks through his pants with it.  “I’ll let you do anything you want, you can—can put your thumb inside it—”

His other hand leaves you for a split second, and you think he’s taking his glove off, except then it swings down to crack hard against your ass, making you gasp and instantly go still for him on his lap.

The smooth leather covering the pad of his thumb carefully glides down your crevice, and you hold your breath until it finally brushes over the tight ring of muscle flexing for him.

“That all you’ll let me put in here?”  Mando asks quietly, and you let out a complete mess of a whimper, trying your best not to move under the bold touches.

You get another firm smack on the ass for being rendered mute for too long.  “Tell me,” he growls, rubbing his thumb against the vulnerable entrance while his cock throbs against your cunt.

“I’ll—I’ll let you do anything you want,” you moan once more, and stars, you can’t help it.  Your hips start to grind down against him even harder than before, and Mando curses as he slowly rides your movements with his hand.

“Dirty,” he grits out.  “Dirty girl.  You ever take it back here before?”  And stars, the way his cock drags against your pussy starts to make you lightheaded, how casually he’s talking about this while starting to circle his thumb around it and press firm against it.  Not hard enough to push inside, but enough to feel the natural resistance give just a bit.

“No,” you breathe, starting to pant while you work against him.  “Boys have tried.  But I’d let you.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, suddenly rocking his hips up against yours.  You nearly choke and your legs start to lock up, making your movements stunted.  “Fuck.  I bet you’d let me do it right fucking now, wouldn’t you?  Right here in front of this f-fucking window, where everyone can see?  Let me flip you over and stretch you out, and then fuck your tight little—virgi—”

“Maker, get your cock out,” you gasp, heat burning at your center and beginning to spread outwards.  It tingles hot through your lower abdomen and you start to get frantic, knowing you don’t have much time before your orgasm hits.  “Please, just let me ride it, let me cum on it—”

“No,” Mando immediately grunts, and you make a small sound of distress that quickly turns into a high-pitched mewl against his leg when the very tip of his thumb just barely breaches the haloed entrance.

“But—but I’m so wet,” you whisper, “oh stars, can’t you see it?  I’m dripping.  You could just slide it right in right now, I’d take it so fucking easy—”

He rips his hand away just long enough to smack your ass once again, hard enough to ring through the room and make you gasp.  “Quit.  You’ll take whatever the fuck you’re given and you’ll endure,” he snaps.  “Not here, not tonight.”

You bite back desperate protests.  He’d fuck you in a dark alleyway on Canto Bight but not here?  As if you haven’t already done so multiple times this evening, you immediately lament your stupid mouth and the thoughtless mattress comment.  You wish you could take it all back—you don’t care how nice this bed is, you want to sleep in anything he’ll fuck you in.  Nonetheless, your orgasm gallops forward and leaves your body struggling to keep up behind it—but Maker, you want so badly to feel him inside you when it finally hits.  You want to sink down on him and feel him break you open just as you start to cum.

“Oh fuck, please give me it,” you whine, sounding on the edge of delirium, the words pressed high and unintentional as your hands clutch at his legs.  “Oh Maker, please, please fuck me—fuck me in a real bed, please, just—fuck me right now and I swear I’ll sleep on fucking rocks for you every single night for the rest of m—”

A snarl rips through the modulator and he shoves your hips forward just enough, just enough to rip his waistband down—

You gasp in blinding relief and flip your head over your shoulder to watch, but then subtle movement catches in your peripheral.  You glance up just in time to see the doorknob slowly turning.

Thank your lucky stars you react on instinct alone, squealing and jumping off him before quickly shuffling under the covers.

“What the fu—” comes an enraged, filtered growl, metal clanking with how quickly he flips over to reach for you, but then he cuts off and the helmet whips to the door as it unlatches and slowly creaks open. 

The blankets are pulled tight under your chin as you shuffle down as far as possible, and though you can’t see the intruder from this angle, Mando is instantly reaching back to rip the pillow out from under the helmet and press it tight over his crotch, huffing out a sigh.

Soon, you’re able to spot one pointy little ear pop up, followed by the rest of the little gremlin scaling the treacherously tall comforter, pulling himself over the edge of the mattress with a determined three-finger hold and then doing a completely unnecessary little barrel roll once he’s on the level springtop.  The fact that it’s so fucking adorable just serves to irk you even more, and both of you silently watch the kid push himself up on two feet and then waddle slowly in between you two.

He finds a pillow he likes—one that happens to be placed directly in between you and his dad, before he settles himself down on it like a small bed on top of a much larger one.  The little stinker then flutters his abnormally giant eyes closed and seems to instantly fall back asleep.

There’s a few minutes where you just blink across from Mando, flicking your gaze between the chrome visor and the baby’s peaceful face.  Is this… is he serious right now?

“Were we being too loud?”  You eventually whisper, barely above a breath.  “Or is he just being purposefully annoying?”

He doesn’t answer you.  And, well, you suppose he has a point.  Regardless of why, it appears he's here now. 

You let out a slow breath and just try and relax, try and think beyond the flare of annoyance at the interruption, how close you were to feeling him fuck you into this mattress.  He’d still have the armor and helmet on, of course, but it would be just domestic enough to ruin you. 

But then again—you suppose this, if anything, is even more domestic.  Doing your best to calm your racing thoughts so you can eventually fall asleep directly across from him with his mildly aggravating, heartstealing little adopted kid snoring quietly between you.

Quite a while passes before you feel your eyelids growing heavy.  You spend almost the entire time studying every single inch of Mando while he faces you on the mattress.  The sharp angles and smooth curves of his helmet, concave in places but convex in others.  How fitting, you think.  To cover a man with a helmet just like him—sharp, smooth, contrasting, and deflective enough about what lies underneath to be reflective.

Then you find yourself thinking about what he’s hiding under it.  Once more.  You try to picture him, but it’s… it’s difficult.  You’re not used to translating things you’ve only touched into visual representations, it’s just not a skill you’ve ever needed to have handy.  And what about all the things you can’t, or haven’t been able to feel?  Freckles, or birthmarks?  Dimples?  Are his lashes long or short?  Do they stick out in a fringe when he clamps his eyes shut?  Does his nose scrunch up when he laughs?  Do his ears stick out?  Does he have wrinkles on his forehead, or around his eyes?

Maker, what color are they?

You continue to stare at the metal faceplate, blinking droopily at it but forcing yourself to stay awake just a bit longer.  Enjoy the feeling of the soft mattress underneath you while you still can, relaxing into the cool sheets and delaying your inevitable descent into dreams.  Savoring his extended presence here with you for as long as possible.

“Do you have brown eyes?”  You hear yourself murmur to him through the quiet darkness, lips barely touching and the words slurred from exhaustion.  You want to know.  You want to be able to color in the last paint-by-number of his face before you begin your work on the finer details.

Again, he doesn’t answer, and you figure he’s probably asleep.

[maybedefinitely404]

For You Became My Lighthouse (Part 2)

Genre: hurt/comfort

Pairing: romantic Prinxiety

Content: argument, crying, a decent dose of awkward but it gets resolved!

Word count: 4.1k

Comment: This is the fourth time I’ve tried to post this--- Part 1 HERE!

Roman, is everything alright?

-Logan

Roman ran a hand through his hair at the message, checking the time at the top of the screen. It was late, far too late, so it was safe to assume that Logan had heard about the spat from Virgil. He should have been home by now. It was just… impossible to convince himself to actually leave the rehearsal studio. He had a younger acting class tomorrow and was perfecting his lesson plan- even though he already knew it was perfect, and his director had already approved it. Just, anything to keep him from going home.

He’d been a dick. Such was obvious; from the second his finger had hit send, he regretted approximately everything in his life that had led to this moment. That day had been particularly bad, overrun with rehearsals he was either taking part in or directing, and gearing up for tech week of a large production. Who knew trying to block a scene with a flurry of pre-teens could take so much out of you? Rinse and repeat the cycle with two more classes to teach back to back and an achingly long dance rehearsal, add in a desperate and fruitless search for a replacement lead in his upcoming directorial debut, and you’d have what Roman would categorize as a “shit show of a day”. 

All he wanted to do at the end of it was spend some time with his boyfriend, without having to talk about his day, so he’d suggested the most basic date his fried brain could conjur. Then his work desk was unceremoniously reacquainted with his forehead as he smacked it into the wood, letting out a groan that bordered on a yell. Luckily, minutes ago everyone had abandoned the theatre, and he’d been trusted with the keys to lock up from a stagehand. He just had a couple more things to do, and then he could drive home. 

Getting a reply of denial from Virgil was nothing new. In fact, he’d been warned in the transition from reluctant acquaintanceship to inevitable friendship, that he tended to veto ideas if they were sudden, or too daunting, or if he was just feeling shitty. It was something that Roman never considered a deal breaker, and he’d slowly come to much rather enjoy a night of cuddling and watching television than going out anyways. Call it ‘getting old’, call it ‘Virgil’s homebody ways creeping into his psyche’. So usually, getting his plans rejected was no big deal. 

Except for today, when he was well and past his limit of frustration, and things not going to plan. He’d typed out and sent the snarky reply far before he’d thought it out whatsoever, and ranted out complaints that hadn’t ever crossed his mind before, which he immediately regretted. In a moment of shame so great it caused physical nausea, he tossed his phone into one of his desk drawers and slammed it shut. 

It buzzed once, twice, and then went silent. 

Until, of course, it began to go berserk an indecipherable amount of time later, and Roman couldn’t ignore it. Seeing Logan’s text, along with about a million missed calls from him and Patton, broke the fragile sense of calm he’d tried to achieve while working. 

He didn’t want to go home and face his consequences. Childish, yes. Well deserved, also yes, but he was afraid of Virgil’s inevitable anger. If this led to a breakup, a fight that wasn’t recoverable, he’d never forgive himself. 

And now…

Roman, is everything alright?

-Logan

I can see you’ve read my text message.

-Logan

I’m at work. 

You’re inconceivably moronic. Get home. Now.

-Logan

Roman sighed heavily through his nose, clenching his jaw. He began typing out another snarky response- because apparently he never learned- when another text came through.

Virgil was in significant distress last I spoke to him and he has stopped answering me and Patton. Go. Home.

-Logan

Please. If not for my sake, then for Virgil’s.

-Logan

Fuck.

Roman barely had the sense to lock the doors of the building in his rush, throwing the spare key back in through the mail slot and booking it to his car. He sent some sort of confirmation that he was going and tossed the phone to his back seat. Virgil hated when he used it while driving.

It was only on the drive back, on unusually empty roads, did he realize it was well past nine. He hadn’t even noticed the time passing by.

Most of the lights in the apartment complex were still on when he pulled into the car park, but their window visible on this side showed only darkness. He wasn’t used to entering a dark apartment.

Their flat was silent, the living room only illuminated by the oven clock and the dim city lights from the balcony. He toed off his shoes as silently as he could, wincing when he kicked their shoe rack, and decided he’d risk turning on the light. When he finally found the switch and flicked it on, he couldn’t help his gasp. 

The room had once been a pristine display, he could tell. A white table cloth adorned their usually bare dining room table and a half burned candle stood as its centrepiece. He approached it in a daze, cautiously resting a hand on the plate of ravioli nearest to him. Cold. Long cold; the pasta was starting to get crusty. 

He picked up the two plates, intent on throwing out the food. It definitely wasn’t safe to eat anymore, and he didn’t feel like warding off an attack of ants in the morning. One of the towels hanging off the oven handle was drenched in what looked like marinara sauce, and it looked like there was some more spilled in the crack between the stove and the counter. That would be fun to clean. 

Both hands full, he opened the cupboard containing the garbage bin with a socked foot, and promptly froze. 

Part of him cringed at the clang the dropped plates made on the counter, but the louder part of him was just repeating a mantra of ‘holy shit, holy shit, holy shit’ and it was considerably out-screaming the other. Hands now shaking, Roman picked up the small box from the sink edge, ignoring the dried, crunchy texture of more tomato sauce on the outside, and opened it. 

It took every ounce of strength for Roman not to collapse to his knees, guilt instantly crushing the air from his lungs, a thousand times heavier than it had been before. An elaborate dinner, a ring… there had been a plan. That’s why Virgil had rejected his offer to go out. 

And he’d been such a dick to him. 

Speaking of which, where was he?

Roman closed the box and set it back where it had been. Their bedroom door was slightly ajar, and the most obvious place Virgil would be, so he padded over and creaked it open just a bit more. The light from the hallway cast a beam onto the bed, illuminating first a mess of hastily thrown clothes; his button up shirt he only used for fancy occasions on top of the pile. 

Virgil’s huddled form was easy to make out, curled away from the door, his only movement being the steady rise and fall of the blanket as he breathed. Figaro lifted his head from where he was settled in the crook of Virgil’s knees and gave Roman an indifferent mrow. 

He couldn’t get into bed with him. There was no scenario where that was the right move. It wasn’t the right time to talk about what had happened, not so late and when they were both riding high on emotions and tiredness, so accidentally waking Virgil was not the way to go. And even if he was sneaky enough to not wake him… a part of him just felt it was wrong. Not when he didn’t know Virgil’s stance on him at the moment.

Or his stance on the relationship.

Well, couch it was. He acknowledged the crumpled weighted blanket and sound blocking headphones- clear aftermath of a bad panic attack- with a quiet curse. Somehow that pit in his stomach got even bigger, making him nauseous as his shame took a physical form. 

He could only pray that they would come back from this. 

Roman’s sleep was fitful, to say the least. At best, he drifted into a state of half-consciousness, where his thoughts could be somewhat quieted down, but the discomfort of the couch and the heavy weight in his heart were still palpable. Inevitably, one of their neighbors would make a noise or the building would make a settling creak or a distant dog would bark, and the state would be broken, leaving Roman wide awake and wracked with guilt once more. He’d never noticed how loud the world was until he wanted nothing more than for the noise to stop. 

The sun was just peaking into the window when their bedroom door widened and Roman flew up, using the back of the couch to steady his sudden sitting position. When their eyes met from across the room, Virgil in his pajamas and face hidden in shadow, a tenseness settled over the room that neither had experienced in their relationship thus far. Virgil froze in the doorway, wavering slightly. It didn’t appear he wanted to be the one to break the silence. 

Roman stood slowly, as though not to spook him.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” Virgil whispered with a sniff, and even in that one word Roman could hear the scratchiness of his voice. “I just...uhm,” He cleared his throat, “I just wanted to get some water. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I was already awake. No… no worries.” 

Virgil looked down to his feet. “When did you come back?”

“I think just before ten.”

“‘Kay.”

For an all too long moment, both of them seemed to find interest in every part of the room that wasn’t the other’s eyes. It wasn’t until Roman looked towards the kitchen in his awkwardness did he process what Virgil had come out for. 

“I’ll, um…” He pointed weakly to the kitchen and finally convinced his feet to move, filling up a glass from the sink while making a conscious effort to not look at the dishes or wasted food from the evening before. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stop the way his gaze drifted towards the box sitting next to the tap, and judging by Virgil’s sharp inhale, the look hadn’t been subtle. 

He took the glass back to the other, watching him take it with an uncomfortable, “Thanks.”

Virgil downed the glass in one go, his shaking hands almost causing him to spill. He barely had time to take a breath before Roman had zipped the empty glass back onto the counter.

“Do you want more?” He asked, already refilling the glass.

“No, I’m… it’s okay.” 

Roman placed the full glass on the counter quietly and the two were swallowed by heavy silence once again. The clock ticked impossibly loud as they stood, fidgeting, wanting this moment to be over but not wanting to be the one to start it. 

Virgil took a shuddering breath and wrung his hands together.

Roman stared resolutely at a single water drop making its way down the glass.

This was his fault. He’d started it. It seemed only right that he break the tension that almost suffocated him, so even as his mind screamed for him to shut up and every muscle in his body turned to liquid, he opened his mouth to speak.

“Virgil, I-”

“I’m sorry.”

That effectively stopped Roman in his tracks. All night, he’d crafted a collection of apologies, from eloquent monologues to stumbling pleas for forgiveness, but in not one of his countless scenarios had Virgil apologized. 

“I know… I know I can be a lot to handle, I know, I swear. And I was more outgoing when we first met, because I thought I had something to prove and it always exhausted me and I hated it but then we became… I don’t know, official? And closer and… and more comfortable and I didn’t think I had to do that anymore, I didn’t have to keep pushing myself so far!”

“V, stop-”

“The panic attacks and the anxiety and all that shit are a lot for other people and I know that but I didn’t know it was too much for you, I didn’t know you were tired of that and I can be better, I swear, I swear I can go back to how I was in the beginning, just please don’t leave.”

Virgil let out a choked sob and Roman couldn’t stop himself from rushing forward, intent on holding his stupid, stupid boyfriend until he realized this was in no way his fault, only for Virgil to back up before he could do so.

“I’m- I’m not trying to guilt you, I’m sorry, I just, I love you, and I can be better, I can, just give me a chance, please-”

“Virgil, baby, come here.”

This time when he reached forward, Virgil allowed himself to be pulled into his boyfriend’s chest, basically collapsing against him as soon as Roman’s arms tightened around him. The dam broke moments later and Virgil finally let go of his own hands to grab the back of Roman’s shirt with a sense of urgency.

“Please don’t leave, I’m so sorry,” he begged raspily into Roman’s shoulder.

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” 

Roman hung onto him almost as tightly in return, rocking them back and forth, finally allowing himself to cry. He shoved his face into Virgil’s hair, peppering small kisses and apologies to the crown of his head in between sobs. 

Virgil whined when Roman finally pulled away, but he didn’t go far, cradling his boyfriend’s face in his hands and wiping his tacky cheeks with his thumbs.

“Virgil, I cannot apologize enough for yesterday.”

“What are-” he hiccuped, “What are you talking about? It was my fault.”

“No, no, no no no no no,” Roman whispered, fighting that damn lump in his throat once more. “I had a spectacularly shitty day, and I took it out on you. I was leagues out of line. It wasn’t fair to you and I’m so, so unbelievably sorry.” 

As if the strings were cut on a marionette, all the tenseness dissolved from Virgil’s shoulders and he slumped forward, bumping his head weakly into Roman’s chest. “Can we sit down?”

“Yeah, of course.” Roman clumsily led him to the couch and sat on the adjacent cushion, assuming that if Virgil wanted to talk, he’d want his own space. His assumption was incorrect, however, judging by how Virgil crossed the space almost instantly and buried himself in Roman’s side like a koala. He shifted them both until he was laying on his back, Virgil splayed across him .

“I thought you’d be more upset with me,” He muttered, freeing his hand to run it through Virgil’s hair. His fingers raked through his own tears trapped in the locks and he grimaced.

“I don’t know what I’m feeling right now,” responded Virgil, accompanied by a shuddering breath, “I just need to know that you’re really here. And I need you.”

They were quiet for a moment, watching the sun begin to peek through their window, until Virgil spoke again sardonically.

“If this is a dream, I’m gonna be so pissed.”

Roman snorted despite himself and felt Virgil’s responding half-laugh from where he was tucked against him.  

“I agree. I thought I’d fucked up for good this time.”

A disgruntled meow made Roman crane his neck over the couch, watching Figaro stretch languidly in their bedroom doorway. The cat sidled over to his food bowl and sat pointedly next to it. Feed me. 

“Later, Figaro,” Roman groaned, all too comfortable with Virgil as his blanket. A small part of him was worried that if he moved them at all, the spell would be broken, and they’d lose whatever peace they’d settled into. 

Well, that wouldn’t do at all, not by Figaro’s standards. The cat gave an upset mewl and trotted over to the couch, leaping up with grace and batting Virgil’s legs. It was that pettish action that made Roman realize that Virgil had turned stone still on his lap. Figaro changed his approach to headbutting at his arm in a clear attempt to get pets, but Virgil’s hand stayed still by their sides. 

“What’s going through your head?” Roman murmured. 

“That stuff you said, about me… not contributing to the relationship…” Virgil croaked, and Roman stilled,  “What can I do to-… to fix that? Because I wanna fix it.”

“Baby, no,” Roman whispered, that shame-nausea returning, “I-” He groaned, dropping his head onto the arm of the couch behind him, “I was being an asshole. I didn’t mean that.”

Virgil didn’t budge, still deliberately ignoring Figaro’s futile begging for attention. “Then where did it come from?”

He took a breath deep enough that Virgil rose and fell with his chest, and Roman was struck with the profound urge to pull him closer and never let him go. But that would likely make him feel trapped, and that wasn’t productive. “You remember when I dragged you to that improv show my students put on last year?”

“You introduced me as your boyfriend and we found out the class had placed bets on whether you were gay or not. I don’t know how it wasn’t obvious.”

Roman gasped in mock offense. “Maybe they just were trying not to stereotype!”

“Your phone case is a rainbow-”

“Anyways!” He interrupted, resuming his gentle threading through Virgil’s hair, who snorted but otherwise gave in to the affection. “Remember what happened after?”

“Mmhm.”

It had been a fantastic show, and Roman had been exceedingly proud of his little students, especially since it was his first time ever teaching a class. After the night, when the betting chaos had settled and everyone quickly adopted Virgil as theirs now, they’d pleaded to play a few more improv games before the theatre closed. Seeing as it was their last class, hence the performance in the first place, Roman had acquiesced. But neither of the men had expected for the gang of pre-teens to latch onto Virgil and beg him to play too, despite him having zero theatre experience. 

“Remember what they said?”

“They tried to pack all your lectures into five minutes of information.”

“I don’t lecture, I dazzle.” 

“They thought you were straight.” 

“Only some, and that’s not the point!”

Virgil finally lifted his head, pulling his hands up so he could lay his chin on top of them. He smiled weakly. “Then what is the point?”

“The most important rule of improv is to keep the scene going. No matter what nonsense you have to pull out, just never leave a scene flat.”

There was a quiet moment while the other processed that before, once again, that layer of hurt reappeared on his face. He pushed himself off Roman’s chest in preparation to get up. “So… you’re saying you saw that argument as another scene you had to keep up.”

“No, shit, that came out wrong,” Roman insisted, and Virgil paused suspiciously, “I’m saying, that in a moment of panic, I fell back on bullshitting my way through it! That’s literally what I do for a living!” 

The distrust gave way to resignment and Virgil chewed on his cheek, turning his attention to the window. He sat all the way up on Roman’s legs, leaning back on his shins. “How do I know you’re not bullshitting me right now?” He said. 

“Because,” Roman followed him up, careful not to move his legs and dislodge his boyfriend, “You know I like when the bed is made, and even though you hate making it, you always do when I’m out of the house before you.”

Virgil looked down at his thumb.

“Because you let me choose the music in the car.”

“... you don’t like loud music,” He muttered, picking at the skin around his cuticle.

“You adjust your work schedule to come to every single one of my shows.”

He shrugged. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Yeah, but you hate working mornings. You let me rant about all my theatre stuff, even if you don’t get any of it.”

“I’m learning.” A faint smile was breaking through.

“You tell me when there’s spinach in my teeth, or my hair is messy, or if I’m acting like an asshole.”

“Well, that’s easy enough.”

Roman reciprocated the smile at that, taking Virgil’s hands in his own to stop the attack at his nail. “I’ve been watching you better yourself for years, even if it’s been really, really hard.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Virgil asked with a small blush, switching his fidgeting tactic to fiddling with Roman’s fingers. 

“Every time you do something that betters yourself, you help us, Virgil.” He leaned forward slowly, giving Virgil the time to move away if he wanted to, and rested their foreheads together. “Yesterday, I fucked up. Badly. You said you were anxious and I still acted like a dick. I kinda thought you’d hate me.”

“I could never hate you,” Virgil whispered, seemingly before he had a chance to process it, because his blush multiplied tenfold. Roman grinned. 

“Aw, is someone feeling sappy?”

“Shut up, jackass,” He retorted, bonking their heads together ever so gently. 

“I’m so sorry, Virgil,” Roman said after their giggles and blushes had faded, “It won’t happen again, I swear.” 

In lieu of answering, Virgil closed the already scant distance between their lips, and despite Roman using all of his self control to not sigh into it, he found himself doing so anyways. All the tension bled out of his shoulders at once as Virgil pulled away, pressing one more peck to the tip of his nose, and then leaning back with a small smile. 

“So… that means we’re good?”

“We’re good.”

“Thank god,” Roman groaned, flopping back and dropping his arm over his eyes dramatically. He heard Virgil’s quiet snicker before he resumed his job as a blanket. Except this time, instead of nuzzling his head into Roman’s neck, he could feel the distinct edge of a chin digging into his sternum.

The hand lifted from his eyes to see Virgil staring at him, that goofy little smirk on his face. 

“What?”

“I love you, idiot.”

Well, now they were wearing matching goofy little smirks. 

“I love you too.” 

That seemed to satiate him, because he gave a little nod and laid his head more comfortably on the other’s chest. He could have left the conversation there, content to just let them lay there in peace until the world fell away- or Figaro grew more insistent on being fed- but Roman just couldn’t banish the one persistent thought in the back of his mind. 

“Were you actually going to propose?” He blurted.

Virgil tensed for a moment, and then gave a resigned sigh. “...Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Roman furrowed his eyebrows, desperately hoping he sounded casual, though his heart was pounding far too loudly to not be heard, “I would have said yes. If you did.”

“Oh?” Virgil lifted his head. “You’re blushing, Princey.” He could hear the smug grin.

“Nooo…” Roman whined. His arm draped once more over his eyes in a weak attempt to hide the redness, but he drew it away only moments later when Virgil didn’t retort. 

The man was staring at him with an odd mix of disappointment and amusement, huffing out a breath as he watched Roman’s eyes.

“This wasn’t how I was planning to propose,” He sighed, “It was supposed to be all perfect, and romantic, and stuff. And the surprise is ruined now.”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Roman, continuing before Virgil could cut him off, “If it’s any consolation, I think a proposal in our pajamas, on the couch, would be very us.”

“You’re not in pajamas.”

“I slept in these clothes, they count as pajamas.”

Virgil snickered. Roman counted five breaths as the other’s face melted from a smile to anxiously knit brows, worrying his lip between his teeth as he looked down at him. It took another three for him to speak.

 “So…uh... will you…?”

Roman’s face split into a grin, “Yes, Virgil. Obviously.” 

Virgil’s expression morphed to match his and he swooped down to kiss him again, though they barely could with how much they were smiling. They both devolved into giggles, happy to just stay wrapped in each other’s arms, until Virgil broke away with a gasp.

“Let me grab the ring!”

“Ring can wait,” Roman argued, tightening his grip around his waist to keep him in place, “I want cuddles.”

And so they did.

Taglist:

@max-is-tired

@private-snippers

@joylessnightsky

@marshymoop

@larkiaquail

@noemiescuriosity

@mycatshuman

@cirishere

@vpow

@ray-does-stuff

@sirprplsnail

[mrs-daddyissues]

considerably

~ C H A P T E R  7 ~

~ Masterlist ~

Pairing: Alfred Pennyworth x OFC

Series Summary: Sarabi Nichols is Bruce Wayne’s life long friend that aids in creating weaponry and making outfits. When she was younger she had a thing for Bruce but now her taste has aged. Considerably. Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce’s guardian and butler is more her style now. Despite this knew found liking, Sarabi feels trapped. She can’t talk to Bruce about it and clearly can’t mention it to Alfred. The only person she has is her best friend, Claudia. Sarabi has to fight the things she feels for the older man because he could never feel the same way back, right?

{Normal} Playlist

{Slowed+Reverb} Playlist

Warnings: Sexual innuendo, swearing

Word Count: 4019

Author’s Note:

In this chapter a classic DC character appears (they won’t be a recurring character, just a little nod). I want to preface this by saying I do not own the rights to that character and have also changed their backstory slightly. There’s also a couple of references to previous Batman films. One other thing, I am returning to work in the next few days and that means that my posting schedule with be much less consistent, sorry. Also apologies this chapter’s a bit long but still, I hope you enjoy!

The process of getting Sarabi and Claudia ready for the gala was both stressful and relaxing at the same time. The whole operation took at least 7 hours and the gala started at 7, so they had 9 hours from the time they got up.

It started with the two girls cleaning Sarabi’s bed from all of Sarabi’s previous experiences. They then had a warm bubble bath each and Claudia instructed Sarabi to scrub every inch of her skin.

The two girls then got dressed in simple clothing and Bruce welcomed in his private spa technicians. The lady was named Frida and she had a sidekick Jonathan that was in training. Claudia planned to get Jonathan’s number before quickly realising he was much more interested in Bruce. Sarabi had to hold in her giggles at Claudia’s disappointed face.

Sarabi and Claudia both got their nails done, Claudia’s a dusty sand colour and Sarabi’s a deep red. They each got every follicle of hair removed from their bodies and then a cleansing facial. 

After the spa part was taken care of, they bid farewell to Frida and Jonathan and had lunch. It was already 1 o’clock and Bruce was busy looking over the final decor for the mansion. 

Sarabi’s mind had been completely distracted from Alfred with everything that had been going on but as soon as she and Claudia stepped foot in the dining room it all came back to her. Alfred wore an apron over his clothes as he dished up their lunches. Sarabi’s heart started beating so fast like a rabbit running from a fox. Claudia noticed her sudden behaviour change and tapped her shoulder.

“Relax girl, I’m right here,” Claudia assured her as the two sat down.

“Thank you, Alfred, this looks amazing,” Claudia’s mouth practically watered at the display in front of her. Claudia rarely got treats like this and she worshipped Alfred’s cooking as much as Sarabi.

“Thanks, Alfred,” Sarabi then dug into her plate of pasta.

“You are more than welcome, ladies. If you need me I’ll be in the ballroom. Master Wayne is being the picky bastard that he is,” Alfred dissed Bruce and Sarabi couldn’t help but laugh.

“Alfred!” Bruce’s voice screamed and Sarabi rolled her eyes. His voice was so whiny and loud. He was clearly stressed because of this gala.

“Master Wayne, I’m coming! Calm the hell down!” Alfred yelled back before turning back the women.

“See what I have to deal with?” Alfred fixed his glasses before rushing off to Bruce.

“Thanks again, Alfred,” Sarabi commented to his retreating form.

“My pleasure,” Alfred turned his head around, bowed slightly and ran off to the ballroom as Bruce continued shouting the house down.

Sarabi gaped after Alfred and kept looking at where he had been just a few seconds before.

“Sarabi!" Claudia waved a hand in front of her zoned out face to get her attention.

“Wow, you must really be in love,” Claudia commented and Sarabi snapped her attention back to her.

“I am not in love. I am infatuated,” Sarabi corrected but couldn’t meet Claudia’s gaze. Sarabi didn’t know if she was in love. 

Whenever she saw Alfred her breath came out heavier and her heartbeat quickened. She also became immediately turned on without him needing to do anything. She had no idea what it was she was feeling but she didn’t think it was just lust now.

“No darling, infatuation is short-lived, this has been going on for way too long to just be an infatuation,” Claudia explained with a shoulder shrug.

“Right now it doesn’t matter. Tonight you’re gonna blow him away and maybe get some, you never know,” Claudia beamed as she spoke and Sarabi’s body filled with hope.

“Who knows?” Sarabi finished up her pasta and the two girls talked for longer than they should have. They only had about 5 hours to get the rest of their looks put together and knowing Claudia, she’d take all the time she could get.

It was a good decision on Claudia’s part to start getting ready at 10 o’clock as makeup and hair, on both of them, took a collective 4 hours. Sarabi still can’t believe she sat there for 2 and a half hours while Claudia fussed over what the hairstylist and makeup artist should do. Claudia ended up having her hair parted on the right and curled lightly. She also placed it on her left shoulder. She looked effortlessly and classically beautiful. Claudia had such a unique and model-like look, it was astounding. Claudia also wore more very simple makeup with some golden shimmer on her eyes.

Sarabi was much less fussy about her look but Claudia made up for it by fussing for her. She said it had to be perfect and nothing short of it. Sarabi opted to have her naturally curly hair but part it the same as Claudia. She also had very light makeup but decided to wear a deep red lip to go with her dress. 

Once their hair and makeup were done, it was time for the outfits to come together. It was 6:30 and Claudia planned for the two of them to be fashionably late. Claudia had this all planned out like it was a spy mission.

“I’m gonna go down first and find Bruce and Alfred. I’ll tell them that you should be down any minute and then there you are. You come down that staircase like you own the joint, which you will,” Claudia further reiterated her point with large hand motions.

“Don’t you wanna walk down together?” Sarabi asked, confused. She thought they’d be much more powerful together.

“No, because how will we know if Alfred is watching? You need him to be watching. Cause once he sees you and your assets, he’ll swoon,” Claudia reassured as she stepped into her dress. Sarabi helped her pull it up and was stunned by Claudia’s effortless beauty. The dress Claudia wore was gorgeous. It was a golden, spaghetti-strapped Jovani gown with a sweetheart neckline. 

“Wow, I look hot but not as hot as you. Let’s get you dressed,” Claudia spun around quickly before picking up Sarabi’s gown.

“Holy shit! You’re gonna look so hot,” Claudia assisted Sarabi in getting the dress on and Claudia’s mouth dropped. Her eyes bugged out and she gasped.

“Sarbi! You look stunning! You look perfect,” Claudia moved aside so she could peer in the mirror and Sarabi didn’t even recognise herself. It was a Lora tight-fitting, multiway red gown that accentuated her silhouette. She sported it with both straps coming straight down over her breasts and there was a small court train behind her. It was made of satin and shone in the light.

“Fuck! I do,” Sarabi marvelled at how extraordinary she looked.

“How are we doing for time?” Sarabi asked as the nerves started building up again. She was anxious to impress Alfred but was also scared about the other men and how they’d drool over her.

“Gala just started,” and just as Claudia answered, a large bout of laughter filled the house.

“There they are,” Sarabi put on her silver diamond high heels and her silver necklace with an eye-catching ruby in the centre. She also put on her matching earrings while Claudia put on her limited accessories. 

The two girls turned and looked at each other. They nodded which was a mutual sign of their readiness to steal the spotlight. 

They waited for a while, just doing small touch-ups here and there.

“It is now 7:14, in about 5 minutes or so I’ll text you to walk down. Good luck, you’ll rock it,” Claudia gave her a large hug before walking down to the party.

Sarabi could feel the nerves gradually build up as she stood there waiting for her text. She hated living to impress a man but this was the only reason she was there. She wanted Alfred to feel the same things she had been feeling for the past weeks. For Alfred, she made an exception. She was going to this gala for one thing and one thing only, to impress a man.

Just then she got a text from Claudia.

They’re ready. I requested this song by the way. Steal the show xx

Sarabi could hear Feeling Good by Michael Bublé start playing and she snickered. Claudia stood by the fact that walking to this song screamed power and Sarabi didn’t disagree.

Sarabi made her way to the staircase and peered around the corner. She could see a clear path from the top of the stairs of Wayne Manor to Claudia, Bruce and Alfred’s spot in the ballroom. 

Sarabi’s breath caught in her throat when her eyes spotted Alfred. He was dressed in a simple black and white suit with a red and black bow tie. Even though it was simple, he made it look like the most sophisticated and classy thing on the planet. 

She breathed out heavily and then harnessed all the sexual feelings she had for Alfred. She used these to fuel her confidence as she made her way to the top of the stairs. She leant into her right hip and looked around the ballroom with her head held high. She noticed the many men and women who turned to look at her. 

Sarabi’s skin glowed under the chandelier and the satin of her dress gleamed with it. She looked ethereal, like a Greek goddess but also dangerous, like a vampire or siren looking to capture the hearts and souls of men. She looked and walked like a seductress. But there was only one man on her mind and she locked eyes with him as she stalked down the stairs slowly, deliberately. 

Every man and woman in the room watched her make her way down the grand staircase. The song, her outfit, everything about her was exquisite, graceful and demanding. She commanded the attention of everybody in the room and those who were facing the other way felt the sudden urge to turn around as well. Each step she took, another head turned in her direction until every person was under her spell. Sarabi loved the power she had and enjoyed how each person was lost for words.

Alfred also couldn’t take his eyes off Sarabi and it seemed like he was caught in a whirlpool, not being able to pull himself out of her grasp. His jaw dropped as she looked at him with the same intensity. Alfred always found Sarabi beautiful, she was easily one of the most attractive women he had ever laid eyes on but tonight she blew all the competition out of the park. She looked powerful, dangerous and dominant. Alfred was hexed by her and trapped in her spell. She was a sweet siren singing a song in the water and he had followed her in and drowned. He had drowned in her beauty and had no complaints whatsoever. She held all the power over him and he let her take up all the room in his mind. 

Alfred felt nervous but excited as she strutted towards him slowly, knowing exactly what she did to him. Sarabi revelled in the power she had other Alfred at this moment. She could see the way he licked his lips and watched her intently with his deeply inquisitive brown eyes. 

“Sarbi, my God you look beautiful,” Bruce commented, handing her a champagne glass. 

“Thanks, Bruce. You look like shit,” Sarabi joked while taking a sip of the champagne.

“Just kidding, you look amazing as always,” Sarabi exaggerated her movements and Bruce scrunched up his nose mockingly. 

Sarabi looked at Alfred and watched his eyes look over her body carefully. He didn’t miss an inch of her, he took in every little bit. Sarabi had her intended effect as Alfred’s tongue tied itself into knots. He didn’t know what to say but when his eyes made their way back to Sarabi’s, she smirked and Alfred blushed lightly. ‘She caught me!’ Alfred thought as he panicked internally. 

“Miss Nichols, you look stunning,” Alfred was hypnotised by her very being and Sarabi smirked brightly but could feel her mouth go dry at his compliment.

“Thank you, Alfred. You look good yourself,” Sarabi commented, snatching all the breath from his lungs. Alfred nodded quickly before downing the rest of his drink.

“Thank you, Miss Nichols,” he croaked out quickly before grabbing another glass of champagne.

“Sarbi, you have taken the words from my mouth. Sarabi, the light of my life, fire of my loins,” Claudia quoted as Sarabi chuckled.

“Claudia, what the hell are you even saying?” Sarabi looked at Claudia but kept an eye on Alfred. He was still transfixed and trying to gain his urbane, charming persona again.

“It’s from the book I’m reading but you look hot as hell,” Claudia gave her the flattering remark as she also finished her drink. 

“Thanks, Claudia, you have set fire to my loins as well,” Sarabi laughed with Claudia at her misquote.

“I think you’ve set fire to a certain somebody’s loins,” Claudia observed as she whispered to Sarabi.

“Shut up,” Sarabi blushed at the thought of Alfred being turned on by her but she knew it had to be true. Nobody acts like Alfred just did if they weren’t turned on to some extent. 

“Ma’am, would you care to dance with me?” A man asked from behind Sarabi. She turned around and nearly choked on her champagne. It was some old, balding man with a beer gut. He wore a simple suit and reeked of way too much cologne. He wore even more than Bruce.

Sarabi looked back at Claudia for help. She had been at the gala for less than 5 minutes and the men in the building were already asking her to dance. Claudia gestured with her head and gave a small thumbs up. Sarabi cringed but turned back to the man with a smile. She looked Alfred’s way and noticed the way his jaw clenched.

“Of course,” Sarabi took his hand as he led her out to the dance floor.

While they danced he asked a million questions. He asked how old she was, what she did for a living, how she knew Bruce and so forth. He was the most boring man on the planet but Sarabi didn’t want to piss him off.

“Do you mind if I step in?” A younger man around Sarabi’s age questioned and the older man pulled Sarabi closer to him. This man was tall and skinny with pale skin. He wore a green suit with black gloves and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. From the suit alone Sarabi could tell he was eccentric and would fit right with Claudia. He wasn’t bad looking, just not her type.

“Can’t you see we’re busy,” the older man stated and Sarabi pursed her lips in annoyance. This younger man noticed that and put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“I think it’s time for the lady to move on,” the younger man was persistent and grabbed Sarabi’s waist and pulled her away.

“Fine, you can have her anyways,” the older man walked off defeated and Sarabi started dancing with the young man.

“Edward Nygma, and you are?” Edward asked with a kind smile.

“Sarabi Nichols, nice to meet you,” Sarabi thought the man was cute but her eyes were set on another man.

They danced around the floor and Edward kept his hand chastely on her waist, unlike the old man who tried countless times to move it lower. He seemed gentlemanly enough but something about those dark eyes said otherwise.

“You definitely know how to catch people’s attention, don’t you Sarabi?” Edward queried as Sarabi caught sight of Alfred. He looked mad in every way. His jaw was still clenched and he grasped his champagne glass so hard in his hand it might smash. ‘He’s jealous,’ Sarabi celebrated in her head as Alfred kept a stern eye on her and Edward.

“I clearly caught yours,” Sarabi commented quickly and Edward smirked at the snark response.

“I actually wanted to ask about your friend there in the gold dress,” Edward moved his head to the side and Sarabi smiled knowingly. 

“Ah yes, Claudia Flynn her name is, I think she’d like you too,” Sarabi was glad to set up Edward with her bestie but she wanted something from him too.

“Do you think you could introduce me?” Edward looked Claudia’s way and Sarabi watched his eyes glinted with lust.

“Most certainly but I need you to do something for me first,” Sarabi smiled as Claudia looked bored out of her mind.

“Within reason, what is it, Sarabi?” Edward was a much better dancer than the older man from before. He had at least some rhythm that Sarabi could easily keep up with. 

“There is a man in here I have my eyes on and I want you to help me-”

“Make him jealous? Easy,” Edward finished her sentence and Sarabi nodded.

“Are we in his eye-line?” Edward inquired and Sarabi gave him another nod.

“Move your hand lower,” Sarabi demanded and Edward complied, moving his hand close to her butt. Sarabi glanced at Alfred and if he were a cartoon steam would be blowing from his ears. Sarabi loved having the switch flipped for the night where he was the one having trouble controlling his feelings. 

“Move closer to me,” Sarabi pulled him in until their bodies were practically rubbing against each other. To an onlooker, they looked like they were having a very sensual moment and Alfred was one of them.

They danced like this for a while until Sarabi took it a step further by locking eyes with Alfred. While she looked in his eyes, she whispered something in Edward’s ear.

“It’s working, thank you,” Sarabi made it look much more sybaritic than it actually was, brushing her blood-red lips against his ear.

“No problem as long as I get to meet, Claudia,” Edward whispered back and Sarabi gave a light giggle.

“I’m guessing that was for him?” Edward asked, slightly confused.

“Yeah, I’m gonna pretend you’re saying something really funny,” Sarabi started laughing uproariously while a man started talking to Alfred. 

She watched gleefully as Alfred tried to keep his attention on the man he was talking to. Sarabi’s orbs locked with his and she let them do all the talking. She hoped that Alfred would get what she was trying to get across and from his loss of exasperation and now just desire, she was pretty sure he did. She looked away before she got trapped in their beauty.

“It worked, let me introduce you,” Sarabi grabbed his hand and led him over to Claudia who’s eyes bugged out.

“Claudia Flynn meet Edward Nygma, Edward meet Claudia,” Sarabi introduced the two and gave a wink to Claudia.

“I’ll let you guys get acquainted,” Sarabi added cheekily before letting them talk to each other.

Sarabi stepped away with a large grin. She hoped Claudia had some fun tonight. Sarabi then felt a light tap on her shoulder. She turned around to find Alfred standing there with his calm and collected charisma back. 

“Would you care to dance, Miss Nichols?” Alfred held his hand out for her and she took it gratefully.

“It would be my pleasure, Alfred,” Sarabi let Alfred lead her onto the dance floor. He pulled her in so quickly it stole the breath from her lungs. Their chests touched as Alfred placed his right hand dangerously low on her hip and held her right hand out to the side. Sarabi wrapped her left hand around his shoulder as they waltzed to the beautiful melody playing from the band. 

“You seemed mad before, Alfred, do you not like Mr Nygma?” Sarabi asked with the right amount of sarcasm to tease him.

“No I do not like Mr Nygma, he is not a good person. I don’t think he’d be very good for you,” Alfred responded staring directly into her eyes. The eye contact made Sarabi’s insides churn with desire. This desire directly manifested itself in her eyes for Alfred, and only Alfred, to see.

“And how do you know which boys are good for me?” Sarabi held the bait over his head hoping he would jump and take it. It was fun to tease Alfred and she wanted to see him crack.

“I know a lot of things, Miss Nichols, I am incredibly experienced,” Alfred whispered down into her ear, his breath trailing goosebumps down her neck.

“Is that so? Well, what was wrong with that handsome Edward Nygma boy?” Sarabi interrogated, hoping that Alfred would whisk her away to her bedroom and ruin her. The thought of Alfred defiling her as he did in her dreams made her core pulse with need. She was trying to regain control but was slowly being pulled towards Alfred’s magnetic force field.

“He used to work for Gotham P.D. as a forensic scientist before he got fired for hiding evidence. He served a small sentence and now is some sort of scientist. He’s suspicious and untrustworthy,” Alfred elucidated as he whisked her around the dance floor. 

“Well I thought he was quite charming,” Sarabi lied through her teeth. Edward was nice but not that charming, she just wanted to push Alfred’s buttons.

“Well you seemed a bit distracted and it wasn’t by his charm, was it?” Alfred spun Sarabi out and back into his chest. Sarabi nearly whimpered at the control Alfred was exerting over her but she kept it under wraps. His manhandling was exciting her more than she expected.

Just as she thought her body couldn’t heat up anymore, the music changed to a Latin beat.

“The tango, my favourite kind of dance,” Sarabi added with a hint of sultry before wrapping her leg around his and bending her back. She swung around until she came back up to meet his eyes, fired up with passion.

“I quite like tango as well, Miss Nichols, do you know how to do it properly?” Alfred squeezed her hip tighter as he moved them faster around the dance floor.

“I have taken some classes, though I heard it’s pretty hard, I didn’t do too badly,” Sarabi answered while Alfred spun her around with the expertise of a professional dancer.

“Have you done this before, Alfred?” Sarabi inquired curiously. She never took Alfred as the dancing type but by the way he moved, he must have some sort of background.

“Oh many times, Miss Nichols but I do have to admit I’m a bit rusty,” Alfred confessed while dancing so well that the other dancers started taking notice.

Alfred and Sarabi continued the sensual dancing they were doing. Their bodies moved with the perfect fluidity like they had done it many times before. Their bodies moulded together on the dance floor like they were made for each other. The dance was making Sarabi feel elated beyond compare. She was finally having a passionate moment with Alfred, even if they were just dancing. 

The music came to a stop, disappointing both Sarabi and Alfred. They both wanted this moment to last forever, having never shared something so hedonistic and lascivious. Alfred, being the gentleman he was, grabbed her hand and led her away from the crowd of men waiting to ask her to dance.

“Not too hard is it?” Alfred teased as he handed a champagne glass to Sarabi with a sly smirk. She took a sip and slowly and seductively wiped her lips clean. She watched as Alfred’s eyes flickered to her lips and a surge of yearning filled them. Sarabi knew what her next play was so she looked down to his crotch and slowly back to his eyes, making sure he saw her look. She moved closer and placed her lips next to his ear.

“Semi-hard I’d say,” Sarabi teased back with a lecherous wink before walking away, adding an extra sway to her hips. Which left Alfred in a puddle of confusion, frustration and lust.

<<CHAPTER 6<<  ~ ~ ~  >>CHAPTER 8>>

[justkeeptrekkin]

A gift to all my followers!

This is something I whacked out a couple of weeks ago- just a thank you to all my followers who’ve stuck around, or who have just found me within the Good Omens fandom! It means the world to see you guys enjoy my fics. This is my gift to you guys, now that 2019 is coming to a close!

Enjoy! x

***

It’s hard to keep track of time when they're together on a good day. It’s even harder on the best of days. 

The Ritz is busy. The lunch table is inappropriately large for just the two of them. They’re sat right next to each other. Champagne is bitter-sweet on Crowley’s tongue and he could watch Aziraphale for hours, listen to him talking for hours. He measures the way Aziraphale leans towards him with a hand stretched across the table, sharing a story. Eyes bright, typically taut posture unusually relaxed. Entire aura relaxed. The feeling in his own chest, relaxed.

And so it’s harder than usual to keep track of the time. People leave after tea; people arrive for dinner; people leave after dinner. The waiters stare at them from the kitchen doors, waiting for them to ask for the bill, which they don’t. Crowley barely has it in him to glare at them. 

Their knees touch for almost the entire time. 

For Crowley and Aziraphale, time has only ever been a construct. However, it has also, always, been bound by celestial responsibilities. Now, they have no such responsibilities. And they are no longer being watched. 

The sky is darkening just a little when they finally leave. Green Park remains busy at-

Crowley checks the time on his phone.

-Greek Park remains busy at five thirty on a Tuesday night. People line up at the bus stop, heading home from work. Tourist stands filled with union jacks litter the streets outside the park. The colonnade of The Ritz shelters them from a light bit of drizzle. 

Crowley slides his hands into his negligible pockets and considers what comes next. Dining at The Ritz has always comes with a time limit, and somewhere to go immediately afterwards. Some sort of agenda. He doesn’t know what that is now. 

He looks over at Aziraphale, who hovers. Hovers and fiddles with his hands. Gaze flitting about as if he’s nervous, smile flickering on and off as if he doesn’t want Crowley to notice. He makes a feeble attempt at smiling again and gestures to the rain with a small nod. “Lovely weather we’re having, eh?” he says. It’s followed by a shaky half-laugh. 

Crowley frowns at him, the bottom half of his face forming a smile. He feels as if he’s watching the Angel of the Eastern gate, introducing himself at Eden. And something about the sudden awkwardness fills him with intrigue- more than that, anticipation. 

He leans back against a column, hands in pockets, and surveys Aziraphale’s anxious flapping.

“Well, go on, then,” Crowley prompts. “Something’s on your mind.”

“Not on my mind, per se,” Aziraphale concedes. His eyes darting up to the roof of the colonnade, to Heaven- a habit that may take some time to kick. “An idea of sorts.” “You’ve intrigued me,” Crowley drawls. 

“Nothing exciting. Only.” 

The look Aziraphale gives him in the brief moment of hesitation is heart-breaking. It’s filled with hope, and a healthy dollop of apprehension, too. As if Crowley would ever deny him anything. Crowley has experienced these moments of heart-shattering, heart-squashing, heart-pummelling love many times before, and he very much hopes that he’s done an alright job of concealing it from his expression.

He raises his eyebrows at Aziraphale and waits. 

Aziraphale sighs, looking uncomfortable and apparently having no intention of expanding. He expects Crowley to make the move. Unsurprising.

“I could…” Crowley starts. Aziraphale looks at him in hope again. Christ on a bike I’m a pushover, he thinks. “I could. Invite you round to mine for a drink. If… you were thus inclined.” A great beaming smile. “Oh, you took the words right out of my mouth.” Crowley huffs an almost-laugh. They look at each other. And they both let the weight of that sink in. Slowly, like the rain that’s currently seeping into the stone pavement beyond the Ritz’s colonnade. 

“Right,” he announces quickly, before thoughts can escalate any further. “Off we go, then?”

“Yes, just so. Tip top.”

Crowley conjures an umbrella. It’s not as if anyone would have noticed, he tells himself, though he sees the doorman at the Ritz recoil a little in shock. They share its shelter until Aziraphale miraculously hails a cab. 

***

“Best idea you’ve had all week, angel- and that includes the body swapping nonsense.”

Aziraphale is sat on Crowley’s sofa. He has been handed a glass of wine. He holds it between cupped hands like he plans to take communion. His legs are hidden behind a tartan blanket. (Crowley will never admit that he conjured such a thing long, long ago, just in case something like this might happen. Something like Aziraphale staying for a movie night, or even, staying for the night. It had always seemed so unlikely. In fact, the moment he’d created said blanket, Crowley had been so infuriated by his blind hope of ‘having Aziraphale round’ that he’d burned it. 

He’d restored the ashes to its original, tartaned form just a couple of hours later.)

“It seemed like the next logical thing,” Aziraphale explains pensively, brows raised and peering down into his Malbec. “If I had a ‘to do’ list, this is what I would put on it. I haven’t sat down and watched a movie all the way through in such a long time.” This may well be true, Crowley considers, as he rifles through his DVD collection, knees against polished concrete and painted nails tapping the spine of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Meanwhile, he’s simply marvelling at the fact that they’ve never sat down and watched a movie all the way through together, the two of them, ever. They’d always had more important things to be getting on with, like saving the world or performing miracles or negotiating the terms of their Agreement. And now. Now they can-

Now they can what?

He looks back over his shoulder at Aziraphale. Aziraphale is looking at him. The angel’s gaze flicks away instantly, staring back down into his wine. It hurts something in his chest. A nice kind of hurt, like a dash too much wasabi. 

Crowley takes a moment to recover from this. Then- “You. You still haven’t given me any clues. What you in the mood for, angel?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen for the briefest moment as if he’s alarmed by this question, for whatever reason. Then he frowns to himself, purses his lips in thought. Casts his eyes around the room, for inspiration. “Something…” “If you say nice,” Crowley warns, knees hurting a little on the hard floor. 

“I wasn’t going to,” Aziraphale retorts. He pauses. He adds, more quietly, “I was going to say fun.”

Crowley groans. Turns to the DVD cabinet.

“I don’t do fun,” he says slowly, emphatically. 

“Alright, well. Something at least a bit light-hearted. I think saving the world rather calls for it, don’t you?” Crowley tilts his head from side to side in consideration. “It’s a fair point,” he concedes to himself more than Aziraphale. Pouts. “Don’t want to bring the mood down. Not sure I’d want to…”

The reason he doesn’t finish his sentence is because he’s just been, unfortunately, reacquainted with the more mushy end of his DVD collection. He’d forgotten that he has several Audrey Heburn films, as well as a couple of Julia Roberts classics. He glares at them. Hidden amongst the arthouse silent movies, they’re betraying just how soft he is. And Aziraphale’s watching.

The DVD boxes quiver under his stare. 

“How about we start with discussing what you have,” Aziraphale tries, reasonably. “Since we can’t reach a consensus. We don’t even have to watch a DVD if you don’t want-”

“Netflix,” Crowley remembers, standing up abruptly and immediately closing the cabinet. Then, “Netflix! That’s a thing. That’s a thing that we can do.” “Oh yes- I’ve heard of that,” Aziraphale says chirpily. 

“Oh, yes, well done, angel.”

Aziraphale glares. 

And so the Netflix loading screen bongs into life, Crowley collapsing onto the sofa beside Aziraphale. The red wine is jostled; Aziraphale tuts. Crowley props his heels on the coffee table. 

“Do you mind. I almost spilled Malbec on my shirt.” “Lots more choices now,” Crowley ignores him and begins flicking through. “Look, it’s all organised nicely in rows of genre. Love how tidy this is, look. And the search function is so much easier. Have you tried the search function on Amazon Prime, lately? Nightmare.” “I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale replies lightly, spinning the wine in his glass like a whirlpool.

“Look, ‘s’got a whole section called ‘light-hearted movies’.” 

“Very helpful.”

They flick through the row. They go through all of them without choosing, and end up at the beginning of the loop again. Crowley growls and hangs his head off the back of the sofa.

“Oh, pass it here,” Aziraphale sighs, putting down his wine with a decisive clink and picking up the remote. He holds it with one hand and presses the directional buttons with his other hand, as if it’s far more complicated and delicate a process than it actually is. Like an octogenarian trying to use an iPhone.  

“How about this lovely looking Christmas film.“

"N- no. Anything but that. It’s October. And more importantly, no.”

“It looks ever so sweet, though. How lovely and romantic-”

“We are not watching The Christmas fucking-well Prince.”

He’d had a hand in inspiring that, and he’s too embarrassed to admit it even to himself. His evil deeds really are shit. 

“No need to snap,” Aziraphale mutters.  

“If you’re determined to watch something romantic and seasonal, I will accept The Holiday. If I must. Jack Black makes it bearable.”

Aziraphale lets the screen rest on the thumbnail of the movie. Then, quite thoughtfully, he says: “I like Kate Winslet. She seems like a nice woman.”

“Mm. Yeah, that’s. OK. I’m sure she is, angel.”

In all honesty, the idea of watching a rom-com with Aziraphale is border-line torture. It’s not quite as bad as waterboarding, but it’s close. More on the same level as those nightmares you get where you have to do a maths exam in your underwear, on stage, and all of your exes and crushes point and laugh at you. Not only are rom-coms pretty hit and miss- some influenced by Heaven, some by Hell, you never know what you’re going to get- they’re also a fantastic way of making Crowley feel incredibly exposed. Incredibly hot in the face from second-hand embarrassment. Incredibly aware that he’s meant to be sneering and heckling, when he’s just trying to concentrate on holding himself together. Stop the feelings from spurting out of his heart like water in a dam: feelings that he thinks are, embarrassingly, rather a lot like longing.

And yet, because it is Crowley, and this is what Crowley does, he lets Aziraphale select the movie and they watch The Holiday. They remark on the general cheesiness, the (at times) witty dialogue. The staggering amount of disbelief that has to be suspended for the plot to work. How nice Jude Law looks in glasses. 

Crowley’s only sort of watching. He’s concentrating on Aziraphale. Not outright staring at him (although he does often do that, it’s a wonder he hasn’t noticed and told Crowley to sod off). Rather, letting his brain tick over the knowledge that he is right beside him. Too much of his daft, devil mind is unable to ignore the fact that Aziraphale is there. 

Sometimes, it sends unhelpful thoughts his way. Like, you could touch his hand. Or, imagine feeding him popcorn- wouldn’t that be interesting. Or simply, there he is. He’s here. He’s with you. He’s chosen this. 

About half-way through the film, Aziraphale starts with those sad sighing sounds, making woebegone eyes at the television- which tells Crowley that he’s getting peckish but doesn’t want to bother Crowley with it. So, Crowley casually announces that he’s heard there’s a good new Chinese restaurant around the corner, and Aziraphale brightens up again immediately. And they have to pause the film to choose what to eat, because Crowley reckons he might actually order something for himself this time, and Aziraphale ums and ahs about these things for hours anyway. And once they’ve ordered- over the app, thank God for avoiding human interaction- the food arrives, quite miraculously, three minutes later. 

And once the food is gone, the film is almost finished. And Netflix seems to have decided what they should watch next, because it puts on the first episode of The Crown without asking them. Which they watch, although Crowley’s not really watching. And Aziraphale is complaining about the inaccuracies. 

And at some point they end up sitting very close.

No. That makes it sound as if Crowley has no idea how they ended up that close. He knows exactly when this happened, because he hasn’t taken a breath since. 

It happened like this.

They’re halfway through the first episode of The Crown, and Aziraphale has returned from the kitchen with a new bottle of red- a Pinot, this time- and he pours for both him and Crowley. Aziraphale has been sat on his own side of the sofa, and Crowley has been on his, draping his arms and legs wherever he sees fit. Now, as Aziraphale resettles on the sofa, he sits right beside him. The way Crowley is angled, his legs dangling off the arm of the sofa, means that he’s leaning in Aziraphale’s direction. Very obviously. 

So he’s using all his (very little) core strength to keep himself sitting upright enough not to fall into his lap. Even if it would be very nice to let his head rest on Aziraphale’s lap. And even if he’d really like to relax a little bit and lean his shoulder against Aziraphale’s. 

And for Heaven’s sake, it shouldn’t be an issue for a couple of six thousand year old beings to sit side-by-side on a sofa, and yet, here’s Crowley, having a crisis about it. It’s not as if he thought twice about pinning him against a wall. 

Although he probably should have. That was a lot.

His eyes follow the way Aziraphale’s legs stretch in front of him, crossed over at the ankles. A little slouched on the sofa, shoes off. It’s about as relaxed as Crowley’s ever seen him. 

“Why do you think they decided to make this TV series now, when the Queen is still alive,” Aziraphale remarks. It almost makes Crowley jump a little, so deep in thought that he’d forgotten time hadn’t stopped entirely.

“Whassat?” “Well, why do you think they’ve made the series now? It seems a bit-”

“Right,” Crowley says brain finally processing the question. “No- dunno, angel.” They both go quiet. Crowley’s hand grips the back of the sofa. The fear that he’s going to slip and lean against Aziraphale is too real. As nice as it would be-

Perfect. Miraculous. Wonderfully human. 

-It would also be mortifying. 

He can hear Aziraphale’s breathing. Slow. Precise and even, like he’s measuring out ingredients for a recipe. It makes Crowley’s mouth go dry with painful self-awareness.

“Do you remember,” Aziraphale starts quietly, “when you and I bumped into each other in Camden Town?” He takes a few seconds to pretend to think about this. “Yeah, ‘f course. Nineteen seventy-seven. What made you think of that?” Aziraphale shifts a little, looking at Crowley. Crowley doesn’t look back, watches the screen. If he turns towards Aziraphale, they’ll be-

“You were wearing that awful t-shirt.” That makes him laugh. A tipping-the-head-back laugh. “Oh yeah- my God Save the Queen t-shirt. Sex Pistols. Yeah, those were the days. Don’t knock ‘em, they were a good band.” “I’m sure they were.” “Don’t use that voice, they were. Anarchic music at its finest.” “I believe you, but bebop is still a little too baffling for me, I’m afraid.”

Crowley doesn’t expect it. He doesn’t know where it comes from- he thought he knew himself quite well at this point, but apparently not well enough. He feels something take over from out of nowhere. Rather, feels something erase everything else- a whiteboard rubber cleaning all the bullshit away. 

And now he’s turned to Aziraphale without the babbling voice of anxiety in his head. 

“It’s punk music, not bebop. And. I reckon you’d like it.” His voice is a murmur and his eyes are looking at Aziraphale’s lips. Thank Christ for sunglasses. 

When he looks back up and meets Aziraphale’s gaze, he’s watching Crowley. Looking for something. 

He feels his lips part, hears himself take a breath through his mouth. 

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale asks weakly. A small quirk in one eyebrow. 

“Y-” Fucking Hell. His throat’s all dry and he’s forgotten what words are. And now Aziraphale is definitely looking at his mouth. Fuck fuck fuck fu- “Yeah. You’re a rebel now, after all. Sort of. Breaking all those rules.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies in a whisper. Then, regaining his voice, “I suppose that’s true.”

“S- uh- mm- w- some of the songs, anyway, not all of them. You’d uh- h- some of them are a bit explicit than others and you’d probably not. Not get on with those ones.”

“Crowley…?” That’s all it takes. Thousands of years of keeping his feelings to himself and taking it slow, and all it takes is that little inflection in Aziraphale’s hushed voice. That hesitant request, draped over the sound of his name. Crowley leans in and presses his lips gently against Aziraphale’s. 

There’s that horrible moment when it stops, and everything else seems to stop, too. The what next? hangs in the air and Aziraphale stutters a shaky breath against Crowley’s skin. 

“Too fast?” is what Crowley ends up asking. Just to break the pause. 

And then the most dazzling, drunken smile spreads across Aziraphale’s face. Brows knit together. An expression that looks a lot like “To the world.” 

“No,” he half laughs, shaking his head infinitesimally. “For once, no. We… we saved the world, I rather think we deserve this.”

Something in Crowley relaxes, unhinges, collapses. It lets all the feelings free and they flood him till he swears he almost goes blind. And that is how they both end up falling asleep on the sofa, still wearing the days’ clothes and kicking off a tartaned blanket. Wrapped up in each other- starting this new era as they mean to continue.

***

Crowley wakes up and finds his head on Aziraphale’s chest. He’s splayed on top of him, arm hanging off the edge of the sofa. He feels Aziraphale’s hand, warm between his shoulder blades. 

“What would you like to do today?” Aziraphale asks with a smile in his voice. 

That is how it starts. They think of the things they were too scared to do together, the things that they never found the time to do together, the things they always liked to do together. 

They go for a walk through Hampstead Heath, just as the weather’s beginning to turn- their breathes steaming in front of their faces as they walk. They haven’t been here since 1815. They both try to avoid the muddy parts and fail spectacularly. They make fun of each other for the mess they’ve made of their shoes. They begin by hooking their fingers together, until they’re brave enough to hold hands completely. 

They go home and cook together. It goes disastrously. 

“What are we doing today?” Crowley asks the next morning, when they wake up on Crowley’s sofa again. 

They go to some hipster bar in East London- Tobacco Docks, it’s called. They find that there’s good food, lots of good booze and an ice rink- which Crowley absolutely point-blank refuses to go on until Aziraphale makes that wide-eyed, pleading face. They have a tipsy and very clumsy skate around the rink before returning to their drinks. Crowley’s better at wine than ice rinks. 

“What are we doing today?” Aziraphale asks, when they’ve woken up in Crowley’s bed. His white hair against his white sheets. A new part of the landscape of his room.

They end up doing very little. They read together on the sofa and make tea.  Crowley introduces Aziraphale to the best music ever created- disco, of course. They dance in the living room in bare feet and laugh till they can’t see through the tears. 

“What are we doing today?” Crowley asks the next morning. 

“What are we doing today?” Aziraphale asks the next. 

They’ve saved the world, and that still seems surreal. But there’s waking up on Crowley’s sofa after a movie marathon, too. A dinner date, or a night in. 

And that feels perfectly real. 

[makeste]

top 20 favorite quirks

okay, but listen, though! it’s exactly what it says in the title. not best quirks, or most useful quirks, or most creative quirks. not even coolest quirks! I did try to take all of these things into consideration when choosing, but honestly? by far the most important factor was, “I JUST THINK THEY’RE NEAT.”

anyway but let me backtrack and post the actual ask.

you’ll note that at no point was I asked to pick twenty of them. I did that all on my own. so here is my list!

20. Solid Air (Tsuburaba)

Tsubaraba Kousei. all-time undefeated grand champion of The Floor Is Lava. or at least he was until Ochako came along. anyway, so this is an extremely nifty quirk with all sorts of utility ranging from defense to helping him get around. it’s super useful for catching bad guys, and apparently the only real limit is his lung capacity. this quirk has so much potential and I love it.

19. Copy (Monoma)

the fact that he can copy his opponents’ powers and use them against them is badass enough, but add in the fact that he can hold up to 3 (or 4??) of them at once -- for as long as ten minutes -- and this quirk starts getting seriously powerful. anyway so one thing you might note as you read on is that although Copy is on my favorite quirks list, AFO is not! and that’s because Monoma’s limits actually make the quirk much more interesting to me, because they force him (and Horikoshi) to get creative. this is a really fun quirk and I would love to see more of Monoma in action. about time we saw him fight some actual villains and not just class 1-A, honestly.

18. Brainwashing (Shinsou)

as with Monoma’s quirk, what really sets this apart from other mind-control superpowers (to me, anyway) is the fact that it has limitations. he can’t just control anyone at random; in order to take them over he has to get them to respond to him somehow. which leads to innovations like the voice-changer, and which as a result has made his battles so genuinely interesting and fun to watch. anyway so I really want Shinsou to hurry up and join 2-A, and for them to just give him his provisional license all “here you go, son” with no testing whatsoever, because we’re past the point of pretending the HPSC is actually responsible these days, and because I really want to see if he can help turn the tides the next time the heroes battle the League.

17. Zero Gravity (Ochako)

I feel like it’s worth noting that I don’t really have any kind of fear of heights or falling or anything like that. and so I can’t really explain why Toga using this quirk on Ms. Curious and her lackeys was hands down one of the most singularly disturbing scenes in the entire manga for me! but it was!! even now I’m wincing just thinking about it. she just lifted them all up and DROPPED THEM and they just FELL and DIED. just like that. holy fucking shit. anyway, so we should all be very grateful that Ochako is super kind and sweet and more inclined towards helping people rather than murdering them. because holy shit. anyways though this quirk is dope.

16. Erasure (Aizawa)

I once said that this quirk was “not very cinematic”, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so wrong about anything in my life. oh, past me. you truly underestimated the dramatic impact of someone with a terrifyingly powerful quirk going in for the kill, only to be all “NANI?!” as they suddenly realize that their powers are no longer working, and the camera pans over to a man with gorgeous floating hair and intense red anime eyes. I owe you an apology, Erasure. you are cinematic AF.

15. Black Hole (Thirteen)

I really wish we got to see Thirteen fight more often. they suffer from the same “too powerful” curse as so many of the other characters and it’s a shame. anyway so Black Hole is cool af and gives me a ton of Miroku/kazaana vibes, which I freaking love. this quirk is lowkey on a Tomura-level of destructive potential, honestly, and yet no one ever talks about it?? Thirteen could literally destroy anything they touched if they wanted to?? imagine if they ever Awakened, you guys. holy shit.

14. Tape (Sero)

this power is so fucking stupid and ridiculous and completely absurd and I LOVE IT. Horikoshi really drew a skinny guy with tape elbows and was all, “so this kid is basically Spider-Man but with tape. I have not put the least bit of logical thought or creative effort into this power beyond that, and I’m not going to, either.” and somehow we all just accepted it. anyway, dubious origins aside, it’s such a versatile ability and Sero has such amazing control over it. it’s offense; it’s defense; he can use it to set traps; he can use it for maneuverability. TAPE ELBOWS CAN DO IT ALL.

13. Outburst (Ms. Joke)

when will it finally be her time. Outburst is one of those powers that sounds super dumb at first, until you really stop and think what the ability to make someone laugh at will could actually DO to people. true uncontrollable belly laughter is a totally incapacitating thing. she’d have people collapsing to the ground and practically seizing up. and good luck using your own quirk to fight back when you’re doubled over struggling to breathe and can’t even see straight because of the tears in your eyes. that’s assuming any of her opponents are even capable of thinking straight long enough to try it. like, this is such a straight up brutal ability and the fact that we have still NEVER SEEN IT is honestly infuriating.

12. Glamour (Camie)

it’s an illusion quirk. of course I have to put it on my list. illusion powers make every battle approximately 100x more entertaining. and what makes this particular power even better is that in any other series, this quirk would have been given to some Tokoyami-esque super serious emo kid. but BnHA went and gave it to Karen from Mean Girls instead. what a fucking power move. goddamn.

11. Black (Kuroiro)

according to BnHA Ultra Analysis, Kuroiro’s Appearing Out of Nowhere skills are rated a 4 out of 6. I still haven’t figured out if this is meant to be a burn on him or not. this kid can ninja in and out of literally any dark object in existence. if it’s nighttime, that means he can basically move wherever he wants to at will. of course he’s skilled at Appearing Out of Nowhere. so tell me then, why is it ONLY a four out of six?? how could he possibly fuck this up?? who was grading him?? DOES HE JUST SUCK. I don’t know, but anyway it’s really funny to me and also I really love this quirk.

10. Transform (Toga)

Toga went and Awakened herself right into the top ten with the reveal that not only can she mimic other people’s appearances, but that while she is transformed, she can actually use their quirks. like excuse me, what?? holy shit??? it is honestly driving me crazy that we’ve only seen this in action once. Transform is basically Plot Twist: The Quirk. I really want to see Toga use it to its full potential and infiltrate U.A. and/or spy on the HPSC and/or murder someone with their loved one’s own quirk. I WANT HER TO GIVE SOMEONE THE MAES HUGHES TREATMENT. I want her to do something so shocking that people ragequit the fucking manga lol. I know I’m always saying the manga isn’t that dark, but this is honestly the one exception where I would freaking love for it to get dark as shit. anyway so yeah. if you want to fuck with people you really couldn’t ask for a better quirk.

9. Creation (Momo)

MACGUYVER: THE QUIRK. an unlimited inventory in the hands of someone brilliant enough to actually utilize it to its full extent. what’s not to love? honestly if it were me with this quirk it would be completely useless. not only would I get hopelessly bored two seconds into trying to memorize an object’s molecular structure or whatever, but even if I DID manage to figure out how to make stuff, I would never know what to do with the stuff, or when to use it. every time a new situation cropped up I would just create a bunch of random objects in a panic. but Momo is so elegant in her problem-solving that she often needs to create only one or two things to come up with the perfect solution for something. basically this is a good quirk that becomes a truly great quirk when placed in the hands of the best possible person in the world to wield it. the quirk is awesome because Momo is awesome, and I fucking adore quirks like that (see: next entry).

8. Permeation (Mirio)

ah, Mirio. the original victim of the “too powerful to be allowed” curse. remember that time he BEAT HALF OF CLASS 1-A IN UNDER SIX SECONDS, you guys.  small wonder Horikoshi couldn’t even make it through one complete villain fight with him before he had to de-quirk the poor kid. anyway, so Mirio makes this quirk look so mind-blowingly awesome that it’s easy to forget what a terrifying and fucked-up power it is in reality. “yeah it makes me blind and deaf and if I’m not careful I’ll fall into the center of the earth or splice myself in two or some shit.” what the actual fuck Mirio. but because he’s worked so hard and because Nighteye trained him so well, he’s mastered the timing to such an insane degree that he could kick Overhaul in the face without harming a single hair on Eri’s body. and honestly, there’s no way I could not love a quirk that gave us a moment like that.

7. Warp Gate (Kurogiri)

unlike SOME OTHER PEOPLE whose names start with Kuro, I would bet you that Kurogiri’s Appearing Out of Nowhere skills are a full six out of six! alas, the top ten of this list is chock full of people whose quirks are so badass that they had to be written out of the story one way or another. with Kuro at large there was technically nothing stopping the villains from just dropping in on U.A. one night to kill All Might, or rekidnap Bakugou, or whatever else they might want to do. and that’s actually a really scary thought though lol so it’s no wonder that Horikoshi was all, “yeah I’ll just have them capture him now.” anyways do you guys remember that one time in chapter 18 when Kuro used Warp Gate to create an endless loop of All Might suplexing Noumu suplexing All Might?? fucking quirks, though. wild.

6. Fiber Master (Best Jeanist)

another badass quirk, another badass quirk-user incapacitated and taken out of the story before their time. Best Jeanist is honestly terrifying. if he wanted to he could immobilize and even strangle and kill pretty much anyone in the world, whenever he fucking felt like it. that alone would be crazy enough, but then add to that that this quirk for all intents and purposes is basically telekinesis. as long as someone is wearing clothing he can move them around however he wants, as we saw in Kamino. basically, everything Hawks can do with Fierce Wings, Jeanist can probably do with his own quirk. AND THAT INCLUDES FLYING, YOU GUYS. the more I think about it the more I think we truly were robbed. I need Jeanist to come back already and fly everyone at Jakku to safety and tie Tomura to a chair with his own cape before proceeding to style his hair.

5. Rewind (Eri)

IT’S MY LIST!! I CAN PUT WHATEVER I WANT, AND IF YOU SAY I CAN’T, I’M TELLING MOM. okay but listen. everyone always rags on this quirk and how stupidly powerful it is, and look, I get it. but isn’t it kind of interesting that everyone is also always speculating over who Eri is eventually going to heal with her quirk? like, fandom is always complaining about how broken it is but at the same time they’re out here hatching all of these wild theories that center around it. and to me that indicates that in truth, this is actually an awesome quirk -- just so long as it’s used right. obviously there have to be some major limitations or else this is just “Fix Everything: The Quirk.” thankfully, Horikoshi did limit it! it’s super dangerous, she has trouble controlling it, and most importantly, it’s ridiculously slow to recharge and so she can only use it once every few months. it’s basically Recovery Girl’s quirk with a bonus slow-replenishing stamina bar that, once charged, allows her to release one ultra-powerful SUPER HEAL special move. and that’s pretty awesome. basically I think this quirk gets too much hate and not enough credit for the additional menu options it adds to the story. it’s interesting and compelling and I can’t wait to see what Horikoshi does with it.

4. Dark Shadow (Tokoyami)

TOKOYAMI WHY IS YOUR QUIRK SENTIENT. Existential Crisis: The Quirk. do quirks have souls?? if you shot Tokoyami with a quirk-be-gone bullet would Dark Shadow fucking die??? if Tomura absorbed Tokoyami’s quirk would Dark Shadow grow out of his back and be all “hey um, who the fuck are you”?? and would Toko’s head turn back into a normal human boy head?? would Dark Shadow look like Tomura instead of a bird shadow?? what even IS Dark Shadow, actually?? obviously it is not just a shadow because shadows can’t punch people or shield people from attacks or pick people up and fly them around. but yet he’s afraid of fire and grows weaker in daylight?? is Tokoyami secretly the strongest character in the entire series?? is there any way I can possibly justify putting this quirk all the way down at #4 instead of #1 where it clearly belongs?? let me answer that question by not answering it and moving on.

3. Explosion (Bakugou)

is the fix in?? is “exploding hands” really a better quirk than a fucking sentient monster man who lives in your belly button and reads your mind and is made of ~darkness energy~ and is your best friend? apparently the answer is yes! to both of those questions. yes the fix is in. I love Kacchan and his quirk is fucking awesome okay. it just never ceases to amaze me how this one single quirk, which really only does one thing, is nonetheless so spectacularly powerful that it allows Bakugou to compete on the same level as the fucking protagonist with all of his godlike super-strength and Main Character Powers and wacky SIXQUIRKS!! shenanigans. in my opinion the coolest thing about Explosion isn’t even its firepower; it’s the way Bakugou’s adapted it to fly around and to boost his speed. I think he legit may be the fastest character in the series right now, or close to it. he’s faster than Iida and Gran Torino and Endeavor. he can keep up with Deku without breaking a sweat. and he knows how to use that speed, thanks to his insane reflexes. add in the fact that this is also without a doubt the most cinematic quirk in the entire series, and I think I’m justified in putting it this high up. and anyway I still put two others up above it so shh.

2. Search (Ragdoll/Tomura)

Hey, What’s That Guy’s Deal: The Quirk. I just really love this one you guys. it’s so fucking useful. Video Game HUD: The Quirk. one hundred people at a time?? locations and weak points?? works even when you’re not looking at the person anymore and have blinked your eyes, unlike CERTAIN OTHER PEOPLE’S weak-ass quirks?? check, check, and check. is it any wonder AFO wanted this? plus it just looks so damn cool. the visual representation of everyone as little stars on a map. Turn On Location: The Quirk. okay look I feel like I’m doing a bad job of explaining why I have this quirk all the way up at number two. it just has this subtle badassness to it, and its introduction after almost two hundred chapters of buildup was just so fucking cool. maybe it’s recency bias?? I don’t even know; all I know is that I love this quirk and want to see more of it in action.

1. Blackwhip (Lariat/Deku)

listen, I was obsessed with this quirk back when it was called “Venom” and was by far the absolute coolest part of the 1990s Spider-Man cartoon series. I’m not just going to suddenly not be obsessed with it just because fandom is mad that Horikoshi gave Deku an additional power beyond just Smashing Stuff. Blackwhip is hands down the coolest quirk, guys. I’m sorry, it just is. it has the coolest name. it had the coolest entrance. it does basically anything you could ever want a quirk to do in battle. it grabs stuff. it Bloops. what more do you want. you’re all just jealous because you wish that you could Bloop too. I know I am. I wish I had a Bloop. anyway so yeah, Blackwhip is the upgrade to Deku’s fighting style that we desperately needed after 200+ chapters of Delaware Smashes and Broken Bones. all his fights are cooler now. he can save more people! he can fight without instantly dying! plus you just gotta love powers that occasionally explode out of control if their user gets all emotional and pissed off about the fact that you insulted his boyfriend. so yeah. Blackwhip at number one! on this list of favorite quirks. not best quirks!! jesus christ. please don’t kill me I have a family.

 so that’s my list! all 3000 words of it. how does this keep happening.

[sailorbellewrites]

No Limit

characters— seokjin x reader (ft. members of bts)

summary— you and jungkook don’t even look alike. how was seokjin supposed to know you were off limits?

information— one shot. bakery!au. features less puns than you would think. i am still very new to writing smut, so be kind in that regard. if this gets a lot of love, might be continued in the future.

warnings—adult language; smut; mild violence; awkward situations; super hopeless seokjin.

no limit—

So it starts like this:

Jungkook has been talking about his older sister moving to Seoul for a couple of weeks now and Seokjin doesn’t really believe him because in the 2 years that he’s known the college senior, he’s never mentioned having a sister, just an older brother. The young man only has pictures of his mom hung up in his apartment and all requests to see what the girl looks like have been met with a stern shake of his head. Taehyung has never seen the girl either, says Jungkook doesn’t like to talk about her and he doesn’t know why. He’s heard the girl over the phone though and says she sounds, “cute.” And while Namjoon is certainly right in saying it would be weird for Jungkook to make up having a sister, Seokjin thinks Jungkook is just a weird enough person to do it.

“She’s coming today, hyung,” Jungkook says one Wednesday afternoon, too much energy radiating off of him. He’s dressed much nicer that normal, no holes in his jeans and a long sleeved shirt covering most of his tattoos. He even got a haircut, something he hadn’t had in a while. Jungkook can’t stand still, constantly wiping down the counters and rearranging the cupcakes in the display case. Seokjin gets so sick of his constant movement that he sends him to the kitchen to knead dough. “Okay, but hyung, if she comes in you have to let me know.”

“I don’t know what she looks like.”

He sighs deep, the sound almost morphing into a whine. “She’s probably gonna be wearing something bright or she’ll just ask for me! Seokjin please!”

“Fine, fine. Now get to the back, you’re making everyone uncomfortable. You’re gonna make me go outta business.”

When you walk in wearing a bright red coat, Seokjin doesn’t make the connection. You look around the shop for a bit and Seokjin is stunned because goddamn you’re beautiful. It’s like a movie, the white lights of the shop forming a halo around you and everything slows to a crawl. You make it to the register, eyes widening at the chocolate donut pyramid displayed behind Seokjin and he knows he’s fucked. “Hi,” you say and, yup, Seokjin is super fucked.

“I... Hi-I mean… Welcome to Baking News! How can I bake your day?” And the recovery isn’t as smooth as he would have liked it to be, but you still laugh way too hard at the puns and his heart swells.

“You’re funny,” you state earnestly. “I’m actually not here to buy anything, though. I’m looking for my brother.”

“Your brother?” Seokjin asks dumbfounded, because he would definitely know if anybody worked for him that looked like you.

“Yeah! He’s tall and skinny. Oh and he has really big teeth. He kind of looks like a rabbit when he smiles.” All of the air leaves Seokjin’s lungs because there is no fucking way you are Jeon Jungkook’s sister. You guys look nothing alike—hell, it’s questionable if you're even from Korea, that’s how different you look. But then Jungkook comes scrambling out of the kitchen and over the counter screaming “Noona!” like he’s a character in a goddamn cartoon. And you wrap yourself around him like a python, hugging him so tight that his face turns red. “There’s my bunny boy,” you squeal and Jungkook plants a big sloppy kiss on your cheek and—

“Holy shit, he does have a sister.”

.

.

Okay, so you’re not Jungkook’s real sister. He’s just weirdly obsessed with you and keeps calling you his sister, but you’re not his sister. At least that’s the conclusion Seokjin comes up with because you don’t have the same surname and you don’t look alike and you tell him that you haven’t lived in Korea in over five years. You share that tidbit of information over coffee two weeks after your arrival, pink scarf wrapped gently around your neck in a way that Seokjin deems more flattering than it should be. You share a lot of information with him in the time that you’ve been back, always coming into the bakery to get the first sugary treat you can get your hands on.

“Bunny boy tells me you make the best lattes this side of Seoul,” you tell him one rainy Thursday morning, leaned up against the counter. The bakery is empty except for you two, the usual morning rush having filtered out quickly due to the inclemete weather. Seokjin snorts because you always call Jungkook ‘bunny boy,’ even on days like today when he’s not here and it’s so cute the way the words come out of your mouth. They tumble out so effortlessly, whereas Seokjin can’t go two minutes without stuttering over himself while talking to you. So he just snorts because it’s easier to make sounds than it is to form words when you’re staring up at him like he’s the most interesting man in the world. “Is it true, Jinnie?”

“Jinnie?” He asks incredulously, because you’ve never called him anything other than Seokjin.

“Cute name for a cute boy,” you say with a shrug, as if it’s obvious. It’s not 

His mouth is moving before he can stop it. “Cute? You think I’m cute? Just cute?”

“Yeah, why?” You chirp out with a sly smirk. Seokjin’s heart stops—but his mouth does not.

“I’ll have you know, I’m not just cute. I’m handsome. In fact, I’m one of the most handsome men in the world. Have you ever seen a face more handsome than mine? More beautiful than mine? I know you lived abroad for a while and have seen a lot of attractive men walking around, but I promise you that this face right here is better. This face should be on billboards all over the world.” This isn’t the first time that Seokjin’s gone off on this tangent, of course. Everyone has heard it before, taking the comedy bravado for what it is and laughing him off. But when he says it to you, it feels like he’s marketing himself. He doesn’t want you to laugh him off. He wants you to believe him.

Your head lolls to the side as he speaks, as though you are fully taking his words into consideration, and when he finishes, you grin. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, Mr. Worldwide Handsome, do you really make the best lattes?” And Seokjin’s heart starts to constrict because even though your tone is teasing, your eyes are so sincere. He nods. You laugh. He’s fucked.

But he’s even more fucked because he can’t act on his attraction. Jungkook is scarily protective of you. He always seems to know where you are and who you’re with. He glares at any guy who looks at you for more than 10 seconds and shoves his hoodies over you if you’re showing too much skin. You mention downloading Tinder one Wednesday evening and the younger man nearly passes out. However, everyone’s accusations of him having a crush on you were met with immediate disgust because you’re his “sister.” In fact, he claimed on multiple occasions that you were the most despicable human being he’s ever met. “I pray that whoever I end up with is the exact opposite of my sister,” he mumbled one Sunday afternoon, frosting cupcakes in the kitchen. “She’s so fucking annoying. She doesn’t listen to anyone, no matter what they say. I don’t see how anyone could be attracted to her.”

“Ah, I don’t know man, I think she’s pretty cute.” Taehyung responded in jest, setting the completed cupcakes on a display pan.

“Stay the hell away from my sister you creep.” Jungkook all but growled out.

“Wow, the baby sounds serious,” Seokjin stated incredulously. “I didn’t know you could care about anyone other than yourself.”

“Shut up,” Jungkook replied, slightly embarrassed at being called out yet again for his so called selfish behavior. “She may be the worst woman I know, but she’s still my sister. I gotta make sure she’s well taken care of.”

“And you think I won’t do that?” Taehyung asked with faux shock. “I’m hurt.”

“Not a single one of you are good enough for my sister. She needs a doctor or a lawyer or someone super rich who can take care of her so she never has to work again. You guys all suck.” He stands up straight to admire his work before stating, with a frightening amount of cool, “If any of you guys tried it with her, I would kill you with my bare hands.”

So Seokjin tries his best to stay away from you. He attempts to keep his banter light, lessen his affection. He hopes to himself that you lose interest in the bakery, in the coffee, in him, but it’s difficult. You’re so easy to talk to. You think he’s funny, cracking up at all of his puns to the point of tears. When he winks at you, you smile so wide that he thinks your face might break. He falls harder for you every day.

It’s you that makes the first move though. It’s a balmy Friday night when you stalk in. Thirty minutes before closing, the bakery is empty except for two struggling rappers who loaded up on the discounted pastries that would otherwise get thrown away. You’re dressed up more than he’s ever seen you before, so much so that you look out of place standing next to the pastel pink sign touting the new peanut butter tira-miss-yous in your purple dress. “Well if it isn’t my favorite customer. What are you doing here so late at night?” Seokjin asks as you continue towards the counter.

“Bad date.” You mutter, before surprising Seokjin by pulling yourself up on top of the counter.

“Hey, who said you could sit up here? Didn’t anyone raise you with respect? That’s filthy! My sweets go up here.”

“I’m sweeter,” You quip and Seokjin chokes. You shift your body to face him a bit more. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Y-you—you can’t—Jungkook was right, you are disgusting.” He manages to stutter out, mind reeling at the thought of how sweet you actually were. “I have to clean that now. Get down.”

You ignore his request. “A pretty girl throws herself on a table in front of you talking about how sweet she is and you’re worried about cleanliness? Taehyung was right, you really are hopeless.”

He blanches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You sigh, unmoving. “So bunny boy sets me up on this date right? He says it’s with one of his good friends who really inspires him. Someone that has helped him out a lot. I get excited because I think that it’s you. I mean, you literally gave him a job. How much more help can he get from one person? So I get all dressed up and ready to go only to have someone else show up at my door. And don’t get me wrong, the guy was attractive but he wasn’t you. He didn’t even make a single pun the entire time when there were plenty of opportunities to do so. He was so boring, Jinnie. Like, what do business lawyers really do anyways? The guy told me he hoped I had a good time, but I didn’t. So I decided to come here looking for an actual good time.”

“I… what?” Seokjin asks, unable to accept what you were implying.

“Oh my god, hyung, she likes you!” One of the rappers screams out from his table near the window. “Stop being dense.”

“I’m not—” Seokjin begins to yell back, but you cut him off.

“Jin, would you like to see a movie with me tomorrow night?”

When he looks at you, he sees a hopeful expression. He imagines closing up the bakery early and walking with you to the movie theater. He imagines what kind of snacks you’ll like and wonders if you’ll share them with him. He imagines wrapping his arm around you and how well you’d fit next to him. He imagines pressing his lips against yours in the dark, tongues wrestling against each other as his hands traveled down your body. He gulps. “Uh… yeah. I’d really like that.”

.

.

Seokjin’s not good at being in a relationship. He’s had a lot of toxic relationships in the past, with a lot of cheating and mental stress. He’s spent the last three years filling the void with a lot of meaningless sex. On more than one occasion, former friends with benefits came storming into the bakery to scold him for his lack of commitment. He focused on himself a lot; on getting through culinary school, on perfecting his skills in the oven, on opening his own shop. He tells you as much on the fourth date, hand wrapped tightly around your own as you walk through a flower garden. You listen intently, nodding your head and adding “ohs” and “ahs” when appropriate. Then you sit him on a bench and kiss him hard, tongue dragging against the roof of his mouth before whispering against his lips, “I don’t care. I like you anyway.” 

Seokjin is happy with you. He smiles for no reason during the day, sings louder in the kitchen when frosting cakes, cusses less when the chocolate doesn’t temper or the cookies burn. He feels lighter, knowing that come closing time he can be wrapped up in you. His friends notice too. Namjoon teases him about how much more cheerful he is, while Taehyung and Jungkook pry for more information. He offers them none, much to their chagrin. He wants to keep you to himself, afraid that if the others find out, they’ll ruin it for him. Especially Jungkook—though he thinks about the other man’s disapproval less and less as he spends more and more time with you.

The relationship progresses slowly. You go on a lot of dates, whispering in the back of movie theaters and stealing small kisses on street corners. Seokjin likes to hold your hand. He marvels at the way it fits in his own, how easily you are able to slide your finger through his as you talk about work or travel or a memory from your childhood. Seokjin likes to hear you laugh. You think he’s the funniest person you’ve ever met. He’s gone through a rolodex of puns to try and hear the bubbling sound that spills out of you. You laughed the hardest on the 7th date, plastic gun slipping from your grip at an arcade, when Seokjin tells you he wrote a dessertation on Sweetzerland in culinary school. You hug him tight, face pressed against his chest as you continue to giggle at his words. He thinks you fit well there.

You don’t sleep together until three months in—an eternity for Seokjin. He’s never had to wait that long, but he finds it hard to argue when you whisper, “not tonight,” in his ear. He always agrees, calming himself enough to make it through the rest of the date. He ends up jacking off to thoughts of how you taste in the shower. You’re the biggest tease when it comes to that—your taste. The casualness with which you insist that you are sweeter than any dessert he’s ever made always leaves him drooling. Eating girls out was never his favorite sexual act, but he thinks you’ll change that. 

“You can’t—you can’t just say those sort of things!” He yelled at you once, during your tenth date at a sushi restaurant. The waiter threw him a dirty look, as did a much younger couple seated next to you. He’s always louder than he needs to be, but you’re the only person he’s dated who never complained. Instead, you rolled your eyes at him and swallow your food.

“Why not?”

“We’re in public.”

“I didn’t say anything bad.”

“Don’t lie. Don’t pretend that you’re innocent! I can hear you. I have perfect hearing. Doctor’s everywhere are impressed by it. You can’t get those filthy words past me.” He berated, making you giggle.

You slid your hand over the table to grab his, kissing the back of it gently. He can’t help but blush. “Don’t be silly, Jin. I never said what part of me tastes better than strawberries, just that some part of me does.”

“Which part then?”

“Why? You want to try it for yourself?” He threw his head back with an annoyed groan at your words, making you laugh even louder. The couple shushed you both, yet again, shaking their heads as though you two are the immature ones in that situation.

When it finally does happen, much like the first date, it’s on your terms. You’re sitting in his apartment, legs thrown over his lap as you listen to him complain about a mom who ordered a cake of a whale for her son’s 8th birthday only to show up expecting a Beluga whale and not a Killer whale like Taehyung had decorated. Suddenly you sit up, arms coming out to grab Seokjin’s face as you set a soft kiss on his lips. Then a second. Then a third. With the fourth, you up the intensity by slipping your tongue into his mouth. He shuffles his body slowly between your legs, refusing to let your lips part as he hovers on top of you. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him down as you grind your center directly where his dick sits in his jeans. 

These types of makeout sessions have happened before; often right before you need to catch the train or bus back home. You always pull away after 15 minutes or so; that’s why Seokjin freezes when you whisper against his lips, “Do you wanna taste me?” He can’t formulate words. He’s thought about this moment for weeks now; planned a response for everything you could possibly say, but he’s coming up short. He’s sure he looks crazy, eyes bulging from his head. “Jinnie, say something.”

“A-are you… are you serious?” He manages to stutter out.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t—”

“Oh my god, take off your pants right now,” he yells in excitement, sitting up on his knees. Your laughter rips through the air as he fumbles with the button of your jeans, shaky hands pulling them down your thighs until they get caught at your knees. He huffs in annoyance, lifting your legs himself to get the now offensive fabric away from you. As soon as the jeans hit the floor, Seokjin drops down to his stomach between your thighs. You open your legs with a content sigh, making him wonder if you’ve been waiting for this moment as long as he has. He drags his lips lightly over your thighs before placing a kiss on the crotch of your panties. You shudder. He chuckles. “Promise you’re as sweet as candy?” He asks, voice unintentionally deepening as he comes closer to his target. 

“Pinky swear,” you whisper. Taking this as his cue to move forward, Seokjin’s fingers gently ghost over the black fabric of your underwear before pulling the crotch to the side and exposing your core to the cool air. He takes in the fluid shapes and subtle wetness already gathering on your folds in awe, shocking himself with all the ways he could still find you beautiful. Closing the last bit of distance between you, he takes a tentative lick from the bottom of your slit to the top, the firm tip of his tongue pressing against your clit in the process. The action causes you to rock up, hands settling at the top of his head. “Fuck,” you whisper gently, the breathy sound going straight to his cock. He repeats the act once more, though this time his lips around your tender bud and he gives it a light suck. Your fingers thread through his hair tightly, guttural moan exiting your throat. Pride swells in Seokjin’s chest—he’s the reason you’re making those sounds.

“Jesus babe,” he murmurs, leaving open mouthed kisses on your thigh, “you’re even sweeter than candy.” You let an amused breath at his words, any laughter that would have bubbled up dying as those kisses reached your lower lips. “Can I take these off?” Seokjin asks, pulling further at your panties.

“Please.” With a bit more confidence than before, he moves to take your panties off completely. As he settles back down between your thighs, he sneaks a peek at you. You’ve relaxed back down on the couch, head leaned back on the armrest although your eyes never leave him. “Jin, please,” you whimper. Your words spur him on and he dives face first in your pussy, tongue working itself deep in and around your core. Soft whimpers turn to loud moans as he continues, only motivating him further. The need to make you cum becomes his only goal. “Fuck Jin, so goo—oh!” You moan out, jumping in shock when you feel his thick finger press against your entrance.

“Can I?” He asks, lifting his head up for confirmation that he can continue. With your rapid nods, he presses his index finger into you, sighing as he feels warm walls flutter and constrict around him. Then, as if another force has taken over his body, Seokjin surges his whole body forward to kiss you while he thrusts his finger at a steady pace. You readily welcome his lips against your own, not minding the taste of yourself against his tongue, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. “Do you—fuck you are tight—baby… think you can cum like this?” He asks between kisses, your hips starting to buck into his hand. You mumble out an affirmative, pressing yourself closer to him.

He loses track of himself in the moment, one finger becoming two, thumb circling your clit, lips sucking bruises into your neck as you start to make desperate pleas in his ear for more, more, more. You give no warning when your orgasm hits you, just tensing up against him as your walls clamp down hard against his fingers. He litters your face with small pecks as he works you through it, fingers slowing only when he feels you begin to come down from your high.

“Jesus Jin, you’re really good at that,” you remark in a small voice as he removes his fingers from inside you, aftershocks continuing to rock your body.

He can’t help the cheshire grin that settles onto his face as he lifts himself off of you to get a good look at your fucked out form; your eyes are so dilated that they are nearly black, sweat sits at the edge of your scalp and brows, and your shirt is bunched up around your chest. He wants to kiss you again, wants to feel your legs wrapped around his waist, wants to feel everything you have to give and then some. “Baby,” he starts, suddenly feeling constricted by all the clothes he is wearing and how hot the room has gotten, “I could eat your pussy for hours on end, but I am so fucking hard right now. Please don’t leave me hanging.”

“Fuck that’s hot… do you have a condom?”

“Bedroom, bedroom, bedroom right now, come on!” Seokjin shouts, jumping up and pulling you off the couch with him, leading you through the short hallway to where he sleeps nightly. It’s a flurry of movement between the both of you, hands making bold passes over newly uncovered body parts as all remaining forms of clothing are removed. He lets an uncharacteristically animalistic growl when you finally wrap a hand around dick, moving it up and down at a near glacial pace. “Faster,” he finds himself begging, breathing harder when you comply with his request. He lets it go on for a while further before he gently pushes you on your back underneath him, hand digging in the drawer of his bedside table as he searches for the pack of condoms he knows is there. However, his movements stop and his mind goes blank when he feels you reach a hand for his cock again and grind his sensitive tip between your still soaked lips. He’s reeling, knowing he could slip right in if he wanted to, if you let him, despite how irresponsible it would be.

“Seokjin, condom! Hurry up!” You whine out, as if seeing his internal dilemma. Your other hand claws at his chest to further get his attention, snapping him out of his reverie and back into action.

When he finally locates a condom, he’s nearly rabid. He tears at the package and slips it on with such roughness that a small part of him worries he might break it. The bigger part of him, however, is focused on how delicious you look underneath him and how delicious your pussy will feel around him. He lets out a small huff when he finally gets the condom on, lining himself up with your entrance. He wants to take his time, wants to tease you a bit, but it takes one drag of the head of his cock against your slit for him to forget about all of that. He pushes inside of you slowly, warm walls clenching around him when he’s fully seated inside of you. 

It goes by faster than expected. Your body accepts him so easily, like it was made for him. You suck him back in each time he pulls out. You tilt your hips up when he begins to thrust harder, eyes rolling to the back of your head each time his hips meet your thighs. His hands roam the expanse of your body, gently squeezing areas that are softer than he expected and running blunt nails against your sternum before one of them snakes behind your neck and pulls you up to meet him for a sloppy kiss. It’s messy, more tongue than lips and it makes you clench even tighter than before. Seokjin’s not sure if you’re close, but he knows he damn sure is. 

“Honey I don’t think I’m gonna last much longer.” He bites out, slowing down slightly as he lays you back down.

“Then cum,” you whimper back, though it sounds much more like an order. Hitching your legs up on his waist, Seokjin uses the last bit of energy he has to drill into you, chasing his orgasm until it crashes over him like a tidal wave. It’s the most pleasure he’s felt in months. All of his senses are overloaded as he cums, pressing deep inside of you. His hips stutter slightly as he milks himself to completion, feeling even more content when you run your fingers up and down his arms slowly. 

It’s that sweet gesture that brings him back down to earth. He takes his time removing himself from you, unsure if he wants to leave now that he knows exactly what you feel like. Placing your legs off of his hips and shuffling off of the bed to throw away the condom, he quickly returns and flops on his back next to you.

“We gotta—we have got to do that again.” Seokjin finally breathes out, heart still racing. You curl up beside him, skin sticking to his own in a way that disgusts him slightly; yet, he still pulls you closer. “I didn’t make you cum.”

“You made me cum once.”

“But not on my dick.”

“I still enjoyed myself.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s an honor thing. You have to cum on more than my fingers.”

“Like right now? Or—”

“Don’t joke like that. My dick can’t handle it.” You giggle at his words and he feels something rising up in his chest that he can’t identify. Despite hearing all of your moans, whimpers, and whines for the past hour, he still thinks your laughter is the best sound in the world. 

And later, when you start to drift off on his lap during a 90s movie marathon, Seokjin whispers promises into your skin that he’s never made before. You don’t say if you hear them, but relax further in his embrace.

.

.

“Oh this kid looks just like Jungkook.” Seokjin says one evening, sitting on the bed in your apartment. It’s the first time you’ve invited him in, having asked if he would spend the night because the bakery opens later on Saturdays and you want to sleep in with him. It’s such a cute request he can’t deny it. He thinks you’re so cute that it’s getting hard for him to deny you at all. He worries it will become a problem later, but he doesn’t dwell on it when your whole face lights up with happiness. Your apartment is quaint, with big white walls covered in pictures and knick knacks from your various adventures overseas. You float around the bedroom grabbing things for Seokjin—towels, extra pillows, a spare toothbrush—and laugh at him. “What’s so funny, huh?”

“That is Kook.”

“Really?” He takes the framed picture from your nightstand and looks at it more closely. It’s for sure you in the picture, just much younger. You sport messy hair and large t-shirt combo that would be embarrassing to most, but you’re holding on to a much smaller and skinnier kid with such excitement that it just reads as adorable. “Wow, you guys have really known each other for a long time.”

You let out an airy laugh of disbelief, placing the things on a chair placed in the corner of the room. “Since he was born.”

“Oh, so that’s why he calls you his sister,” Seokjin starts with a nod of understanding. “I thought he just had a crush on you or something. I didn’t realize that you’ve known him for so long. Your families must be really close right?”

You laugh again, but the tone is off. Seokjin catches it, but you’re crawling on the bed next to him and wrapping an arm around his back before he can question it. “Baby,” you start, voice light but edging on serious, “you know I’m actually bunny boy’s sister right? Like we’re really related. His family is my family.”

It’s a gut punch, hearing those words come out of your mouth. He isn’t sure how to process and he’s sure he looks like a fish as his mouth opens and closes as he tries to find something to say. He settles on, “What?”

“Jungkook is my little brother.”

“But you guys don’t even look alike.” He responds, feeling his brain short circuit. “You literally couldn’t be more different. And you guys don’t even have the same names. You can’t—it doesn’t…”

You sigh, unwrapping your arms from around him while shaking your head. “It’s complicated.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well for starters, we’re not blood related at all.”

“So you’re not siblings then?” Seokjin asks incredulously, because nothing makes sense anymore.

“Biologically no,” you stress, grabbing the picture out of his hands. There are red indentations on his palms from where he was squeezing it so tight. “But, legally speaking, we are siblings. All the paperwork I have will tell you I’m part of his family. But more than that, all of us were raised together as brother, brother, and sister.”

It really is a complicated story, Seokjin thinks as you explain your family history to him. Friends of friends, broken trust, being in the right place at the right time, and international trips brought you into the Jeon family. You never looked at Jungkook as anything other than family; Jungkook never knew you as anything other than his sister, biology be damned. “He never talked about you though,” Seokjin admits, head pounding from information overload. “Like ever. He only ever mentioned his—well your—brother.”  

You roll your eyes at this information, but don’t seem surprised. “He was mad at me for a long time. He thought it was stupid that I left to try and reconnect with my bio family. Do you know he can hold a grudge for a really long time? He wouldn’t answer my phone calls for a year after I first left.” You let out a small sigh, flopping back on your bed. “We only really just got back to a good place. I think that’s why he’s been so clingy lately.”

Seokjin squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. “Ugh, Kook is really gonna kill me,” He mumbles, laying down beside you. 

“Why would he do that?” You whisper, moving your body to curl into him. “He’s the reason I started dating you in the first place.”

“What are you even talking about?” Seokjin groans out. “Don’t say false things just to comfort me. It won’t work.”

“I’m serious. He’s like your biggest fan. He talks about you all the time. Hearing and seeing how much you cared for him meant a lot to me. It made me like you for more than just your looks. I wouldn’t have embarrassed myself in front of you so many times if I thought you were a bad guy.”

“Really?” 

“Really.”

Seokjin hums mindlessly, thoughts still a jumbled mess in his head from all the information he has received. One thing sticks out in his mind though. He turns his head to lay a soft peck on your forehead. “You know you never embarrassed yourself in front of me, right?”

“What are you talking about? I practically begged you to take me on a date.”

“You saved me from myself. I embarrassed myself way more. I could barely talk to you without becoming a mess and tripping over all my words.”

“I wouldn’t want you any other way. You’re my mess.”

“Oh my god, Jungkook was wrong. You’re the best woman in the whole wide world and you're all mine, mine, mine!”

.

.

“Kim Seokjin, you motherfucker—” Here’s the thing, Jungkook is Seokjin’s youngest friend. He plays the role of the baby well, to the point where Seokjin feels as though he’s raised him. It’s so easy to forget that Jungkook is not as young as he acts; he’s always so kind and affectionate. He’s also the hardest worker at the bakery, always coming in early and staying late to make sure everything is finished. However, the boy was so much stronger than he looked. He worked out 6 days a week for fun and described getting tattoos as a pleasurable experience. Of course he would be able to pick Seokjin up and pin him against the wall by his throat. 

“Woah, woah, woah, calm down!” Namjoon shouts, running up to try and pull the younger man away. Jungkook does not relent, fighting against his friend to continue to try and choke Seokjin. “Kook, listen man! This is not the way to handle this!”

“He fucked my sister!” He screams and the accusation sounds so much worse coming out of Jungkook’s mouth, especially because it’s true. Except there is so much more than fucking that’s going on, but he can’t get the words out of his mouth to say that through Jungkook’s yells. “Thought I wouldn’t find out? Thought she would keep it a secret?” He spits out, still struggling against Namjoon.

“It’s not like that—” Seokjin begins, voice smaller than he anticipated, but Jungkook cuts him off.

“Bullshit!” Jungkook screams, voice cracking with rage. “I know you. I know how you are. You think you can just use my sister to get off?”

Now it’s Seokjin’s turn to be angry, with the thought of anyone only being with you for your body making him see red. “Do you really think I’m like that? You really think that I would hurt her like that?”

“Never stopped you before,” Jungkook responds sarcastically. “What did the last girl say again? Jin just wants a human fucktoy.” Seokjin winces at the words he once found humorous. The girl, a pretty florist he met at a bar, came in with the intent to tear him to shreds. She was met with indifference and laughter. He never realized how quickly her words would come back to haunt him. “You think my sister is a human fucktoy? Is that what it is?”

“Shut up,” Seokjin barks out, unable to think of you in that way.

But Jungkook is no longer fighting against Namjoon, content with his words bringing the pain. “You’re not good enough for her. You’ll never be good enough for her. I’ll kill you before I ever let you treat my sister like one of your whores.” 

“That’s enough,” Namjoon orders, frustration painting his features. “This isn’t going to solve anything. Jungkook, you should leave.”

Jungkook scoffs, pushing Namjoon away from him. “You’re on his side,” he accuses, pain in his voice, “You think it’s okay that he’s fucking my sister.” 

“I don’t think anything,” Namjoon stresses. “But fighting in our place of business is not smart. People can hear us out there and whether you like it or not, your outburst is gonna affect more than just Jin. This can be dealt with later.”

Jungkook is quiet, though he trembles with anger. Seokjin wonders, briefly, if the man will swing on Namjoon. However, Jungkook just shakes his head and states, “Fuck your business. I quit.” 

.

.

“Are you going to fire him?” You ask over the phone that night, worry evident in your voice. You canceled your date upon finding out what your brother did. You told him good faith when he tried to set you up another date with a doctor he knew, hoping he would be happy for you. He was not. You said you had to talk to him, make sure you understood where he was coming from before you passed judgement. He was your brother after all.

Seokjin wants to laugh. He can’t. He’s miserable. He wants all of this to end, but he doesn’t want his relationship with you to end. He’s tired. “I can’t fire someone who quit.”

“He didn’t mean it. He’s going to apologize to you.” 

“Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

But two days later, he finds you standing at his apartment door, Jungkook behind you looking at the ceiling in avoidance. Seokjin fights against his urge to hug you, to bury his face in the crook of your neck and plant a wet kiss against the skin that leaves you squirming and pushing him away from being, “gross!” He stares at you silently, but you smile at him like nothing is wrong. “Can we come in?” You ask sweetly, stepping in at Seokjin’s nod. Jungkook doesn’t move an inch, making you scowl. You turn to face the man Seokjin now knows as your brother and snap, “Get in here right now.”

The man obeys you, stepping inside of the apartment and shutting the door behind him. No one makes a move. Seokjin wants to choke on the tension. Finally, Jungkook lets out a deep breath and states, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” You say with a leading tone.

Jungkook clenches his fist, jaw tightening. “I’m sorry for choking you in the bakery. It was unprofessional of me to do so.”

“And?” You continue. Jungkook closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Jungkook!” You shout, causing the man to flinch, yet his silence continues. Seokjin watches in amazement as you reach your hand up to grab the younger boy’s ear and tug hard. Jungkook howls in pain, trying to pry your fingers away. You don’t let up. “I don’t care about your pride or your protection. You are going to apologize to Jin properly right now!” Jungkook whines loudly. You twist your fingers and the boy’s knees buckle. The scary beast who pinned Seokjin against the wall was gone. In his place was a child, weak and subdued. He wants to laugh, but doesn’t. He’s sure that if he does, it will come back to haunt him later.

“Alright, alright, I’ll do it.” Jungkook screams out. With a final pull, you let go. Jungkook rubs his ear lightly and huffs, glaring at you. You return his stare. With another sigh, he turns back to Seokjin and states, “I crossed the line. I shouldn’t have hit you or said those things. It was wrong… but—”

“No buts!” You shout out, hand reaching up again. Jungkook catches it and grasps it tightly in his own hand. He shushes you with a look that says more than Seokjin could ever guess. He drops your hand and you let it rest at your side with a sigh.

“Can you leave?” Jungkook asks you. “I just want to talk to him alone. I won’t—I will not put my hands on him. I promise.” There is a sincerity in his tone that Seokjin has not heard in a while. It gives him hope.

Your head rolls back and forth, as if weighing out your options before stating, “Ten minutes, Kook. You hear me? Ten. And if he tells me you so much as even threaten him, you’ll have a whole lot more to be worried about than your ear!” At his aggressive nod of understanding, you turn to Seokjin. “I’ll be right back, okay?” You state, before leaning up to give him a kiss on the cheek. Seokjin notices the way Jungkook’s jaw tenses at the open display of affection. With one more stern look to your brother, you exit the apartment. 

There is a beat of silence before Seokjin suggests they sit down in the living room. It’s awkward. Jungkook has been in this room before, even passed out there a time or two; but he’s as stiff as a board when he sits on the couch. He refuses to look at Seokjin, eyes trained on the coffee table in front of him. His breaths are measured and he opens and closes his mouth a few times as he decides what to say. 

Finally, he speaks. “You don’t seem to understand that she’s my sister. My only sister, Jin.”

“I understand th—”

“You don’t. You don’t understand. I know I’m younger and you think I act like a kid, but I’m not. Not with her. I’ve spent my whole life protecting her. People always try to take advantage of her because… I don’t know. So many reasons.” Jungkook stops, struggling for words. He takes another deep breath and finally looks at Seokjin. “When we were younger, boys would bully her for being adopted. She would act like it didn’t bother her, but I could see that it did. I must have got into twenty fights making sure they kept their mouth shut when it came to her. After everyone, whether I won or lost, she would always be happier. And that was all that mattered. When she moved away I was so angry because who was going to protect her out there? Her bio family is shit. They never wanted anything to do with her. Then she started dating this guy who cheated on her and I couldn’t even get to him and I—” He stops again, having worked himself up. “I want her to be happy, okay? I don’t want her to be sad anymore.”

Seokjin is shocked. He’s never heard Jungkook speak so seriously and with so much passion. His eyes are glassy, tears clearly threatening to spill over. He looks ragged. There are dark circles under his eyes. He’s not even holding himself up properly anymore, body limp in the seat. It’s clear this has been weighing on the boy and Seokjin feels a wave of guilt wash over him. This isn’t what he wanted to happen at all. 

“I’m sorry,” Seokjin states, breaking the silence, “For not telling you. For letting it get this far. As your boss—no, as your friend, I should have let you know.” Jungkook nods, swiping at his eyes roughly. “I do… I do care about her a lot. I don’t look at her like… if I only wanted her for sex, I would have stayed away.”

“Do you… do you love her?”

“I…” Seokjin hesitates. He’s never thought about it really, loving you. He’s never even thought about love in general. For years, he didn’t think he was capable of loving someone romantically. But when he’s with you, everything feels like it’s in its proper place. “I think—I do. ” 

Jungkook hums in response, throwing his head back on the couch and really relaxing for the first time since he stepped through the door. “She loves you too,” Jungkook says as though it's a hard fact. Seokjin feels his throat tighten at his words. It’s been a long time since he’s been loved. “Like a lot. That’s the only reason I’m here… ”

“I won’t hurt her.” Seokjin says adamantly, hoping he sounds as sincere as he is. 

“You better not.” He mutters. There is another beat of silence before Jungkook meekly asks, “Can I get my job back?”

“Ask Namjoon.”

“Fuck!”

.

.

So it ends like this:

After many apologies, Jungkook gets his job back. He’s put on samples duty for a month, standing outside of the bakery with a new pun-filled sign wrapped around his neck everyday. He hates it, especially when you show up to snap a picture and post it on your Instagram. Namjoon reposts one of them on the Baking News SEOUL account and it becomes the most liked picture on the whole page. You and Seokjin howl with laughter when you see the numbers, much to Jungkook’s annoyance. He still doesn’t approve of the relationship—at least, not completely. He rolls his eyes every time he sees a kiss or a hug; he insists you don’t stay in the bakery long, shoving you out of the door after five minutes because he’s sick of seeing you flirting with his boss; he scoffs when you come in more dressed up than usual for date nights. Yet, he makes sure Seokjin knows what types of flowers you like getting on your birthday and what your ring size is, “because that’s information you’ll need sooner or later.”

On Sundays, Seokjin closes the bakery early and brings you to the kitchen. He stands behind you, hand on your hip as he instructs you on how to ice the practice cakes he baked for you earlier. He knows you won’t do it perfectly, knows you’ll eventually dip a finger in the frosting to try it for yourself, knows you’ll try to get him to do the same and put some on his face when he refuses. It might start a food fight that will take too long to clean up; might make him bend you over the counter and fuck you until your moans reverberate off of the walls. Regardless, it always ends with you kissing him all over his face, exchanging soft “I love yous” until you’re ready to go home. Seokjin thinks he’s okay with both scenarios; thinks he’ll be okay with both for a long time. 

[editorialsonlife]

Well hi tumblr its been a while since I did a brain dump so here we go. strap yourselves in it’ll be fun. 

- its been 10 days since my last counselling session and I sound like a loser but I miss it and also am pleasantly surprised that I haven’t lost my shit yet so long may that last. I booked floats in instead while Anne is away and A+ decision past self. 

- just roped shelley into signing up to a terms worth of pilates classes with me so bring on those for tuesday nights which I’m excited about. 

- got my hormone test results back. testosterone optimal levels start at 4. Mine at at 0.07 so no wonder I’m fucking wiped out all the time mate. my oestrogen levels are down significantly though which is good and my progesterone just sneaks in to the ‘optimal’ level part so still estrogen dominant but bridging the gap slowly. hence taking up pilates and i need to get back into some low intensity weights as well to try boost that testosterone level again. fun times. 

- just like, holy fucking shit I forgot what life was like without pervasive, constant, existential anxiety all the fucking time. it was basically just a year of being on edge, jittery and unable to focus. peaks and troughs throughout that time, and very brief windows without it but hot damn, has it taken its sweet time to get back under control. and It’s been a fucking mission to do it but man am I happy I’m through it now. it’s so nice to be back to feeling like myself again. to laugh a bit more. to find more time to smile and more reasons for joy and just goodness in life. 

- I’ve journalled for 159 days in a row at this point. it is a lifesaver and I love it. meditation is a lot patchier but its still a good time. 

- I got majorly sunburnt on sunday and it’s so sore. I’m v glad I snuck lidocaine aloe vera gel into the country. is so good. 

- yoga has also been great. thursday evening yin with candlelight and acoustic music from two kid who liv down the street and some nights it rains and it’s just, I walk up the hill and am dying and out of breath but like, there’s just this sense of calm the moment you walk in and I fucking love it. slowly learning how to exist in my body again in a peaceful manner. 

- my body and my brain are not yet quite peacefully coexisting but I think we’ll get there. I’m working on it. sex is still an interesting challenge. food is still a mess. body issues are still all over the show. but ya know what? I’m here and I’m doing it anyway. we’ll get there. baby steps in the right direction. 

- less than 6 months til wedding 2.0. got a dress, got a photographer, got the venue, got the celebrant. 

- family remains a fun challenge. honestly mates. its a bit nuts. daves parents came down a couple of weeks ago to stay and oh my goodness what a weekend. not sad to not have to repeat that any time soon. going up to see my parents this weekend which should be good. 

- got another maple tree over the weekend, YAY

- We got a garage door opener installed and oh my god I feel so rich every time i push a button and the door just rolls up? it’s so bougie and so unnecessary and so LUXURIOUS and its jsut fab and I love it and I hope the novelty never wears off honestly. 

- we replanted the vegegarden this weekend for summer and the fucking wind already snapped one of my tomato plants RUDE but hopefully the other half survives which would be great. I hope it does. 

- my cherry blossom tree is flowering and its my fav. the cabbage tree out the front is dying as well which is gunna be a pain in the butt to get down ebcause its right by our power line to the house but hopefully it’ll hold out a while longer. need to deal with that sooner rather than later tbh. the apricot tree appears to have a fungal infection from my limited googling? and if it is, it sounds v hard to manage and I’m not sure I’m up for the level of maintenance its gunna need. 

- our electric lawn mower continues to bring me great joy. 

- its bedtime I really should be putting this laptop away right now. 

- I spent the afternoon writing down what I want my life to look like in 10 years and fuck me its quite terrifying and a bit exciting and just, the gap between here and there is so huge but like, I want it but I don’t know how to make it happen but also how good could it be??? 

- we have also been in dicsussions about getting a puppy. this is a serious life consideration right now. so good. 

- there is more but I need to sleep. I have enjoyed shouting into the void. sleep well little internet friends and I hope you are doing ok wherever you are. 

[currentlyreadingmanga]

Toilet-bound Hanako-kun Chapter 19: Mitsuba (Part 2)

Previously: we started a new arc! We shifted the focus to Kou and his new ghost friend, Mitsuba. He’s a new-ish ghost and not at all what I expected (but I’m honestly kinda living for it). Together they’re trying to work out what Mitsuba’s unfinished business is so he can move on. They seem to work well together (in a very chaotic type of way). It started out very cute and then it got real angsty real fast, and I suspect it’s only gonna get worse this chapter :)) I can’t wait :)))

Now onto the next chapter!

You know when you say you’re gonna upload more regularly but then life happens and you get sick (AGAIN)........yeah, don’t know what that’s like or anything……..sigh

Anyway, time to finally keep going with the feels train from last chapter. And omfg

Only the first page and I’m already feeling all the feelings ;n; Look at them!! They were so precious! I know it’s not rare for people to stop being friends when they change classes but still :C

He’s saying that he tried to reach out to everyone he considered a friend but none of them recognized him. I know I said it last chapter but god, this is so heartbreaking, this poor child. Kou looks speechless, and I can’t say I blame him, it’s a lot to unpack.

Awwww baby he was bullied in elementary school for “looking like a girl” and being “cocky” :( I know not everyone is like that, but people like these are the reason I was so glad to be over with high school (not elementary school because I went to school with basically the same people since I was five). Kids can be so unnecessarily mean :/

Ah, okay. So when he started middle school, he decided to change things up.

Oh, sweetheart ;; He tried, he tried so hard because he just wanted to have friends and be happy but it backfired. I can’t even imagine how that must have felt. Like, what was the point of locking away his true self if no one cared about him either way? “A boring guy who barely stands out from the background” I really resonate with this line (and I’m sure a lot of people do as well). I’m quite shy nowadays but I was extremely shy when I was younger; I only really had two close friends in class (they’re thankfully two of my best friends to this day) and I knew everyone else didn’t particularly cared about me unless they needed something. I didn’t really get bullied but I was made fun of a few times because I was a bit overweight, and that, inaddition to my anxiety, really dealt a blow to my self-esteem. I only started to really open up during my second year of college when I met a lot of people who had interests and personalities similar to mine. What I’m trying to say with all this is that it can take a really long time for you to be comfortable in your own skin and to be comfortable sharing who you are and what you enjoy; hell, I still have a hard time doing it. But it gets better, even if it doesn’t seem like it will, it does, and it breaks my heart to see that Mitsuba didn’t get the chance to experience that, that he didn’t get the chance to find friends that loved him for who he was when he was still alive.... Oof, okay, that got sad fast. Let’s keep reading.

In his own clumsy way, I think he’s trying to lift Mitsuba’s spirits. Since he’s one of the people who forgot about him, he probably feels guilty, so this is his way of saying “I didn’t remember the fake you, but I will do my damn best to remember the real you and I’ll let the others know as well”. And yeah, it’s brash, but I like it, I see it as a way of preserving Mitsuba’s actual memory, who he really was and not the persona that just made him unhappy.

Ah, good, he apologized for not remembering him and he also explains that the reason he didn’t recognize him was because he was so different from when they first met. Fair tbh, there’s quite a gap between the seemingly soft spoken boy and Mitsuba’s actual teasing nature and colorful vocabulary.

Kou is such a good kid. Like, I know Mitsuba is already dead but I’m so glad someone told him this. And hey, it could help him move on as well. OH! HANG ON. Okay, so, Mitsuba said that he thinks his regret has something to do with taking a picture he couldn’t when he was alive, right? If we take into consideration what we’ve learned so far, it seems like Mitsuba’s biggest regret centers around the fact that he couldn’t form long-lasting friendships. So like, is the picture he wanted to take one with his friends?? Because that’s- that’s so sad but also so sweet I think I could cry. Kou, in his own way, tells him that he’s a pretty alright guy and Mitsuba says “a lot of good that does me now” but hey, it actually does, because I think he really needed to hear that.

Ahhhhhh Mitsuba asks him if they could have been friends if he were still alive. Of course you could have, sweetie! Come on, Kou, tell him!

ಥ‿ಥ ಥ‿ಥ ಥ‿ಥ ಥ‿ಥ ಥ‿ಥ ಥ‿ಥ

He’s taking a picture of Kou!!!!!!!

(TдT)(TдT)(TдT) my heart oh my god I love them so much look at these babies.

Kou is being oblivious but Mitsuba tells him not to worry about it and that he thinks that once they develop the pictures, he’ll be able to move on ;; (Or at least I think that’s what he means.) 

(⚆.⚆) (⚆.⚆)

(;;⚆_⚆) Oh…………..there he is……..oh dear

But ALSO, hello?? do they know each other?? how? when??? (also imo the stylistic choice of making that speech bubble black is incredibly effective because you can just feel the malice behind it)

Oh, I’m so glad that Kou realized so fast that he isn’t Hanako. Like, yeah, the clothes are a big help but I feel like this boy’s aura is so different from Hanako’s (well, from regular Hanako, since he does have some moments when he smiles creepily).

Σ(ﾟДﾟ|||)  (ﾟдﾟ；)  Σ(ﾟДﾟ|||) HOLY FUCKING SHIT W H A T

What is he doing???? what??? did he like, kill him off, like, for good??? wha   t????

Σ(ﾟДﾟ|||) Σ(ﾟДﾟ|||) Σ(ﾟДﾟ|||) OH GOD, IT KEEPS GETTING WORSE

………………….oh? So he does work as a “Hanako-kun” like Amane? That’s interesting because when I first came up with that I thought it would be possible if “Hanako-kun” was one spirit that split itself depending on who summoned him. But now that I know that he’s actually Amane’s twin, I have to wonder how and why did this happen. Like, why is it that both of them ended up with this role? Is it because they are twins and since they look the same the rumors then would consider them to be just one entity?

Mitsuba’s wish was “I want to stay in everyone’s memories” and I just ;;;;;;;;

(ﾟдﾟ；) (ﾟдﾟ；) (ﾟдﾟ；)

First: please let the child go omfg. Second: that’s not your decision to make. If Mitsuba thinks that having Kou remember him is enough, then that’s it, there’s nothing more to argue. And I repeat: ple a se let go of the child. Why is he trying to interfere? Like, yes, Hanako helped Yashiro as much as he could when she made her wish(es), but he only kept interfering because she still wasn’t happy with the outcome. Mitsuba seems to be okay with it, so he shouldn’t have a reason to meddle.

“Don’t you lay a hand on my friend!!” I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Kou is such a good kid, we don’t deserve him. But also he’s being reckless and it fills me with worry ;;

Ohhhhhhh okay. I didn’t consider that before. Whether Hanako could only grant wishes to living people or not, I mean. I assumed he did, so it’s interesting to know that there’s someone who can grant the wishes of the dead. That brings up a couple of questions, though. Like, what are the limits of his powers? What does he take in exchange? Are the wishes of the dead similar to Mitsuba’s or do they have a bigger range? Is any spirit able to summon him or are there restrictions like in Amane’s case (even if we still don’t know what the conditions for summoning him are yet)? Also, again, it seems like he’s more “pushy” than Amane is in regard to his wish granting.

…...oh, oh no. they’re gonna forcefully change his rumor so that his wish comes true (even though Mitsuba was happy before and ghost boy here doesn’t like to listen to other opinions, apparently)

[also now I feel really bad about the crooked man joke I made last chapter. I didn’t think it would come back to bite me in the ass like this;;]

Oh god, that’s some horrifying imagery. There’s nothing gruesome but the way that it’s drawn conveys the despair he’s feeling so well.

“If you can’t tell him his name then he’ll break your neck to make you look like him” jfc that’s just cruel ;; to turn his sincere and desperate wish into a weapon, to turn him into a mindless weapon (because we know that he’s gonna have to do it unless Yashiro is able to change it or unless Hanako takes matters into his own hands). Also it just hit me that Mitsuba is not dead dead so like, why the fuck did Hanako n°2 put a hole in his chest???? what was the point?? just to be a piece of shit?

…………………..I-

Yes. that, same. Wh-what the fuck

OH! Haku-joudai went to report to Hanako what happened! Oh boy, oh dear. He looked shocked and slightly afraid and I’m :)) terrified :)))

So, he’s on the side of chaos, basically. Like, he clearly does whatever the fuck he wants, and he wants complete and total freedom to do so, without a care about how that might affect others. Lovely :))))

[imuybemovoko]

My beliefs now

I set this blog up for a bunch of different purposes including conlangs/worldbuilding stuff, my writing, and my views on religion and maybe also politics. So far, mostly, I’ve ranted a lot about the beliefs I left behind. Now that I’ve let that particular sketchy brand of Christianity, now that I’ve discovered the ways it and my conservative family background were probably turning me into a fascist while I was still in all that, I figure I might as well try to hash out where I stand now. I’m around eleven months out from my deconversion, and a lot has already changed. I might try to attempt a before and after thing but there’s a lot to unpack about how I used to think and I’m not sure I’ve understood everything yet. I think I made the mistake of thinking that not very long before that repressed memory about “Sharon” and her Jonah display came crashing back in March. This is current to late July 2020 and may not include everything. 

So without any further ado, let’s talk background. First, some things I’ve already either mentioned or given more than enough evidence for. I used to be a Christian fundamentalist. (Clearly. I rant about it a lot.) I got into that because I was raised religious, then let myself fall right the fuck into what I’ll call “deep end lite” shortly before senior year in high school. Some local churches in my small town arranged a missions trip thing and the way I agreed to go along felt in the moment like surrendering to a voice that’s been speaking to me all along. In ...a way, it was. Just not the voice I thought. I’m pretty sure I didn’t want this god, at any point like ever, until that little part of me whispered that it would be easier to accept him. I have a megathread document that I’ve stored a lot of my “God stories” from my time as a Christian in. Unfortunately I didn’t remember many specific details of this experience to write down in there, but I did write a bit of a “life-story” thing that reminds me that, chronologically, that happened after a period of focused attempts by the church to indoctrinate me, some traumatic things my family did, social struggles, and feeling like an asshole because of things I’d done in the past. I remember having this growing sense over the previous year that I was approaching some kind of very dangerous breaking point, to the point where (trigger warning: mental instability, school shooter mention. Please either stop here or skip to where it says “in other words” in the next paragraph after this if that’s going to be an issue. It also keeps getting dark from there for a minute. Please, please tread with care if you need to. There is no shame at all if this becomes too much. Take care of yourself first and foremost.) 

when discussing how I came to accept the faith, I told some of my Christian friends that I felt like there was a scary chance of me becoming a school shooter. I think this may have been a post-hoc projection, but I can’t quite be sure of that. I was in a bad place for a bit there in high school. I had a wild temper and some sketchy intrusive thoughts.

In other words, it hit at a perfect moment of weakness. That’s how oppressive forms of spirituality function, it’s how hate groups function... it’s a massive shit cocktail and I found a pretty bad influence in the form of people who promote that whole “born again experience” thing in Christianity. I’d say I’m glad I missed out on being dragged into a fascist ideology this way, but uh... I’m no longer convinced I didn’t grow up around something like that. More later. 

From there I spiraled my way through my first attempts at college through the university’s chapter of the Chi Alpha campus ministry and, peripherally through that, Assemblies of God (holy shit those guys are wild), then through a local Baptist church (more peripherally) and Calvary Chapel (I was a worship guitarist here for like 18 months and helped with their youth ministry for almost as long) closer to home and a CRU chapter at my community college. With each passing year I slipped further and further into this weird shame-induced funk where I got like... addicted to Jesus and hated myself or something. It’s a bit hard to find words that don’t take multiple entire extra pages and I want to be concise, so I’ll simply call it “Jesus-flavored depression” for brevity and because that was enough of a genuinely bad time (and I’m still fucked up enough) that I might need some fairly serious therapy.

Near the end of 2018 I was reaching a breaking point, wondering why nothing ever seemed to change in my life from “sexual sin” (...which in my case literally consisted of being attracted to women and occasional self-pleasure, but they literally teach you to hate yourself for less than that in the spicier churches rip) to my direction in life to how trapped I felt by my family. I also started to have more questions about the violence in the Bible and some of the sketchier doctrines, and that was strongly reinforced by some of the things I saw in a creative writing class I took, including an atheist who shared a story of a profoundly negative experience involving being taught about hell at a very young age. All that led to the absolute disaster that was December 2018. It was my last semester at the community college I went to. Finals week was a fucking disaster, and the week before that too, and my grades were really good but at great cost. I won’t go into a ton of detail because 1. space concerns and 2. this time is still damn painful to discuss, but just know that I’m unconvinced I’d have survived that month without this song. (Yes, that’s Paramore. Shut up xD they’re still good.) I looped it for like three days straight and I think it was just enough to keep me going through what was the third time I had any suicidal kind of thoughts ever and by far the worst and longest period of it so far.

So the next several months (and I won’t go into a ton of detail about this, I intended this post more to describe my current position and I don’t wanna get too in the weeds with background) were a confusing period of questioning, starting with, of all things, my family dynamic. The spiral after the week before finals was ...considerably worsened by some comments my dad made, and between that and some experiences in the past that the creative writing class I took that fall reminded me of, I was exposed to a bit of a deeply toxic pattern. I might discuss that more deeply in another post, but for now suffice it to say that extensive youtube binges and some other research between about January and March told me the situation is probably adjacent to pathological narcissism in some way. I brought some of this up to the church I was attending at the time (a small town Calvary Chapel, if I haven’t mentioned that already) and their responses were ...inconsistent. Some people blamed me, some people said “oh dang your dad is abusive”, and some people took the “your parents are trying their best” tack. In retrospect I think that made me doubt if God’s messaging to these people could really be trusted. Then, in about April, the question of hell came up again. I was helping in the church’s budding youth ministry at the time and we had about four regular attendees between the ages of 12 and 18. There were about three weeks in a row when one of the other adults (I’ll call her Kelly for the purposes of not doxxing; also more on her later) talked at length about how unbelief leads to hell. I remembered that atheist from creative writing, made the connection to these four kids, and thought, “what the hell are we doing?” (Pun not intended but rather convenient.) I immediately backed down from my role in the youth ministry, citing other equally valid but less pressing reasons involving stress from the issues with my dad, and tried to go on with life. But the floodgates were open. 

In late May or early June, I was staring out a window one morning and suddenly a question crossed my mind unbidden: “Is God a narcissist?” I thought back to a relatively recent sermon by the associate pastor in which he explained that the purpose of the world was “for God’s glory”, to some apparent sudden flights of rage, and some other factors in the scriptures, and thought, “holy shit, I need to investigate this, because God is also very adjacent to narcissism.” It took a hot minute for the ball to really get rolling with that, but once it did... I came to a point by late June or early July where I delivered an ultimatum to God, something to the tune of “Ok, either show me how all these questions I have can be answered beyond a doubt or I’m done.” 

There was no answer. 

God was silent during this time, and the people in the church were shocked that I had the questions I did and either concerned or ...rather spicy. I joined an ex-Christian discord server to aid in a proper, thorough investigation. I aired my questions both there and on a Christian discord server. The Christian server was toxic as fuck and the ex-Christians started making a crazy amount of sense. I watched some videos from Cosmic Skeptic and TheraminTrees (most notably the latter’s deconversion story) for new perspectives and, by mid-August, had crashed out of the faith altogether.

So the last time I ever stepped into a church with the intent of attending service (I showed up after once in January of 2020 to kinda let them know and that went pretty badly lol) was about two weeks before I started college again in the fall. I burned all but one of my Bibles and a collection of gospel tracts I never did anything else with and stylized it like my limited understanding of what a satanic/pagan ritual looked like, complete with a chant in my conlang Aylaan for a more personal twist because of course, to feel edgy. (I did a lot of kind of weird shit to feel edgy; that’s one of two of them I’m sure I don’t regret.) And after that, things got ...ah, confusing?

Because of course when the linchpin of your understanding of the world gives way, everything becomes fucked for a hot minute. 

So the first thing that happened was a couple months of anxiety and confusion. I slowly started to deconstruct my inherited political views too. (More on that later.) Then I had this really beautiful interesting moment in late September where I walked past a tree on the way to a class and had a sudden realization that I didn’t have to force the tree into a Christian framework anymore, it was just a beautiful mass of green shit and cellulose. I could appreciate it in whatever way I felt was best. I damn near broke down crying in the bathroom before class, it hit me that hard. So that’s fun xD

Since then I’ve kinda gone through a bunch of funky phases with this, including a couple of months of fairly salty atheism. Along with that process, I started questioning my sexuality in December (more on that in another post in a minute lmao it’s a trip) and literally shredding my politics in the face of Trump being a crackhead in a dangerous position getting away with confirmed illegal shit, COVID-19 and the ...dehumanizing responses of corporations and their sponsored politicians, and then what I noticed about the deaths of Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd and the fallout from that. (In a nutshell, holy FUCK there’s a huge problem and it’s messed up that people don’t see it.) At this point, I’m socially progressive and pretty left leaning. I don’t know what the hell to do about it or how either other than some of the tense discussions I’ve been having, but I’d like to work against racism and discrimination too. So that’s cool and a lot better than where I was... 

which... I regret deeply.

I don’t know exactly how to define my old political views, and they were marked by considerable cognitive dissonance. I’ll try to illustrate this as best I can but I don’t know what label I can use. Here goes. 

Cursed images aside, I think the best way to explain this is through some background, i.e. what my parents believe, because my beliefs were largely inherited. 

This might be majorly over-simplified and based on what I remember of my own pre-deconstruction views and what I hear them say lately. I’m doing my best, but take it with a grain of salt. Basically, it seems like they walk this weird line between constitutionalist and very authoritarian that I see a hell of a lot of in rural America. Kinda like the Republic party used to before they yeeted into Trump’s mindfuck wholeheartedly. They’re homophobic to a rather alarming degree (more on that in another post soon) and not ...overtly Christian-supremacist but you can tell that their ethics are dripping with it and they’re terrified of Islam and they’d like to legislate some aspects of Christian morality. They also support the second amendment, which is the one thing I still agree with them on that I’m aware of, but they take it to more of an extreme than I’m willing to. For further ...flavor, they also reject the premise that parts of our society are systemically racist (and maybe also the idea that such a thing is even possible because of course), subscribe to the “bootstrap theory” for everything they can think to apply it to, reject climate science, and have been extremely conspiratorial about COVID-19. Also they like making it out like everything is a Democrat conspiracy theory, compare the Democrats to Hitler and Stalin to a weird degree, have on at least one occasion called Fox Motherfucking News left-leaning, and think Alex Jones is wacky but sometimes raises valid points. 

So that’s, in a nutshell, a bit of a look at my past political views, except I think I was a bit more Christian-dominionist than them and I think I had moments of “...does this really make any sense?” for years before I crashed out of everything. The first domino was my Christianity, but once that fell, my entire approach to the world went some places. 

So ...yeah. Oof. I was sketchy as shit. Glad that’s changed. 

So uh... I’ve already mentioned a vague (read: as much detail as I feel confident providing) description of my political views now, but after all this bullshit let’s finally get to the other half of my titular current beliefs. This ...isn’t going to be easy to explain either, but I feel more confident going into more detail. Buckle up :^)

Alright. So except for a couple of months where I was like “there is no god reeee” half because I was sOmE hYpErInTeLlEcTuAl SkEpTiC and half because of trauma from the toxic flavor of Christianity I left and some shitty developments in both politics and my social circles (I’ll talk at some length about “Kelly” in a sec here I think), since leaving Christianity I’ve always been what I’ll call “hopeful agnostic” (I think I stole this term from Rhett and/or Link lol). In a nutshell, what that means to me is “there may or may not be a god, but I hope there is at least one and they’re nice, or like, at least some spiritual thing that has a good aspect that can help me”. I also dabble in shitty rituals where I burn dead plants and occasionally also hate literature like gospel tracts (and, that one time, a couple of bibles) and basically call on “anyone who is listening and gives a fuck, else the placebo effect” for whatever my goal is. Like... witchy-adjacent but I don’t think about it very much at this stage. I kind of enjoy it, and I think for one reason or another it can be good for my mental health, but I’m wary of any kind of commitment or even more serious experimentation, even as I hope to find something good, because ...trauma, and maybe even absent that a desire to not be wrong in a way that’s dangerous to anyone else again. So that’s fun :^)

So if you’ve made it this far through this weird bullshit, thanks, this story is kind of important to me xD and if you couldn’t, and you’re not reading this ending thingy because it got too dark or it pissed you off or something, that’s cool too and you’re beautiful and valid. Whoever you are, I hope you find whatever healing you need. :)

[pan0ramy]

putting others first - an analysis/some theories for the future

so, i have a LOT to say on “putting others first”. it was a big video, with a lot of big plot points and information pieces. hell, i’m planning on making two theory/discussion posts, with this being the first one.

if you haven’t seen the new sanders sides video yet, DON’T READ THIS POST.  there WILL be spoilers. i’m tagging it as such, but just in case.

all good?

alright. let’s talk about what happened here. buckle up, because knowing me, this will be a little long.

there’s honestly so much here that i’m having a hard time figuring out where to start. however, i do want to bring up a previous post of mine. a year or so ago, i sat down and rewatched all the sides videos, taking notes whilst doing so - after watching “selfishness vs selflessness”, i made a post talking about what i feel went wrong in that episode. to sum up what i said:

deceit’s secondary purpose is self preservation, not just lying

patton is pushing thomas to be selfless to a point where it will eventually start to harm him

roman is having a hard time picking who to side with, since he seems to just side with whoever he finds coolest at that point in time

virgil doesn’t realise that deceit is trying just as hard to help thomas, and doesn’t want to admit that he is helping due to his past as a dark side

logan was able to see through all the chaos and definitively say thomas should go to the callback, not the wedding

of those five points, two or three are now true. considering i made that post almost a year ago, i don’t think that’s too shabby! it’s mainly points 1, 2 and 4 that are of relevance here - point 3 is partially wrong/not really of any use to us right now, and point 4 is relevant, but not exclusively to virgil any more. more on that in a bit.

to talk about the actual episode itself, let’s start with patton.

alright, let me just say one thing real quick: i am so, SO proud of patton. in my original SvS post, i said that patton was the main contributor to all the chaos and problems going on here - he wants thomas to be selfless, because he thinks being selfless is how you be a good person. in “putting others first”, we see that patton has a very black-and-white thought process when it comes to morality - you’re either a good person, or you’re not. sure, he was trying to say this in a nice way to thomas so that he didn’t hurt his feelings, but that’s still what he was trying to say. he places a lot of value on empathy and consideration of the needs and wants of others - which, as we saw (and as i correctly predicted), is driving thomas’ mental health into the ground.

it’s not sustainable, and patton learned that here.

for patton to step up to the plate and admit that he did wrong, and to apologise to thomas like that? THAT is some amazing character development. patton just wants to help - like deceit said, it’s not like he’s hurting or misleading thomas intentionally. he just... gets a bit carried away sometimes. so for him to fully realise that and move forward knowing that he can’t have all the answers is HUGE. like i said, i’m so proud of him for that.

next, i feel like we should address the elephant in the room - or, rather, the morality-fighting snake on the metaphorical plane - janus.

first of all, HOLY MOTHER OF NAME REVEAL. that was amazing, and very brave of janus to actually do so - you could argue he was very much backed into a corner, unfortunately, but he still did it, and that’s a huge deal.

second, i am SO glad that he was finally listened to and acknowledged in this episode, and i’m sure a lot of others are as well. he finally got the other sides to listen to what he’s been saying since SvS - thomas needs some self-care to balance out the selflessness, and that’s not a selfish thing to pursue at all. he didn’t want thomas to go to the callback because he thought thomas should be selfish - he wanted thomas to go to the callback because he thought that that’s what was best for him. he just wants to help, like any of the other sides do. that’s why they’re there in the first place.

janus is also the side who really helps patton realise what he’s done wrong here. he helps patton realise that no matter how nicely he tries to say it to thomas, the opinions he’s expressed for the entirety of this episode can be quite toxic and overbearing at times. too much selflessness is just as bad as too much selfishness. a massive theme of this episode was thresholds and limits - none of us really know where the lines are when it comes to being selfish or selfless. we just have to figure it out as we go along. nobody has all the answers.

fucking fantastic, you funky little danger noodle. you did great. :)

however, i do still have some negatives to talk about here - and if you’ve seen the episode, i’m pretty sure you know where i’m going with this.

let’s talk about roman.

this was... a complicated episode for him, to put it lightly. we really got to see some of his intrinsic character flaws here, in my opinion.

from the beginning of the episode, he was trying to help thomas, just like patton. arguably, he was the middleman in a lot of the arguments in this episode, and was willing to challenge patton’s points and make his own points all in the interest of looking after thomas. that was much needed in a scenario where patton had so much control over the situation, and it allowed them to have the discussion in the first place. i have a lot of respect for roman for doing that.

but, as you probably know by now if you’re reading this, things didn’t go very well between roman and janus. just like how patton has a very clear-cut definition of good people and bad people, roman has a very concrete idea of who the good guys and bad guys are in this situation. he’s never able to realise that janus is trying to help thomas, just like he and patton are, and roman never sees janus as anything more than an evil figure and a nuisance in general.

...which, as we’ve seen before, is also how virgil feels.

arguably, by the end of “putting others first”, roman is in the position that patton was in when everything started - he’s now the main problematic figure here, and he’s blind to the problems he’s causing. now, arguably, this is very understandable given his feelings on remus - it’s something that you could’ve easily predicted for roman. but it’s still a shock nonetheless, given how much development patton had in this episode.

and that’s why i think we’re not quite done with roman & his development as a side just yet.

the three main people i criticised in SvS were patton, roman and virgil. patton has now realised what he’s done wrong, and understands what needs to change. virgil wasn’t in this episode, but we now know roman and virgil seem to share a very similar stance on deceit and the dark sides in general.

personally, i think we’ll really start do delve into that stance going forward. if roman and virgil keep acting so hostile to the other dark sides, then they’re only going to make things worse. for thomas’s sake, they really need to take a step back and think outside the box here. that’s not going to be easy for them to do, considering virgil’s past and roman’s brother. but it’s still something that needs to be done.

i do think it’ll be done thanks to the introduction of the final dark side, but... that’s a post i’m planning on doing separately. i have some theories as to who that might be, and they’re not necessarily the same as they were a year ago. ;)

but for now, i really can’t wait to see what happens going forward. i really want roman and virgil to get the same development patton had here, no matter how long it takes - however, by no means do thomas, joan, talyn, adri, quil and everyone who’s involved in these videos need to stick to this path at all. they could go somewhere completely different, and i’d argue that’d be even more interesting that whan i’ve proposed here! but hey, that’s what theories are for, right?

regardless of where it all goes, i’ll still be here taking notes and theorising over it all. and if it ends up getting even crazier than it did here... i cannot wait to see what happens. :)

[thatsparrow]

(clayton sharpe/arabella whitlock • read on ao3)

"Not that this hasn't been a terribly exciting evening, but I suppose I best be getting back to—to my husband."

For as even-keeled as Mrs. Whitlock had seemed thus far—steadfast even in the face of that fucking snake-and-miner barbecue and the undead outlaws—her composure reliably slips whenever the subject of Mr. Whitlock arises. Funny. Sharpe would've figured a southern belle like her for having been schooled in a better poker face.

"Given all we've seen tonight—" Sharpe says, toeing at one of the twice-dead horse thieves, "—probably isn't safe for anyone to be walking off alone. Might not be a bad idea if you had some company heading back."

"Are you volunteering for the task, Mr. Sharpe?"

He glances up at Mrs. Landisman. "I can be, if Mrs. Whitlock has no objections."

"No," Mrs. Whitlock says in response to his raised eyebrow. "I don't object, that is." He nods at her, and she returns the gesture with that familiar, tight-lipped smile of hers. Now that does strike him as evidence of her upper crust upbringing.

"We'll reconvene in the morning, then?" the Reverend asks, still a little jittery in the hands. Holy vows aside, seems to Sharpe like he could use a few fingers of whiskey or one of the Gem's women to smooth that scared-cat shiver from his spine. "Perhaps in the lobby of the Bullock Hotel before checking in with Mr. Swearengen?"

"Fine by me." Fogg eases back against one of the hitching posts, thumbs tucked into his gun belt like his hands weren't shooting fucking lightning not five minutes back. That's Fogg, the Reverend, and Mrs. Whitlock all having shown signs of the supernatural, to say nothing of whatever god-cursed energy he and Mrs. Landisman might have wrapped around their bones, too. Sharpe can't imagine finding answers tonight, though, so he's willing to save that particular headache for the morning. As the others make their goodbyes and turn down the thoroughfare towards Bullock's hotel, he tilts his head towards Mrs. Whitlock. "You ready?"

"More ready for this, I'm sure, than anything else that transpired today." She lets out a quick sigh, seems to shake the unease from her shoulders like a horse brushing off stable flies. Then she holds out her arm, crooked at the elbow. "Shall we?"

Sharpe glances down at her. "What, you worried about gettin' lost?"

"It's decorum."

He snorts.

"I didn't invent manners, Mr. Sharpe."

"But you buy into that bullshit? As if you can't handle your own."

She smiles a little, a slight twist surprising the even line of her mouth. "I don't particularly, but my father does. He's very much a man of—"

"Pageantry?"

"Propriety," she says, the twitch of her mouth threatening a deeper smile. "Though, yes, that too."

She still hasn't lowered her arm, so Sharpe concedes with a short exhale of his own, threads the hook of his own elbow through the curve of hers, settling himself next to her side in the process. From here, he's at just the right angle to see a leftover ribbon of dirt smudged behind her ear from their excursion out of town, to catch the lingering satin-smooth smell of the rose-scented perfume she'd spritzed onto her neck in the morning. Propriety, Sharpe thinks to himself with a shake of his head. As if he's supposed to feel anything other than distinctly improper with the warmth of her arm a persistent weight against his own.

"Clayton is fine, for the record," he says after a few paces in step beside her, clearing his throat some.

"Hm?"

"I think we're past the point of me needin' to be 'Mr. Sharpe.' Granted, it mightn't be the proper form of address, but just Clayton is alright by me."

Mrs. Whitlock nods. "Very well. Clayton, then." It sounds new coming from her—the way she tests it out with her sideways Atlanta accent—but not unpleasantly so. "While we're on the subject, I'd prefer Arabella, if you don't mind." Her mouth twists again, but where before it'd struck him as her trying to bite back a smile, this looks like her swallowing around the taste of something sour. "I know I should be making the effort to adjust, but I find 'Mrs. Whitlock' still doesn't feel entirely fitting. I wouldn't mind setting it aside so long as my—husband doesn't overhear."

Seems the title isn't the only thing that hasn't quite settled around her shoulders. As her thumb plays absent at her wedding ring, Sharpe sees that she's still an even shade of peach below the knuckle; she either hasn't been wearing it long enough or regularly enough to have tanned a white stripe of skin underneath it.

"Am I steppin' out of line to ask about that?" He inclines his head towards her hand. "You bein' wedded to Mr. Whitlock, I mean."

Arabella pauses, though it seems more from consideration than offense. "I suppose it depends on the question. What do you want to know?"

Sharpe chews it over for a moment. "Admittedly, my view on the matter is, uh—limited, at best, but you don't strike me as terribly enamored with the man."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Is that what you want to know? Whether or not I love my husband."

"No disrespect intended, Arabella, but unless you've got a mighty funny way of showing your affections, then, no, that's not a question I need answered."

"So what are you asking?"

"Guess I'm wonderin' what compels a woman like you to travel halfway 'cross the country for a marriage like that."

She lets out a breath that might be her version of a laugh. "Enlighten me, Mr. Sharpe, what that's supposed to mean—a woman like me." If her slipping back into a more formal address is intended as a slight against him, she doesn't show it on her face.

"Certainly nothin' bad, if that's what you're thinking." Had that been an off-color thing to say? He hadn't meant it as such. "Steady, I suppose. Not so easily shaken. More grit than some other silver-spoon folks I've met—you know, the sort with soft hands and a softer character."

"Mhm." He'd been wrong about her poker face; she could be holding a full house or ace-high and he wouldn't know the difference. "And I suppose you know me well enough to make such a judgment?"

"Seen you stare down those fucking snake things without runnin' for the hills. Seen you go up against those hanged horse thieves seemin' fairly unflappable." He lowers his voice some, pitched just above a whisper. "Seen you shoot a sunbeam from your hands easier'n lighting a campfire. And all that's just in the past twelve hours. In fact, Mrs. Whitlock, given what I've seen of you today, I'd hazard sayin' I might know you better than your husband does."

"Sorry to disappoint, Mr. Sharpe," she says, returning to that tight-mouthed smile of hers, "but that's a fairly low bar to clear."

That brings them back to her marriage again, and his original question still left unanswered. Perhaps that had been a step too far. Fair enough; no one's ever mistaken him for a man with manners. Even for the new chill in her tone, though, blown in like an early snowfront over the hills, she hasn't made a move to step away from him. Were he to guess, Sharpe figures it likely that there's nothing untoward he could say about her marriage that she hasn't already thought of herself.

The silence carries them the rest of the way from the thoroughfare back to the house she shares with Whitlock. Arabella slows to a stop when they're still a dozen yards out from the porch, leaving little chance of Mr. Whitlock spying her through the window with some other man—though, from what he's heard of Whitlock, Sharpe wonders how much he'd care. He lets his own arm slide free from hers as she steps away, his hand moving back to rest on the grip of his pistol.

"Guess this is goodnight, then."

"Yes, I do believe I can make it the rest of the way on my own. Thank you, though, for your accompaniment. I appreciate it."

His accompaniment, then, but not necessarily his company. Sharpe supposes that shouldn't surprise him; she's used to brushing shoulders with a different class of folk.

"Anytime, Mrs. Whitlock."

She gives him a nod, then turns back toward the house, Sharpe keeping an eye on her until she's safe inside. Even if the chances of something happening before she makes it through the door are slim, they aren't nonexistent, and it seems a shame, somehow, to risk their last conversation being such an—uneven one. Sharpe does like the grit in her bones, even if she hadn't taken the comment quite as he'd intended—sturdy as steel where some folks are soft and breakable as gold, all shine that gives way under the barest pressure. Not unlike her wedding ring, and likely her marriage, too, though the shine already seems to be flaking away there, if it hadn't been dulled from the start.

Then again, Sharpe thinks as he turns back toward the thoroughfare, not as if her or her husband are any of his concern, are they? Who's he to care if she seems ill-suited to her marriage? His business with her extends as far as their morning appointment with Mr. Swearengen and likely no further. It's a certain sort of foolishness to waste so much thought on a woman he likely won't be speaking to in a week, and, while he's been accused of being a great many things, he's never been mistaken for foolish.

No—Sharpe decides, taking a deep breath of the chilled autumn air and turning his thoughts in another direction—and so it's time to quit being foolish about this, too.

(Still, as he begins his walk back to town, there's a part of him that can still feel the phantom warmth of Arabella's arm against his own, that thinks he can catch the smell of her perfume lingering beside him like she's left a rose in the pocket of his coat.)

[thatfallenarchangel]

Confronting Gabriel

Second in my series of short stories. 

I do take requests.

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already.”

Those words had played on loop in Crowley’s mind ever since Gabriel had uttered them. The Archangel whom was supposed to be better than the average demon. He was supposed to be better than the Fallen.

The fact that they were planning on utterly destroying the love of his life left Crowley more than furious. What he wanted more than anything was to storm back up to Heaven and show Gabriel just how much of a mistake he made.

He had not told Aziraphale exactly what Gabriel had said to him, he did not want to see the heartbreak in his angel’s eyes. Honestly, the angel had done an excellent job acting as him down in Hell. Asking Michael for a towel had been just perfect!

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already.”

The demon growled as those seven words played in his mind again. He could not take it anymore! He was going to track that traitorous Archangel down and yell at him. That meant the demon was going to take a little trip…

“I’ll be back in a few hours Aziraphale.” He said to his angel as he walked out of the bookstore without waiting for a reply. Crowley climbed into his Bentley with a certain destination in mind. 

201 Bishopsgate, London.

This was where the main entrance to both Heaven and Hell was located. It was about a twenty minute drive… if the demon were to actually obey the speed limits… Instead Crowley only had roughly six minutes to decide on how he was going to go about this mission of his.

Crowley pushed his Bentley between ninety and a hundred miles per hour as he thought about what exactly he wanted to say to that Archangel.

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already.”

The phrase took over his mind as he drove.

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already.”

It would not stop. He could not think about how to approach this interaction.

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already.”

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already.”

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already.”

With a growl, Crowley haphazardly parked his Bentley in a parking spot and headed inside Broadgate Tower where he took the right entrance up to Heaven. It was a place he had not stepped a foot in, as himself, since he had Fallen. 

The moment he stepped over the threshold, his feet started burning at the same, low level, intensity as when he walked inside that church so many years ago. The demon did not hop from foot to foot this time. No, he sauntered straight to where the Archangels always had gathered. He knew they never changed what part of Heaven they met up in from Aziraphale. Of course his angel did not know that Crowley could remember exactly what he was describing.

His golden snake eyes found Gabriel and smirked. “Gabey! Just the fucking Archangel I’m here to see!” As he talked, the demon allowed his darkened wings to slide out from his body. 

Gabriel, whom was actually alone for the first time in what seemed like forever, gaped at the sight of a demon inside Heaven. “That is not possible. Demons burst into flames when they step on consecrated ground or when they try to enter Heaven.” He narrowed his eyes and walked towards the demon. Thankfully, he always had a container of Holy Water on hand should he need it. 

Crowley smirked at Gabriel. “Oh I know, I once saved Aziraphale from being discorporated inside a church in 1941. Let me tell you, it really does feel like I’m walking on hot sand with bare feet.” He knew that he was getting under the Archangel’s skin and it was so much fun.

The Archangel pulled out a bottle and opened it. Inside was his personal stock of Holy Water which he immediately threw at the demon. Oh how wonderful it truly would be to get rid of Crowley.

He watched as the Holy Water came at him with a smirk on his face. Then, when his left side was soaked through with the Water he grinned. “You see Gabriel, Holy Water can’t kill me.” He said in a soft voice as he miracled the liquid off of him then healed the burns that covered his whole side. 

Gabriel stumbled away from Crowley, disbelief written plainly upon his face. “That cannot happen… no demon can heal Holy Water burns. It should have destroyed you.”

Those last five words reminded Crowley why he was there. 

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already.”

With a snarl, the demon stormed towards Gabriel. “I should kill you Gabey!” He grabbed hold of that grey suit jacket and snarled at the angel. He did not deserve to be referred to as an Archangel anymore, in his opinion.Gabriel huffed. “Now really demon, you can’t kill an Archangel.” He said snidely. Only another Archangel could harm him.Crowley smirked as he scratched the cheek of the angel, then watched as blood rose to the surface and fell in ruby red tears. “Really, I thought you would be smarter than that. I used to be the Archangel FUCKING RAPHAEL!” His God given name caused brief pain to flood his nervous system, but really, it was worth it to see the dumbfounded look on Gabriel’s face.“B...but he died…” Gabriel’s knees gave out as he crashed to the ground, but really it made some semblance of sense. Only Raphael could possibly have healed the demon from the destructive powers of Holy Water. Only Raphael ever could get away with calling him Gabey. Only a Fallen Archangel could step within Heaven again without burning to a crisp. Only an Archangel could harm another Archangel. Finally there were only two Archangels whom were missing from their ranks. Lucifer, who had Fallen, and Raphael, who had been presumed dead after the first war. Gabriel found himself shaken violently from his thoughts as he was lifted by his suit jacket.

“Now Gabriel, on to why I am here…” His eyes narrowed in rage. “How dare you try to destroy MY ANGEL?!” He threw Gabriel away from him as hard as he could. “How dare you condemn him to destruction by Hell Fire!” The angel landed halfway across the enormous room. “How dare you call him a TRAITOR when he is the PUREST of you ALL!” Crowley stalked over to where the angel had landed and knelt down to whisper in his ear. “You know, if She was still keeping a closer eye on things, you would have been punished. The destruction of a fellow Angel was always one of the very few things She commanded never to happen.” The demon’s voice had calmed a considerable amount, as evident by his lack of hissing. Gabriel grunted as he landed on the hard floor halfway across the room from the enraged demon. For the first time, he really could see that this Crowley was what remained of his best friend. The brother he always looked up to. The one who kept the peace between the Archangels. “We did what we thought was right. You two stopped the apocalypse from happening! Do you know how hard it was for us to get the angels and demons to stand down?” 

Crowley stood up and walked away from Gabriel. “Why should that matter? You would sentence seven and a half billion people to death just to settle a grudge between Michael and Lucifer!” He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “They really aren’t all that different from us, Gabriel. They just don’t live as long. They are capable of great good and great evil.” He turned towards the angel. “Just… stay away from Aziraphale.” His golden snake eyes held so much sadness in them for a brief moment before they hardened. “If you dare try to hurt him again, I’ll come back up here and destroy you.” He smirked at the angel. “And it won’t be a quick and painless death either.” 

With that the demon sauntered back the way he had came in and exited Heaven. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of his favored sunglasses. Then placed them on his face as he climbed into his Bentley and drove back home to his angel. 

[supergirl-obsessed]

Quicksilver

Imagine if instead of the flash jumping worlds it was you, and instead of catching Kara you caught Lena. Just an idea I had. Also holy fuck this is long. This has been sitting in my drafts for a couple weeks, I just didn’t know how to finish it. This will be a multiple part story, I love the idea and it has so many possibilities. Enjoy!!!

Lena Luthor x Reader

“So little me how about a race?” Barry said asked walking up to you. 

“Just because I'm younger than you and everyone calls me little flash doesn't mean you have to.” You asked getting a little mad about the nickname. Everyone gave it to you because you were Barry’s little brother and ended up gaining the power of speed as well. 

“I’m just kidding (y/n) you know that. But you have to admit it fits we do look very similar.” he said chuckling 

“Yeah not the thing I’m most proud of Barry. So about that race?” you asked 

“Oh right, your recent energy outputs have been considerably higher than mine so everyone wanted to see if that means that you have the potential to be faster than me or the way the speed force interacts in your body is different.” he said 

“You already know I’m faster than you.” You said laughing then running outside and saw everyone getting the equipment ready. One second later your brother appeared by your side. 

“You weren't kidding about them thinking I’m faster.” you said in awe of the idea of being faster than your brother. 

“I really wasn't” He said putting an arm on your shoulder. 

The both of you suited up and lined up for the race, as you got told the route you’d be taking for the race.

“On your marks, get set, GO!” you and Barry yelled simultaneously. 

It started off that the two of you ran the same speed but then you started to speed up, you completely let go ran faster than you even knew you could. Then suddenly you saw someone falling out of a building. You immediately jumped onto the side of the building ran up and caught her. You couldn't slow down like you normally do so you ended up going outside of city limits before you were able to even slow down. 

When you finally came to a complete stop, you put the women down finally looking at her face. When you did you were in awe for the second time today. She was the most beautiful person you had ever laid eyes on. 

You realized you were staring so you spoke up “Hey I’m sorry I ran you so far outside of the city it’s just me and The Flash were having a race and I was running the fastest I ever have and I didn’t know how to stop.” 

“Thank you for saving my life but, who are you and who is the flash?” the woman said.

“I’m Quicksilver, wait you don't know who The Flash is?” you asked 

“No should I?” she said 

“Yeah the flash from Central City, I’m his partner Quicksilver. Wait do you know who Green Arrow is?” you asked hoping she would know him.

“I’m sorry no.” she said 

“What about Black Canary?” you asked hopeful

“No sorry” she said 

“Not as sorry as I am.” you took off your mask then continued “I’m (y/n) Allen one of the Fastest people alive and I’m on the wrong earth I’m going to need your help.” 

“Wait so the theory of the multiverse is true?” She asked 

“Yeah Yeah it is, wait you know about it?” you asked so relieved that you wouldn't have to explain it to someone. 

“I’m Lena Luthor, I’m the CEO of L-Corp yeah I know what the multiverse theory is” 

“I’m sorry but what is L-Corp we don’t have that on my world.” 

“I’m sorry, its a tech and science based company.” 

“Oh cool like Star Labs.” you said quietly looking around and realizing you have been having a conversation in the middle of a desert. 

“Would you mind taking me there? I need to use a computer.” you said putting your mask back on.

“Yeah but how are we going to get there-”

She was cut off by you picking her up and running her to the city, as you were running you saw a building with the company name she said on the side of it. You ran there and stopped outside the building. 

“I would have ran you to your office but I didn’t know which one it was and I didn’t want to guess and be wrong.” 

“Top floor office with the balcony.” she said and in a second the two of you were there.

“Oh I should probably put you down now.” you said

“Other than the fact that I feel like I'm going to vomit that was really cool.” She said.

“Yeah I get that a lot. Do you happen to have pants lying around, I’ll take anything I have a shirt underneath but not pants.” 

“I have women’s skinny jeans thats it.” 

“I’ll take them.” you said grabbing the jeans then speed changing into normal cloths. 

“So about the computer?” 

“Right, use mine I just need my laptop right now and I’m a lot more interested in you than my work currently.” 

“Right so my brother was struck by lighting the same night a particle accelerator exploded he became the flash, then he went back in time, yeah I know but he really did, then I was struck by lighting instead of him that night and became Quicksilver. Basically time travel and earth jumping is nothing new but doing it by accident is.” you explained.

“Wait so you've jumped earths before?” 

“Well not me Barry has, thats my brother. I haven't I didn’t even know I was fast enough to jump worlds I thought only he was.” you said trying to find anyone from your earth on the computer. 

“Then how did you?” 

“We were racing then I saw you falling out of a building and poof I’m on a different earth. You seem a lot more calm than I would have expected anyone to be is there people who can do this on your earth too?” 

“No, we do have aliens.” 

“Wait you have ALIENS!” you said then running to stand beside her 

“Yeah we have aliens, Supergirl and Superman you don't have them on your earth?” 

“NO! thats awesome are they both in this city?” you asked then her phone went off. 

“Wait there’s something happening at CatCo I need to go over there, want to come?” she asked 

“Well yeah you're my this earth tour guide I’d be lost without you.” you said smiling 

When the two of you arrived everyone was greeting her, but most people were hectically running around. 

“So what’s the deal with this place?” you asked 

“Oh right, this is Catco a magazine company.” 

“So are you here for an interview?” 

“No I own this place too” 

“How many companies do you own Lena?” Just as you finished asking a girl with blonde hair and glasses came running up to Lena and gave her a big hug. 

“Lena thank god you’re safe I was so scared, do you know who the guy is that saved you.” she asked you gulped at the end of her sentence 

“No idea he just dropped me off and I had to take a cab back to L-Corp. But the story on him is what I’m here about James wanted me to organize how to deal with National Cities newest Superhero.” Lena said when she finished the blonde just turned and looked at you for the first time. 

“Lena who is your friend.” she said smiling at you 

“Oh um this is (y/n) my boyfriend.” she said then looked at you then reached to hold your hand.

“Boyfriend huh? how come you’ve never mentioned him?” she asked. You gulped again not knowing how to react as you were Lena’s ‘boyfriend’ now. 

“Well it’s a new relationship and I didn’t want to jinx it, but since my near death experience he was worried and so I thought I’d bring him to Catco with me and introduce him to my best friend.” Lena said 

“I’m Kara by the way and what was your name again?” she asked 

“(y/n) Allen” you said, she gave you a weird look before saying “I’ll round up everyone for the meeting.” 

When she was out of sight you turned to Lena and said “So that was the worst way I’ve ever been asked out well only way I’ve been asked out.” 

“I know I’m sorry it’s just I didn’t know what to say when she asked and that was the first thing that popped into my mind.” 

“Hey hey, it’s fine I’m honoured that you think I'm attractive enough to be your boyfriend but you need to go to the meeting also can I come with I want to see what everyones saying about me.” you said and she laughed leading you towards the room where the meeting was about to take place.

You and Lena walked towards a huge office with white couches, already filled with people.  

“Okay what do we know about this new superhero?” Lena announced as she leaned against the desk. 

“The guy’s a blur, but shouldn't you know the most about the guy he saved you.” a man said 

“I didn’t see him, I was falling then I wasn’t.” she said 

“Well he needs a name I was thinking The Flash.” Kara said 

“That’s good but I was thinking something more direct, like Quicksilver.” Lena said 

Everyone in the office just nodded, not wanting to disagree with their boss.

“James, we need a clear shot or as clear as you can get of Quicksilver and Kara you’ll be writing the article, I will give you my interview when you're ready.” 

Everyone had their assignments and filed out of the office. Lena turned to you and said 

“Now lets get you back to your earth.”