#mild. some would say Tepid!

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

hi im back with more Out Of Context lines from my outlines/snippets that i find mildly entertaining when going back through it all: Fantasy Au Edition!

[superectojazzmage]

Among my mounting bad/unsure feelings about Arcane season two is a feeling of... I don't know, weirded outness over how Jinx is being handled. Just the way they seem to almost be trying to pretend like she wasn't depicted in season one as basically a sadistic, bloodthirsty, would-be school shooter who did shit like shooting animals for fun or blowing up buildings to try and impress her dad.

Like, the narrative of this season seems to be going out of it's way to handle her with kids gloves in a way that season one didn't, treating her as if she's just a "lol so quirky" kind of character or even a genuine revolutionary hero to be idolized as Zaun's leader compared to season one's "oh this lady is genuinely dangerously unstable and a threat to everyone around her". She's not treated as a villain - albeit a tragic one - she's treated like she's a flawed hero at worst.

Hell, I mean, you see it with the whole plot of Zaun following Jinx as a symbol of revolt. Because all throughout season one, Jinx's relationship with Zaun in even the most charitable light amounted to everyone except Silco being fucking TERRIFIED of her or outright hating her guts, and with good reason as she did nothing but make everyone's situations worse by being a mood-swinging killer who attacks anyone and anything around her at the slightest provocation and constantly goes into violent, hallucinatory fugue states at even the most mild of stresses. But than she blows up the council and suddenly everyone is literally equating her with a god worshiped in Zaun? Imagine if you saw people claiming the Unabomber was the Second Coming and you get an idea of how bizarre that is.

Everyone regarded Jinx as a walking bomb in season one. Even a lot of Silco's allies - from Sevika to Marcus - spent said first season saying Jinx was out-of-control and that killing her would be doing Silco a favor, and that was objectively true, especially considering Jinx ends up directly murdering Silco in yet another fit of blind rage and panic. Now we get season two and anyone who seriously opposes Jinx seems to be treated like either a jerk or a burgeoning extremist for not liking a terrorist who kills people because the voices in her head say to do it, and some people who despised Jinx in season like Sevika now act like they're just mildly annoyed by her childishness and weird behavior (something else that was played in a very creepy light in s1, but now seems treated like it's harmless).

Her crimes from season one and even this season are kinda brushed over; there's tepid acknowledgment that she killed Caitlyn's mom and two other councilors, but that's it and nobody really dwells on the fact that she basically did fantasy 9/11. And likewise, Caitlyn is treated as if she's becoming a violent zealot for shooting at Jinx while Isha is near, but nobody so much as comments on Jinx outright murdering numerous children through Grey-bombing Piltover or literally shooting a teenage Firelight in the back in season one just because she looked like Vi.

Speaking of Isha, I hate to say it, but she really does feel like she has no reason for existing beyond making Jinx look better. No themes of Jinx perpetuating the kind of abuse Silco inflicted on her by raising to be the monster she is, no acknowledgment of how dangerous somebody like Jinx would be as a mother, no questioning of the ethics of Jinx's actions, and Isha watching Jinx murder people is framed in a silly, comedic light compared to season one's blunt depiction of how Powder being exposed to violence from a young age warps her. Isha throws straight KILLS HERSELF via suicide bombing and it's framed as a heroic, beautiful act and not a horrific sight of a child being so radicalized by the terrorist that raised her that she thinks killing others and eve herself "for the cause" is good. The series dangles her and Jinx being friendly with each other in front of you like a parent jangling car keys at an infant. "Oooh look at Jinx and Isha dancing and dying their hair haha it's so cute don't think about bad things, Jinx is nice now!".

I just honestly am not a fan of this "Harley Quinnification" of Jinx after season one went out of it's way to tear down that kind of character. Such a big part of Jinx's portrayal there was ripping apart the idea of this manic pixie terrorist who is Totes Awesomes and only hurts bad guys as part of it's larger themes of the ugliness of violence and the dangers of valorizing it. And I really feel like we're losing that. Not even just with Jinx, but with Zaun as a whole, this season feels like it's going full "everything is Piltover's fault, Zaun didn't do nothing wrong, those Piltover babies should just shut up and let themselves be attacked for being big stupid oppressor doodoo heads!!!!" which feels very counterproductive to the series' messages and like frankly shit writing.

[mishasminion360]

How Do You Do It?

Jack Daniels x fem!reader

Warnings: Mild language; words said in anger; stress-induced anxiety; mild angst; self-doubt; but lots of fluff, I swear.

Summary: Being a new mother and a homemaker are two difficult jobs to juggle at the same time, and even more of a challenge when your husband is constantly away. When Jack returns from his latest assignment to find you overtaxed and irritable, he decides to make it up to you by spending a day in your shoes.

A/N: What a busy summer/early fall. So much has changed in such a short time. Change is weird sometimes and brings a lot of stress. Had my first-ever panic attack. Zero stars; do not recommend. But even the stressful, scary parts of our lives can be inspiring. This fic is proof of that 😝

P.S. As you can see I began this fic in the fall of 2023 and look how late I’m posting it! I’m sorry for the long hiatus, folks, but believe me when I say it was necessary.

How is it that your husband is the secret agent, but the weight of the world always feels like it’s been thrust upon your shoulders?

The day you found out you were expecting was one of the happiest of your life. You and Jack had been over the moon and spent the entire adventure of pregnancy fantasizing about all the joys of parenthood that would arrive along with your bundle of joy. You weren’t kidding yourselves; you knew that a baby brought big changes and more than a few challenges. You just weren’t aware of just how high those hurdles would be until you were thrown into the race.

The roles of wife, homemaker, and now mother all seem to merge into one monstrous, never-ending task; and your duties seemed all the more daunting when you were left to fulfill them alone.

Jack is nothing short of attentive and dedicated when he’s at home. The problem is that “home” is usually the last place one will find him. As of late, his job with the Statesmen pulls and pushes him this way and that into parts unknown where he’s embroiled in espionage for some indeterminate period, leaving you with a house to maintain, meals to prepare, clothes to launder, and a colicky infant to soothe.

You’re trapped inside a pressure cooker and the temperature is nearing critical.

***

“Baby Shark” is on its 25th iteration, every “doo doo doo” is like a bat to the back of your head. You dance topless in the living room with your wailing son clutched to your naked chest. You’d tossed your t-shirt into the wash twenty minutes ago, covered—like the two before it—in your baby boy’s milky vomit.

Your sanity is a mere thread, frayed, delicate, and seconds away from completely unraveling. Your head is pounding and back aching, and you’re trying to convince yourself that the flush of heat you feel just beneath your skin is not a fever. You can’t afford to be sick now. Not when you are all your son has; when you are all you have.

“Daddy’s home, darlin’!”

The sound of his voice, the familiar clip-clop of his boots on the hardwood floor, should fill you with after hardly having heard it for a solid week. Instead, it has your already tepid body simmering with frustration.

“Hey there, Mama Mare.” The affectionate term oozes from between his grinning lips with all the smooth, sweet ease of honey. “Give this ol’ cowboy some sugar. He missed you.”

His lips are on yours and then detaching themselves before your mouth can even register it’d just been in contact with another; far quicker and more careless than the long overdue reunion kiss you’d been anticipating. The brief little smooch held about as much passion as a handshake.

“There’s my little cowpoke!”

Jack lifts his squalling son from your arms and little John’s cries instantly cease. Of course they do. Of freaking course.

“Well, now, you didn’t have to get all dressed up on my account, honeybee.”

You snap to attention after possibly having fallen asleep on your feet for a split second to see that Jack’s devilish gaze has zeroed in on your bared tits.

“You certainly know how to welcome a fella home.”

While he’s busy ogling your non-seductive nudity, your own eyes have locked onto the trail of muddy prints stretching from the front door, each filthy footfall a perfect imprint of the sole of Jack’s boots. Yet another mess you’ll have to clean up; another chore added to the already heavy burden you’re shouldering.

“How’s about after dinner we mosey on upstairs, put this little buckaroo to bed, then I show you just how much I missed you?”

You don’t even know how to respond to him right now, so you don’t. You simply turn your back and walk away, seething in a silent rage as you stomp your way upstairs to put on the thickest, ugliest sweatshirt you can find that leaves everything up to the imagination.

John starts to wail once again, but that’s Jack’s problem now. You have about a million other tasks to accomplish—make that a million and one, thanks to his filthy freaking boots.

You slip into the master bath and toss back a couple of Advil for your pounding headache and by the time you re-emerge, Jack is pacing around your bed, hands on his hips and a pensive scowl on his face.

You take a deep breath through your nose and the words tumble from your lips in a sigh. “I haven’t started dinner yet. Give me just a few minutes and I can—“

“Did I say somethin’ wrong?” he blurts. “‘Cause you gave me a look back there that reminded me of an angry steer about to trample a rodeo clown.”

“Just forget it,” you mutter, brushing past him toward the door. His hand wraps around your wrist before you can cross the threshold.

“I ain’t forgettin’ nothin’,” he drawls as he turns you to face him. “Sugar, what’s wrong? No use lyin’ because I can tell somethin’s stuck in your craw.”

Oh, it’s stuck alright. Like a bug in a windshield.

“Jesus, Jack,” you sigh. “Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve had a total of five non-consecutive hours of sleep this week. Or it could be the fact that the house is a mess or that I’m down to my last pair of clean underwear. All the chores have been put on hold so I could tend to our son while you’ve been off playing ‘secret agent man’ in God only knows where.”

His mustache twitches and his jaw ticks.

“Honeybee, why didn’t you tell me you’ve been strugglin’? I would have—“

“Because I shouldn’t have to tell you!” you snap. “You should know me well enough by now to tell when I’m not okay! You should already have some inkling of how hard it is to raise a child and that the process usually goes much smoother when both parents are involved. But I guess I’m just a fool for assuming. Getting shot at is far less hazardous to your health than changing a dirty diaper after all.”

When the red finally clears from your vision you see that Jack’s has become clouded with a look you’d only bore witness to once and concluded that you never wanted to see again. His mirthful brown eyes dulled by a deeply rooted pain planted long ago by a cruel twist of fate. He’d been robbed of his first chance to be a husband and father and you’d just accused him of squandering his second.

“Sugar, I’m….I’m sorry.”

Shit. It’s not fair. You have been miserable for an entire week and you can’t stand to see him miserable for even a millisecond.

“No, I’m sorry,” you insist, voice and legs quivering. You lower yourself to the bed before exhaustion and gravity get the better of you. “I’m just so tired. Tired and frustrated.”

He drops to the bed beside you and pulls you into one of his signature hugs you’ve missed so much. The tightest of embraces that only he can give.

“I know you’re working hard to provide for our family,” you sob. “I know that but still I….I feel so alone, Jack.”

Before even a single southern-drenched syllable can leave his mouth, a sharp wail blasts from the baby monitor and your body reacts instinctively and urgently. You shoot up and out of Jack’s arms like a rocket.

“Let me check on him and then I’ll start dinner,” you say with a sniffle.

“I’ll get him, darlin’,” Jack insists, gently grasping you by the wrist and halting your minimal progress toward the door.

“But he probably needs—“

“I will get him.”

His hands are on your shoulders now—firm yet gentle—and grounding, comforting.

“Please, let me take care of my boy so you can take care of you, honeybee. And then, later, I’d like to take care of you, too. If you’ll let me.”

You can only muster a nod before he’s striding out of the room. Taking advantage of the first minute you’ve had to yourself in a week, you slip into the shower and let the warm spray unclench every muscle coiled tight with stress.

By the time you emerge, John is sleeping peacefully and a pizza’s been ordered. Jack dotes on you the entire evening, giving your aching feet a rub down with his skillful hands and cuddling you close as you both zone out to some ridiculous reality TV. His mere presence is a balm to your weary soul.

Whenever the baby cries in the middle of the night and your body moves on instinct Jack stills you, urges you back to the mattress, and takes on the challenge himself. It’s the best night’s sleep you’ve had in you can’t remember how long.

***

And surprisingly enough, you don’t manage to sleep any later than 9 a.m. The smell of extra greasy bacon lures you from bed, a siren’s call to your stomach.

John bounces in his high chair, babbling around a mouthful of mashed banana, most of which appears to have ended up on his face, shirt, and chubby little fists. Jack is an even more astonishing sight than your messy son, strutting about the kitchen in your frilly apron topping his off-white Henley and faded Wranglers.

“Well, good mornin’, sugar,” he cries, grabbing your hips to tug you in for a kiss. “Though I wasn’t expectin’ to see you up so soon.”

“How did you expect me to stay asleep when something smells incredible?”

“That would be my famous chocolate chip, peanut butter, and banana flapjacks.”

In true Southern gentlemanly fashion, he pulls out a chair and eases you into it before setting a towering stack of syrup-soaked pancakes before you, coffee and bacon following suit.

“Better eat quick now, darlin’,” Jack urges as he takes a seat with his plate. “You’ve got a busy day ahead of you.”

As if you could forget. That laundry is begging for attention, the house hasn’t had a good dusting in you can’t recall how long, and Johnny already needs a bath—

“I made you an appointment for noon.”

Your train of thought instantly stalls on the tracks.

“Appointment?”

Jack grins over the brim of his steaming mug.

“Honey, you need a break. Figured you might enjoy yourself a little spa day.”

You can hardly believe your ears.

“Spa day?”

“Yes, ma’am. Massage, mud baths, whatever the heck they do with seaweed, the whole nine yards,” he explains proudly. “I even called up your buddy from work and asked if she’d like to join you. And it’s all on me.”

“But Jack, what about John? And the house, the laundry, the cooking?”

“Gimme some credit, sugar,” he chuckles. “I think I can keep the homestead standin’ and our baby boy breathin’ for a day. Besides, it’s high time I start puttin’ in my fair share of help around here, isn’t it?”

You’re not sure if you want to thank him or burst into tears. Maybe both.

“You do so much, honeybee,” he says warmly, voice as smooth, rich, and sweet as the syrup sluiced atop your pancakes. “You move mountains every day to make this house a home. How’s about lettin’ someone do somethin’ for you for a change?”

You scarf down the rest of your pancakes before kissing him with sticky lips and racing up the stairs to get ready for your big day out.

***

You feel rejuvenated and refreshed. Brand fucking new. A far cry from the husk of a woman who’d left the house this morning. Wrapped in seaweed and slathered with mud you’d been returned to the earth and reborn at full strength, like a phoenix risen from the ash.

You'd been reunited with an inner strength and power you'd all but forgotten. And thank God for that, because you're going to need every bit of it to face the chaos you come walking back into upon your return home.

You can hear John’s piercing wails before you’ve cut the engine and opened the driver’s side door. You can smell the smoke before you've even reached the front steps.

Inside all hell has broken loose. Gray tendrils of smoke slither through the air, teasing the detector into screaming its warning. Your baby boy is giving it some stiff competition with his own cries as Jack struggles to bounce him on one arm while he tries to fan away the smoke with the other. Both gestures prove futile.

“It’s okay, buckeroo. You’re okay. Don’t cry. Please, please don’t cry.”

Jack looks so frazzled. The situation is far from funny so the last thing you should do is laugh at his expense. But dammit if you don’t anyway.

“Do you need some help there, cowboy?”

His frantic eyes find you through the haze and pierce you with a desperate, wordless plea. You take the inconsolable infant from your husband’s arm and soothe him into silence as Jack does the same to the smoke alarm.

“There now, Johnny. See? Everything’s okay. Daddy made the bad sound stop.”

“He just stopped cryin’ for you. Just like that.”

Something in his eyes burns. Something in his voice cracks.

“I couldn't bring him any kind of comfort. He didn't….want nothin’ to do with me.”

Your weary cowpoke sags into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and buries his face in his hands with an exasperated sigh.

“You were right, darlin’. I'm useless.”

You settle John into his high chair with a teething ring to distract him before turning your attention to your distressed husband.

“To be fair, I never said you were useless.”

“You may as well have,” he sighs. “And if you weren’t thinkin’ it before you’ll be thinkin’ it now.”

You smirk. “Rough day?”

“Oh darlin’, you don’t even know the half of it.”

He begins to recount the day’s challenges, his voice raising in pitch as goes from describing one hurdle to the next. He almost seems on the verge of tears.

“And I got so distracted while tryin’ to get our fussy boy to eat his dinner that I failed to hear the timer and let ours burn. Hence the fiasco you came home to. And when John started bellowing for his supper I was in the middle of the laundry and I forgot to separate the colorful items from the rest, so my new red jockeys turned our bathroom towels pink and….and I just failed so miserably today, sugar. I’m so sorry.”

You laugh, unable to help it. It’s all you can do at this point. “Welcome to my world, sweetheart.”

“How on Earth do you do it, sugar?”

If you’re being honest, you ask yourself that question at least once a day, and not always with the same emotional connotation behind it.

“There’s just something inside of me that encourages me to power through the difficulties. A force, a reminder.”

“An iron will for damn sure,” he scoffs.

“No, that’s not it,” you chuckle. “It’s love, Jack. For you and our boy. That’s what keeps me going.”

He looks at your have cradling his own, a gesture of both dominance and comfort. In this moment he believes that he is made of inferiority.

“I love you both to the moon and back, yet I can’t even do a load of laundry.”

“Jack you do enough. I have not, do not, and never will doubt your love for me and John,” you reassure him. “Acts of service just happen to be my particular love language, not yours.”

“Then what is mine?”

You lift his hands and kiss both sets of his knuckles. “Words of affirmation.”

His acts of service are for the world, but his words are just for you.

“But ain’t actions supposed to speak louder?”

“For others, maybe,” you shrug. “But that’s only because no one else speaks as loudly as you.”

@grimeylady @rav3n-pascal22 @mamacitapascal @insomniamama1 @pedrosbisch @emmaispunk @lv7867 @reonlouw @hawaiianmelodies @heythere-mel @healingstardust @delorena @pedropasxal @caesaryoulater @fangirling-alert @fromthedeskoftheraven @axshadows @dragon-scales88 @spacepastel-blog @spideysimpossiblegirl @hauntedmama @mswarriorbabe80 @horton-hears-a-honk @wild-at-heart-kept-in-cage @a-trial-run-on-paper @oonajaeadira @dhadiirah @felicisimor @practicalghost @luz-introvertida @amneris21 @hb8301 @tanzthompson @littlemisspascal @dobbyjen @supernaturalgirl20 @alexxavicry @harriedandharassed @trickstersp8 @neganwifey25-blog @twistedboxy @emiemiemiii @energeticspookyshark @thevoiceinyourheadx @pedr0swh0r3 @anamiad00msday @secretwriterpp @wannab-urs @pedrostories

[nsewell]

Sending three because of Ava/Nat indulgence, feel free to take as few as many as you like: 8, 29, 40

8. sunbathing, 29. sweat, 40. pet

Brazil, 1976; Ava comes back from reconnaissance to find the long breadth of Nat in a Caravaggio spread on the private balcony of their suite. The weather is mild, a sweet, tepid spot between two extremes, but bearably warm for the sensitive skin of a vampire. It’s a relief from the Nordic climate the Agency has kept them in for the past four months and her companion is taking advantage of it and the rare lull between missions - sunbathing in a drawstring one piece that flatters the cutting line of her broad shoulders. There’s a drape of sheer fabric around her hips and Nat will tell her later that it’s a sarong, when Ava goes to take it off her. For now, she’s turned on her side in a lounge chair with a book beneath her palms that she’s giving her undivided attention.

Nat belongs here in the sun and afternoon air, in defiance of the legends that confine their kind to cold and shadow. She seeks it out often enough and she’s never said anything but Ava thinks it’s because she’d had enough of the latter, in the cloistered life that had come before.

“Is that a new bathing costume?” Ava asks as she stands in the doorway, arms crossed and her sunglasses pulled down; behind their shade she’s admiring all the open planes of her.

Nat smiles at her over her shoulder without surprise, and says in her most patient voice, “They’re called swimsuits now.”

“Seems a needless expense.” For someone who doesn’t like to swim is the addendum that Ava leaves off. She doesn’t need to say it. The unspoken dialogue between them has flowed seamlessly since their fifth or so decade together.

“You don’t like it?” Nat rolls to her stomach and pets down the toweled space beside her in invitation and Ava accepts willingly, settling her muscled weight. “I thought it was a fitting gift to myself. I haven’t bought one since the fifties and styles have changed.”

Ava has never bought a ‘swimsuit’ so she wouldn’t pretend to know. Her sports bra and athletic briefs have always served their utilitarian purpose, and before that, nudity had been a nonissue when bathing in streams and lakes. She doesn’t swim for leisure.

“I didn’t say that,” Ava replies, and after some deliberation, stoops and presses her mouth to the tawny skin between Nat’s shoulder blades that will never accumulate sweat or burn in the harsh rays. Her lips are instantly warmed. Nat sighs contentedly and shifts closer until her back is pressed against Ava’s chest, where she lingers. “I only find it unnecessary,” Ava tells the divots of her spine.

“Ah, I see,” Nat muses, flipping a page in her book with the attention they both know she’s abandoned. “So you would prefer it off of me?”

Ava blanches, sits up straight and then stares down at Nat who is looking back with those attractive, downturned eyes of hers rather too innocently. “You seem very intent on putting words in my mouth today,” Ava tells her, straight faced.

Nat’s back tremors with a low, resonant chuckle. She reaches to brush the sunglasses up and over the tight crown of Ava’s hairline and Ava allows her to anchor her touch there, stroking the hard knot at the base of her head. “Only because you seem to fall short of them. They’re not wrong words are they?”

Ava raises a thick brow and nearly almost laughs. “No. You know me too well.”

Then, Morgan’s voice from the adjacent balcony, and were they not so taken with each other they really would have noticed her sooner; if not from the cigarette smell then by the grey plumes she sends to the breeze: “Just how many words do you need to make the pass that it would look nicer on your floor? For fucks sake.”

[ballsballsbowls]

Saw a post the other day talking about a fic author who is very upset to know that people are talking about their fic in Private Exclusive Discord Servers and they feel "excluded" and it makes them want to write less. I obviously do not want literally ANYONE who'd participate in that discussion on tumblr to see what I have to say, which is going to lump fic and published books together, because I am one on those mean meanies who HAS a private discord book club of sorts and we do both published books AND fic.

Besides not being sure there's any relation between "talking about stuff you're reading on discord" and not openly leaving comments or reviews or anything on the works themselves, which feels a little "every pirated copy of my song is someone who would have purchased it and I have actively lost the cost of the album for every single download." (And it's deeply, unquestionably fucked to say outright that people should blame themselves if you quit writing because they didn't comment enough.) Part of the reason I went from talking about books I read on tumblr in extremely coded language to not discussing them at all is because when there's no private internet places anymore, the only people who truly lose are the people who want to complain about things, even a little tiny bit.

To be clear, all references to "criticism" from here on in will NOT mean, "The author should be sent to break rocks on a penal colony on the moon so they never have a chance to write dogshit like this again," we're talking "This was good but they need better editing." Or a "This was fun but it was 10k too long" sort of criticism that balances "I read this to completion and it was a net good and I enjoyed it" vs a mild but understandable critique.

You are Not Allowed to have even tepid criticism of a work on AO3 (or in reviews on indie books) because The Author Might See It, and you don't know whether they will vague about you or blame you for them not writing x thing. There's always another Indie Author harassing people who leave reviews that are even marginally negative.

You are Not Allowed to collect fics to recommend to other people using AO3's bookmark feature if you leave mediocre notes because The Author Can See It.

You are Not Allowed to have a middling review on social media because The Author Will See It. If you set it to private, someone will screencap it and email it to the author.

If you compile book or fic recs where people can see it, some stranger (rarely the authors) will take umbrage with your choices. Then you either get hate mail or someone will email them to your boss.

I don't want people hounding me and I don't want people mad at me, so I moved everything to a more private venue. I comment and review when the spirit moves me, but I think long and hard about whether the review could be construed as negative and keep it to myself if it does. I can control who is seeing what I have to say, and these are people I trust implicitly to have my best interests at heart and know that an opinion like, "I don't know why they bothered with sex scenes at all" will be taken at face value.

Besides there's only so many times I can discuss a book on tumblr and pretend it is a book titled "Half Vampire Half Angel All Stupid" and lampshade the plot points so it's not recognizable because god forbid the author has a tumblr and sees me saying that their book's incredibly bad and that I read the entire thing.

If knowing people are discussing your work in a discord that you're not allowed in turns you into a shivering critter in a Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commercial, I'm not sure what to tell you, other than, whether you are writing for fun or for money: I genuinely think that people who liked your stuff should comment/review more

and I also think our lives were both made worse when every place I could go on the internet to say "I spite-finished their new work but I didn't care for it. I'm going to read the next one once it's out and see if I hate it less" disappeared so that I am forced to have this convo right within earshot of you. I think that hurts us both.

[teachablemomentsblog]

Heart Map: My Sunfire Circle (Part Two)

"The traffic slowly started to inch forward, making me the brand new 4PM, Friday afternoon traffic jam catalyst."

I can pretend like I remember specifics about my work week leading up to Happy Hour, but I’d be lying. At that time, the State of Texas Assessment of Academic Readiness, or STAAR test had come and gone, and we had celebrated our positively trending scores (although not at Carlo’s). I also relished in the fact that the school year was close to finished and I could start applying for jobs closer to home. My MacArthur 9th students and I had an unwritten understanding, like most teachers have with their students at the end of the year, to stay cordial and give some degree of effort for the final two weeks of school and we will make it through together.

The bell rang at 2:35 on Friday afternoon for the students to walk to their buses. I lagged behind, and waited for students to disperse before heading to my car. Charles had given me directions to Carlo’s which was right down the street. I walked through the door to Charles, Lawshe, my buddy Glewwe from across the hall, and a couple other random faces I had seen once or twice in the hallway.

Surprise, surprise, within five minutes, the conversation waned without work as a buffer. And, of course, we all proclaimed through forced chuckles we didn’t want to discuss work! Come on! It’s Friday! Let’s enjoy ourselves! And then the ensuing twenty minutes of forced conversation as we searched for common ground on anything...ANYTHING. Thank God Glewwe had shown up, who avidly followed the Minnesota Timberwolves. At least we could chat about basketball. And I could enjoy the relief of talking to a coworker about something BESIDES work.

Charles noticed my effort to socialize had run its tepid course. After an hour of checking my watch in 10-minute intervals to decide if an appropriate amount of time had passed, Charles sat down next to me.

“Hey man. Thanks for coming out. It wasn’t too bad, was it?”

“No way man! This was...fun! I had a great time!” What else do I say? “No, Charles. This was as bad and boring as I thought it would be. But thanks for helping me with my flat!”

He gave me his all-too-familiar smirk as he replied.

“Yeah, I’m sure you did. Haha...well don’t feel obligated to stay if you are ready to go. I know you have the fiance and kid at home.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I mean...I wish I could stay but, I probably do need to head out.”

I quickly said goodbyes and rushed to my Sunfire. (Sorry, Glewwe, for leaving you to fend for yourself.)

From prior experience, I REALLY didn’t want to fight the traffic on Fm1960 at 4PM on a Friday, so I made the ill-fated decision to take the Beltway 8 which connected Highway 59 and Interstate 45, two of the main roads out of Houston. In hindsight, this senseless decision changed me forever. Maybe my happy hour margaritas did more damage than I realized.

No matter which route I took, traffic at 4PM on a Friday was unavoidable. But, at the time, my plan of action seemed like a brilliant idea! And then...Boom! Honk! Honk! Traffic. And not just mild inconvenience that moves molasses traffic. No, I sat idling in standstill traffic in the smoldering Texas sun, stuck in the middle lane, with nowhere to go.

As I mentioned before, my 2002 Pontiac Sunfire had seen better days. It still sluggishly moved me from point A to B, even though the perpetual check engine light did annoy me. Beyond that, its only current issue was its tendency to overheat if idling for too long. And, unfortunately, the traffic continued its standstill. So, I stared in agony as my thermometer slowly tilted further and further up.

When I told this story in class, one kid asked, “Why didn’t you just turn the car off?” Um...shut up...that’s why. 

I didn’t know what to do. I literally had nowhere to turn and had to wait for my car to overheat. I had no idea what happened if my Sunfire actually overheated. I attempted the few feeble troubleshooting tricks I knew, like turning up the hot air to push the heat out of my hood and through my car. It didn’t work. (I learned this unsuccessful tip from an episode of King of the Hill. If only they had gone over changing a flat tire, I wouldn’t be in this mess!) I stared in horror as the thermometer needle tilted towards the red sliver at the end of the gauge. Thankfully, instead of a mushroom-cloud explosion in the middle of the highway, which I halfway expected, the car promptly shut off for the last time and I found myself even more stuck than before. And, naturally, the traffic slowly started to inch forward, making me the brand new 4PM, Friday afternoon traffic jam catalyst.

I tried turning the ignition key three more times, but it had fallen silent. The Sunfire had died. I sifted through my limited options and fell back to my mom’s AAA card. Oh good! Finally a legitimate, non-flat tire excuse to give it a try! I looked out my window and noticed the news chopper surveying the traffic overhead. Even better! My smoking Sunfire had made it on television! This day kept getting better and better.

I called the number on the back of my AAA card and followed the prompters for a tow truck. I did my best to ignore the honking and cursing from the commuters all around me. Cuss and honk all you want, but my Sunfire isn’t un-overheating. With sincere regret in their voice, they informed me it would take roughly an hour before they got through the traffic. I also didn’t feel like any of my fellow motorists were willing to help me push my Sunfire to the shoulder. So, I sat, stuck, with my head down while everyone crawled around me. I did my best to continue to ignore the lewd comments from people as I slowly melted in my car.

Finally, the tow truck carefully sliced its way through the sea of automobiles. They pulled in front of me and reversed to the hood of my car. I opened my door, completely drenched in sweat, and greeted the tow truck guy.

“Oh, thank god you’re here!”

“Yessir! So you’re the one that’s holding up all this traffic?”

“Um, yes that would be me. Do I need to show you my AAA card or anything?”

“What? Oh, no. The police called us. We have to get you out of the road.”

“Wait...I called AAA. They should be here any minute.”

“Sorry, bud. We have to do what the coppers tell us to do. And they told us to get you out of here. It’s a safety issue.”

Since they didn’t work through AAA, AAA definitely wouldn’t pay them. Which meant the bill fell onto me. Great! What a nice finishing touch to my first Happy Hour experience!

I took my ride of shame with the tow truck guy, who impressed me with how great he pretended to empathize with my situation but, of course, didn’t hold back when it came to payment I barely had for the tow.

“Oh, yeah. That does sound rough. Eesh, and a new kid, huh? What horrible timing. Anyways, that’ll be $150 bucks. Of course, I take credit cards.”

Ugh.

I never drove the Sunfire again. It’s so peculiar to think back on it now. To think of the chain of events that led to my car’s demise. Charles taught me to change my flat tire which set in motion my car overheating on Beltway 8 and breaking down for a final time. Funny how that works.

I didn’t hang out with my Mac 9 coworkers again. At least not all together. I finished my final week of school, applied for jobs closer to home, interviewed a couple of times, and finally landed a job at Caney Creek High School, where I’ve worked for eight years. 

After the last day of school, I needed to pick up a handful of items from my old classroom. Charles happened to be in his room. We joked around for a while and took a selfie together to send to Lawshe. And then I left and I never walked through the doors of MacArthur Ninth Grade Campus again. And I never saw Charles again.

A couple years later, December 20th of 2015, I received a call from Lawshe.

“Hey, Lawshe! What’s up!?”

She was crying.

“Charles. H-he passed away.”

“What?”

“He passed away a couple of days ago. Just went to sleep and didn’t wake up. Gannon, he has a wife and a kid. It’s almost Christmas. I don’t know what to do.”

I didn’t know either. We sat silent on the phone for a moment. I don’t fully remember my response as I gathered myself. I told her to please let me know the information for the funeral and I hung up.

I stared at the wall in a daze. The selfie I took with him in the summer a couple of years ago was the last time I would ever see my friend. I felt the weight of my mortality and fragility, since Charles was 41 and I was already in my late 20’s. Time doesn’t wait.

When we gathered for the funeral, it felt bittersweet. On one hand, we all felt the excitement of seeing each other again, if only under different circumstances. The funeral blurred by, but I do remember a conversation with a couple of my friends about the impact of Charles..

“Charles was forever a teacher. That’s what inspired me. Even when he wasn’t teaching, he was teaching.”

I explained to them about my Sunfire and Charles helping me change my flat tire, which led to its retirement.

“And even though it was a bummer with what happened to my Sunfire, I wouldn’t trade that memory for anything. That memory shapes the kind of teacher, the kind of person I hope to be. It gives me something to strive towards.”

Reflecting on it with my students, I tell them I hold onto that teaching philosophy even to this day. And sometimes, I may start a story thinking it’s about one thing but, really, if I give myself the time to think about it, deep down it’s about something much more meaningful.

“So, was this story really about my Sunfire?”

Edmund piped up. “No way, mister. It was about your friend Charles and what he meant to you.”

Absolutely. Sometimes it takes searching our feelings about our memories that shows us what has really shaped us into who we are.

Even though the students may not have necessarily gotten to a point with a story from their own lives that permanently affects them this much, it gives them a starting point and shows that vulnerability is okay. Most great writing starts from a place of vulnerability. Teaching students this concept can prove difficult, so thank you Charles for the lasting impression you have on my classroom and on me.

My Teachable Moments

This one goes without saying,, but don’t take any of your moments for granted. The selfie I took with Charles seemed extremely unimportant and stupid at the time, but now it has turned into the final moment I ever had with him. I still have that picture so I can look to it as a reminder of this philosophy.

Try to put yourself out there. I still regret how I handled myself at Carlo’s restaurant when I wanted to leave. Hell, for all I know, if I had just stuck around a little longer and enjoyed myself I wouldn’t have found myself stuck in traffic and on the 6 o’clock news.

Never stop teaching when people need it. I remember feeling like a very selfish teacher my first year. I didn’t believe in what I was doing. I thought about my wife and baby and made sure I had a paycheck to bring home to them. Charles changed that for me. Even though my first year felt impossible, it reignited my passion to give the world one of the only true things we can offer, our  knowledge and our time.

[joni-witchell]

A lot of these straight girl's husbands look like they would message a guy he works with on and off who's a little bit twunky and slightly overlyfriendly, which doesn't help that it's stirring up latent homosexual feelings inside of him that he repressed since he was a teenager because he had a weird experience in the locker room where he and his best friend (shorter than him with light brown hair and a cleft palette scar)they had a falling out after he got a semi after he and his friend were exchanging nervous glances and his friend went to touch it and he got scared so he ran out of the shower and then right after highschool he got married to some normie blonde lady (dirty blonde with tacky highlights btw) who just got into resin art and that's taking up all/most of her time and finances so she's stressed out and not showing him the affection and attention he craves and now he's messaging the twunk all nonchalantly for three weeks basically every time he goes outside to smoke a cigarette (Black and mild golds because he thinks it makes him cooler or something )but there's always an edge of horniness in the way he messages, an edge of expectancy and he ends up jerking off thinking gay thoughts and afterwords feels really bad about it and always gets nervous his wife is gonna find out even though it's just in his head so to appease this guilt, he'll post a picture with her in it and their ugly elderly dog and the younger puppy they got to ease the pain when the other dog dies even though it's a terrorist and destroys their stuff and also their ugly baby is in it too with her dead soulless stare. No jing. No Qi behind her eyes. No spirit. That ugly baby has no soul and you can tell...just a tepid dullard's stare that you KNOW she's gonna have even after she's well into adulthood and caption it "Easter Sunday. #godisgood #heisrisen" then two weeks later frantically message that twink three times in a row talking about "I need you so much" " been so fuckin horny for that hole" "need you right now" then jerk off and lose horny brain and then message that twink again saying "fuck dude im just dealing with a lot right now fuck nevermind fuck me I don't even know man. Sorry" but the twunk lost his phone when he went to float the river so the messages go unopened and unanswered and her husband cries in the shower and drinks a beer and takes too much ibuprofen and that's why his hairline is receding and his teeth are getting even more brittle.

... And it shows 💅☕ 🐸

[thedisneychef]

African Meat Bobotie Recipe Easy – Boma and Tusker House

When I decided to make this recipe, it was only because it has been requested several times in the last few months. Honesty, I’ve never had it in the parks and looking at the recipe itself this looked totally unappetizing. Raisins, sugar, and meat? I just wasn’t seeing the attraction. It just seemed… Well… Gross. Even my husband, who’s usually up for anything Disney food related was making other plans for dinner. It was just too exotic for him. I was dreading putting this on the table for dinner. There was no way this was passing the picky eater kid test. But this is a signature dish, a classic recipe from Boma and Tusker House. People rave about it and every time I go to Tusker House, the bobotie pan is completely empty. “You have to go to Boma” is always paired with “try the bobotie!” on Disney food forums. Surely, this has to be better than it looks? More Delicious Recipes You Will Love: - Mealie Pap – Tusker House - Mickey Mouse Ice Cream Cake: Recipe and Instructions - Mickey Pretzel Recipe From Disney Parks I think I started to clue in to just how delicious this recipe was after I sampled while I was cooking. The smell was certainly enticing (it reminded me of the samosa stand at our local farmer market) and almost exotic… And when I took a sample spoonful, which shortly turned into a sample serving, I was in love. Sweet and savory with a great, creamy texture and an unbelievable aroma, I couldn’t wait to try it when it was finished with the egg custard topping. My husband wasn’t sold until he saw it come out of the oven and “I can make my own dinner, it’s not a problem” turned into a tepid “I guess I’ll try it.” But even he, who’s a much less adventurous eater than I am, really enjoyed it and that first uneasy bite turned into a request for seconds and I think even thirds. I’m amazed to say that this even passed the kid test… Everybody ate their food with a minimum of complaining and truly enjoyed it. Who knew something with crazy ingredients that I barely wanted to make would turn into a family favorite? I certainly didn’t. Meat bobotie is an African meat pie dish (introduced to Africa by Dutch traders of all things), almost like cottage or shepherds pie in England.  However, instead of being topped with potatoes, it’s topped with eggs and the meat itself has a sweet, very mild spicy kick with nuts and raisins added for texture and flavor contrast.  It’s so hard to describe, but honestly one of the most interesting dishes I’ve ever eaten and one I can’t recommend enough. Exotic, unique, really flavorful, and fairly easy to make. A great way to try some new flavors and foods while still using fairly common and “safe” ingredients for picky eaters. When I made this recipe, I used a meatloaf mix of beef, veal, and pork… Ground lamb isn’t something I can find in the grocery stores around here (not that there is a snowballs chance in summer that anybody here would eat lamb) and I felt that the meatloaf mix would give me meat that easily kept its shape after cutting while staying moist. While it’s been awhile that I used curry in a dish, I was instantly reminded (and thought I should remind readers) that the stuff stains like you wouldn’t believe. Clothes, counter tops, napkins, you name it. While a shot of bleach spray gets it out pretty easily, work with it carefully. My only other note was that this recipe does not call for using a water bath. However, I think that cooking this in a water bath may be actually better than just putting it in the oven. Not that going without it will ruin the meal, I think that if I had used it I’d have gotten a more even cook on the custard while reducing the time in the oven. No big deal. My most important note on prep for this is to make sure… Really, really, really, really sure… That when you drain the meat after it has been cooked on the stovetop, make sure you get as much fat out as absolutely possible. When it cooks in the oven, the fat actually seeps up around the edges and on to the custard, seriously impacting both cook time and the level of browning on the custard. If you find that fat has risen during baking onto the custard, gently use a spoon to try to scoop it out… And be warned again, the only thing that stains worse than curry is curry infused fat. I know how crazy this recipe sounds. Even typing it out, I can’t believe all of the ingredients came together into something that tastes as wonderful as it did. But honestly, this is one of my new favorite family meals. It may even be my new “company is coming over, let’s serve something neat” meal.  It’s certainly well worth making and I promise, especially for the folks out there who need their Boma fix, this will hit the spot. In addition to the delicious food and recipes, Disney World is also known for its unique dining experiences, such as character dining and themed restaurants. Whether you want to have breakfast with Mickey Mouse, dine in a replica of a sci-fi drive-in theater at Hollywood Studios, or enjoy a meal with an ocean view at the Coral Reef Restaurant in Epcot, there's something for everyone. And with the help of Recipes Today and the How to Make category, you can even recreate some of these magical dining experiences in your own home. So why not start planning your next Disney-inspired meal or dining experience today? Read the full article

[cordoleo]

question brings concern to make a frown grow, certain reprimand would follow — considering whom he is born from, she would expect condescension at least, so surprise almost matches his when that is not what follows. "oh, no, i do believe i could ever turn myself truly to the profession. a dear companion of mine has the gift for it, i have only taken some tips from her to keep her company and away from the sport. you speak greatly and beautifully of it, my prince, but it can be rather upsetting." she hardly thought she could be blamed for it; the testament shared by alys was enough to make her bite at her lip in worry that something was to happen to her brother or husband.

despite humble denial, she continues the fussing, swiping a finger on the healing mixture and pressing it gently against scrapes formed upon the prince's skin. we will be family, it's said comfortingly, though it does everything but that. the words may be delivered as sweetly as drystan wishes to, but they shall never become the truth. "it may be a moment longer until then. and, until then, you are your highness," she presses, though she finds herself brazen enough to be false with a smile that attempts to jest. "are you and your brother friends?" curiosity is mild, but reports on the matter have always reached the north with mixed answers. "have you? i say from first hand that you may have to try a bit harder with calon," subintention is noted, but dismissed with a lighter smile; she knows the prince would be fighting a losing battle with her husband, but she also knows that it was of a similar vein when she tried so very hard to turn the irritable ironborn brat into tepid acquaintance, then more. "your parents would not gladden with that approach, but it is clear you are one of courage, your highness."

drystan's eyes widened slightly, genuine surprise flickering across his features. "you're not formally trained?" he asked, a note of incredulity in his voice. "by the seven, i was convinced you had maesters teaching you in secret, considering how deftly you handle those injuries. It’s a testament to your skill, lynara, or perhaps a hidden talent you’ve yet to fully explore." he paused, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

leaning back slightly, he adopted a more contemplative pose, though his eyes still sparkled with mirth. "you know, soon enough we'll be more than just acquaintances; we'll be family. and when sebastion sits on the throne, with you by his side as queen, you'll find yourself outranking me," he reminded her, the lightness in his tone his true feelings towards sebastion and the throne. "as for calon, I've always believed that the best way to turn adversaries into allies is to find... common ground," he said, the implication hanging heavily in the air, accompanied by a suggestive wink. "especially with those harboring a great deal of aggression. there’s an art to warming people up, and I dare say, i've become quite the artist."

[littlefreya]

Ghost Stories

Summary: They said the house was haunted, that long time ago a young man was murdered between these crumbling walls, but she never believed in urban legends and spooky tales.... 

Pairing: Mike x OFC (3rd person. No description of race or body type)

Word count: 3k

Warnings: 18+, smut, greyish, rather dub-con, supernatural themes, stalking, voyeurism, hinted possessive behavior, female masturbation, oral sex (female receiving), slight somnophilia, sex, sex with a horny ghost, Mike saying  “Sweetcheeks”.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own

A/N: Spooky times commences. I am indeed working on turning all the headcanons into stories. This time it’s horny ghost Mikey time. I never wrote a full story with Mike, and umm ghost sex, I guess there is a first for anything. I hope you guys like it.  👻 Many thanks to @agniavateira​ for beta and emotional support!

Please reblog and leave a comment if you enjoyed 🖤

Title: Ghost Stories

‘Murder House’ was the unofficial name of the building at the end of Cherrywood street. For centuries it stood unyielding in the face of many harsh winters, its clay-brick exterior pitted and worn by the solitude of the city’s suburbia. And like most old houses, it festered with ghost stories: more specifically, the mystery about the premature death of a handsome young man, the details groomed and begrimed over the years, deeming the abandoned home haunted with myths.  

One would argue that the place had a certain charm to it; the tall saplings and vine-stalks that covered the walls gave it an enchanted rustic atmosphere, though the house’s true beauty laid in its attractive auctionable price. 

A bid so tempting none could refuse—especially not a single young woman, looking to start a life of her own.

Spirits and ghouls would have to excuse her inability to reject such a heady offer. It’s not like she believed in them anyway, and in the three days of arranging and redecorating her new home, no dead frat boy came to greet or tried to cast her away. If anything, the house’s peeling walls radiated with strange tepid hospitality, and a sweet fruity scent permeated through its corridors.  

Stranded between two worlds, Mike could not help himself; it was a pleasant surprise to see life spring through the house once again. Fifteen years in purgatory felt like thousands. Oftentimes he found himself embroiled with ferocious envy aimed toward the living, thinking of all the beautiful women he didn’t get to enjoy, the warmth of skin, bare, soft to touch—all robbed from him before he witnessed 22 summers.

But the thick veil of spite lifted from his chest the day she stepped foot into his house, and the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her away.

Drenched with sweat, the young woman huffed with ardour, taking another pause and a long whiff of air as she strained to reposition the modern-looking sofa she ordered from IKEA. The couch was twice her size, and Mike couldn’t help but chuckle at her quirky little grunts and glares of determination as she struggled to reposition it in the spacious living room. 

“Aren’t you a fierce little babe, sweetcheeks,” he uttered loudly and strode to lean against the other corner of the wall with an amused smirk cresting his face.

His pretty little guest said nothing in response. But of course, she couldn’t hear him; though sharing the same space, they were divided between contradicting realms. 

The very sight of her exertion reminded him of... things he didn’t experience in quite some time. Opaline pearls of effort painted her heaving chest, her eyes glossed with mild despair, and a peal of breathless gasps emitted from her parted lips. Despite being dead, a thick dribble of temptation still wove in his gut, inviting him to run a curious hand over her delicious rump. 

‘It would be oh so very wrong.’ 

‘However…’

‘Would she even feel it?’ Mike pondered while his covetous eyes glazed over her curves. While he was contemplating the idea, she sighed and abruptly fell onto the pillowy sofa with a vocal defeat. 

Staring onto the ceiling, she tried to regain her forces, sinking into brusque daydreams of what life may become one day when a sudden chill crawled her skin. Something was not quite right in the room—a shadow, quiet and obscure, loomed over her when she was, in fact, alone.

Briefly, she inspected the room with a leery eye, detecting no movement and no sound. 

“Silly superstitious townsfolks,” she muttered and brushed these thoughts away, convinced that the stupid urban legends of ‘might-have-been-murdered-Mike’ had subconsciously rooted themselves in her mind. 

It made much more sense than assuming there was an envious ghost ogling her while she rested in the living room. 

Soon, the house began to take a comely shape. 

For days she laboured in making their home inhabitable; framed prints of woodland critters and green plants hung onto freshly painted walls while the kitchen eddied with the delicious scent of home cooking. Ever the silent voyeur, Mike followed her around like a devoted puppy, relishing the warm light that showered the once gloomy halls. It was her presence that vanquished the miasmic cloud of death that engulfed him for over a decade, replacing it with the silky touch of a woman. 

He wished he could feel that softness on his skin, even for a split second. 

���If only you knew how wonderful you are, baby,” Mike uttered as he stood beside her, watching her dip the thick bristly brush into a can of wood varnish to coat over the old pantry cabinet in the dining room. 

Painting the vitrine door, her gaze was vacant; fleeting thoughts floated away from the path, lost to a ravine. She was happy here, of course, but then a lurching longing crept into her heart, accompanied by the odd lingering sensation of being watched. Some days were worse than others; her lungs sometimes shrivelled as if a large man towered behind with the ill will to squeeze her breasts.    

“This is stupid. Get a hold of yourself...” she whispered and shook her head, dipping the brush into the can.

Hearing her pleasant voice, Mike smiled with a flash of pearly whites, his cobalt orbs sparkling with admiration. 

He leaned close enough to smell her skin. “Don’t be afraid, sweetcheeks, as long as I am here, they can’t harm you.” 

A hiss sliced through the air, followed by a clatter as the can slipped between her quivering fingers and landed on the floor. Heart racing, she stood frozen, convinced that she felt the caress of air against her temple and heard a soft whisper.

But again, there was nothing around her—just her mind playing tricks, succumbing to the stupid myths told by the neighbours. 

“Fucking hell!” she bellowed and crouched to pick up the can, muttering profanities as the viscid lacquer stained the floor and her socks.   

“Get it the fuck together,” she grunted, trying to clean up the mess, “if this ghost dude is watching, he must think I am an idiot…” 

But Mike only beamed, utterly surprised and amazed that he managed to make contact. Perhaps there was a unique bond between them. Maybe his death meant something, and they were destined to find one another. Looking at her attempt to collect the liquid back into the can, he combed his fingers through his black curls, thinking of how he would tell her he thinks the world of her. 

But as she lifted her head and glared right through him with irritation burning through her eyes, he felt hollow once again.   

In a way, Mike believed that he knew his little tenant better than she knew herself. A strong-willed, independent girl on the surface, one to claim she doesn’t need a man, who endured by a mantra that she was happy alone. But he could smell the sheen mist of solitude that wafted around her like an aura of regret. 

On weekends she would light the bedroom up with musky candles- by god, she spent so much money on those—and a generous glass of rosé. She’d sit on the bed with a laptop perched on her thighs, reading scandalous erotic tales. Now and then, she would put up a little show that entices him more and more. 

It felt wrong to watch her at first. But Mike, all fascinated, could never really look away; the only time he ever saw a woman do something like that was when he watched porn in his college dorm, and that always seemed outrageously fake. Trusting in the solitude of her bedroom, she was natural, tender, and true when she touched herself, taking the sweet time to explore and please herself for her and not for some male observer.

‘Or did she?’ 

Suspicion arose the evening she decided to chase one of her fantasies in the bath. Thick mist and mellow tones hung over her naked body, heady steam soared from her glowing skin while the light remnants of foam that glazed her breasts reminded Mike of a sea nymph rising from the tides. 

Struck with awe, he circled the antique tub, enthralled by the spectacle of her ‘self-care’. 

A peal of gentle hums left her lips. Body possessed by wicked impulses, she swayed in a salacious rhythm and guided her fingers between her swollen lips. Back and forth, she pumped in languid thrusts, desire given to the strange man who only existed in the surreal realm of her dreams: tall with shoulders of sturdy mountain, eyes of hydrogen flames, and his hair was an onyx mane of luscious curls.  

She had no recollection of ever seeing him outside her fantasies, and yet his image kept recurring in the hazy veil of midnight. Smooth touches like tongues of silk, yet firm and commanding—he would bend her over the bed, his thick veiny arm holding at her nape, and like a good little whore she would throb for his cock. 

The memory of a dream made her delve knuckle-deep, and she came with a hoarse moan, throwing her head back with the heaving exhaustion of climax.

Enamoured with the beauty of her post-orgasmic lustre, Mike sauntered to crouched beside his secret love. His pale cerulean orbs traced the rivulets of sweat that glistened on her skin while he clutched the edge of the tub. The water was tainted opaline with soap and whatever drenched from her flawless hide. Playfully, he mused of bathing himself in those waters.

If only he could feel. 

Taken by a sudden sadness, he casually dipped a finger into the tepid bath when a huff of bewilderment exclaimed from his gaping lips. Currents of bliss thrummed through his tendons, wet, hot, and mildly oily—the water kissed his lifeless skin. 

How could it be?

Overwhelmed, Mike twirled the water with his long digit, creating a small vortex that kept dancing on its own once he withdrew his hand. Toying with the fluidity on his pads, a thought began to form in his head: perhaps the love he felt was so intense it granted him the power to touch, to sense, to whisper words of praise.

A poltergeist.  

They were fated to be. He knew that now and his gaze averted to his girl, suffused with worship and longing. Still crouched over the porcelain tub, he reached the back of his knuckles to graze her damp cheek.  

“Do you think of me, beautiful? When you touch yourself?” 

A shy simper crept onto her face. 

“Sometimes…” she answered absentmindedly, nearly drifting away, but then a chilling liquid seeped through her bones, and her lungs lurched. Eyes wide open and glossy with panic, she looked around to find the man who spoke to her.

But there was no one in the room, no one other than herself. 

The existence of the supernatural plagued her mind as the days grew thick with bizarre occurrences. First, it was the creaks and squeaks of phantom steps on the old wooden boards, then the whispers: soft, dainty like feathers in the wind. And each night, when she laid in bed, she could have sworn a shadowy figure loomed by the door. 

Sitting on the cot, surrounded by books of the occult and elaborated notes, she scoured the web for ghost sightings and haunted houses, trying to find any resemblance to the experiences she experienced. The information ranged from stories that crawled beneath her flesh to such ‘bullshit’ her eyes rolled to the back of her skull. 

“This is stupid,” she intoned with a frustrated sigh and shook her head. She reminded herself that she was a reasonable woman, that these wild ideas of being haunted by ghosts were nothing more but a by-product induced by solitude. Huffing with the relief brought by the stroke of rationality, she began collecting the books and notes in a pile and shoved them into the nightstand. 

Paranoia had her running in the labyrinth of her own mind, attempting to make logic out of something that had no roots in the ground of reality. So unbearably exhausted, she collapsed onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling with heavy lids. A blink and two and then another, and the tentacles of sleep pulled her under.   

Mike eyed the sleeping beauty sprawled on the bed. Even in her worn, oversized t-shirt, she was a deity. An iridescent aura encircled her slumbering form, a thing that only a man who dwelled between two worlds could discern. Divine and warm, her chest rose and sank with the omen of a menstruating heart. A hint of celestial blue and delicate lace peeked between her thighs and the same blessing that made his touch solid had also fortified his sense of smell.

One profuse intake of air and her scent pervaded the depth of his soul—a most pleasant aroma: fresh and wispy, resembling pale winter-flowers blooming in the rain. 

Death could no longer keep them apart—tonight, under the cracked ceiling, amongst the enchanted walls of the haunted Cherrywood residence, Mike vowed to make love to his dreamgirl for the first time.

He stood naked at the fore of the large bed. A beam of moonlight cascaded a pale penumbra over her resting figure like theatre lights, fixing the viewer’s eye on the main star sleeping deeply, awaiting the kiss of the charming prince. Spellbound, Mike never broke sight, the fear that she would whisk herself away made imminent. His touch seemed to be the only way to be sure she would remain ensnared in his grasp. His hands were tender moss hugging an ancient tree bark, becoming one out of love, out of desire to be a single entity. 

“I love you,” he whispered and kissed each leg above her knees. 

The eruption of stars besieged his cold lips, her flesh riddled with the electric flow of deceit that was life. A taste so sugary, so addictive, he immediately came to understand vampires. He kissed again, his mouth spectering her inner thighs. In his amorous damnation, he spoke her name.  

There was a voice in her head, the soft murmur of morning tides kissing the shore. Swept into a lascivious delirium, the corners of her lips twitched into a smile and Mike revelled as the scent of dew drifted from the guarded heat between her thighs. Praising her skin with winged kisses, he ascended further and reached a daring hand to tug her underwear and expose her mound.

Solitude never seemed so graceful, glistening-hot and gaping with a maw of anticipation to be filled by a man who could never fulfil any biological fancy her body may yearn for. And yet, he would be the ultimate spouse... 

“I will never leave,” Mike promised and laid a chaste kiss to her pillowy, succulent petals, “never let you out of my sight.” His vows led to a tongued exploration of her drenched crease. Slow and languid, he tasted the saccharine valley. And in her slumber, she squirmed and smiled further, emitting soft hums of satisfaction.

A mirthful stream of blood fell to her loins. Still laced in the silk ribbons of slumber, her body roused to the feast of his savouring suckles and the tidal change that streamed through her muscles further fueled Mike’s excitement. Zealously, he lapped the waves that rapidly stormed and crushed at the base of her core, her juices simmered with glee at the tip of his tongue the deeper he plunged. Even though her climax drew near, and he wanted nothing more than to undo her with a kiss, to experience her moment of complete bliss while tucked in the warmth of her cunt seemed more appropriate.

With one final lick, he lifted his head from her groin and climbed forward between her welcoming thighs, his wide waist pressing her open while he folded her knees to assure a smoother entry. It was paradoxical that his cock would stand so ardent to fill her as the purpose of copulation was life, yet love triumphed logic and hard and dripping lust. He was ready to fulfil every inch of her unwitted whims. 

Peering down one last time, Mike admired his woman the way he would worship a virgin, and in a way, she was pure, she never had death inside her before. 

But the tangible laws of life and death were soon to be undone. Who made those anyway?

Unable to hold back, Mike gripped his length tautly and breached into her defenceless cunt with a husky groan. 

Her mouth tore open with a cry of surprise, and her eyes first screwed with the awkward pang of forced entry before flaring open with shock. Above her, inside her, laid the same haunting beauty who visited her every night, the one with flaming blue orbs and a tussle of black locks. It was another dream—it had to be, one so real she could feel the weight of a man crushing her down and the undeniable pressure of penetration, first cold and then blazing hot and hard like a thick sword fresh from the forge. It split her in half and only stalled as he sheathed in the embrace of her choking walls. 

And though terrified, though shaken - she did not think of fighting him, nor did she want to wake up. The chains of fervour lulled her to surrender to the curious, mesmerising pulse of pleasure that shot through her tendons. The phantom of her fantasies, so handsome, so pallid, brushed his knuckles against her cheeks and whispered in a velvety timbre that made her heart exhilarate.

“Let me possess your body.”

Shrouded by the force of wanton, she nodded at his request and arched against the stranger. Her legs entangled his own, and she undulated her pelvis to further swallow his cock and squeeze him within her hollow. 

More. She wanted more.

Impassioned yet careful, Mike pulled himself almost entirely out, leaving only the heart-shaped head to stuff her gaping hole. Both of them gasped in ardour, holding their mouths open against one another, sharing one shuddering breath as the slow, tortuous drag of his cock amidst her walls left them in a rage that only the reclamation of her weeping slit by his manhood could undo.

Not willing to spare another second, Mike snapped his hips, plunging his cock into a whimsical harmony of juices and veils of wet livid flesh. Whatever thrummed in his veins was overrun by jolts of electricity. 

Inside her, he became alive. 

Earnestly, she bucked to meet his strokes, rolling her waist to claim him further to herself. Their rhythm was similar to silken drapes blowing in the wind, but as the vortex of rapture began to pull them deeper, they quickly became erratic and unhinged as the ocean itself.

And indeed, she felt as if she was drowning, although on solid ground. Currents of burning water gushed through her lungs and womb. The man of her dreams, who continually stuffed her, felt more true and real than any man she had before. 

“Oh god! Who are you?” she gaped at him with disbelief and reached her hands to his bare behind, forcing him to delve harder and deeper. 

“Fill me! Please!”

Mike graced her face with feverish kisses in response, inching toward her mouth with each spur of his groin. Complying to her demand, he impaled through her with the same envious zeal he felt toward the living, though this time it wasn’t hatred but his own lust for life that drove him into a frenzy. Pressing his arms to the sides of her head, he lifted his upper body and railed his sweet girl into the mattress, abandoning whatever remains of tenderness he had left. The old wooden pegs of the bed screeched beneath them, crumbling dust fell upon their naked bodies as the headboard slammed into the wall. 

Caged beneath him, she thrashed and cried out helplessly. The same cuffs of ecstasy crashed at her core like violent oceans splashing against the dock, each wave more vigorous and destructive as Mike slammed harder into her. Molten heat gushed and filled and drowned her womb until the pressure became too painful and unbearable to resist. Shutting her eyes, she shattered into millions of pieces, breaking like a crystal statue furiously crashing onto the floor. 

Utterly consumed by the way she held him, Mike smirked down upon his sweet girl and cradled her face, delving deeper in search of unloading the strain that took over him. The same decades of anger, yearning, and lust set loose in an instant. With a shuddering shout, he unleashed himself inside her burning womb, breaching into the heaven he was denied. A tingling stream ran through his bones, his muscles, his arteries, warming his blood. For a split second, his heart beat again. For a sliver of a second, blinding lights abruptly bathed his sight. Brighter than sunshower, it danced across the room before vanishing away. 

Mike had his fingers etched about her temples, his thumbs grazing the apples of her cheeks. The pale sea in his marine-blue orbs roared with astonishment, an abundance of emotions and reveries danced on the glassy surface. But his girl was already fading into unconsciousness, returning into the traitorous world of sleep that robbed her away from him.

A maw of anguish soon filled his tender heart, and a quiver parted his pillowy lips. But their separation was only temporary until another night would come, and he would unit the realm of the living with the realm of the dead again…

“Don’t worry, sweetcheeks,” Mike pressed a kiss on each of her eyelids. “I will never let you go.”

Never in her life did she wake into such excruciating exhaustion. Every cell in her body was wrapped in a burning flame and the bones of her limbs felt as if someone squeezed them in their grip. Groaning, she sat up and scanned the room as if looking for a presence, but alas, she was alone save for the dust and the mice who probably scampered through the hollow walls.

Her chest sunk into slight relief, and she threw the blanket away, ready to start her day when a pang shot through her core. 

Abruptly, she became aware to the stickiness that dribbled from her raw sex. 

“What?...” she shivered momentarily and reached her fingers to her mound. A glistening layer of sheen excrement coated her pads. 

It was just a dream, she convinced herself, an eerily, realistic dream. In her sleep, she must have thrashed and squirmed, which would of course, explain the strain in her muscle, while the wetness between her legs was merely her own arousal. Shaking her head at the onslaught of nonsense that assailed her musings, she climbed out of bed and grabbed her laptop, ready to begin the day.

The crispy aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air while she placed some milk in the frother. Waiting for the milk to boil within the device, she opened her laptop to check her mail. For a shy moment, she stilled at her thoughts as the browser was open on a silly urban legends site, displaying different mystery houses. It was then when she recognised her own home in one of the photos. 

“Heh…” she huffed, only a tad impressed, though still curious and amused at the situation.

Not paying too much of a thought, she clicked the link and turned around to grab a large mug and fill it with coffee. Humming a soft tune, she turned back toward the monitor when a crippling frost took over her spine.  

The mug slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor and splashing boiling coffee on her bare toes. 

Though in her distraught, she barely even felt the heat; too stunned as she faced the familiar blue flames, the curls of onyx black and the dimpled chin of the man who haunted her dreams and claimed her in her sleep.

His name was Mike.

Credit: Pretty dividers by @firefly-graphics​

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Hellraiser franchise or Mike

[rwprincess]

Impressions (Fred Benson x Gender Neutral!Reader): Part One

Masterlist

Word Count: 1.8 K

Synopsis: Fred joins Nancy to report on a sports team and interview one of the players, but he doesn't exactly make the best first impression. 

 Based on request  from  @figbar21: “I was wondering if you could do a gender neutral or female reader, where the reader is a jock and friends with Nancy. Like an enemies to lovers where Fred is forced to cover one of their games and has to interview them after and the reader is kind of teasing and brash. At first they go along with the nerd vs athlete stereotype but after getting to know each other at a party or through Nancy, Fred learns that they have been through a lot and are very complicated.”

Tropes: slow burn, enemies to lovers pipeline, different cliques, jock x nerd, Fred x Gen!Neutral reader, platonic NancyxReader 

CW: Fred being an unfiltered jerk (he makes up for it lol), mild language/put-downs (anti-Steve rhetoric)

Fred begrudgingly trudged towards the gym. He just knew it would smell like stale sweat and constantly-trounced small town dreams. Professional recruiters weren't likely to come to Hawkins, Indiana. No, the most fame these people could hope for, ironically, was to be featured in the Weekly Streak. And while they needed him to get that hit of dopamine, that didn't mean that the jocks realized that. Fred was still the chewed gum to scrape off their shoes and laugh at in disgust before throwing him away. At least he was paired with Nancy Wheeler for this task; he admired her and her work. She wasn't precisely warm towards him, but she graciously tolerated him and that's better than he often got. With his prickly personality and dry wit, not to mention his less-than-popular status and interests, he had trouble making friends. So, tepid colleagues with a shared interests was a win in his book.

Speaking of winning… "Don't hold your breath for a good game." Fred told Nancy and she rolled her eyes in response.

"I know you already have a devastating mock-up if they lose--"

"When," he interrupted with a smirk, "when they lose. It's best to be prepared." Nancy chose to ignore his intrusion and carried on.

"I still choose to hold out hope. That's what reporting is about: getting the truth and the back story. Investigation. Not assuming that you already know everything and its outcome." She raised a finger in a matter-of-fact punctuation before dropping it and shrugging, "besides, I know someone on the team. We need content and they said we could interview them."

"So you found us a page-filler?" He asked, trying to hide his snark and failing.

"Yes. Which is more than I can say for your efforts," Nancy snapped in retort then softened, "come on, just stay close and take notes. Please."

They watched the entirety of the game and Fred indeed jotted down notes and listened when Nancy directed him to mark down some detail she found important.  Sports weren't his forte or really of interest to him. So he passed the time observing the crowd and trying to make a guess as to who Nancy knew on the team and concocted some backstory for their friendship. He felt like Nancy wouldn't waste her time with someone who wasn't worthwhile, but then he remembered she used to date trademarked douchebag Steve Harrington and then moved on to resident weirdo Jonathan Byers, neither of which he saw the appeal of, so he wasn't sure.

After the game, Nancy led him to the doors of the locker rooms and they waited for the team to return. "I'm sorry that your rah-rah energy didn't secure a win." Fred falsely sympathized with a smug look.

"Yeah, yeah. You can run your headline after all." She waved him off dismissively, knowing he would gloat and refusing to be bothered by it.

"Hey, I'm just prepared. I should make a stockpile of them. They're never gonna win."

"Is that so?" You chimed in behind them, making Fred jump and Nancy laugh.

"Y/N! Good game tonight, I'm sure you guys will pull out the win next time." Nancy enthused.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Nance. Even if your friend here disagrees." You eyed him up and down. You were sure you'd seen him around before, Hawkins was small after all, but you'd never met this gawky kid in front of you, glasses taking up the majority of his face. You gave him a slight smile and he couldn't tell if you were being condescending or not.

"Oh, right!" Nancy hit her forehead with the palm of her hand in realization, "Y/N, this is Fred. He's helping me cover the game tonight. Fred, Y/N." The two of you just mumbled a half-hearted greeting with a polite nod for good measure. "You still up for your interview?" Nancy asked you, trying to steer the conversation away from some of its awkwardness.

"Sure, no problem." You dropped your bag on the floor and took a seat on the bleachers, indicating for them to join you.

"So, Y/N, let's start with the basics. What's your position on the team and how long have you been playing?" You answered her questions, happy to be able to talk about something you knew, something you were passionate about. "And regarding tonight's game, what do you think went wrong? What would you do differently?" 

"Well, I think overall, my team gave it their all. Both teams came out here to win." You started, but a snort and a snicker over Nancy's shoulder made you pause.  You peered over and saw Fred shaking his head softly. "You wanna chime in here, Fred?" You asked, feeling heated.

"What?  No." He replied, then saw you raise your eyebrow, challenging his response, "It's just that. Well, obviously both teams are here to win.  Otherwise what's the point? It isn't pee-wee where you just hope both teams have fun." Your taken aback scoff instantly made him regret how rude that came off and he wished he'd picked his words better.

"Excuse me?" You questioned,  voice raising in pitch. Nancy threw up her hands, one facing each of you.

"Whoa, whoa. I think this is getting off on the wrong foot," she started, trying to play peacemaker but you ignored her and snapped back at Fred.

"You're damn right this isn't pee-wee. You have no idea how much work my team has put in, the sacrifices they've made. And I'm sure the other team has done just as much. It was a difficult game. I'd like to see you do any better!" Your cheeks were red, flushed with frustration. Fred only blinked back in response, gears turning inside his head for some kind of comeback to cover up the fact you had so quickly put him in his place.

"Fred," Nancy turned to him before he could retort, "why don't you pack up and get things back to the office and I'll wrap up here?" She gave him a look indicating that it was a demand, not a request. 

"Gladly," he muttered, picking up his satchel and a few notebooks. As the heavy metal door clanged, signaling his exit, you looked at Nancy for an explanation.

"Sorry, he's just…this isn't really his thing and he doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut."

"Is he always like that?" You inquired and Nancy nodded.

"Pretty much.  He's not all bad. You get used to it and realize that he doesn't mean half the shit he says. And he's really good with his write ups." She gave a weak smile, trying to rectify the situation.

As far as first impressions go…this one was mediocre at best.

~•••~

"That was unprofessional of you." Nancy chided Fred when she returned to the newspaper office after your interview.  "You allowed your biases to get the better of you. Not to mention embarrassing me. I set it up and didn't bring you along to insult them!"

"I know. I'm sorry." He replied softly, casting his gaze downward.  Nancy hadn't expected him to apologize so quickly, or perhaps at all. However, Fred knew he had messed up. "I wasn't thinking. The laugh was a reaction and then when they asked me…I just said what came to mind. But you're right, it wasn't professional."

"It was rude." She added, her words stinging his already bruised ego. "I think you should apologize.  Like a verbal editorial retraction."

"Really?"  He asked, feeling incensed in his embarrassment, "Do you think my words had that much impact on them? Up in their sports stratosphere, my opinion matters?" He scoffed, dismissing the idea.

"No, probably not. I mean, it clearly bothered Y/N for you to say that, but I don't think they'll lose sleep over it. But it's about doing the right thing, Fred." Nancy told him as he huffed.  "At the very least, do it for me. Let me save face. I brought you and you pulled that.  I apologized and vouched for you, but it would mean more if you did, too?"

"You did that on my behalf?"  He asked, gaze softening behind his lenses, realizing he didn't have to be defensive.

"Yes. Now do this for me," she pleaded in response.

"Okay, okay. You're right anyway." He murmured, defeated.

~•••~

You had just left the school and were headed toward the parking lot when Fred approached you the next day. "What do you want? Did you come to get in more digs on me and my losing team?" You rolled your eyes.

"No," he said plainly, flatly. "I actually came to apologize for that."

"Why? It was what you were thinking, right? Or are you going to tell me that it was a lie?"

"No, you're right. I thought what you said sounded like a stupid cliche. I just didn't express that opinion very well."

"Doing a great job on wording this apology.  I like to be informed I spout 'stupid cliches'," you scoffed.

"That's not what I meant either," he rubbed a palm over his face, feeling as though he took one step forward and ten steps back. "I really don't mean to be insulting. I should have been professional and kept my thoughts to myself.  Nancy pointed out I have a bias and I guess that got the better of me. It's just…I don't really 'get' sports and was rude to you for it."

You took in his apology, mulled it over for a moment.  "You don't have to 'get' the appeal, but it's something I'm passionate about. I guess that's why I snapped back at you, which I probably shouldn't have done either,” you admitted. "You must get what that's like though, right? Nancy, um, Nancy told me that you're a really good writer, that you love working on the newspaper.  You have a passion for that, right?"

"Yeah, I suppose so." He shrugged, trying to be nonchalant even though his work on the Streak dominated his life.

"And I'm sure a lot of people don't understand why, right? I get it, I'm boxed into being just this stupid, empty-headed jock. One dimensional." Your shoulders dropped in defeat at the admission and Fred looked apprehensive. He hadn't expected you to be so…truthful. So open. "Anyway, I'm sorry and you're sorry,  so can we just declare a truce?" You jutted your hand out to him to shake on it. He raised an eyebrow at you, waiting for this to be some kind of joke, but then placed his hand in yours to seal it.

From then on, you were on increasingly better terms with each other. You had a mutual understanding of one another and a semblance of respect, even if you didn't share interests.

[opheliadawnwalker3]

The Watching

Author’s Note: This is for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor’s fic swap. I picked @sherrybaby14​ :) Hope you like it hun and Merry Christmas!!

Synopsis: Reader has been dating Thor for about a year and is celebrating her first Yuletide on Asgard. But she’s unprepared for certain traditions that are expected of her. Or that these traditions also involve Thor and his companions.

Contains: strong sexual content, cunnilinguous, penetration, threesome, voyeurism, some audience participation, fluffy holiday cheer

Wacchinsrinn- Old Norse means “The Watching”

*****************************************************************************************

You stand in the elaborately decorated banquet hall, carefully nursing another full goblet of Asgard’s famous honeyed wine. Thor had left you alone, mere moments before, no doubt to personally welcome his people to the Yule celebration. In the corner, several Asgardian citizens play musical instruments and the rest are either drunkenly dancing, feasting on delicious foods or laughing uproariously. Eager faces are painted with intricate symbols and there is much joy and carefree energy in the air. Normally, you’re not such a wall flower, but being surrounded by Thor’s fiercely lively people is a whole new experience for you. You had already witnessed the burning of the wooden Yule wreath earlier and had cheered with the others when it was sent hurtling down the hill and fell among the stars. In the corner of the vast hall stands the Yule tree, decorated not with the colored glass balls you were accustomed to, but small statues of previous kings and mythical creatures. After seeing the God of Thunder for over a year, you were overjoyed to hear him say that he wanted to finally bring you back to his world. His kingdom. 

It happened to be close to Christmas, but other than the typical mandatory bland office party and receiving a few Christmas cards, you really had no other plans. Why on Earth would you ever pass that up? The chance to not only see the place he grew up in, but to be among his people and culture. His friends and-

“Well, well...don’t we look fetching this evening?” A sly familiar voice utters behind you, erupting a subtle heat across the back of your neck. Turning, you see Loki, sharply donned with tailored green silks and a gray pelt clasped around his shoulders. Instead of his usual absurdly large golden horns, a delicate golden crown balances at his temple. 

You raise your goblet to him. “You clean up rather nicely yourself.”

Loki tilts his head, keen emerald eyes slowly trailing down your body and you could almost swear he could see right through the crimson silk of your gown. His lips curl into a devious smile and your heart flutters against your will. “Do enjoy the festivities...mind the honeyed wines. They are much stronger than the tepid liquors served on Midgard.”

You roll your eyes as you defiantly take another sip. You would be lying if you said, you weren’t already feeling buzzed. The warmth that spreads across your cheeks, that familiar light headed feeling. You would have to pace yourself. You can’t make a fool out of yourself at your first Asgardian Yuletide. And you were here with Thor for God’s sake. You didn’t want to humiliate him or yourself.

A loud clang sounds near you and your attention is momentarily drawn to Volstagg, one of Thor’s infamous Warrior’s Three, laughing boisterously as he picks up his dropped axe. No doubt, in the middle of a drunken retelling of old battle stories. 

Lips brush the shell of your ear and you automatically tense up. Your breath hitches as slender fingers ghost over your bare shoulders.

“I look forward, to seeing much more of you later.” Loki purrs huskily into your ear and you are rooted to the spot. His alluring voice holds dark promises. Your brows furrow in confusion and before you are able to ask just what he means by that, Thor’s voice cuts across the room. You look over to see him cross the room with jovial presence. His bright blue eyes crinkle with happiness at the sight of you.

Loki withdraws from you completely and you let out a sigh of relief. The wine...it must have been the wine. You would have to drink water to spread it out.

Seemingly unbothered at Loki’s closeness, Thor smiles warmly as he slips his arms around your waist and pulls you in for a kiss. You sigh, relishing the comforting feeling of his lips and presence as you pull him in closer. For the past year, Thor had been a beacon of light in your boring, mundane life. He would entertain you for hours with tales of his childhood, battles and stories about his time with the Avengers. He made you feel exciting just by being in his presence. Feel incredibly safe just by being in his strong embrace. He never left you wanting whether physically, mentally or emotionally. You only hoped you did the same for him. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Thor’s deep voice rumbles against your mouth.

“I am. I just wish we could-”

“Ah there’s the lovely couple. Starting Wacchinsrinn a bit early are we not?” You recognize Fandral’s charming voice sounding next to you. You pull back from Thor slightly with a raised brow.

“Wacchinsrinn? What’s that?”

Before the smaller roguish blonde can answer you, Thor laughs and quickly begins to lead you away from the two men. Confused, you look back to see Fandral and Loki exchange knowing smiles.

“What on earth was that about?” You ask, setting your now empty goblet down on one of the long wooden tables. Funny, you hadn’t even remembered drinking it all.

“Just Fandral with one of his jokes. Pay the scoundrel no mind,” Thor replies playfully before spinning you around wildly among the other dancing patrons. You wish to press him further but a mixture of the otherworldly alcohol and contagious euphoria around you, causes your curiosity to melt away and you gather your skirts to join the dance. 

**********************************************************************************

About an hour later, Thor leads you down the hall by the hand. You stumble a bit and giggle with tipsy merriment as he turns the corner to open a pair of grand ornate doors. You tilt your head in confusion as you take in the lavish yet unfamiliar chambers within.

“Hey this isn’t the same room, you showed me earlier. This isn’t yours, right?”

“You’re right, Y/N. This is our room.”

“Ooo our room you say?” You tease as you take in your surroundings, Thor walking in behind you to shut the doors. Inside the chamber was a large king sized bed with a full canopy and intricately carved designs in the wood. The sheets were golden and there was a table set with trays of cheese and fruits and silver pitchers no doubt filled with mead and wine. But that wasn’t what caught your eye. You look back at Thor whose looking down at you with an expression you can’t quite decifer. 

“What’s with all the chairs pointed facing the bed? Kind of an unusual arrangement, isn’t it?”

“It’s for...Wacchinsrinn.”

“There’s that word again. What is it?”

Before Thor can respond, there is a low chuckle and suddenly Loki appears next to you.

“Oh dear, you haven’t told her. How irresponsible and devious of you, brother.”

“Hush, Loki.” Thor looks down at you and brings a massive hand to cup your face. “Please forgive me, Y/N. I didn’t want you to worry or feel pressured to do anything.”

“Although it is an Asgardian tradition. I don’t believe Y/N wants to be the cause of the King’s refusal to uphold a tradition maintained for thousands of years.”

“Not the time, Loki...”

“I disagree. I think it’s the perfect time...”

“No he’s right. I’m not going to stand in the way of you upholding your kingly duties. Whatever you need to do, I’ll support you.” You encourage, placing a hand on Thor’s arm.

“How touching, but your amorous participation is very much required.” Loki interjects with a dangerous smirk and Thor sighs, clearly conflicted. You look back and forth between the pair.

“My what participation?”

Before Loki could reply, Thor raises his hand in front of him.

“Loki, leave us.”

“Oh, I think not. This is all rather entertaining for me.”

“Leave now.” Thor’s tone is tense and clipped and you can’t help feeling a little nervous. What is going on? Why all the secrecy? And what exactly is expected of you?

“So tense, brother. Perhaps you should have her tend to you first and help get those bothersome...kinks out.”

Thor says, nothing, merely glares at Loki, before the latter sighs in reluctant surrender.

“Very well, I suppose I could check on the rest of the rabble and see if they are ready to bear witness.” And with that, Loki disappears, leaving you and Thor alone once more. You look up at the god and cross your arms.

“Thor just tell me. What’s the tradition?” Your eyes widen briefly when you think back to all of the those Viking and Pagan shows you watched in mild preparation for the Yule celebration.

“I won’t have to do an animal sacrifice will I?”

Thor smiles and shakes his head as he brushes his fingers along your jaw. “No animal sacrifices will be required of you, I promise.”

“Okay...then what is expected of me?”

Thor pauses for a moment in quiet contemplation, gathering his thoughts before he eventually sighs. “On Asgard, the act of coupling is a merry and happy occasion. Asgardians do not view such an act with such...modesty as on Midgard.”

You nod, following along and very curious as to where this is going.

“And so...the notion of sharing such a joyous act with others...is considered...a generous gift.”

You eyes widen slightly as the realization begins to wash over you. “And when you say sharing...you mean...??”

Thor gives you an embarrassed smile. “Those closest to us shall bear witness to our union.”

“So...your companions are just going to watch us?”

“If that is agreeable to you. It is not uncommon for them to join in should all participating consent.”

You chew on your bottom lip and cross your arms. “So that’s what everyone has been referring to all night.”

“Yes.”

You contemplate for a few moments more, weighing your options in your head. You should be appalled that your boyfriend just sprang this on you, royalty or not. But you just can’t find yourself to be angry. On the contrary...the idea is intriguing. You’d always been fascinated by the thought of voyeurism. Whether watching someone else or being watched yourself. But you’d never had the courage to explore it. There was even once an incident where Hawkeye accidentally walked into the room while you were riding Thor at Avengers Tower. Instead of being embarrassed...you only clenched tighter around Thor’s cock. Even felt a pang of disappointment when Hawkeye quickly left the room with amused apologies. Maybe this was your chance to finally explore one of your fantasies.

You finally look back up at Thor, his handsome face etched with worry and concern.

“Okay.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. I want to do this. For you, but mostly for me,” You admit, pressing a soft kiss against his lips. You see a flash of green in the corner of your eye and Loki appears next to you, holding two goblets full of wine. He gives you an impish smirk as he holds one out to you.

“How about a little more wine to take the edge off. Perhaps numb your defenses a bit,” Loki drawled as you eagerly accept the wine. A little liquid courage never hurt anyone. Thor watches you carefully as you take several large pulls of the sweet wine, embracing the numbing warmth that pools down your body.

“Are you sure about this ,Y/N?” Thor asks softly, his usual booming voice now quiet with uncertainty. 

You set your now empty goblet on the table next to you and give him a confident smile. Sure, you felt emboldened by the wine, but you also felt very eager for what lays ahead Thor reaches up to cup your jaw with both hands, his bright blue eyes melting any doubts you might have had.

“Because if you’re not, then damn the traditions. I will never ask you to do anything you’re not ready for. We can leave now, go back to Midgard and celebrate your traditional Christmas.”

You feel your heart swell with appreciation and adoration and you turn your head slightly to kiss his fingers. “You would do that for me?”

“Of course I will. You mean more to me that anything.”

“Then I want to do this. I’m happy to do it.”

Thor leans down to press his lips to yours once more in a sweet gentle kiss to which you eagerly reciprocate. Next to you, Loki chuckles as he takes a sip from his goblet.

“Not to break up this touching little moment, but the others are getting restless.”

Thor reluctantly pulls away, brushing your bottom lip with his thumb. 

“Then we shall not keep them waiting.”

 The potent alcohol flows within you, but something else pools within. Excitement and pure unadulterated desire. Loki chuckles and you feel his hands on your hips as he presses in close behind you. Surprised, you look up to Thor for guidance, but he merely stares at the pair of you with a calm unbothered expression.

“And will you allow any of the witnesses to enjoy her as well?” Loki insinuates, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I myself, am curious if she tastes as good as she looks.” Your breath hitches and your heart begins to pound harder at his carnal implications. 

Thor smirks and gestures down to you. “That is entirely up to you. If you desire another, then it shall be done.”

You let out a soft gasp, completely taken aback by this turn of events. But certainly not upset at the prospect. You would be lying to yourself if you never thought about how alluringly charming and attractive Loki is. So very different from your Thor, yet enticing all the same. When will you get another opportunity like this? 

“Yes...I...I want you both.”

“Very well, then let them all in and we’ll begin the Wacchinsrinn.”

Loki presses a brief kiss to your neck, before gracefully leaving the room. You feel your nerves beginning to flutter in your gut, battling against your arousal and the tension in the air from the possibilities.

Thor steps up to you and carefully traces his hand down your front. Your nipples harden through the thin silk and you lick your lips. 

“Who...who will be watching us?”

“The Warriors Three, Lady Sif, Loki and Heimdall will watch from the Rainbow Bridge since he cannot personally attend. But do not be nervous. You are perfection. This is a gift not only for my companions but us as well.”

You take a deep breath, heartbeat speeding up when you hear approaching footsteps and the large ornate doors open.

Fandral walks in first, his eyes drinking you in. “Ahh lovely, Y/N...you look ready for your first Wacchinsrinn. Tell me, has Thor prepared you properly? Because if not, I offer you my services. I’m told I’m quite talented in such matters.”

“Oh do settle down, Fandral. She has already chosen me to help...alleviate the tension. Do enjoy your seat, though.” Loki retorts playfully as he unclasps the fur from around his shoulders. 

Fandral winks at you as he gracefully drops in his seat. “Well I suppose that silver tongue has its uses after all.” 

The combination of alcohol, nerves, and your excitement for things to come, make your skin tingle with anticipation.

Lady Sif follows close behind, dressed elegantly in a fitted gown of midnight blue. Her usually tied up long hair, hangs down her back in loose curls. She takes her place in the middle seat and crosses her legs expectantly as she gives you a small encouraging smile. She gives a side eye to Volstagg, who decided to bring a large turkey leg to the ceremony, as he sits next to her.

“Honestly...must you eat even while we bear witness?”

Volstagg lets out a good humored laugh as he takes a bite of the roasted meat. “What is the point of enjoying such stimulating entertainment without filling my gullet? No point in doing things half way, I say.”

Hogun silently joins the group and crosses his arms, his stoic face betraying nothing. Thor stands tall and acknowledges all who are present.

“Now that we are all here, its time to begin. We thank those closest to us in sharing this moment. May this gift offer you many blessings and good omens on and off the battlefield.” 

“And what a gift it is,” Exclaims Fandral, holding up his own pint of mead.

“Hear, hear!” Volstagg agrees excitedly. Sif and Hogun remain silent, but their subtle expressions hold a keen interest.

The Warriors cheer and you can’t help but smile at the almost absurd nature of it all. 

“My desired and I shall drink from the cup and then proceed with Wacchinsrinn,” Thor exclaims as he holds out another goblet will only half full. The both of you drink from it and Loki takes the empty goblet away. Thor wastes no time undressing with unwavering confidence and leans down to capture your lips in a hungry kiss.

“It is time to be worshipped, like the goddess you are,” Thor purrs in a husky voice against your lips as his hands trail down your waist. His pretty words and deep tone makes your thighs clench together as your pussy throbs.

You feel Loki press in close behind you and he carefully pushes your hair off your neck. Their closeness is intoxicating. “But first you must bare yourself to us,” Loki whispers lowly in your ear as dexterous fingers make swift work of the clasps on your shoulders. The top slips down revealing your breasts and you gasp when Thor’s hands begin caressing with eager, calloused hands. Loki grips your hips as his mouth traces a tantalizing path up your neck.

Your fingers tangle in Thor’s blonde locks when he lowers himself to capture a pebbled nipple in his mouth. His mouth is hot and he licks and nibbles your breasts. You’re suddenly feeling very flushed, your skin scorching under their ministrations. 

You feel Loki’s teeth against your throat and he chuckles into your ear. “You should think yourself fortunate. Our great grandfather would often bend his women over the table in the banquet hall during Wacchinsrinn. For all of Asgard to see. This way is far more...intimate.” With that he grabs your chin and kisses you greedily.

After a few moments, the two men lead you to the bed. Thor sits down first and pulls you back between his spread legs. His cock full and hard against your back. His kisses you once more and you feel his hands slide up your thighs, taking the crimson silk of your skirts with it. You lean back against his thick muscled body and stare up at Loki, who remains at the foot of the bed fixed with an expectant sneer.

“Would you like Loki to taste you? Allow him to thoroughly ready your body for me?” Thor questions as his fingers reach your eager cunt beneath the silk. You moan, your hips raising slightly to feel every caress of his fingers. He chuckles arrogantly and you hear the lewd sounds of his fingers easily slipping inside you.

“Well...it seems she’s already quite ready. We may not need your services after all, Loki,” Thor exclaims playfully, displaying his fingertips already soaked in your arousal.

“That may be brother, though I should like to hear it from her lips that she does not desire my mouth on her delectable quim.” Loki replies as he slowly pulls the green tunic over his head with smug ease, revealing his pale yet toned upper body. Both men know you’re not saying no at this point. In fact, no, is the farthest thing from your mind.

You give him a mischievous grin as you beckon him with just the crook of your finger and Loki obliges, crawling up between your spread thighs with a dangerous smile. He looks as though he may just devour you whole. 

When his mouth meets your cunt, you immediately relax back against Thor, enjoying every sensation as Loki unravels you. His tongue glides along your slit with expert ease, rolling and flicking over your throbbing clit. Thor’s beard tickles your bare shoulder as he nips the skin and caresses your breasts. You felt trapped between the two brothers in the most heavenly way.

“How does she taste, Loki?” You hear Volstagg call out and your eyes snap open. You had almost forgotten you were being watched. You bite back a whine when Loki raises up slightly, your cunt already missing his mouth.

“Better than the finest of delicacies on Asgard. She truly is a delicious well of vanilla and honey.” Loki brags and your breath hitches when his lips immediately return to you, wrapping around your clit and gently sucking.

“I knew it. Pay up Fandral,” you hear Volstagg boast and Fandral sighs as he drops a few coins in his companions outstretched hand.

Beneath you, Thor undulates his hips into you and your cunt clenches tightly, wanting to be filled. 

“I can feel Heimdall’s ever watchful eyes upon us. He is thoroughly enjoying the sights as well. He wonders if you would like my cock deep inside you with my brother’s mouth still upon you.” Thor whispers softly into your ear as he pinches a nipple.

Between Loki’s adept mouth and Thor’s touches and carnal words, you can barely form words of your own. But you manage just the same.

“God yes. Please, Thor...” You mewl pathetically as your thighs twitch around Loki’s shoulders. His fingers massage and squeeze your spread thighs.

With that, Thor raises your hips and lines your soaked entrance with his tip. Loki raises his head slightly to follow your cunt. His piercing green eyes staring up hungrily at you. Being worshipped by these men...feeling several pairs of eyes on you at once...its all very intoxicating.

“Lower yourself upon me. Let me feel you clench desperately around me.” Thor commands softly against your temple, his hands gripping your hips and holding you above him. You nod eagerly and you sink down onto him completely. Your pussy is dripping and more than ready, yet Thor’s thick shaft still stretches you slightly and the pair of you moan loudly. Loki chuckles against your flesh, sending vibrations over your clit and making your cunt tighten around Thor.

“By the gods...your grip is always so exceptional. I could just feel you squeeze me all day, though I’d be fighting the urge to drive into you with everything I have.”

“Move her skirts. We would like to see too,” Lady Sif commands from her seat. You briefly raise your eyes to meet hers and her expression is heated and very much satisfied.

“As the lady commands,” Thor agrees as he rips the silk away, baring the rest of you to the room.

You mewl loudly as Loki begins to speed up his tongue, sucking at your clit a little harder. Your fingers reach up to tangle in his dark tresses as he brings your body closer and closer. Your hips roll atop Thor and you continue to mercilessly squeeze his cock sheathed inside you. That familiar icy hot numbing sensation spreads over you as your body climbs higher and higher towards the peak.

“She’s definitely close. Such a sweet thing, they’ve barely had to touch her,” Fandral observes smugly.

“True, but I still bet that she will last through the night.” Lady Sif replies with subtle arrogance.

“Ah, shall we bet on it then, Lady Sif?”

“You have nothing I want, Fandral.”

“How about if I polish your armor for a full moon?”

“What, and let you leave spots all over my-”

“Will you two stop your incessant blathering? She’s about to fall and I would like to enjoy it in its entirety,” Hogun finally quips in with a surprisingly gruff voice. 

You cry out as Loki’s mouth unravels you, causing your cunt to pulsate tightly around Thor. He grips you atop him as he hisses into your ear.

After a few more languid licks of your slit, Loki finally sits up from between your thighs and pulls you into a deep kiss. Your inner walls tighten around Thor yet again when you taste your own juices on Loki’s lips.

The room erupts in applause as the Warriors clap and cheer wholeheartedly.

“A good first round, I’d say!” Volstagg exclaimed as he slams his empty goblet upon the floor in celebration. 

“I agree. I think Y/N is fully warmed up now. We’re going to need much more wine and mead before we proceed forward.”

“And more bread!” Volstagg adds, tossing an empty turkey leg upon his plate.

“I wonder if Y/N, will allow Loki to continue to tend to her,” Lady Sif muses aloud.

At that, Loki finally pulls away from you, licking your bottom lip with an imperious smirk. “I will of course, perform as such, should she require it of me.”

Thor laughs, clamping a hand on Loki’s bare shoulder. “Well down, brother. But I should like you to sit this next one out for now. I wish to ravage her myself this time.”

“Such a bore...but I will concede for now.” Loki sighs snidely before lightly touching your jaw and leaving the bed. 

With Thor’s cock still buried inside you, you look up at him with an impish expression. “So, there’s more to Wacchinsrinn? We’re not finished yet?”

He brushes his lips against your temple as his hands tighten on your hips. “Oh no, my love. We go until you cannot go any longer. When you have had enough, then we will stop. But I know you and....I know you have several more hours in you.”

As he thrusts up into you again accompanied by the supportive cheers of his companians, you smile, truly feeling full filled for the first time in a long time.

From his post on the Rainbow Bridge, the ever watchful Heimdall smiles at the glorious sights before him.

Taglist: @sherrybaby14​ @darkficsyouneveraskedfor​ @lucifers-trash-stash​ @cherienymphe​ @imanuglywombat​ @threeminutesoflife​ @charmed-asylum​ @thefangirllife​ @justagirlinafandomworld​ @queenoftheworldisdead​ @searchforanotherway​ @sapphirescrolls​ @hurricanerin​ @cockslut-padalecki​ @different-type-of-hell​ @darkandinvitingfics​ @buckybarnesplumwhore​ @oneoftheprettynerds​

[ironhoshi]

Something, anything cute and fluffy between cal and the iron 13th? I am starved

I think I can manage that! Well, sort of... this is from Jaro's POV, but I think it is cute and fluffy!!! Under the cut and no warnings are needed.

There was a gleeful undercurrent on the Albedo Brave and Jaro wasn’t about to say a word. He merely lifted his steaming mug of caf up so he could get a decent whiff of the pleasant aroma. He’d drink eventually when it cooled more, but for now, he was content. He cracked an eye open and tried to hide the fond yet exasperated smile that took up residence on his face.

His Padawan was missing.

There was a crash from the mess hall. The sense of glee only intensified with a mild twist of anxiety mixed in. His Iron Battalion was up to mischief and he had a feeling their young Commander was in the thick of it.

“Sir,” Striker said softly before setting down the datapad he had been working on. Jaro opened both his eyes and fixed his Commander with his full attention. “I have a few requisition forms that need to be signed off on.” They had been working peacefully in Jaro’s office. Well, Striker had been working after ordering Jaro to finally relax some. The last battle had been taxing on all of them. Jaro planned on only relaxing until his cup of caf was empty and then he’d trick Striker into getting involved with whatever was happening in the mess. The extremely competent clone was either extremely good at shielding himself or he honestly wasn’t exhausted. None of the clones on the ship felt exhausted despite the battle not that long ago.

A louder clattering noise caused them both to be still. Striker finally moved with an exaggerated sigh. “Excuse me, Sir, I think I need to go make sure no one killed themselves.” Before Jaro could state everything felt fine, well, Striker was out of the room. He glanced down at his now closer to tepid caf before chuckling. It was about time he finished his drink and then went to see what mischief was happening on his ship. He downed the caf like a shot of something much stronger before moving to follow after Striker. It was in the doorway to the mess hall that he froze in surprise. None of the tables or benches were where he remembered them, which was impressive because he was positive they had all been bolted down. He cast his gaze about and noticed the various tools. Ah, how determined his men were. Always resourceful and always finding solutions, no matter the situation. He stepped further into the room, hands clasped behind his back, and schooled his face into a serious mask.

“Padawan,” he called out. Faint laughter erupted from various dark corners of the room and then a tuffet of red popped up over the top of what Jaro could only describe as a makeshift fortress. Then, to his actual surprise, a sphere-like object went sailing across the whole space and Cal ducked back into safety just before it hit. Bright yellow exploded across the table wall. Oh, this was both bad and amusing. They were having a paint war. He hadn't the faintest idea where they had managed to get balloons and he wasn't going to ask.

“Hey, we didn’t start yet,” came the disgruntled cry of a young voice. His Padawan was leaking brilliant delight across their bond so he knew the boy wasn't actually upset.

“All’s fair in war, Cadet,” someone yelled from the other side of the room. Dice, if Jaro had to guess.

Jaro cleared his throat and the atmosphere of the room chilled a fraction. “I believe I have quite a bit of paperwork to do. It should take me at least two hours.” The chill warmed before morphing into that delightful mischievous glee. The mess hall would probably take a week to clean after their game was over, but… did they not deserve some fun? “Carry on.” He turned, stepped out of the room, and behind him heard the faint whistle of a projectile sailing across the large room. Laughter erupted. Jaro smiled softly while he let his feet lead him back to his office. Perhaps someone would be wise enough to take a holo of this? It was rare to see Cal relax so and it would do the youngling some good.

[muertawrites]

Fireside (Zuko x Reader)

Word Count: 1,775

Author’s Note: I am so deeply sorry this took so long to post. I don’t know what happened but after Thanksgiving the creative part of my brain completely shut down and all I could do was lay in bed and play video games. But it’s back now so 🎉🎉🎉 happy new year to all of us! 

I got this request a WHILE ago and had written something else for it but after reconsidering, I totally hated it, so this is the rewrite for some cozy, wintery goodness. I also love this idea because I’m constantly cold - my feet and hands are always freezing and even in summer I’ll wear sweaters and hoodies because aircon can get pretty chilly when you have the body temp of your average vampire. 

Now for a little update: in the new year, I’ll be focusing more on original works than fanfiction. I’m still going to finish Two Halves, and I’ll still write fanfiction (because it’s still super fun) but I have so many ideas for original works that are taking over my brain that it seems only fitting to shift that direction. If you’re on my subscriber list and would like to only receive alerts for fanfic, let me know and I’ll add you to a separate list. 

I hope you’re all having a wonderful holiday, taking time to relax and spend time with loved ones, and generally just glad to have survived this shithole of a year. Here’s hoping that 2021 goes better - 2020 set the bar pretty low so it shouldn’t be too hard. 🥂

Snow was a rare occurrence in the Fire Nation. Summers typically scorched, followed by peaceful autumns and mild winters; a little rainfall was all one typically expected during the colder months in the Imperial City. 

This year, however, was much different. The mountains that bordered the villages and towns throughout the island were white capped under gray skies; streets were slickened by thick layers of ice that settled between cobblestones and creased the panes of windows; bracing breezes swept through landscapes unaccustomed to such unforgiving weather, carrying flurries of snow that bit at cheeks and cloaked the world in a dull ivory veil. Winter came to the Fire Nation seeking a cruel, unwarranted vengeance.

You woke in the middle of the night to find the fire beside your bed had died, leaving your borrowed room in a state of bitter, slicing cold. It wasn't the first time the Firelord’s palace had left you uncomfortably chilled since your arrival for his New Year’s celebrations, as the building was never meant to withstand this type of climate - sweeping ceilings, open breezeways, and tall windows with thin shutters ensured that the cold had its way. Being from the Northern Earth Kingdom, used to sturdy wooden lodges with massive fire pits that could burn an entire tree trunk with one lighting, this strange change of the typical season made you ache for home. 

Knowing there were no matches beside the hearth (given the sheer amount of fire benders that resided in the palace), you gathered up your courage and begrudgingly rolled from your mattress, taking the blankets with and wrapping them tightly around yourself. The walls around you creaked, shifting under the push of moaning winds, as you slipped into the hallway in search of your host. 

You were thankful that Zuko decided to keep his personal wing of the palace confined to a space that was mostly enclosed; the only breezeways in this part of the sprawling estate surrounded its courtyards and gardens, and were blocked by sets of heavy wood doors that shielded the inner parts of the building from being overcome by the elements. As you walked, traipsing through the corridor under your mound of blankets like some sort of shadowy, death-bringing phantom, you passed one of the windows that overlooked the gardens, and found it frosted under heavy white tufts of snow; puffy, clumped flakes whirled down from the sky, falling haphazardly as they escaped the grip of the whipping wind. Even in the relative warmth of the palace, your body shivered thinking of how frigid the air outside must be. 

Because of the abnormal cold, Zuko moved his mattress out of his bedroom and into his sitting room, where a large, decorative fireplace stood nestled into the far wall. You approached his sleeping form with gentle, quiet steps, being careful not to startle him; you lay a hand on his shoulder and he jolted awake, drawing a sharp breath in as he twisted to face you, blinking blearily to make out your features in the dark. 

“What are you doing?” he muttered. 

“I'm cold,” you whispered in response. “My fire went out.” 

Zuko sighed, fixing you with an irked, exhausted expression. 

“Seriously?” he groaned. “This is the third time this week.” 

“It's not my fault nobody has any friggin matches in this place,” you quipped. “And besides, why bring a servant all the way up here when I have one of the world’s greatest fire benders down the hall?”

Zuko huffed, then rolled back over in an attempt to shove you off. 

“There should be more blankets in your closet,” he grumbled. 

“I'm wearing all of them,” you retorted. 

You stood above him, waiting, but got no response. Shivering, and with an exasperated sigh, you pulled back the blankets around him, shuffling between them and nestling into his back; he snapped his head around once more, eyeing you suspiciously. 

“... Isn’t this a little uncomfortable?” he wondered. 

“Not really,” you replied. “We used to do this all the time when we were teenagers.” 

“We haven't done this since we were teenagers.”

You hummed, recalling your time together during the war. Even on the hottest days, your body was cold, your fingers always reasonably corpselike to anyone who happened to touch them - Zuko was one of those unfortunate people, and the lack of circulation in your limbs came as quite a worry to him. Throughout the day, he would take one of your hands in his, heating his palm until your skin took on a more lively temperature. When he noticed how much you layered at night when the air became cooler, he started sleeping nearer to you, eventually curling up around you to keep you warm. After the war, when he got into the habit of visiting you around the winter holidays, you still found yourself seeking him for warmth, tucking your hands into the sleeves of his robes or curling his palm around your icy fingers, finding sanctuary in the way he heated his skin to appease you. While it was true you hadn't slept together since you were younger, you hadn't ever needed to - desperate times called for desperate measures. 

“I should have remembered that you get so grumpy when you're tired,” you teased him, rubbing your feet against his; he hissed, but didn't pull away. 

“You're freezing,” he commented. “I should have remembered you're dead on the inside.” 

You giggled, sighing happily as the familiar heat of his skin warming like a furnace chased the chill from your toes. You slid your feet up along his ankles, causing him to shiver; his body tensed for a moment, then eased into your touch, quickly finding comfort in its familiarity. 

“Aang used to assume we were a couple because of this,” Zuko mumbled. “He still does.” 

“You're just a good friend,” you replied. You nuzzled your face into the broad, solid expanse of his back, breathing in his scent of scorched wood and sea salt. He felt like home. “Good friends don't let their friends freeze to death.” 

Zuko chuckled, taking hold of your hands that lay on his waist and cupping them within his own; he held your knuckles up to his mouth and huffed warm, smokey air onto them, heating them until they no longer felt cold. He tucked them beneath the fabric of his tunic, keeping them tepid between the fabric of his undershirt. 

“Uncle says the same thing,” he mused. “He says we treat each other like lovers, whether we realize it or not.” 

“My neighbors have asked me what my husband does that takes him away for so long out of the year...” you commented, eliciting another breathy laugh from your companion. “But I think I'd know if you were in love with me.” 

Zuko rolled over, turning to face you; his arm latched at your waist, his chest almost pressed to you and your noses grazing each other in the small space of his mattress. You blushed, the color blending with the soft, balmy glow of the low hearth behind him. 

“What makes you think I'm not in love with you?” he wondered. 

You paused, watching the flames flicker over the angular features of his face. Though he was silhouetted, and so close he seemed to envelop all of you, you could make out a tender gleam in his eye; could feel the flutter in his chest as he split it open, tentatively revealing his heart to you. 

“... I'd like to think you would have mentioned it,” you answered after a moment, “but I know you better than that.” 

Zuko grinned; you watched the curve of his cheek as it swelled with the action. 

“I might have mentioned it,” he murmured, his voice lilting with a gentle mirth. “Just not to you.”

“Of course not,” you teased. You mirrored his smile, easing into him as his foot began to stroke against your ankle once more. “Either way, I know you don't love me.” 

“And why is that?” Zuko whispered. 

“Well… you never write to me about anything exciting,” you replied. “You always seem so content to write to me about your thoughts, or what plays you've seen recently, or your conversations with Iroh. You never tell me about the impressive, world-altering Firelord stuff or your incredible exploits as a warrior.” 

Zuko smirked, raising a hand to brush some hair away from your face. His fingers were calloused and lukewarm, tracing over your temple with consideration and care. 

“Why else?” 

“You've never tried to kiss me,” you noted, “or touch me like a lover. You never try to push our boundaries past anything that's comfortable for us. Even right now - I'm laying in your bed, but you refuse to touch me in a way you're unsure of.” 

“Then you don't love me, either,” Zuko added. His body had gravitated flush to yours, your legs braided together under the pile of blankets you'd buried him in. “You only want to sleep with me when you're cold. You could just as easily call a servant for help.” 

“And you only want to keep me warm out of obligation,” you agreed. “It wouldn’t make you look very good if I died of hypothermia on your watch.” 

For a long moment, Zuko gazed at you. You basked in his silence, the easiness of his form so close to yours, the native feeling of his arm around your waist and his breath tickling your cheeks. The fire snapped quietly in its hearth, its flames rising and falling in time with his inhales and exhales. 

“I’ve missed this,” Zuko admitted in a whisper. “Laying with you. I wish we could do it more often.” 

“I’ve missed it, too,” you affirm. “I always used to sleep better with you.” 

“And that’s it?” Zuko teased. 

“That’s it,” you giggled back. 

He chanced a kiss to your forehead, pressing his lips between your brows and letting them linger there, savoring the coolness of your skin. You shut your eyes, giving yourself entirely to his touch. 

“In the new year… do you think we could be lovers?” he asked as he pulled away. 

“... I think your uncle is right,” you murmured. “I think we already are.” 

With a faint, bashful smile, Zuko pulled you closer (if the act were even possible), hugging you tightly to him; you held him close, pressing the whole of your body to his and soaking in his steady, comforting warmth. As the wind howled outside, shaking the flimsy wooden eaves of the feeble shelter around you, you fell asleep in the heat of his fireside, safe in the knowledge that his arms held you. 

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[renaerys]

Prompt 50. But Berserk & Boomer😔👉👈💕

50. “I thought you left.”

We’re calling this one Unfortunately, She Impressed Him. This is a pair of characters I love with all my heart in any flavor of relationship and can’t wait to write more of in my ongoing multi-chapter fic Trinity House over on AO3.

This fic is part of a prompt challenge that is now closed to new requests, but you can read all the completed submissions here. Reminder that the challenge is to make everything SFW, so we’re getting creative here.

xxx

Boomer was halfway across the deserted lobby of Faust Keating Rogers, LLP when he realized he’d forgotten his keys at his desk. He groaned aloud because it was 8 p.m. and no one was around to hear him because they had all gone home to their families hours ago like normal people. Boomer didn’t have two to three kids and a house in the suburbs, though, and neither did his boss. The three hour lull reserved for dinner, baths, and bedtimes before the evening work-from-home grind offered him no alternative but to power through. He fully planned to grab take out on his way home and enjoy an episode of whatever was on HBOMax before getting back to the tedious work of reviewing the draft prospectus statement his boss had sent him to proof by tomorrow morning.

Except, his keys were forty floors up and he now had to risk running into her again when he’d managed to slip away so neatly. He’d even removed his tie on the elevator ride down, and now he rubbed his exposed neck, flushed with anxiety over what might happen if she saw him and asked him to stick around to finish the work here.

“Nice going, dumbass,” he lamented as he stepped onto the elevator and hit the button for the fortieth floor.

It wasn’t that Boomer disliked his job. In fact, he didn’t mind it at all. It was better than slinging drinks or waiting tables. He had health insurance, a steady paycheck, and a resumé that could proudly display the name of one of the most elite accounting firms in the country. He could pivot his career if he wanted to, as Brick would say. Boomer wasn’t thinking about his next job right now, though. Right now, he was thinking about this one and how his boss was a hard-ass and a workaholic even if she was brilliant, and how there was a one hundred percent chance she would detect him coming back to his desk (which was annoyingly set up right in front of her office so that he could answer her calls, manage her meetings, and deal with whoever passed close enough to her event horizon to get suckered into the latest heinous audit in need of staffing).

There were his traitorous keys sitting on the desk next to the framed picture of his brothers. He glared at them, as if they were a forgotten household item that had developed a supernatural grudge like in those old Japanese folktales he liked to read online. He half expected them to jingle and alert his boss to his presence, just to spite him.

They didn’t, and he slipped them into his pocket as quietly as could be. He released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and took a beat. It was quiet. Most of the offices were dark, save for a few poor souls in the large conference room stuck on the ongoing year-end audit for one of the firm’s most important clients: Unicorn, Inc. His boss’s office was also lit up behind her closed door, but she hadn’t called out to him like she would during the day when he got back from his lunch break hoping for a few minutes to catch up on emails in peace before she dumped more work on him.

This, of course, was odd. The small legion of assistants who had come before Boomer were notorious for their short-term employment working this specific desk. The work was demanding and so was the boss, but there was something else that set her apart from other senior associates in the International Tax Services division, something that seemed to intimidate away any support the higher ups sent her way. Denise a couple desks down had warned Boomer not to bring too many personal effects to the office; chances were he wasn’t going to last long. Boomer had smiled thinly and thanked Denise for her advice, and brought the picture of his brothers in the next morning because he had his pride and Brick told him it was healthy to indulge that once in a while. Brick would certainly know.

So here he was, uncertain. Anxiety over having to sit here for another two hours finishing work and having tepid Doordash delivered pulled him toward the elevator and escape, while that annoying, rare pride demanded he check on his boss and make sure she knew he was here to support her, lest she get the idea that he needed to be fired.

The longer he stood there, indecisive, the greater his curiosity grew. What was she doing in there? It was quiet, even when he strained his Super hearing. He could hear Dean Matheson pouring whiskey a few offices down (that guy had a drinking problem and everyone knew they only kept him around because he had the Unicorn, Inc. account), Adebayo Hansou on a conference call with Dubai that was escalating to profanity, Shelly Kim with her head down and typing away at an Excel spreadsheet like a pro. Their assistants were long gone for the night, but here was Boomer, loitering and indecisive and what is she doing in there not yelling at me when she definitely knows I’m here?

He couldn’t take it anymore. He knocked on the closed door—rap, rap, rap—and called out softly, “Berserk?”

A beat, then: “Come in.”

Finding his boss in upward facing dog while still in her pencil skirt was not a sight Boomer was prepared for. Berserk had her eyes closed as she stretched at a near ninety degree angle and listened to music on her Airpods. Boomer had never seen her with her heels off and her mane of red hair thrown together in a messy bun; it was so casual that it was almost obscene.

“You’re staring.”

Fuck, he was staring and now she was looking right at him down her nose, even though she was the one on the floor. He stood up straighter, unable to help himself when she took that tone that reminded him so much of Brick’s when he was about to criticize, but he didn’t avert his gaze. “Sorry.”

She breathed in deeply through her nose and hoisted herself up into downward dog position. “Why are you here?”

Forgot my keys seemed like a really lame excuse that she’d probably laugh at him for, but he also was not in the habit of making shit up on the spot if he hoped to make people believe him. “I forgot my keys.” He took them from his pocket to show her, as if she might not know what keys are, as a concept.

“Smart locks.” Berserk exhaled and slowly walked her hands back on the yoga mat until she reached her feet and began to swing slowly left and right.

Huh? he almost said like an idiot, until he caught himself. “Don’t think my landlord would approve of me installing that.” Also, those things were like $200 a pop, which was not worth the occasional inconvenience and shame of forgetting his keys and then catching his boss doing yoga in her office after hours.

Berserk made some noncommittal sound like whatever, peasant and slowly uncurled upward one vertebra at a time. Boomer realized he was back to staring again, literally lingering in her door watching her and trying to equate this subdued, casual version of Berserk with the terse, no-nonsense businesswoman he was used to dealing with on a daily basis.

When she finally achieved her full height, she popped her neck. The hair that was too short for her bun fell in around her narrow face in a stylish, athleisure sort of way. The top buttons on her blouse were undone. She wore a small, golden necklace he’d never noticed before because he wasn’t in the habit of checking out his boss. “I thought you left.”

The accusatory nature of her words were totally at odds with her flat tone, only the barest hint of curiosity dangling there at the end, like she expected him to respond.

Oh, she expected him to respond.

Boomer took another step into her office because he was full of poor judgment today. “I forgot my keys.”

At which point he showed her his keys again and also had a mild stroke, because what the fuck are you doing, mate?

Berserk smiled. “Yeah, I got that part.”

Was she laughing at him? He had never heard her laugh before, unless it was at Dean Matheson, that comb-over in denial who, in addition to being a high functioning alcoholic, also had a reputation for throwing associates under the bus when a client wasn’t happy.

Boomer smiled back, because that was what he did when people smiled at him, and ‘people’ now included Berserk, apparently.

“Well, since you’re here,” she said as she padded around to her desk.

Crap, there was the work he was afraid of soliciting from her by remaining in the building. He debated an excuse to give her: picking up dry cleaning? Plausible, but transparent. Meeting up with his brothers? No, she’d probably make him stay all night for the chance to ruin Brick’s plans.

“Thai or Mexican?”

Boomer stared dumbly. He was becoming quite good at that (10,000 hours and you can become an expert at anything, they say). “Huh?”

The yoga must have put Berserk in an exceedingly gracious mood, because she actually repeated her question without getting that look on her face like she was picturing him getting trampled by stampeding monsters. “Thai or Mexican? I don’t have a preference.”

Oh.

Oh.

Boomer’s stomach picked that time to snarl at him—8 p.m. and still no dinner, the fiend.

Berserk snorted in laughter and fanned herself with her phone. “Jesus. Mexican it is.”

Which was how Boomer found himself on the small sofa tucked in the corner of Berserk’s office, shoes off and belt loosened, with enough tacos, tamales, and rice and beans to feed a small family. He even had a beer from the mini fridge Berserk kept under her desk.

She hadn’t stayed late to work. Well, she had, but only because she didn’t have a reason to go home.

“I just hate getting home to a dark apartment sometimes,” she said in between bites of food. She had her legs tucked up under her on the sofa close enough to brush Boomer’s thigh if he reached to grab the salsa.

“I thought you lived with your sister?”

“Brute got her own place a few months ago. The arrangement was only temporary while she was in between jobs.”

It was weird knowing so little about a person whose whole family had been in Boomer’s inner orbit since childhood. As far as he knew, Berserk wasn’t close to any of her cousins, not even Blossom. Boomer himself had never been more eager to leave a room than when Brat walked into it. Only Butch, Brute, and Buttercup had ever found common ground among each other once the sworn rivalries and blood feuds of their youth gave way to teenage rebellion against their respective overlord fathers and then the slog of adulthood that was inescapable even for a bunch of Supers flying high on Chemical X.

The fact that Boomer had gotten this job surprised him more than anyone. After drifting from restaurant jobs to office temp placements over the last six years, he’d never thought he would dust off his economics degree and land a temp-to-permanent position that seemed way above his qualifications. And he never thought it would be working for a woman he’d most definitely electrocuted in battle at least a dozen times before puberty.

“What?”

Boomer blinked. He’d been staring again, Jesus Christ. “Sorry, I was just thinking… I didn't know that. I’ve been working here for five months and I don’t actually know much about you at all.”

“Hm.”

Her magenta eyes were wine-dark against the murky sky beyond the window forty stories up. Boomer did avert his gaze this time to reach for the salsa, but he didn’t use it.

“I don’t even know why you invited me to stay for dinner in the office if we’re not going to do any work.”

“Why did you stay?”

“For the free food.”

Berserk grinned—the third time she had smiled at him tonight (or ever). He needed to stop counting; he’d be disappointed when it stopped happening tomorrow.

“Don’t get used to it. Much as I appreciate the company now and again, there’s no need for both of us to be stuck here while Matheson’s breathing down the associates’ necks. Can’t have him poaching you out from under me.”

“Well, I don’t work for him; I work for you.”

“It’s sweet how you don’t understand office politics.” She ate a lone slice of avocado with a fork. “He landed Unicorn back when they were early stage, and back when he was still putting in the work to earn his reputation. But since they IPO’d three years ago and make up twenty percent of our revenue now, he’s just another big name coasting by on associate work. You know he regularly schedules client calls and just doesn’t bother to show up? He forgets half the time, and the other half he’s busy playing golf or buying a yacht or whatever the fuck rich, white Boomers do.”

“Well, as a Boomer myself, I can say I’ve spent exactly zero hours buying yachts.”

She chuckled. Fourth time. “Oh, really.”

“Never even thought of yachts. As far as I’m concerned, they’re not even real.”

“Thanks for your expert opinion.”

“Any time.” Boomer turned his body to face her and draped his arm over the back of the sofa. With only the soft light from the floor lamp in the corner, he imagined himself adrift in the darkness, the sky scraper lights nearby stars. It was a lonely thought, one made romantic in the knowledge that she was here too, and he wasn’t actually alone.

“Matheson almost did poach you, you know.”

“What do you mean?” Boomer couldn’t recall exchanging more than a few words with the man.

“When we were filling support positions. Someone recognized you from the news a few years back, when the Cyclops Monster attacked the marina district and you and your brothers took it out. Matheson got it in his head that you’d be able to work at Super speed and help lower his billables.”

“Wow. Maybe you should’ve let him. What do you think the net savings would be in yacht units of measurement?”

Berserk rolled her eyes, but she was smiling again. “I claimed you before he could get the paperwork in.”

Boomer hyper-focused on that word: claimed. He also pointedly ignored it entirely, much in the same way he ignored the new count of five smiles tonight. “Showed him your bending powers, did you?”

Berserk’s Corona bottle turned frosty under her hand in a totally unnecessary, big dick energy display of said powers, and she took another sip. “No. Sharon from HR likes me. And I promised her I wouldn’t fire you after three months like your predecessors.”

Flattered was not how Boomer would describe the feeling of being claimed by Berserk and eluding Matheson’s vampiric clutches. But he was a bit tickled all the same. This was the woman Butch had once described as essentially Brick, if he were constipated all the time.

And then he realized what she was doing. “Hey, you’re sharing things about yourself.”

She clinked her bottle to his, and Boomer shivered at the frosty chill she transferred on contact. “Aw, you figured it out all by yourself.”

“Ha ha.”

She didn’t quite smile, but she did look kind of serene then, content even, as she lay back against the arm of the sofa and yawned. Her gold necklace—just a simple disk with an engraving Boomer could not make out—reflected the lamp light when she moved. It rested just beneath her collarbone, which had suddenly become the single-most interesting part of Berserk, and oh no, was he interested—

“You’re staring again.”

Son of a bitch.

“Sorry,” he said automatically. “I didn’t mean to.”

Hard no. He was not allowed to be any percent attracted to Berserk. First, she was his boss, and there was a cliché here that, while subverted on the gender role spectrum, was still very risky for both of them. Second, she was Berserk, a fellow Super, cousin to his best friend Bubbles and a shrewd, stiletto bitch in Brick’s estimation, which sounded bad. Not that she was bad, or even evil, unless you counted helping rich corporations accurately report their taxes while taking advantage of the many egregious loopholes in the Internal Revenue Code. Which, okay, point taken, but he also worked here and anyway, people should not be deemed good or evil so much as their choices ought to be—

“Are you thinking about fucking me?”

You shrewd, stiletto bitch!

She was smiling again, and Boomer pathetically logged that as the sixth time, although he wasn’t sure he should count it given the overt malice behind it.

Unfortunately, Boomer was, as had been previously established, very bad at making shit up on the fly. So he miserably said, “Yeah.”

“Hm.”

She sipped her beer slowly, and of course he watched. If it was out in the open, as fleeting a bout of insanity as it may have been, at least he could wallow in it without worrying about appearances.

It was the yoga. That fucking upward facing dog, Jesus Christ.

It was more than that too. Over the last few months, he had worked closely with her, watched her navigate the cutthroat halls full of piranhas like Matheson and other account managers, getting herself work on the best clients while managing her juniors with efficiency and professionalism. She was excellent and sharp, and she demanded excellency and sharpness in kind. After years of going it alone or temping for bosses who didn’t care enough even to learn his name, much less provide him with guidance and mentorship, it was an unspeakable relief to work under someone who knew how to rally the troops. Someone who knew how to lead, how to motivate, and how to reward loyalty with loyalty in return. It didn’t hurt that she looked amazing in her daily stilettos, either.

Unfortunately, she impressed him.

“I have some work to get done tonight.” Berserk stood up and smoothed her skirt.

Boomer scrambled to his feet. “Of course! Um.” He began closing food containers and repackaging them in the bags they’d come in, because he was panicking. “I’ll get rid of the trash. Do you want the leftovers in the fridge?”

“You take them. Otherwise my office will smell like a burrito for a week.”

“Okay.” Numbly, Boomer finished packing everything up, while Berserk made her way back to her desk and logged into her computer to check her emails.

Boomer lingered at the door. “I’ll have the prospectus back to you later tonight.”

“Thanks.”

Wow, way to go, stud.

He turned to leave, but her voice stopped him.

“Boomer?”

“Yeah?”

“Friday is good.”

He stared back at her in expert mode. “Huh?”

Berserk poked her head around the side of her large, external monitor. She was smiling again. Lucky number seven. “For fucking.”

“Okay,” Boomer said.

Okay?!

She pulled back behind her monitor. “I was going to get a cat, but you’ll do much better.”

Because she didn’t like going home to a dark, empty apartment alone. With no one to fuck.

“That was a joke.”

“Yeah, I got that,” he croaked.

Friday is for fucking, he thought, which was delightful alliteration and also completely insane and one hundred percent something he was getting more on board with by the nanosecond.

“See you tomorrow,” she said.

Boomer clutched the leftover Mexican food in his fist. “Okay. Goodnight.”

It took him the time to fly home and put the food away in his small fridge to realize that he had a sort-of date with Berserk lined up for two days from now.

He Y-posed at the window and whooped, “Hell yes!!”

Loud pounding in the floor followed by old Mrs. Cruikshank’s muffled Keep it down! couldn’t bring down his mood.

Boomer leaped onto his threadbare, living room sofa with his work laptop and took to the prospectus with alacrity. He’d send over superior work product and make Berserk’s job just that much easier tomorrow morning.

xxx

If you enjoy my writing, check out more of my fics on AO3, link in my profile. I’m currently updating Trinity House (which has a lot more Berserk and Boomer content, btw!) and The Alchemy of Us. Thanks for reading!

[lluvguts]

Cool Blue ; Chapter Three

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recurring visions of such sweet days

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☽ warnings: slight nsfw (wet dreams, unresolved tension)

☽ fic masterlist

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He stashed the photos--really he flung them like a frisbee--onto his unmade bed and slammed the door shut before Giulia could inquire about his back pressed to the door, hands on the knob, a cross of a nervous grin and a suspicious glaze over his wavering eyes. But, after careful consideration and with both his sister and father's backs turned, Alberto wiggled back into his room to retrieve the precious pictures and put them carefully on the nightstand. He felt dirty knowing he'd tossed them onto his rumpled sheets, sitting there like he didn't care about them.

But he did.

He didn't expect to register all that had truly happened until tomorrow. His eyes dropped to the glass of tepid water from that morning and the pile of photos next to it, the memories coming back.

Luca's expectant yellow eyes watching him as he traced his shapes and scales with a paintbrush on the canvas.

When Luca grinned like a little puppy and pointed at the painting Alberto had propped on his knees, of none other than the boy himself.

Luca's chin jutting out in defiance when Alberto offered to take Luca's picture home, since keeping it at his home would only result in ruining it.

And, equally defying, the sharp curve of Luca's jawbone as he stuck his tongue out at the sky, leaving Alberto still. He could see his soft features working under there. The faint pulse of his throat, a thrumming instrument but all the same slightly animal. When he had rolled his eyes and begrudgingly scooted his own painting over with a claw, splattering water on the edge, Alberto's eyes fixed on his scales ripple and shift on display when Luca moved.

Somewhere on the surface of the ocean, (the ocean skin as Luca called it fondly, but Alberto couldn't possibly think of that now) a boat's amber light hung in the darkness, the only thing to see from outside and, Alberto bit his lip, holding one meaning.

They were hunting for sea monsters on that boat. Ercole's parents, no doubt.

He walked by the bed to the window, almost in a trance, and slammed it shut. The smells of the sea were cut off, night sounds silenced. He wished he wasn't able to see it anymore, but Massimo's aged house hardly had the proper plumbing to operate let alone some goddamn curtains. It frustrated him that though the mental image of Ercole's father on the boat had lifted, that glowing yellow light remained to taunt him.

Luca said he had a family. A mother and father who cared for him and maybe loved him enough to keep him safe from the surface. But where was he now? These men, more monsters than people, with spears and blades sharper than Massimo's, scanning the calm sea with searchlights? Would the lights scare Luca?

He caught himself on the ledge of the windowsill, holding the wood frame tight. He felt it sigh under his weight it was so old.

What was happening?

"Fratello! Papa is not happy that you're letting his dinner get cold! Again!" Giulia, as Alberto could tell by her voice, was pressed to his closed door and resorted to gleeful knocking again and again.

Alberto slid the lock into place on the window, staring out into the night for a breath. Once, twice, then cleared his throat and called back.

"I'll be just a minute!" He tried to wipe the thought of Luca thrashing in the grip of a fisherman's net from his mind as he spoke, but his words came out wobbly and restrained.

Giulia's annoying pounding on the door stopped. "Okay, but I'm not doing your stupid chores for you anymore! Papa says so!" He saw her shadow hover by the bottom doorframe then whisk away to the light of the kitchen.

But through all of the sweaty panic Alberto cherished the quiet moments spent eating. Neither asked where he'd hurried off to so early in the morning while he wolfed down his dinner. (Truly Alberto wasn't sure of the answer himself, he only figured that if Luca was indeed a sea monster, maybe he was up with the rising of the sun like the fish Massimo and Alberto caught at dawn). But they, mostly Giulia, did however beg to know where that pasta was going if all Alberto did during his free time was sit and draw. They didn't know it took grueling work to paddle out to the island, and equally challenging talent to wrestle your way out of a sea monster's grip. He kept that to himself, of course, even if Machiavelli was snippier than usual at Alberto's presence when he thought about it, bringing a suspicion on what he did during the day that neither Giulia or Massimo seemed to care about.

Alberto nudged the pouchy white cat with his bare foot and Machi bit down on his heel. He pulled his legs back under the chair as far as they could go and as an apology for the fishy smell on him, and for trying to make him move, he dropped a few pieces of sausage down on the floor. He was sure that if no one else in the house was to know, Machiavelli was on Alberto's case, but the cat only growled and ate the peace offering.

He sighed. He was safe for the time being. That made him laugh around his bite of salad.

"Think of something funny, son?" Massimo looked up from his plate. Giulia had finished long ago and was only spinning her fork around in circles on the tablecloth.

Alberto nodded with a smile. "The cat."

"Speaking of cats! There's one that I keep seeing in the alley by the Gelataria, Papa, and I think that Machiavelli likes her!" Giulia perked up and was speaking with passion to Massimo now, Alberto's little quip forgotten.

"The black cat? Giulia, they're bad luck," Massimo put on his best apologetic face but it only spurred Giulia on. Alberto stared at his empty plate and debated whether now was the opportune time to slip away to his room with them distracted.

"But please, Papa! We could have kittens!" Giulia pleaded, hands splayed on the table for effect. From under Alberto's chair Machi was stewing. He stood from the table and took their plates, looking calm. Massimo was holding Giulia's small hand softly in his larger one, but it looked as though the girl was next to tears.

Alberto knew she was faking it, though. He listened smugly with his back to them while rinsing the plates and cutlery.

"Kittens are a lot of work."

"Alberto is a lot of work, but we still keep him around!"

"Giuletta. Manners."

"Sorry, Papa."

"Where would they sleep, Giulia? In your bed with you? You are allergic, my dear."

"Only mildly! And besides, if I start sneezing or something, they can stay in Alberto's room! Plain and simple."

"Excuse me?" Alberto whipped around. "Who said that I was okay with having roommates?"

Giulia giggled until her nose went pink. "You've been sharing that Pescaria smell with the two of us since yesterday, and last I checked, we didn't ask. So think of it as an upgrade."

"Like you smell any better!"

"Actually, Alberto." Massimo turned to him. "It...is an odd smell on you. It's not entirely fish."

"Yeah fratello. It's worse."

"Okay, that's it. I'm excusing myself now. Giulia you get to pick the record to play tonight."

"Go take a shower!" Giulia hollered at him, earning a grumble of disapproval on Massimo's part.

"Y-Yeah, sure thing!"

But the whole time his mind was reeling. Massimo had caught it. Giulia had caught it. Even the cat noticed it, too. Alberto pulled his tank up and over his head once the door was shut, bringing it to his nose. It smelled like sweat and salt, the usual things, but he was right. There was something else. It was mild with his nose so close, but still sharp and tangy, as if the sea-sprinkled wind had a personality that stuck to his clothes.

But that wasn't it. It was...oh no.

It was Luca.

Despite his efforts, it took him a solid ten minutes of scrubbing in the shower to get rid of Luca's smell. It wasn't that he hated it, he was used to smelling like fish from hours spent on Massimo's boat--but Machi had kept Alberto up almost all night yesterday, growling and scratching at Alberto's door because of the smell on him.

From in the kitchen, Giulia had chosen one of Massimo's more upbeat records to listen to while they finished cleaning up. He could hear her off-key singing, and Massimo's baritone jumping in with her, which made him smile.

The polaroids were still there, sticking out from underneath a sliver of the water glass. But of course they were, why wouldn't they be? Door locked, window overlooking the sea mostly covered, Alberto let his bath towel fall to his ankles. A line of shower water tickled his chin, or maybe it was sweat, he wasn't sure. He needed to get dressed. But he picked up the first of five photos.

A blurry little square of the pool that morning, just to test the camera, but around the edges sprigs of grass sprouted up through cracks in the island rock, making the picture much more beautiful than he thought.

The next three were of Luca. All taken as close to the top of the water as Alberto could get, too afraid to stick a hand under and gesture Luca to the surface, and also because it wasn't his camera. Body curled under the water, examining things along the walls of the pool too far to see, tail moving slow and practiced. His dorsal fins were the only things that translated best over film, a brilliant cool blue that Alberto had checked (and double-checked) he had the right color paint for.

He let out a tiny sigh at the final photo. Luca facing him from below, his expression a scowl, looking so human it was hard to believe that he wasn't.

But, as Alberto's fingers pinched the corners of the photos, of Luca, holding his breath as he knew it was definitely sweat he was now feeling on his neck, wasn't he human?

His chest ached, drumming a painful harmony from his frantic heart all the way down his abdomen, and if he moved the photos from his line of vision and looked down--

Oh no.

He relentlessly put everything he had into hurrying to throw on some clothes and turn off the lights. crawling into bed, so transfixed on the polaroids and—was it possible? Really? Had he just…?

No. He refused to encourage that line of thinking.

Luca was a sea monster, and probably asleep someplace far below the surface with his family, dreaming of seaweed or whatever else things that were not human thought about.

But, as Alberto lay there rigid and aching, staring at the ceiling waiting for that to go away, part of him wished he could be there with him. To make sure he was okay.

Pfft, sure. Make sure he's alright. That's all.

/ / /

Luca was not dreaming of seaweed.

But he was convinced he had died in his sleep, over a dream of soft touches. Phantom hands running down his scales, someone's calloused fingertips grazing the hollow of his throat so tenderly it made Luca squirm. Luca grabbed his imaginary person's forearm, begging to be touched. One hand remained tracing patterns on his chest while Luca felt another take hold of the side of his face, rubbing circles into his gills until he was sure he was going to pass out from the stimulation. He was so...sensitive there. Around his cheeks and his gills and especially his tail. But all he could do was tilt his face back in guilty bliss and allow whatever was happening to him to continue.

He'd never in all of his years had a dream quite like this.

"P-Please..." Luca whispered. Please stop, or please keep going? Even he didn't know.

He swore he heard a chuckle echo, a familiar chuckle, a confident one, but some sort of reaction all the same.

Luca blinked in his dream, almost crying out because the touch was gone, but then he realized it had only moved. The imaginary touches returned, this time a cool fingertip along his dorsal fin to his tail, while Luca shivered around it, biting his cheek. His legs twitched, and his tail curled around the forearm of this imaginary hand, feeling safe and comfortable enough to do so even if it was touching him in ways his mother had warned him about. The air around him (around them? no one was there) felt absurdly warm, but he realized it was only coming from his scales. The smell that hung in the air was overpowering, thick and heady in sweetness with just a trace of salt that Luca could almost taste in the air. A familiar smell...

He couldn't take much more of it. He had to wake up before...something happened. Something bad.

The cold water of his bedroom startled him into consciousness, the subdued blues and greys in much starker contrast to the tropical greens he'd dreamt of. That white-hot feeling came back, this time stronger and with a ripple of pain that burned in the pit of his stomach. When he opened his eyes the water around his bed felt warmer, like it had in the dream, and when Luca stretched out a hand his fingers were cool though his forearm was not, as if he was the one causing all of this heat.

Huh. Weird.

The last memories of the dream were still a thick haze on his thoughts, racing around and replaying the scenes over and over again until Luca buried his face into the sewn kelp of his bed to keep from whimpering.

He let his hand press to his belly, where it hurt the most, then slip down the waistband of his pants to rest between his legs. His fingers came back covered in something slick.

"Alberto..." Luca whined, rolling onto his stomach to alleviate some of the discomfort.

His eyes flung open. Alberto?

Oh.

Oh no.