#only considered half way through that it was technically up for debate

[pencilofawesomeness]

For the hugging request : Mystogan and Jellal

The ✨ twins ✨

(Drawing them this happy was pure serotonin. They’re found family, your honor.)

[writing-mlm]

hii saw you also do marvel fics :) a scott summers x male reader would be so awesome i can never find any good mlm stories for him. bonus points if it’s like an opposites attract dynamic where the reader is more irritable and rash whereas scott is more level headed and critical. thank you, no rush!!!

Irritations and Delight

Summary: Your temper is well known amongst the others but they have a trick up their sleeves that works every single time. Pairing: Scott Summers x Male Reader WC: 4.7k a/n: genuinely foaming at the mouth for Scott I forgot how little screen time he gets LMFAOOOO

Scott sighs as he gets called down to the War Room just before midnight. It’s the third time that week he’s been called to stop a fight and considering that it’s only Monday he knows it’s going to be a very long week. Despite the urgency of Jean’s request, he takes his sweet time going down the stairs rather than taking the elevator as he should have and through the halls before he sees the door. It’s closed, so he presses his hand to it, rubbing the sleep from his face while it scans him.

“I’m not taking shit from someone I need to look down at!” He hears you scoff as the doors open. He knows you’re arguing with Logan, because of course you are, it’s more often than not him. “Keep your Canadian ass away from my fucking snacks!” You warn, nostrils flaring. Jean looks at Scott with a pleading look and he just leans against the door frame, debating if this is even worth intervening— spoiler; it’s not. He’ll let you go for a little longer, get most of the steam out of your system. 

“You can make more,” Logan shrugs. “Isn’t that your whole thing? Creating,” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were so broke you gotta steal like an alley rat,” Taking the jab as well as you expected, Logan flares— damn near growls, too— and clenches his fist. You grin, staring at his claws, and tilt your head, threatening him even to try and hit you. But he’s stopped by Scott calling for you. Your last name cutting through the air like a whistle during gym class.

Scott’s voice is half a warning, half a tired plea when he calls you. Regrettably, his presence makes Logan smirk and you scowl before it drops from your face and you glare over at him. “C'mon now,” He beckons with his index and middle finger before turning and walking away. You suck your teeth and drop the topic for now. 

“Run along,” Logan taunts as you walk past him. “Daddy’s calling.” You stop and look at the door before at Logan; it’s not really a split-second decision but you walk back around and punch him in the jaw before leaving. He doesn’t fight back, not when Jean is attending to his ‘wound’ and Scott yells for you. He should be thanking you, really. She hasn’t willingly been that close to him in months. With one last shared look, you head out of the War Room and into the bright hallway. 

“Don’t say it,” You grit, rubbing your knuckles as you walk in stride with him. It doesn’t hurt, you’ve punched harder things, but you’re making sure that you didn’t break anything seeing as your hand is technically still healing from your last mission. 

“Say what?” Scott pauses, standing with his arms crossed. “That you’re being childish or that you shouldn’t hit your teammates?” Sucking your teeth, you drop your hands into your pockets and kick the imaginary rock on the floor. 

“He called you my daddy,” You grumble. “I’m older than you, by the way.” It’s like four months, but that’s still older than him. 

“Really?” He grins, his arms still crossed but now he flexes his biceps. It gets your attention more than his words do and he knows that. Asshole. “I couldn’t tell.” 

“Shut up, Summers.” 

He just tosses an arm over your shoulder and drags you over to the elevator. You bite the corner of your mouth, stopping the smile on your face until you’re alone in the elevator. 

“What even started that?” He asks, his knuckle stroking your cheek. It doesn’t take an empath to know the action alone makes you weak in the knees; metaphorically speaking, of course. The man knows how to make you unfold in seconds, which is why he’s the only one dispatched to handle you. 

“I was making cookies in secret,” You start, pursing your lips. “It’s stupid but I was proud of them and-and they were mine. But Logan’s stupid fucking nose sniffed them out while we were out getting groceries and he ate every single one of them.” He frowns, just a bit. He doesn’t want you to think he’s pitying you but he knows how much it hurts you. 

Baking wasn’t exactly a hobby of yours, truth be told you were a disaster in the kitchen, but he knew well enough that you could make some mean cookies. Everyone knew that and snatched them up whenever you made any, leaving nothing left for you. And yes, your mutation allowed you to recreate those same exact cookies as much as you wanted but you never did. 

“I just wanted something for myself— and you, of course. Just this once. And that bitch starts going on about how I should’ve hidden them better or put a note on them if I didn’t want anyone else eating them. But they were! They were in our room, in my dresser, inside of my tupperware!” Now you’re shouting and Scott takes a step back, his chest rising as you enunciate each pronoun. 

“I’ll speak with him,” He promises and your head whips around to face him. The elevator gets to your stop and you face forward, marching out and towards the staircase. 

“Oh, because then he’ll talk about how my ‘daddy’ came to my rescue again!” You shout while using air quotes. “No— it’s fine. Next time I’ll just make him a batch and load them with laxatives and chocolates, have that dog dying with shit pouring out his ass.” 

“(L/n),” He scolds, following you as you climb the stairs two at a time. “You agreed to stop calling Logan a dog.” He catches you by the elbow, spinning you around so you’re facing him. 

“No, I said I'll stop calling him a mutt.” You correct, waving your finger in front of his face. “It felt like a slur, so I stopped. But technically wolverines aren’t dogs, they’re weasels. So, dog doesn’t work either.” Slow blinking, Scott drops your arm and follows you into your shared room. By that point, you’ve gone quiet and it’s not because it’s after hours and you, as the responsible adult and teacher, would hate to wake the children up. 

He sees a mess, the things in your dresser are tossed about and the tubberware is broken into several pieces. You don’t apologize, you don’t feel a need to, instead you huff and start cleaning while he sits on the edge of your bed. Knowing that you hate it when he helps with your messes, he waits until everything is neatly folded or tossed into the trash can before he pulls you over. 

“Would you like it if I talked to the Professor about getting a toaster oven for our room?” He asks while guiding you to your side of the bed. You shrug as a response, staring at the wall. “Hey,” Grabbing your face with a ghostly grip, he makes you stare at him. “You can’t just shut down, come on.”

“I guess,” You huff, moving his hand from your face. “It’s ridiculous that we’d need to do that, though. It’s a communal space but no one respects it. I’m tired of treating people older than me like toddlers just because I have something they want!” Tenderly, he kisses the top of your head and lays properly next to you. 

“I understand, we can have a conversation with the Professor in the morning. For now, rest,” While he puts his night mask on, you reach over and turn the lamp off before holding him close. He insists on laying this way, with your head tucked into his back or neck and his grip tight on your hands. You like it, too. Scooping his legs on top of your own, you sigh into a yawn and try to fall asleep. 

—

“Hey, pretty boy!” You call as you enter the garage where Scott is working on his motorcycle. Classes had since finished up and with no other work to do, it was officially time to do whatever the fuck you wanted. And what you wanted was to bother your oh-so-loving boyfriend. 

“Yes, hun?” He calls from under that damn bike. Only able to see his legs, you lay your head against the door frame and look around. 

“Would you mind if I sit and watch you?” You ask, checking out an empty spot. Maybe you should get a motorcycle— but then he couldn’t drive you around anymore. But you could ride with him. But you wouldn’t have an excuse to not go places alone anymore. No motorcycle. 

“Course not.” He responds, sliding out from under the bike and beckons you over. Taking long strides over to him, you settle next to him and he explains what he’s doing. Fixing an exhaust pipe and something on the bottom of it had been dragging during the last ride so he was checking on that. You used to offer to fix it, your dad is a mechanic and your powers could fix it in seconds but he said he liked getting his hands dirty. 

You just know he doesn’t like anyone to handle his bike. 

The two of you sit in a comfortable silence until he finishes, you’d given up watching him tinker because you wanted him to actually do his task and knew you couldn’t stop yourself from pestering. Instead, you grabbed a useless tool in the box and changed it into various objects, eventually changing it back and reaching for an instruction manual that was hidden under wrenches. 

It wasn’t riveting or even particularly useful, an instruction manual for a toolbox wasn’t the best literature. But it passed the time until Scott let out the huff that signaled he was done and would admire his work for ten minutes. 

“Have you eaten?” You ask while he washed his hands in the large basin in the corner of the garage. 

“Not since lunch,” Lunch, if you could call it that, was a single slice of toast with a layer of jam so thin you couldn’t believe he wasted a knife for that. 

“Perfect, let’s go get some dinner.” Dinner with the rest of the school was hectic; it was dinner with a bunch of superpowered teenagers after all. So whenever you can, you opt to eat away from them and luckily tonight is one of those nights. 

Charles had ordered enough pizza to fill a god and you snagged a box before anyone noticed. It was yours and Scott’s favorite, too, so you think the Professor knew your plan from the start. But who knows? You still head outside with the box in hand and head to your secret spot on the property. 

Since the mansion overlooks acres of land there were plenty of secret spots but you like to believe yours was actually a secret. When you first got there you’d create a tree house, back then it was just large enough for you and your items but nowadays you hang with him whenever you can. 

The great weeping willow was the perfect tree to hide the house in, too. The large dangling leaves provided more than enough coverage— even for the spiral staircase you climb to reach the top. 

“How romantic,” Scott teases when you appear with a pizza box, soda, and two cups. You’d forgone getting plates because eating from the box is just as acceptable. You thank him and slide the box onto the table. He stops it from sliding off, watching as you grab a vinyl from the display case and set it on the player. It’s a newer one, one you’d stolen on accident. You swear it was an accident and Scott is inclined to believe that for his peace of mind. 

“Dinner and music,” He meets you halfway and runs his hands along your arms. “You really know how to treat a guy.” He muses. 

“Not just any guy,” Your lips curl into a smile as you stare at him. “My guy.”

“Your guy?” He echos and you nod, your eyes darting to his lips. 

“My favorite guy, my dream man, my boyfriend. My heart— I can continue if you’d like.” 

“Message received.” He shakes his head and presses a slow kiss to your lips. When his lips leave yours, you slowly open your eyes and then nudge his shoulder, telling him it’s time to eat. 

When you spend nearly all day with your significant other, sharing memories and gazes throughout the day, one might think there’s not much to talk about at the end of the day. But you begin to word vomit the second your butt hits the chair. Scott listens and gives his own input whenever he wants and the conversation eventually evolves into very juicy gossip about your students. 

Not very mature, sure. But come on! It’s like your own reality TV show. It would be better if one of you were telepathic but oh well, word of mouth and visual cues are just as fine. 

You think Tamara, a girl who’s technically a senior in high school with the powers to walk through walls is the one who’s been helping the younger kids during their nightmares before the others could get to them. Scott disagrees, he thinks it's Kevin, a kid who can enter people’s dreams.

“But Kevin can’t control whose dream he enters,” You point out, stopping yourself before you tell him about the time Kevin went into your dream where you were inside of the White House trying to get the President— who’d been Bob Marley— to come to your birthday party. 

“He’s getting better,” Scott draws his hand to his hair, slicking it back. “Because he’s been helping the others. You haven’t seen the way the kids look at him?”

“Have you seen how they look at Tamara? She’s like a big sister to them.” Tossing the crust of your slice into the box, you grab another. Honestly, his point does make sense. How else is a kid with dream powers supposed to get better? By entering dreams. “Maybe it’s both of them.” You settle on. 

“What? Kevin deals with the dream and Tamara helps them if they wake up?”

“I mean…” You trail. “Their rooms are right next to each other, it’s not hard to believe.”

“I think we cracked the code,” Scott grins and you nod as pizza cheese slides off of your lip. 

“Man, sign us the fuck up for mystery solving.”

—

Physically imposing wasn’t typically a word people would use to describe you. You don’t have a body type close to Logan or even Scott. You work out just enough, truly you don’t care too much about lifting cars or being able to punch through walls.

It’s useless in your opinion when you could very easily just turn the wall into sand or make the car paper. 

But that doesn’t mean you aren’t strong. 

You’re plenty strong, you work out every morning with Scott. You often use the students as weights just for the hell of it. While you don’t keep track you think your current limit is two seventy-five on each side of the dumbbell. 

So when you punched a protester it caught him off guard. Which wasn’t hard considering he was busy shouting nonsense at your students. But, hey, he was being really annoying. No one around you said he didn’t deserve it, no one gave you a look of shame or disgust. 

But he didn’t hit the ground, time seemed to freeze and you sighed through your nose, fist still clenched as you listened to Charles making his way over. Scott wasn’t far behind, grabbing you by the elbow just before Charles spoke up. 

“Now, was that necessary?” He asks, his stupid holier than-thou voice doing nothing to make you ashamed of hitting the man. 

“When you talk shit about my kids, absolutely,” You tell him. “How about next time you agree to take at-risk children on a field trip, you use your shitty powers to make sure someone isn’t going to hurl cruel words at them.” 

“How’d he even know?” Scott asks, staring at the man’s clearly unhinged jaw. 

“Someone scared Man-man on accident and his face went all… froggy,” You explain, looking at Man-man with an apologetic look. He looks down, rubbing his arm. “And of course, the man saw.” 

“You should’ve come to me.”

“You should’ve known.” You correct him, staring down at him. “Isn’t that your whole thing? Mind reading, and understanding people’s characters? You’re supposed to look out for them and my method is much more effective than walking away and calling for you.” Scott whispers your name, his voice was soft, and begging you to stop arguing. 

You falter, not wanting to ruin the trip anymore, and run your face.

“Can’t you just wipe his memory? Only we saw.”

“And can we go somewhere cooler?” Claire asks, leaning against her boyfriend Todd. Her long blonde hair running down the length of her face before she shifts it behind her ear. “We’ve been to this evolution museum three times. I heard there’s a movie theater down the street.” 

“The movies sounds good,” Ororo agrees, ever the helper for Charles. “I’ve been wanting to see the new one, what’s the name?” She turns to Jean who whispers the name and she nods. 

“I suppose some quiet time in the cinema couldn’t hurt.” Charles reluctantly agrees and the kids cheer. 

“We could totally—“ 

“No.” Scott shoots the idea down and you sigh, crossing your arms while getting the kids to line up. He pinches your side as he gets his kids to line up next to yours and you pinch him back. 

“It would be for like twenty—“

“No,” He drags out, not even looking at you. 

“You don’t even know what I’m asking!” Giving you a look, you chuckle and nod. “I totally was asking for that.” 

—

“It’s nine,” Scott drawls from above you, one hand on your shoulder and the other on the headboard. “You’ve slept in plenty today.” You groan and roll over, pulling your cover up to your chin. 

“Suck a dick, Summers.” 

“I’m sure I will, later,” He blinks. “But you’ve missed breakfast and your first class. It’s time to get up.” Grumbling under your breath, you turn and face him. He’s been awake for hours, you knew because he woke you up when he did. Plus, he’s a messy sleeper and you relish the bed to yourself sometimes. He smiles and sits down on the edge of the bed next to you, stroking your hairline. 

“It’s Friday, man. Can’t we cancel class for one day?” Your eyes dart between his glasses, finding his eyes in the red. 

“I’m sorry,” He shakes his head. “It’s time to get up.” Relenting, you sit up and drag yourself into the bathroom. He doesn’t stay, he has a class to teach and he knows if he does, you’ll rope him into missing it. 

Thankfully, you only have three classes before you can sit and relax. But things are never that simple inside that damn school, something happened during the period just before lunch. Some telepathic kid messed with the newest kid to join and the kid absolutely destroyed the classroom with his shock waves. He told you it was something about his past and you reassured him it’ll be fine before sending him up to talk with Charles. 

Tragic backstory after tragic backstory, you must’ve thought yourself lucky that your trauma came from the one time you accidentally turned a candle into a stick of dynamite at a historical building during a field trip. 

Not your best moment, you should admit. But the tour guide was being a prick and it’s what you imagined throwing at him. Sorry to the historical building, though, shame it became an arcade like five years later. 

This mutant's anonymous shit wasn’t your speed, sure that’s not what Charles called it (he called it mediation between two students who are having issues), but that’s definitely what it was. Everyone sat in a circle, telling their feelings and instead of some chip to commemorate being a mutant, you’re left to go out on ugly ass spandex and give up your apartment in replace of living amongst traumatized teenagers and more traumatized emotionally stunted adults. 

But hey, you agreed to become a teacher for those same young mutants— you just didn’t expect them to take to you like glue on paper. For fucks sake, you taught them chemistry, far from a friendly subject. You know you hated it when you were their age. And Jean tells you that you’re far from a friendly person, too. Not too sure on how she managed that assessment because there’s a group of teenagers in your office eating and talking. Willingly, during their lunch period. 

There are six of them, one of which is sitting on top of your filing cabinets and eating straight from a cantaloupe. No spoon or anything, just his hands. Never mind the chunks falling on your floor.  

“No, because Todd is totally grinding my gears,” Claire grumbles from the floor. Todd, her boyfriend, definitely wasn’t on your list of best students. “He keeps talking about he’ll be the next leader of the X-men and I’ll be his trophy wife! Trophy wife!” She shouts through a laugh. “He runs fast and I can bend light to my fucking will!” 

“He tried to get with Stacy Ambers,” You hum, stabbing your fork into a piece of chicken. Everything quiets down and they turn to face you, their jaws dropped. “I caught them during class when you went to the bathroom. He ran to give her a note, she giggled and nodded.”

“That sleaze!” Kelly shouts, standing on her knees. “Ugh! And with Sticky-Stacy? As if,” She lowers herself back to the floor and picks up her juice carton. “I say we stick them together in the training room and use them for target practice!”

“Saying stuff like that will get you a week's detention if the Professor hears,” You lazily remind them but you do nothing more to stop that conversation.

“The owner of the school is a telepath,” Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m sure he already knows all the fucked up plans in her noggin’.” 

“Which you shouldn’t be encouraging,” Scott chides from the door. “Come on now, go with the rest of your peers.” The kids groan and pack their things, leaving you and Scott inside the room. He steps inside and shuts the door. 

“I wasn’t encouraging,” You defend, holding your hands up. “I was acting as an outlet to the children, as Charles always drones on and on about.” He smiles and you think, rolls his eyes before he walks over to your desk. 

“That’s not what he meant, and you know it.” 

“What’re gonna do about it, Summers?” You grin, rolling your head to the side as he gets closer. He shrugs and sits on the edge of your desk. Grabbing his thigh, you roll your chair over to him and hang your arms over his legs. “Because it seems like you’re jealous I’m the favorite teacher.” 

“Jealous?” He echos, staring down at you. “Far from it; I’m glad you’re bonding with the children. We know how your temper is.” Frowning, you shove his stomach and lean back in your seat. He tilts his head as though you’ve proved his point and you chuckle, rolling your eyes. 

“Why’d you come anyway? You never visit lil ole me during lunch.” Grabbing your food, he steals a piece and you’re just glad it wasn’t the piece you were eyeing. 

“I do visit,” He rebuts. “I visited you last week. But I wanted to see if you wanted to come with me this Saturday? The Professor wants me to check out a potential mutant fight ring,”

“Hmm,” You pretend to think. “Another mission turned date, I can get down with that. Where is it?” 

“Chicago. Close to the border.” 

“Groovy, I’m in.”  Patting his thigh, you push yourself back to your desk and grab your lesson plan for next week. “Do you think the Professor would be upset if I turned the walls of the classroom into chocolate? For science, of course.”

“Yes, he would. Especially since they’re currently being rebuilt.”

“Aw, man. That was my whole lesson for Monday.” 

“Why don’t you do normal chemistry lessons? Like toothpaste volcanoes or colored fire?” He grabs another piece of your lunch and some of your juice. 

“Firstly; it’s called elephant toothpaste. Secondly, it’s hard keeping them focused in class. Half of the kids already make colored fire!” Taking the juice from him when he’s done, you take a sip. “I mean, I could do normal lessons. But it would bore everyone.”

“How about boring lessons all week but on Friday you do fun stuff like chocolate paperwork or something.” The suggestion is obvious but you take it down all the same, writing that in the corner of a paper to look at when you get back from the mission. 

“Oh, and since classes are canceled because of the incident, we could leave for Chicago now. If you’d like.” 

“Oh man, would I? Let’s go, Summers!” Slapping his shoulder, you run out of the room and head up to pack your bags. 

—

“Can I be honest with you?” You ask while Scott flies the jet. It’s impossibly quiet inside, the unattended chairs and lack of chatter were almost foreign with missions. You’d been walking around, messing with straps, and threatening to turn a chair into water. It didn’t take a genius for Scott to tell you were talking about Logan’s seat. 

“You always are,” He hums and you grin, messing up his hair. He grabs your hand after a second and kisses the back of it before you move to take a seat next to him again. 

Sighing, you kick your feet up on the control panel, careful to not actually press any buttons. “I don’t know your eye color,” You admit, staring at him. Even though you’ve been dating for nearly three years, you’ve yet to see his eyes behind those red frames. You also haven’t seen any childhood photos of him. 

“They’re blue,” He answers with a smile. “I have blue eyes, Alex said they’re blue like the sky. I think they’re blue like Florida oceans.” 

“Blue,” You softly echo, staring at him. “I always thought they were brown.” He laughs and shakes his head. It makes sense, you think. Because of course, he’d have blue eyes, how could you picture him any different? 

“What about yours?” He asks. “It’s hard to tell colors,” You tell him, describing your eyes in the way that you view them. Correlating beautiful things to the shade. “That makes sense. I thought they were gold because of your mutation and that’s what Ororo had told me.”

“Oh, I wish!” You shout. “I’d be so cool, you couldn’t stay away from me if they were.” 

“I can’t stay away from you now,” You chuckle nervously, looking away from him and he just smiles. That asshole just smiles. “I love you, I hope you know that.” He continued just to see your reaction. 

“Yippee,” You respond and immediately cover your face. “Summers, take those glasses off and kill me.” It’s a near beg as you scream into your hands. You, a grown adult, had just uttered the word yippee following a declaration of love from your boyfriend. Oh, how prepubescent. How… emotionally stunted. Oh my god, you’re no better than the other X-men. 

This, this is your trauma. This is what you’ll look back upon and shiver, pushing it deep down in your memories as if it was bad food at a family gathering and the trash was nearly full. 

“I meant,” You shudder. “I love you, too, Summers.”

“Wanna try with my first name?” He asks and you groan. He blinks over at you, his eyebrows clearly raised at your antics. 

“Give them an inch and they’ll ask for a mile!” You joke. “I love you, Scott.” You finally say, looking back at him. He bites his lip as he smiles and you lick yours, nearly forgetting that he’s flying a jet and should not be distracted. Looking away, you see Chicago in the distance and remind yourself that the mission comes first. 

Go, X-Men, Go!

[dustofthedailylife]

Cereal Debates

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Pairing: Alhaitham x (gn!) Reader

Summary: You get the urge to tease your boyfriend every once in a while. And today was another day like that. And what better way to do that than to bring up the age-old question: Is cereal soup?

Tags: Crack, a bit of fluff toward the end

A/N: I wrote this like a possessed woman when I thought about the idea. Especially since Alhaitham HATES soup... and don't we all want to rile him up at times? I sure as hell do, especially since he made me lose three 50/50s on his banner now -.-

You sat on the sofa in the living room, flipping through the daily newspaper and eating a bowl of yogurt with fruits for breakfast. 

You suddenly hear the floorboards in the direction of the bedroom creak and not too long after you could hear a yawn and some feet shuffling towards the living room.

“Good Morning.” Alhaitham groaned sleepily. 

He rubbed his eyes and squinted as soon as he was faced with the morning sun falling in through the windows. He had always been somewhat of a morning grump and to be honest, it sort of made him look cute.

The disheveled hair and clothes, the imprint of his pillow still on his cheek, the sleepy expression, and the frown as he slurped his coffee in silence every morning. It took all your willpower not to jump and squeeze him tightly. No one would think someone like Alhaitham could manage to look so adorable, but you had proof he did.

“Good Morning! Slept well?”

“Mhm.” He hummed briefly before vanishing into the kitchen without another word. Like mentioned before - morning grump.

You could hear him press the button on the coffee machine before a familiar buzzing sound could be heard from the same device. He seemed to also get himself something to eat since you could hear him clink some bowls together.

Not long after, he emerged from the kitchen with a steaming cup of black coffee and a bowl in hand and sat down at the dining table.

When you decided to join him, your eyes couldn’t help but fall onto the bowl. It was a bowl of cornflakes that he was expressionlessly shoveling into his mouth.

You amusedly bit your lip because you knew he usually hated everything soup-like, and cereal was no exception to that. And you sometimes couldn’t help but want to tease him a little. And this morning the perfect opportunity presented itself to you.

“Never thought I’d see the day you'd eat soup out of your own volition.” You smirked, knowing full well that you said “soup” and not “cereal”.

“We had no more bread left.” He explained with another grumble, putting another spoon full of cornflakes in his mouth before suddenly pausing in his movement and looking back at you completely irritated. “What did you say?” He inquired horrified, with his mouth still half-full.

“I said, I never thought I see you eat soup voluntarily.”

He knitted his brows further before gulping and pointing at his bowl. “This is cereal.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of what it is. I have eyes. Cereal can be considered a soup-like dish.” You stated matter of factly as you bit back a smirk. 

You pretended to go back to eating your yogurt and reading your newspaper but you could see his completely shocked and low-key annoyed expression from the corner of your eye.

“Cereal is not soup. Cereal is cereal.” He grumbled.

“Is that so?” You raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“Yes. Soup is a liquid food, especially with meat, fish, or vegetable stock as a base and often contains pieces of solid food.” He recited the definition he knew, only Archons know where, from. Suppressing laughter became harder and harder by the minute, especially seeing how serious he was taking this debate all of a sudden.

“Especially with meat, fish, or vegetable…”, you pondered putting an emphasis on the first word. “So that means it is mostly cooked that way but not always. So milk can serve as a base just as fine. And technically if you use soy milk or pea milk it would count as vegetable stock, no?”

You could see the muscles in his jaw tense as he gazed at you, thinking hard of what to reply. You could practically see the gears turn in his head before he started to smirk triumphantly. You knew him well enough to know that he must’ve come up with, what he thought was, an irrefutable argument.

“There is something you just said. Cooked. No heating in the process of making a bowl of cereal whatsoever. It’s served cold - therefore it isn’t soup.” He leaned back in the chair with a self-satisfied grin, expecting you not to be able to counter his argument further.

But he shouldn’t count the chickens before they’re hatched.

You stayed silent for a minute and already had a counterargument in your head from the get-go. You just wanted to wait until he took a sip from his coffee before you dropped it.

“Explain Gazpacho then.”

You could see his eyes widen and train on you over the rim of his cup before he put it back on the table with a loud thud. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking annoyed once more.

“What about French Vichyssoise? Also not soup according to you, just because they’re served cold?”

“Okay, I get it.” He grumbled once again, before pondering for a brief moment. “But all of these soups have something in common.”

“Oh? Please enlighten me, Grand Sage.” You continued your teasing.

“It’s Acting Grand Sage.” He emphasized, lightly rolling his eyes with a huff. “But anyway. Soup isn’t sweet. Neither of the ones you named is sweet. They’re savory. Cereal is always sweet.”

He smirked at you once again, fully believing he now had you cornered.

Wrong.

“Ginataang Bilo-Bilo, Koldskål, Zenzai…” You started listing sweet soup dishes from all over the world, watching how his face showed an ever-so-slight hint of surprise as well as horror.

“Now you’re just making things up.” He huffed.

“Want me to show you the soup recipe book we have over there on the shelf? Not that you ever looked at it.” You replied with a teasing lilt.

He had his hand clutched so tightly around his spoon by now that his knuckles were beginning to turn white. You knew he hated losing arguments and battles of wits and this wasn’t going in the direction he had imagined at all. Much to your amusement, however. You could practically see little clouds of steam rise from his head because his brain was racing at a million miles per hour. You just knew he was wrecking his brain to come up with a counterargument once again.

“Okay.” he finally said getting up and grabbing something from the kitchen. He came back with a triumphant smile as he placed a raw, unpeeled potato on the table in front of you.

“What’s this?” He asked, motioning in your direction.

“A… potato?” You replied in confusion, unsure where he was trying to go with this.

“Correct.” He nodded, putting one finger on his chin after placing a bowl of dry cereal right next to it and looking at you expectantly.

“That’s cereal.”

“Also correct.”

“Alhaitham, I’m not sure I follow.” You raised an eyebrow at him, still highly amused about how invested he was in this crack debate.

“A potato is a condiment you can make soup from. But a potato by itself is just that - a potato. You have to prepare it in a special way in order for it to become soup. The same goes for everything else you named. Cereal is always cereal, whether it swims in milk, water, broth, or nothing at all.”

“Okay, fair. Can’t refute that argument.” You admitted with a nod, hearing a small sigh of relief from the other side of the table.

You were no longer able to hold back your laughter now that you looked at his borderline exhausted and relieved expression.

“What? Don’t tell me you still have a counterargument?” He inquired as his eyes widened.

You shook your head. “No, I don’t. You should see your face right now though, it’s hilarious. I was just trying to tease you a bit, I didn’t think you’d get this invested.” You wiped a tear out of the corner of your eyes as you continued giggling.

“You–” He grumbled playfully as he clenched his jaw before he started smiling. “Come here!”

He got up from his chair and lifted you out of yours, walking over to the sofa, and throwing you down it together with himself. He started tickling your sides while holding you tightly to his chest so you couldn’t escape his playful attack.

Out of breath from laughing so much you leaned your forehead against his chest before snaking your arms around him.

“I love you, you dork.” 

“I love you, too.” He replied, lifting your chin up and pressing a featherlight kiss on your lips. “Even if you start arguments about soup with me first thing in the morning. You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

Do not repost, copy, translate or edit - © dustofthedailylife || reblogs, comments, and asks about Genshin or my fics are always greatly appreciated and motivate me! Maple dividers are mine - do not copy.

[poisonheadcrabsalesman]

Mjolnir Syndrome: A Helping Hand

My half of an art trade with @fablepatron - find the whole thing here on ao3.

The first chapter is too explicit, but here's the second chapter Roland POV.

-

Another night watching his crew recover. Another night of patrolling the circuits of the ship, checking and rechecking, herding dumb AI back into their functions, herding dumb humans back to their responsibilities like sleeping. Most of Roland is divided into the monotonous tasks required to run a starship of this size and to care for a crew of this many talents. However, there was a negligibly sized portion of his focus on the single operating War Games sim and one Spartan Miller.

He didn’t play favorites. (Statement: untrue.) He had a handful, maybe. (Also untrue.) But that came with the territory of being a shipboard AI. Lots of handshakes and handholding. It made sense to keep an eye on a specific few in Command. Really. Just as a way to get a read on the rest of the crew and understand the social systems in place. That was the real reason Roland was watching Miller beat himself up in the wee hours of the morning, and why his subroutines flagged more processing power to monitor the Spartan as his vitals peaked.

There’s a spark of brain activity and a rapid release of cortisol in Miller’s system. His temperature raises even further and Roland considers getting help. Nothing had changed other than the slowly ramping feedback of the Mjolnir systems. The closed system was prone to feedback loops when worn for longer periods of time without a release of charge or not maintaining proper levels with an AI syncing the NI and the various layers of the armor.

Miller hadn’t wanted his help so he was keeping his distance. Mostly.

It was strange to see the usually quick-thinking Spartan brute force his way through what was bound to be unpleasant and quite distracting sensations. Unless… he wasn’t expecting it. Did Miller not know about Mjolnir Syndrome? A fun nickname given by more season Spartans and crew in the know of the…symptoms. Is that why the sudden spike in vitals?

His favorite Spartan was easy to fluster. He’d need help soon, Roland could tell. The constant influx of sensation only built and then plateaued as Miller froze. He’d never reach overload by himself, especially if he just became aware of why h-everything was so hard.

Luckily, and with no outside input from Roland, help was on the way.

The Master Chief had noticed Miller, not for the times Miller wants to space himself over, but because like Roland, Chief found Miller interesting. Maybe it was akin to studying something and finding yourself attached, like those scientists over in xenobiology who named the new flatworms they found on Requiem. Miller was Roland’s flatworm, and he was willing to share, if it meant helping the poor Spartan out.

Chief observes Miller with a tilt of his helmet. Roland was still learning the IIs body language but he thought he was picking up amusement. The specific head tilt and slight shake of the helmet for outsider observers was one he had seen Chief use with Blue Team. But they weren’t here, it was just him and Miller and R-.

Oh. Chief was including him again. It was so strange when humans did that. Only a handful seemed to remember his presence, unless he made them. Always running in the background, ready at a moment’s notice. Well, this was interesting.

“Hello, Master Chief, fancy meeting you here.” Roland says after his ping for channel access is accepted.

“Hello, Roland. I’m assuming he’s not hurt?”

“Do you think I’d let my crew get hurt and simply let them lay there.”

“No, but I wasn’t sure if I was intruding on anything.”

That gets a pause from the AI. He’s still debating on which snarky or too-honest reply to go with when Chief checks on Miller.

"I believe Spartan Miller is experiencing some technical issues with his armor." Roland supplies. He’s helping whatever this is along. Chief’s got him thinking now, which is always a dangerous thing when you’re as fast and clever as Roland. He’d been a passive party for so long. An observer or helper, and it’s not like Miller was chomping at the bit for Roland’s help, even when his plans had been so helpful in the past.

“He’s lying to you. Not that you didn’t pick that up. He’s been active for over 24 hours. He won’t let me help.” Chief doesn’t need to know how honest Roland’s words were, or that Roland’s been watching Miller push himself for 36.3 hours now.

“Have you tried asking nicely?” Chief asks and Roland wishes he had a plinth nearby to deploy his avatar on for the sole purpose of squinting at the Master Chief. He stays silent.

Chief asks and Miller says yes.

Roland wasn’t jealous. No, he was something else. Some higher AI experience rather than some silly, illogical, human emotion. Miller would let Master Chief touch his armor and help him, but not Roland who’s always there and who knows the specs forwards and back and is so familiar with piggybacking off Gen 2 Mjolnir systems.

Miller’s fine being all sweaty and nervous and frustrated around Chief. Chief who is so frustrating and calm and never rises to Roland’s bait. Chief who’s asking for Roland’s help overriding the safety features on Miller’s armor?

The great thing about being a vast machine intelligence with unfortunate connections to human emotions is the ability to experience time differently and to save threads of oneself being petty to feel petty later. He’d put this behind him for now to help them out - help Miller out.

What’s a little power reallocation between friends?

[hikarry]

Some people asked me for a fanfic and, welp, your orders are my command. This is just a "quick" thing, not even sure it can be considered a fanfic, but what is done is done.

It's technically my first time writing a one-shot (or any type of proper fanfic, really) for Good Omens, so be nice. I'm sensitive and have a fragile heart.

Alas, welcome to the angst zone.

Crowley has heard Aziraphale's True Voice once and only once. Many many centuries ago. It was loud and spiky like nails in a chalkboard. A terrified and desperate yell that pierced through him like a sword. Ran through his bones like a sudden wave that punched the air out of his lungs. Never in all those centuries had he heard anything more disturbing than it.

He had been in Peterfield for a few weeks now, in the middle of a long job, tempting a priest into the pleasures of gluttony and the flesh. Both of them were in a tavern, debating religion in between glasses of wine when Crowley's head snapped up and he fell quiet, just like a dog when they heard a suspicious noise.

"Mr. Crowley?" Father Brown stopped sipping his glass and looked at his companion. "You've become pale all of a sudden, son. Are you feeling quite alright?"

The yell lasted less than a couple of seconds, but it was echoing inside his head. His body moved without his permission, and before he knew, he was on his feet, glass of wine half full tumbling on the table. His hands shaking beside him and his heart racing inside his chest.

Crowley had never heard anything like it, but he knew it was Aziraphale. He just knew.

"Mr. Crowley?" The priest tried again, this time also getting up, and just then the demon registered his presence again.

"Apologies, Father. I have somewhere else I need to be and I'm afraid It's getting late." Crowley pulled a couple of coins from his pocket and threw them on the table. "This one's on me. Shall we meet when I'm once again free?"

"Of course. You always know where to find me."

He nodded and tried to leave the tavern as fast as he could without running, slithering through tables and patrons until he reached the door. He hadn't brought a horse. Satan knows he despises those animals. Not very gentle on the behind, they are. But right now, he was in need of one, desperately so.

Last he heard, Aziraphale had been in Sussex meddling around with some noble family, so that's exactly where he was going to go. Father Brown could wait. It's not like Beelzebub gave him an expiring date. Even if they had, bless all of this. He could handle a week or two in a pit for failing the mission. His priority right now was the angel.

Crowley stole the first horse he saw and galloped in the general direction of Sussex. It would be a long ride, no under three hours, but he would do everything to get there - wherever "there" was exactly - as soon as he could. If he hears Aziraphale's True Voice once again in that state of agony, he might as well lose his mind.

To prove God was really against him, it started raining heavily halfway through the journey. Crowley brushed his hair back, away from his forehead, with one hand while the other held the reins. With all this, he hadn't brought his cape, and now both him and the horse were soaked to the bone and quite exhausted. If it wasn't for a few miracles, he was quite sure the horse would have stopped to rest a while ago.

He snapped, and an invisible shield covered them, keeping the freezing rain away. The road was turning into mud, which would slow them down considerably, but he had to keep going. There was no way in Heaven he would stop until he reached Sussex.

Through forests and small villages, they were like an arrow. Supernaturally fast and focused. His hands had somewhat stopped shaking, but his heart was still hammering, replaying the noise over and over again in his head. He had saved the angel before. For some reason, he was prone to get himself in a spot of trouble every 200 years or so, but the danger had never been enough to force his True Voice out. True Voices were only used in cases of extreme urgency. For humans, it sounded like a screech, but angels and demons could understand them. Something said in your True Voice was like a command, and yet Aziraphale hadn't said anything, he just yelled. Whatever it was that was happening could only be bad. Very bad.

When he finally crossed the line into Sussex, he pulled the reins to stop the horse. Looking around the forest, he pooled his senses to try and find Aziraphale's essence. The last thing he needed was Aziraphale not to be in Sussex anymore and for this trip to have been useless, but no. Right at the edge of his vision, there was the brightness he has been mingling with for millenia. Crowley pulled on the horse again and followed the angel's essence into the other side of the city, deep into the forest.

Both of them came to a stop at the mouth of what appeared to be a small cave. It was covered with some greenery, but nothing that could stop him.

Crowley dismounted and tapped the horse on the side of his neck for the good job, partly unconciously. With a hand, he pushed the greenery to the side and stepped carefully into the cave, the useless invisible shield breaking over him. He stopped for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the darkness and kept silent, trying to hear something. Anything. He was sure Aziraphale was here. His essence was very close, and he could feel his distress rolling out of him in waves. Crowley took some steps forward, as silently as possible, until he started hearing what sounded like multiple voices. He stopped, laying his hand against the wall of the cave, and tried to discern whatever they were saying, but the cave was making it difficult. He closed his eyes for a moment and reached with his senses once again. Indeed, there was the angel, and with him 8 demonic presences. Low ranking demons.

He took a deep breath, punching the wall. Whatever they had been doing to the angel to cause him to lash out with his True Voice, he was going to kill them.

No. Okay. If they were humans, yes, he wouldn't shy away from a little murder, but demons is a more tricky situation. If he attacked them, it would be suspicious. He had to figure out a way to send them packing without giving his hand away.

Another deep breath, and he kept moving, this time trying to make his steps echo on purpose. As he got closer, the voices got louder.

"Try again."

"It's useless! He's out of it, they won't come out!"

There was some light at the end of a tunnel to the left, and he followed it, the voices suddenly going quiet.

The scene he saw as soon as he turned the corner iced his blood and boiled his anger at the same time.

Aziraphale was pinned to the wall by some silver chains, his feet a few centimeters off the ground. His head was hanging down, and his shirt was shredded, soaked in red blood, just like his trousers and his blond hair. His corporation wasn't breathing. He was probably very close to discorporating and Crowley was running out of time.

"Here you are!"

The 8 demons turned towards him, their eyes widening somewhat comically.

"Crowley?" The smaller one muttered, taking a step back from the angel.

Crowley took a few more steps inside, approaching the group while pretending to look around, his hands behind his back.

"I heard some demons had invaded my territory." He looked up at Aziraphale, willing his heart to control itself. "And I've seen you've captured an angel."

"Yes. We've been tracking him for weeks." A woman shaped demon said, quite proud of herself, pointing at the angel. "Took us a while, but we managed to poison him so he would fall unconcious and brought him to the circle." Just then Crowley's eyes fell to the floor where, indeed, there was a circle drawn. He took a step closer, to inspect it. A circle to drain energy. With Aziraphale's sigil. They were really trying to kill him.

Crowley swallowed and closed his hands into fists. He had to control himself and get Aziraphale out of that circle soon. He had been there for over 3 hours, at the very least, and Crowley didn't know how much more energy he would have left to keep himself alive. This wasn't about discorporation anymore.

"You sound very proud of yourself." He finally looked at the demons, stopping between them and Aziraphale. "But I ask you: who ordered you to do this?"

"He's just a principality. It's not like there aren't plenty in Heaven to replace him. No one would miss him up there and, besides-"

The demon took a sudden step forward, taking the sunglasses away from his face and pinning all of them down with his yellow gaze, no white whatsoever to be seen there, pupils barely but a black thin line.

"I'm here, am I not?" When the demons didn't answer, he leaned forward, fangs growing on his mouth. The group took a step back. "This is my jurisdiction, and you have no permisssssion to be here." Another step forward, another step back from the group. "If someone is going to kill an angel, it's going to be me and not some lowly bottom of the barrel demons like you."

"But that's not fair! We had-" Crowley hissed and brought his hands to the side of his body, all his fingers morphed into claws, urging the demon talking to jump back.

"You're very mistaken if you think Hell issss fair." He looks at every single one of them. "Do you even have permisssssion to be upsssside?" The demons looked amongst themselves, but no one answered. "That'ssss what i thought." He took a final step forward, coming face to face with the closest of them. "Get the fuck out of here before I inform Beelzebub you uselesssss piecessss of flessssh have been sssscrewing around in my territory without permisssssion." Everyone stared at him, but no one moved. "NOW!" He yelled and the group trembled before being swallowed by the earth and disappearing.

Not losing time, Crowley walked the few steps that separated him from the angel and broke the circle with his boot, reaching up to the chains to free him, carefully using his own body to support Aziraphale when his limp corporation toppled forward.

With a snap of his fingers, he miracled a blanket and carefully lied Aziraphale on it, kneeling by his side to assess the situation. His wounds needed to be tended to but most of it was normal red blood. His nose and his mouth were the only ones running ichor, which wasn't a great sign. Crowley Looked at Aziraphale and was met with a less bright than usual light, but bright nonetheless. With a sigh, he let himself relax. Aziraphale was going to be fine. He just needed to rest while Crowley fed him some of his energy and get his corporeal wounds tended to. He would be fine. He wasn't too late.

Aziraphale was going to be fine.

But now here they were, centuries later, in the same position: Aziraphale laying unconcious on the floor of some basement in the middle of nowhere in Scotland and Crowley kneeling next to him, hovering his still figure with his hands on the angel's face.

Aziraphale had disappeared for a week and a half while he had gone back to London to check on the bookshop and Muriel and bring some more books to the cottage.

Crowley had searched for him everywhere as soon as he didn't come back home at dinner time, and after he went to check the bookshop where Muriel told him Aziraphale had never showed up.

He had used his senses to try and find him, but he could barely feel him. Something was masking his location, and this was driving him up the walls. After 2 years of pure peace and quiet, chaos had to follow them again? Was it Heaven again? Was it Hell? He didn't know, but he would tear them apart if any of them had anything to do with this.

Crowley had no other choice but to reach out to Anathema for help. With a map, a few herbs, one of Aziraphale's bowties, and a liquid that honestly smelled like a cadaver, she managed to pinpoint his location to a small town near the frontier with Scotland.

He didn't lose any time.

In the Bentley with Anathema and Adam (because both insisted on coming and he had no time to convince them it was a stupid and useless idea), he sped from Tadfield to that middle of nowhere as fast as demonically possible without discorporating himself and killing the humans. It took him roughly 5 hours and a lot of law breaking, but they eventually arrived and found a house in the middle of a village with a very weird and heavy aura, or so Anathema said.

After a couple of hours of observing, Crowley lost his patience and invaded the house, consequences be damned. If Anathema turned out to be mistaken, he would wipe the humans' memories out, but, by luck, she wasn't.

The house was the headquarters of some slimy cultists with a bit too much knowledge about supernatural forces and ambition. As soon as he stepped through the main door, he smelled the ichor, and his vision went red. He ran, following the smell and shoving anyone who tried to stop him out of his way.

He kicked the door of the basement open and that's where he found Aziraphale unconcious, laying on the ground in the middle of a summoning circle with two men around him.

Crowley hissed, and his wings appeared out of the eather. With a snap, both men were tossed against the wall with such brute force both fell unconcious.

"Angel!"

Just like all those centuries ago, Crowley almost ran to the angel and broke the circle with his boot, tossing himself onto the floor next to him. This time, there wasn't red blood anywhere, and his clothes were almost as pristine as always, but there was ichor running down his mouth, his nose, and his ears. Confused, Crowley looked around at the circle, and his eyes fell in a couple of markings that should not be in a normal summoning circle. They had turned it into a draining circle at some point.

Back in the 6th century, Aziraphale had only been inside the circle for around 3 hours, and he recuperated in less than a week. His corporations' wounds had been the biggest problem, really. Crowley had to play nurse to keep him from discorporating. But a week and a half? Satan knows what that would do to an angel's essence.

Before he could check, he heard steps coming down the stairs, and soon enough, four other humans showed up at the door. Crowley positioned himself on top of Aziraphale, knees and hands on each side of his body, allowing his fangs to grow on his mouth as he hissed and used his wings to cover the angel the best he could.

"A demon?" One of them said, giving a step back.

Before any of them could say anything else, Crowley watched as Adam and Anathema appeared at the door, the kid punching one of the man in the face and the Witch using a frying pan to knock another of them unconcious. With a wave of Crowley's hand, the last two remaining were tossed against the window and fell unconcious as well.

"Are you okay?" Anathema asked, stepping closer, and Crowley hissed, out of instinct.

Adam joined her, kneeling a few feet away from the demon.

"Aziraphale?"

Crowley looked down at the still unconscious angel, and his wings disappeared. Carefully, he kneeled on the other side of Aziraphale and finally Looked at him. Part of him wished that he hadn't because what he saw wasn't pretty. Aziraphale was barely a flicker of light, and he was flickering like anything. Crowley gasped involuntarily, and now here they were: the demon leaning over the angel, holding his face between his hands.

"What's wrong? Did they hit him?" Adam asked.

"No..." Anathema carefully leaned beside him. "They turned the summoning circle into a drain. They were draining Aziraphale's energy and essence and probably planning on using it to power up spells or rituals or something."

"Is that bad?"

They kept talking, but Crowley was not listening anymore. His heart was ringing on his ears and his whole body was shaking. It was very hard to breath at the moment. This bloody basement didn't have air enough.

"Angel?" Now, with his fangs also gone, he reached out with his demonic essence, but nothing reached back. Closing his eyes, he tried to poor some of his energy into the angel like he had done all those years ago, but the essence kept flickering, maybe even more than before. "No, no, no, no. Aziraphale, you bastard, don't do this to me." He opened his eyes again and shook him. "Wake up." Nothing. "Wake up!"

"Crowley-" Anathema tried to lay her hand on his shoulder, but he slithered away from her touch.

"Come on, Aziraphale. I didn't come all the way here for you to keep flickering!" He stopped shaking him for a moment, Looking once again. The light appeared to be slowly dimming. "Angel, it's okay. I found you. Just wake up so we can go home!" He kept pouring energy into him, both hands now grabbing handfuls of Aziraphale's waistcoat. "Aziraphale!"

"Is there something you can do?" Anathema looked at Adam, and Crowley's attention fell momentarily on him as well.

Adam shook his head.

"I don't have any more powers. And even if I did, I don't know if I could actually do something about an angel's essence."

Crowley held Aziraphale's clothes more tightly and looked back at him. He didn't know what to do. Giving him energy worked last time, but now it was doing close to nothing. Aziraphale couldn't be too far gone. He refused to believe that. They couldn't have stopped the Apocalypse and the bloody Second Coming for it to end like this. Because of some stupid humans.

Slowly, a few more drops of ichor fell from his lips, and his chest stopped rising.

Crowley held his breath as he felt moisture take over his eyes. This isn't happening. This couldn't be happening. He wasn't going to lose him like this.

"Aziraphale, open your eyes! Open your fucking eyes!" His True Voice slipped through and both Anathema and Adam got up with their hands on their ears, taking a few steps back. "I'm not going to lose you like this!" He pulled on his clothes, slightly lifting Aziraphale off the ground. "Wake up, Aziraphale!" He could feel the tears escaping from his eyes and running down his face, even under the glasses, but at the moment he didn't care. "Wake up right now!"

Suddenly, Aziraphale's eyes sprung open and the angel took a deep breath, coughing up some ichor in the process. Crowley quickly but carefully let his back lay on the ground again and leaned over him, both his hands on each side of his face. Adam and Anathema didn't move from where they were, watching from afar.

Aziraphale tried to talk but choked on ichor, and Crowley ran his thumb down his cheek, wiping some of the ichor from the corner of his mouth. It burned, but he didn't care.

"Don't speak, angel. It's okay." He leaned his forehead on the angel's and felt him pushing up to try and meet him halfway. "I found you. You're okay."

"Is there anything we can do to help?"

Crowley looked up to the two humans that he forgot were still present for a moment.

They needed to leave this place and go back to the South Downs, but he was afraid if he let go of Aziraphale and stopped feeding him energy, he would lose him again. For that, he needed one of them to drive the Bentley so he could go on the back with Aziraphale, but...Crowley didn't like the idea of anyone else besides himself or the angel driving his car.

He looked back down at Aziraphale, his eyes now half lided, but clearly still trying to keep himself awake.

Crowley pulled the keys to the Bentley from the pocket of his trousers and tossed them to Anathena, who barely caught them.

"I need you to drive us back home. I'm going on the back with Aziraphale to try and keep him stable through the trip."

"Are you sure that's wise? Isn't there anything else we can do to make him somewhat bett-"

"If there was, I would be doing it right now, Book Girl!" He snapped, when he felt Aziraphale's hand on his forearm, squeezing it. He looked back at him before looking up at the woman once again. "Last time resting and sharing my energy with him solved it. I don't know what else could help."

"Maybe one of your books has a spell to speed up the process?" Adam asked.

"We will only know if we check." She swinged the keys on her finger. "Alright, let's go back to England then."

And so they did. The journey was somewhat uneventful. By now, it was the middle of the night, and Adam ended up falling asleep on the passenger seat. Aziraphale, laying in the back seat with his head on Crowley's lap, fought sleep as best he could, keeping his eyes open mostly for Crowley's sanity than anything else. He managed to talk somewhat at some point during the trip, saying Crowley's name, but the same told him, once again, not to talk while running his fingers through the angel's hair.

"You will be okay, angel. I promise."

And he did, almost 2 months later and after a lot of resting, energy sharing, and a couple of spells, courtesy of one Anathema Device. At the end of the day, it was quite the scare, but Aziraphale was once again strong and full of light, and Crowley intended to keep him that way.

[dopscratch]

ok well it looks like there's a little more than five of you

so uh

i started writing a little bit and yknow when i said laios is literally me?

yeah i think i was born to write him

anyway here's a treat for you all, the very first draft of the first few paragraphs of A Culinary Guide to the Barbaric Archipelago

feedback is much appreciated this will probably look fairly different once i end up actually publishing :)

also keep in mind i've only watched the show so if anything seems inaccurate just tell me (preferably spoiler-free/spoiler-light) ___

Laios had no idea what these monsters were, and the thought only excited him. They had shown up as he and his party were traversing a high-ceilinged region in the fifth floor, and everyone was fumbling to fend them off. They were large, frighteningly fast, and were constantly in motion, enough that they were nothing but a near-indecipherable blur as they screeched through the air. 

Marcille had tried exploding them to no avail, the spells hitting nothing but a crumbling wall. Not a single swing of Kensuke had managed to so much as clip them, and fabric shreds floated through the air like autumn leaves as they tore through the party’s items with their talons. Chilchuck was screaming as he ducked and weaved, dodging the masses with some success. Meanwhile, Senshi busied himself trying to recover all of his fallen ingredients after one of the creature’s claws had torn off his pot and ripped open his supply bag, scattering its contents among the bricks. He didn’t even flinch when one sent sparks flying from his helmet. The only things that Laios could make out through the streaks were shimmering scales and sharp talons—either a reptilian or bird-type monster. Well, he’d read once that birds technically were reptiles anyway, but that was certainly besides the point, plus, monsters of either type generally still had their differences...though now that he thought about it, they often were encountered together—Basilisks, Cockatrices, and Coatuls were all combinations of snakes and birds, and white dragons had bird wings—wait, maybe that was why Falin had feathers! He’d thought it greedy at first, to have so many cool features together, but when he really considered it, regular birds had always had scales, on their legs at least! So then, maybe the feathers were just a natural part of it after all! Maybe...

“Maybe dragons aren’t just reptilian monsters, but a special type of bird monster!” Laios didn’t even realize he’d said anything aloud until Chilchuck turned his ire to him.

“What? How does that even matter!? Get a grip, Laios! We need to get the hell out of here!” the half-foot yelled. He grabbed onto Laios’s arm, but before he could try to tug the larger man away, he ducked to avoid an incoming blur. Marcille was having similar issues.

“Forget the food, we need to go!” She shrieked, trying to dissuade Senshi from the Sisyphean task that was collecting his things. Every time he made any sort of progress, a passing monster would swoop in to take a swipe at him, the passing wind sending everything flying once more.

__

first person to guess which httyd dragon is harassing them gets a doodle of your choice from me :)

ALSO, i am debating when in the books i want to set it. on one hand, setting it after the events of all the books could create some interesting dynamics with the main httyd gang and the touden party, though on the other hand that'd make it a lot less accessible for non-httyd readers and also just a massive spoiler fest. so i think setting it sometime before book 8 would also be fun and be able to accomplish what i want it to. and maybe even setting it before/during book 1 could be cool so i could play off of the interactions with the green death, though of course that would also be sacrificing the other httyd characters's development.

either way i think the main plot is that the touden party eats their way across the barbaric archipelago and hiccup horrendous haddock the third the hope and heir to the tribe of hairy hooligans just wants to find out why all the wild dragons are getting so agressive

also ziggerastica is just having a fit

[frozenbound]

Hello!!! Hope you are well. I’ve been enjoying reading your Shimadacest collection series and wanted to do a request!!! Could you do one with Genji/Cole. Cole and Hanzo are freshly married and hanzo takes him the to their estate. Introduces him to his family. There Genji offers to give Cole a tour. While Hanzo and his dad talk. Cole and Genji are in the other side of the estate where no one will hear them. Having hardcore primal sex all over the place. Marathoning in different rooms. Living rooms, balcony’s etc with lots of dirty talk without the other two knowing.

Again, love your work!!! Keep it up!!! 💖💖💖

Thanks so much for the request!! I love the idea of Cole "falling off the wagon" almost immediately, but it also took a little finagling to get him to agree, LOOOL, so this one's a little bit longer and more plot-heavy. I hope that's all right!

Thanks again so much for the request! Newlywed Cole cheating with Genji, coming right up under the Read More!

TW: cheating, infidelity

Cole whistled softly when Shimada Castle came into view. “Ho lee shit,” he breathed, looking through the car window as it started to make its way up the hillside, the lofty and beautiful lines of the fortress drawing his eye higher and higher. “Pictures don’t do it any justice, darling.”

“No,” Hanzo agreed with a smile as he watched his new husband’s face. “It must be seen to be truly appreciated.”

Cole squeezed Hanzo’s hand for what was probably the hundredth time since they had gotten into the car. Since the wedding they had only let go of each other maybe, oh, a dozen times or so, and only when absolutely necessary, which was quite the feat considering they had already completed the first half of their honeymoon, a perfect fourteen days spent on pristine beaches and lounging in the shade of palm trees and outdoor bars while completely lost in each other, the most picturesque way to complete their nuptials that Cole could ever have imagined.

Now it was time for the second half of their honeymoon…though whether it would even count as part of it was up for debate.

Technically, they were visiting Hanzo’s father and brother as a way to celebrate their wedding and to welcome Cole into the family.

Realistically, though, as Hanzo had mournfully informed Cole months ago when they had made their engagement public, this was an excuse for Hanzo’s father to try once again to re-engage Hanzo in the family business and, failing that, to at least pick his brain for ideas and advice.

There was a certain amount of pride that someone as intelligent and influential as Shimada Sojiro thought so highly of Hanzo, but unfortunately he tended to be somewhat…monopolizing. 

If, if they agreed to visit, Hanzo had told Cole all those months ago, then Cole probably wouldn’t see Hanzo except at breakfast and dinner. No matter how much Hanzo insisted, Sojiro would fill up his time with business meetings and conferences and briefings that would keep Hanzo occupied literally from the crack of dawn until long after sunset.

It was Cole who had insisted they go anyway. This was simply Sojiro’s way of interacting and connecting with his eldest child, and Hanzo couldn’t hide the fact that he enjoyed the time he spent with his father…in small-enough doses. Hanzo had moved to the other side of the planet to be sure of those small doses, far enough away that even someone of Sojiro’s stature couldn’t dictate Hanzo’s every move, allowing father and son to continue building their empire together without completely suffocating Hanzo, and allowing Hanzo to socialize in a way that hadn’t been possible while he had been growing up and educated in Japan. If he hadn't moved away, he might never have even found himself a charming, handsome husband.

But it was clear from Sojiro's frequent calls and letters and emails that he missed his eldest son.

Going back for what would, for Hanzo, amount to two weeks of non-stop work wasn’t the way either Hanzo or Cole would have chosen to mark the occasion of their wedding with Hanzo’s side of the family, but that was simply Sojiro’s way and nothing would change that.

And despite it all, Hanzo was excited that Cole would be free to experience and explore his new husband’s old stomping grounds, and he wouldn’t even have to do it alone: Hanzo’s younger brother would be his personal tour guide.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was a small price to pay.

As their chauffeur…their chauffeur, and wasn’t that a sign of how far Cole had married up? As their chauffeur gently drove the hover car through the castle gates and came to a stop in front of…more castle gates…and got out and opened the door for the newlyweds to step out, Cole took in a breath of cherry blossoms and squeezed Hanzo’s hand. “Beautiful,” he said with a smile. “And the trees and the castle don’t look half bad, neither.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes but smiled back. “It takes one to know one,” he said with a knowing look that bordered on leering, and Cole’s heart swelled with both affection and pride; he’d half-expected Hanzo to clam up and turn into a frigid, stressed-out prune not unlike what he’d been when they first met, but it seemed that with Cole at his side, nothing could touch the good humor that had always been lurking below the surface, waiting for someone handsome and tall and charming to draw it out.

Cole was so relieved that he nearly leaned down and kissed Hanzo, and then pressed him down to the ground, and then tore open his shirt, and began licking his way down his chest right there.

But no, they weren’t on private tropical beaches anymore.

So Cole would just have to tear his eyes away from the stunningly attractive face of his husband and will away his erection…

…for the next two weeks.

That was the only really unfair part of this trip; Hanzo was sure to be exhausted from both fending off his father’s attempts to get him to “come home” that both he and Cole had been sure he wouldn’t be up for anything the least bit sexual until they flew home.

It was unfair that their honeymoon would ironically result in their longest stretch of celibacy since they’d met, but that was precisely why there’d been a “part one”: that had been the time to fuck each other silly, in an attempt to drain themselves so completely of all carnal desire that it would take the full two weeks for it to build up again.

Unfortunately, for Cole at least, the effect had been exactly the opposite.

It had taken all his strength not to roll up the partition between them and the chauffeur in the car and blow Hanzo right there and then in the backseat.

It was taking everything he had not to whisk Hanzo through the door of what looked like a garden shed and lay him down on the ground and sit on his dick.

It was taking all he had to will away the hard and pulsing and, to his increasingly paranoid mind, completely obvious bulge in his trousers as they followed the chauffeur through the gardens to the main entrance of the castle.

But, obvious or not, Cole had to forget about his erection when his new father-in-law came striding out to meet them.

“Hanzo!” he called out, smiling wide.

Cole swallowed.

Shimada Sojiro was a gray-haired near-copy of his husband, with a fuller beard and darker eyes, but no less broad, no less attractive, and no less magnetic and charismatic.

Fuck, but there were some unholy thoughts going through Cole’s mind as father and son first bowed formally to each other, then walked forward and embraced.

“Father,” Hanzo said with genuine affection, “it’s good to see you in person.”

“Likewise,” Sojiro said, beaming as stunningly as Hanzo always did. “It’s been far too long since I chased you away…but look who you found!” he said with no sign whatsoever of disapproval as he turned towards Cole. “An actual, honest-to-goodness, and unfairly attractive cowboy! So you’re the man who’s stolen my son's heart and kept him away from home,” he said without a trace of malice, his eyes sparkling.

“Uh, yes sir,” Cole said, a little thrown. “That’d be me, sir. Can’t say that I’m sorry, though, begging your pardon.”

“Oh, I’m not, either,” Sojiro said warmly, taking Cole’s hand and shaking it warmly. “Do you know what I call you? My fifty-billion-dollar son-in-law. That’s how much Hanzo’s bringing in from the North American market, and who knows if he would’ve stayed over there long enough to make the necessary connections without such a good-looking boyfriend…husband!...to keep him there.” 

Cole inwardly shook his head. This was his father-in-law, and nothing was going to change that.

“Speaking of which,” Sojiro continued, letting go of Cole’s hand and looking back at Hanzo, “I wanted to discuss the direction of our Canadian subsidiary with you.”

Hanzo and Cole exchanged a knowing look. Not even one foot in the door and Sojiro was bringing up business, as they had predicted. “Alright, Father,” Hanzo replied, turning halfway. “We can start discussing it on the way to the office.”

“Oh no,” came the surprising reply. “I’m taking off two weeks from the office. Not as long as you two are here.”

Hanzo’s eyebrows rose up in surprise.

“We can talk with everyone there just as easily from my home office.”

And his eyebrows lowered again with a bit of self-directed chagrin, though Cole had been equally taken in by the sudden and wild hope that Sojiro had miraculously learned to keep family and work separate…but that was clearly not the case as Sojiro took Hanzo by the shoulder and started shepherding him inside, saying, “I brought all the files we need, and I’m sure Haneda can bring over anything more we need while we talk about opening a new regional office in Montreal to take the pressure off of the Toronto branch so they can focus on…”

“Hi. I’m Genji.”

Cole started as another hand landed on his shoulder and he turned to see Hanzo’s brother.

Jesus H. Christ, he thought distantly.

The castle wasn’t the only one that looked much better in person.

“Hey there,” Cole said, inwardly shrieking at his sudden breathlessness. Summoning some propriety, he smiled and said, “Nice to meet you in the flesh at long last, Genji. I’m Cole.”

“Likewise,” Genji said, and Cole felt a tremor run through him when he registered the definite…purring…undertone of his words. “Hey, Hanzo!” Genji called over to the retreating backs of Hanzo and Sojiro as they headed for a stairway. 

Hanzo looked over his shoulder and his expression brightened. “Genji!” he called back. “Good to see you! I’m sure Father will let us talk more in a little while.”

“Without a doubt!” Genji said, laughing. “I’ll take care of your husband in the meantime!”

“Please, and thank you!” was all Hanzo managed to say before he and his father disappeared up the stairs.

“You’ll have to forgive Dad,” Genji said, shaking his head with a smile. “Once he gets into business-mode, nothing can stop him.”

“I already have,” Cole said boldly, but still looking after Hanzo and feeling a bit wistful at this early demonstration of how the next two weeks would go. “Wouldn’t have come unless I had.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Genji said with a lopsided smile…as his eyes traveled up and down Cole’s figure. “Come on. Let me give you a quick tour. I’m sure Haneda has already taken care of your luggage.”

Genji flung an arm over Cole’s shoulders and tugged him into a brisk walk.

Cole swallowed.

Hanzo’s brother was…

Very warm as he pressed against his side.

And very hard with muscle.

And very handsome as Cole kept glancing at his profile so close alongside his own.

And Cole was very hard.

It seemed that Shimada men were apparently just able to press the button of Cole’s arousal effortlessly.

Genji was speaking, Cole realized, and he tried to refocus his thoughts to pay some actual attention to the words coming out of that pretty, shapely mouth.

“...will tell you the entire history of this place, but I sure can’t,” Genji was saying with another laugh. “I think most of the stuff here is three hundred plus years old, but don’t quote me on that. Over here, though, is probably the best part of the castle: the main balcony that overlooks the city and Mt. Fuji, right through here.”

They walked through a doorway onto a “balcony” that was the size of a small house, and the cityscape of Hanamura surrounding the snowbound peak of Mt. Fuji in the middle-distance was simply astounding. Cole felt his mouth drop open at the sight as Genji led him up to the railing as he took it all in.

“Pretty good, right?” Genji asked with immense self-satisfaction, as though he himself had prepared it all. “This is where I take all my conquests. Doesn’t matter what time of day it is; everyone likes to be fucked while taking in this incredible view.”

Cole blinked.

Genji was pressing himself more firmly to his side and…and he had…turned somewhat.

To press his hardness against Cole’s hip. Just a little.

While looking up at Cole’s face with a shameless grin.

Cole swallowed.

“I’m…Hanzo’s…”

“You’re not going to even see Hanzo for two weeks, I guarantee it,” Genji said baldly, tilting his hips forward slightly to rub his erection against Cole. “So, while he’s busy, we can get busy.”

Cole, to his horror and immense arousal, licked his lips and managed to choke out, “D…did Hanzo…ask you…”

Genji burst out laughing. “Of course not!” he all but howled, doubling over as far as he could without taking his arm off Cole’s shoulders. “Of course not! But I’m here, and he’s not, so I’m offering. And you,” he said, cutting off his laughter and speaking in a sly tone, “are clearly interested.”

He was addressing Cole’s own erection, bulging prominently in his trousers, much too close to Genji’s face for comfort as he almost literally hung off Cole’s shoulders.

Cole licked his lips again.

This had to be a trick, a test of loyalty of some kind. Hanzo had been blunt when describing Genji’s character, so Cole had been expecting a certain level of shamelessness from the Shimada’s resident playboy, left to pursue his every wanton desire while his father and brother ran the family empire, but this was…Genji couldn’t be this wanton. He had to be testing Cole, and if Cole acquiesced, Genji would run to his brother and tell him that he’d married a disloyal horndog who couldn’t even stop himself from sleeping with his brother-in-law during their honeymoon.

“I swear,” Genji whispered, and Cole could hear him lick his own lips, “I swear, on my life, that this will stay between us, my dear brother-in-law. This isn’t the only time I've wanted a taste of someone else's feast. I swear that this will never reach Hanzo, or Father, and anyone, anyone at all, as long as I live, if you just give me a little, just a little taste of you.”

Cole wavered.

Hanzo had said Genji was a playboy…but Hanzo also said he trusted Genji with his life.

Genji had stumbled across Hanzo and their father’s right-hand man, a little dalliance between two hardworking, lonely men, but Genji hadn’t told a soul about it…and, even more meaningfully to Hanzo, as he’d recounted to Cole years later when they’d been sharing secrets with each other, Genji hadn’t even teased him about it once Hanzo made it clear that it was a sore and delicate subject.

Genji could apparently keep his mouth shut when it counted.

And if…and if Hanzo never knew…and if Genji knew that…

“I’m never gonna choose you over him,” Cole rasped, his cock twitching. “If it’s ever you or him, it’ll be him.”

“Clearly,” Genji replied, glancing up. “But if you can have me and him…”

“But if it ever comes down to it,” Cole said, with an edge to his voice.

“Oh, I see,” Genji said, and while he was clearly amused, he looked serious, too, as he straightened up and put a hand over his heart. “I swear, cowboy, I won’t catch any feelings. This is a fuckbuddies situation at the very most. I’ll never ask to spend the night, I’ll never ask for a goodbye kiss, and I’ll always let you go home to your husband. I swear.”

And Cole really, truly felt that Genji’s word was good.

So he swallowed and softly said, “Alright.”

And that’s how he found himself sitting down on the wooden floor, leaning back on his hands, his legs sprawled in front of him with his trousers around his ankles, overlooking the city of Hanamura in the bright sunshine while his new brother-in-law slurped on his dick.

Fuck, Cole thought dizzily as he stared at Genji’s red lips sliding up and down on his shaft. He was not expecting this part of his honeymoon to turn out this way.

Hanzo was precise and thorough and loved to savor Cole’s dick and body, raking his hands and fingers through the forest of Cole’s body hair; Genji was speedier, hungrier, and sloppier and focused slowly on the cock between his lips, his own spit trickling down his chin as he popped and sucked loudly. Cole found himself wishing he’d slow down a little as his balls drew up in his sac and his breathing quickened as he felt his cum boiling up, but man, the fact that his brother-in-law wanted his jizz and wanted it now was a major, major turn-on that almost made up for Hanzo’s slow, patient, and comprehensive approach…but Cole did find himself brushing his own hand over his chest and pinching at his nipples in a simulacrum of what Hanzo would have done.

But he had to admit…

…it was nice to get a…a…

…a different strategy. A different point-of-view.

A different mouth, Cole admitted to himself as he pinched down hard on his nipple and threw his head back.

“Mmm,” Genji sighed as cum flooded into his mouth. “Mmm. Mmm…”

Cole shuddered under the vibrations echoing through his body and the lighting arcing along his nerves as he unloaded into his husband’s brother’s hot, wet mouth.

“Cole? Genji?” called Hanzo. “Are you out here?”

Hanzo stepped out onto the balcony, looked around and smiled. “There you are! Genji, it’s so good to see you!”

“Brother!” Genji answered with a wide smile as he jogged forward with his arms wide, and the brothers embraced, with Genji’s momentum turning Hanzo all the way around one hundred and eighty degrees…

…which gave Cole the opportunity to zip up his fly.

Hanzo’s voice had reached them with just enough time for both men to scramble to their feet and for Genji to pull up Cole’s trousers and button them closed with instantaneous, well-practiced moves, but even he hadn’t had time for that last detail.

Cole’s heart was hammering and adrenaline surging through his veins…

…but then Hanzo released Genji and turned around and smiled at him, Cole surprised himself with how naturally he smiled back and walked up to his husband and tucked a hand around his waist. “There you are, darling,” he drawled, looking down at him. “Tell me you’ve been released.”

“No such luck,” Hanzo replied, shaking his head regretfully, “but Father suddenly realized he didn’t let me say hello to Genji, so he sent me down to do so. Hello, Genji.”

“Hello, brother,” Genji replied impishly. “How long did he give us to talk in-person for the first time in six years? Two minutes? Three?”

"Five,” Hanzo said, rolling his eyes with feeling. “He’s getting through to the CFO, and apparently he knows down to the second how long that’ll take, so five minutes. How are you, Genji? You look well.”

“I’m doing great, as always,” Genji said with a grin. “I’d be better if I wasn’t babysitting some cowboy you dragged in with you. My favorite bar has got a two-for-one special tonight.”

“Which one?” Hanzo asked, and then said with Genji, word-for-word, “All of them.”

Genji cackled, leaning onto his brother’s shoulder. “Oh, brother,” he sighed, “it’s been too long. When do you think Dad will let us talk again?”

“Not before dinner.”

“Predictable. You know, if we go down into the basement because I was ‘showing Cole the wine cellar’,” Genji said with finger quotes, “there will be no signal and we could probably stretch that five minutes into…”

Hanzo’s phone chirped.

“Fuck,” Genji said in a flat tone, and Hanzo and Cole chuckled at his thwarted expression as Hanzo fished his phone out of his pocket and answered it on speaker.

“Hanzo, I’ve gotten through to Kimura,” came Sojiro’s voice. “She has the latest figures. Come and take a look at them.”

“Right away, Father,” Hanzo said obediently and ended the call. “It’s wonderful to see you, Genji. We’ll talk more at dinner.”

“Can’t wait, brother!”

“Me, either. Take good care of my husband while I’m gone,” Hanzo said as he stood on tiptoe and brushed his lips against Cole’s.

“I will if you stop making me witness my own brother’s PDAs,” Genji shot back with a theatrical gag.

Hanzo laughed and, his hand lingering in Cole’s until he stepped out of range, walked back inside the castle, waving as he went.

Cole and Genji stood there together for a few moment, watching the door, before Cole sagged forward, his hands on his knees and his head hanging down.

“Jesus christ,” he muttered, his eyes screwed tightly closed. “Fuck. Goddamn.”

“You did good, cowboy,” Genji said, sounding impressed. “You got a poker face made for Monaco.”

“Apparently,” Cole said with a haggard sigh. “Didn’t know it until just now though.”

Genji laughed as he patted Cole on the back.

Cole’s cock twitched.

Cole’s eyes narrowed as he eyed his own crotch, full and swollen and, even leaking, his underwear wet against his skin.

Now that the shock of nearly getting caught was passing…

…he was horny. Unbelievably horny.

He looked up at Genji.

“Where,” he said in a low voice, “did you say that wine cellar was?”

A part of him, a small part of him, was hoping a cool and dark place might dampen the heat in his blood.

That was before Genji, with a wink, took a yoga mat out of an out-of-the-way closet and unrolled it on the floor and took a bottle of lube out of his pocket.

Cole had the pleasure of surprising him, though, when he pushed Genji down on his back and stradded him, hunched over, with slippery fingers probing between his cheeks and into his entrance, their eyes locked together, before Cole slowly squatted and let Genji’s dick, so similar to Hanzo’s in length and girth, poke up against his loose, wet hole before sinking into Cole’s fiery heat.

Hanzo liked it when Cole rode him.

Genji looked frustrated that he had to take what Cole gave and nothing more, and Cole grinned, pleased to have the upper hand as he slowly rode Genji’s cock up and down. “Wait,” he crooned when Genji tried to impatiently thrust up into him, “Wait, wait. Just a little longer. Just a little bit longer. I like having your cock up my ass, y’know. Let me enjoy it, really enjoy, just a little bit longer.”

It took a lot longer before Cole was ready to let a nearly-murderous Genji finally cum.

The way Genji’s eyes rolled back and his hands clutched at Cole’s hips and his breath caught in his throat while his mouth lolled open and slack made Cole think that he would be forgiven fairly quickly, though.

He was.

Later that night, when Hanzo and Sojiro reappeared for a delicious dinner, Genji couldn’t sing Cole’s praises more if he tried.

“I like him a lot, brother,” he declared between shoveling mouthfuls of food. “He’s funny, he’s bold, he’s smart. You picked a good one.”

“Thank you,” said Hanzo drily, though with a pleased look. “I’m glad you approve. Shall I bring another cowboy or two with me the next time to see if they can tie you down at last?”

“Let them try! Nobody is ever gonna tie this free spirit down!” Genji boasted, a sentiment that did Cole’s heart some real good.

“Do you know any more cowboys?” Genji asked later that evening. Hanzo and Sojiro had gone back to business despite the late hour, so Genji had led Cole to a bench in the gardens sheltered by the castle’s eaves and cherry blossoms, a refreshingly cool spot in the night air, and was now sitting in Cole’s lap, their erections flush together, with both Cole and Genji stroking up and down.

“Sure do,” Cole hummed distractedly, panting at the feel of Genji’s soft, smooth hand, so different from Hanzo’s. “Don’t think they can afford to come out here, though. You’ll have to come out and visit us sometime.”

“How about next month?” Genji said unexpectedly as he quickened the pace.

“Wh…why so…why so soon?” Cole breathed as he felt himself approach the edge.

Genji gave him a wicked look. “Didn’t know there was anything worth my time out there until now,” he said with a glint in his eye.

Cole rolled his, then gasped as his cock erupted, sending a jet of semen flying straight into the air before it fell back onto their hands. Then he groaned as Genji, his wicked look unabating, used it as impromptu lube as he chased his own completion, sending bolts of overstimulation through Cole until he finally came as well, breathing hard and shivered as his own spunk covered his face.

The rest of the honeymoon passed quickly.

Hanzo was kept as busy and as occupied by his father as he’d predicted, but Cole never found himself getting bored. Genji was as much of a sex fiend as his brother, and soon Cole really had had a tour of the entire castle: Genji bent him over in the dojo, the family baths, and the former guard barracks, he bent Genji over in the dining room, the top-floor watchpost, and the kitchen in the middle of the night when a particularly difficult piece of business kept Hanzo and Sojiro in the office until four in the morning, and they sucked each other off in a plethora of hallways, secluded outdoor spots, closets, and, most daringly of all, in Sojiro’s home office, with Cole seated in his father-in-law’s chair, combing his fingers through Genji’s hair as he crouched under the desk with Cole’s cock in his mouth.

Sojiro had broken his word and taken Hanzo into the office down in the city; this was Cole’s revenge.

Though, Cole thought charitably as he guided Genji to go slower, just a little slower, his father-in-law was so affable and obviously proud of Hanzo and so accepting of Cole’s entry into the family that revenge was probably not the best word. This was Cole’s…protest. There, that was a better term, Cole thought wryly just before his mind blanked out and he blasted another full load of semen down his brother-in-law’s throat.

Later that evening, as though Sojiro knew about Cole’s protest…though certainly not the manner that he expressed it…he surprised everyone at dinner, even making Hanzo’s jaw drop open, by declaring that he owed Hanzo and Cole one free day while they were home (and the way he said “home” so firmly while looking at Cole and smiling made Cole’s heart swell with affection towards his new father-in-law), and that Hanzo and Cole were free to do whatever they wished for the entire next day, which was their last before they left.

Cole and Hanzo didn’t truly believe him; the next morning they woke up in the guest room, embracing as usual, and got up and cleaned up and dressed and went down to breakfast fully expecting that some crucial business would require Hanzo’s personal attention…

…but Sojiro finished eating, wiped his mouth, stood up and warmly said, “Enjoy your day, boys,” and made to exit the room.

It gave Cole a little rush of pleasure that he managed to recover and pick his jaw off the floor before Hanzo did and blurt out, “Now hang on, Mr. Shimada. How about you join me and Hanzo for a walk into town this afternoon after lunch? We’d be mighty glad of your company.”

Sojiro paused, clearly surprised, and said, slowly, “If…if I wouldn’t be intruding…”

“Of course not, Father,” Hanzo said, shooting an affectionate look at Cole before looking back at Sojiro. “It would be a pleasure if you joined us.”

Sojiro opened his mouth, closed it, then ventured, “After my one o’clock meeting? About two-thirty?”

“We’ll be there,” Cole said with a smile.

Genji flashed a thumbs up from across the table, but Cole only had eyes for how Hanzo was practically glowing.

When they finished breakfast, Hanzo took his hand and led Cassidy straight back to the guest room.

“You,” he growled playfully as he pushed Cole onto the sheets and prowled after him, tugging his trousers down and then lifting his legs, “are the perfect husband.”

“Aw, shucks,” Cole preened, playing up his self-satisfaction, “But I thought I had the perfect husband. He always rims me and opens me up and fucks me so good, after all.”

Hanzo chuckled and dived into the sheltered valley between Cole’s legs, making Cole jolt and suck in a sharp breath.

Genji was good, he thought through a haze of pleasure, but nobody knew him, nobody could undo him, nobody could make him cum faster than…

“H-Hanzo!” Cole gasped, shuddering and quaking as he came all over himself, thick globs of jizz even splashing across his beard and cheek from the sheer force of his orgasm driven out of him by Hanzo’s clever tongue against his asshole.

Hanzo looked up, looking smug, and Cole grinned down at him.

Oh, yes. He had definitely married into the right family.

[xiakha]

FFXIVWrite2023 Prompt #23 - Suit

Yda and Xiao were an odd couple.

Had they not met in the particular way they did through the Scions, it would be unlikely they would have become friends at all in any alternative circumstances. Yda was talkative to a fault, a bit flighty, and nervously shallow. Xiao was effectively mute, vaguely reliable, and nervously thoughtful. The only reason they were so often lumped together was that the rest of the "main" Scions were Archons or people who were capable of keeping up in technical conversation with Archons. Xiao had neither the language nor the context to understand, and Yda was Yda.

So while the other Scions debated and discussed, Xiao and Yda were often left on the side to nod along absently or wander off.

The "office" of Warrior of Light had a somewhat complex set of political ramifications to consider when there was only one Warrior of Light. There were no trappings or particular benefits to being the Warrior of Light offered by any one particular city-state, but a shrewd Warrior of Light could make something work out for them by leveraging their strength, their protection, their aid. Sometimes it was a matter of playing one city-state against another, to make them bid for the Warrior of Light's aid. It was thus also a viable option for a city-state to refuse to recognize someone as the Warrior of Light, or, more commonly, to elect their own champion that would be properly biased towards their own city-state.

At any rate, the leaders of Eorzea were much more open to nominating Xiao to the position because she was aligned with the "neutral" Scions, and not just to Limsa Lominsa or to Maelstrom as they had all assumed she'd declare herself. Even if she obviously had a bit of a bias, the Scions would answer and work with all of the city-states, and Xiao would follow through loyally.

What none of the involved parties were ready for, however, was Xiao's own reluctance to be called the Warrior of Light. At the celebration of the destruction of the Ultima Weapon and the true renaissance of the Eorzean Alliance, Xiao had slipped away before the Warrior of Light nominations, and thus was not present to be nominated. As ceremonial and meaningless as the nomination actually was, it could not go through without her physical presence.

The Scions were sent out to look for Xiao, but only Yda knew where in Mor Dhona to look. Perhaps it was because she got lucky, perhaps it was because she knew where the other Scions wouldn't look first.

On Rathefrost cliff overlooking Silvertear Lake, Xiao sat with her feet dangling, tossing pebbles into the water. Yda approached with her usual casual disregard.

"They're all looking for you, y'know! Everyone's wondering where you disappeared off to."

Xiao gave Yda a half-hearted wave of greeting.

"I know you're not much of a talker, but do you mind if I sit with you?"

The Miqo'te shrugged, so Y'da sauntered over and sat down.

"Right, so, since it isn't me, what are you minding?"

Xiao pointed at her own chest and shook her head, "Warrior of Light not me."

"Worried about the responsibilities?"

She shrugged again, "Just not me."

"It's probably not the case, but you wouldn't be scared would you?"

Xiao gave Yda a look, both a hint of anger and a bit of shock.

Yda thought for half a second, "...Well, it's not that you aren't courageous to a fault, generally, just... this isn't something you can take a whack at with your axe to solve, right? The simplicity that you've been enjoying is going away, even if things aren't changing directly."

"Expectations."

"Yeah, only those expectations change, don't they? Not just any ol' adventurer to order around anymore, Warrior of Light means something."

Xiao nodded.

Yda stretched her arms and back and leaned backwards, looking up into the sky, "Well, it might not mean much, but I think it fits you." She gave XIao and easy smile, "And if I'm wrong, that's fine. It'll fit you eventually."

Xiao drew her legs up and hugged them, "Thinking so?"

"I know full well how it feels like to be called something that doesn't quite fit. Even if it isn't to begin with, eventually it'll be comfortable. At the least, being called 'Warrior of Light' gives you a goal to work towards, so you can strive to make it fit."

Yda got up, "If all them hoity-toity leader types are wrong about you, that's fine, everyone's making a mistake so the burden isn't on you. If you think they're going to use you, well, that certainly isn't much of a change, now has it? So why not try out the title for now and see what happens?"

Xiao got up too. She brushed off her tail and sighed, giving the gloom above Silvertear one last look and turned to Yda, "Perhaps."

"And the Scions will be behind you, always!" She pumped a fist and opposite foot in the air, "So let's see how it goes, eh?"

Xiao nodded again and cracked a smile.

"Many thanks, Yda."

Yda smiled too, under her mask.

[moovees]

I am considering going through all of my movies on Letterboxd and ensure they all have a rating. I know there are a good number of movies I have seen that do not. But Letterboxd uses a 5 star rating system, and it allows half-stars, which means it's actually a 10-star rating system.

I worked with ChatGPT this morning to come-up with the below criteria for each rating. I am still debating it and if I want to do this daunting task at all.

0.5 Stars: Terrible

A complete failure in every aspect: poor acting, bad script, weak direction, or unintentional humor. You find it painful to watch or frustratingly bad. You wouldn’t recommend it to anyone, and it’s a waste of time.

1 Star: Very Bad

The movie had a few elements that were okay or salvageable, but overall, it was not a good experience. Maybe a specific performance or scene was decent, but it’s overshadowed by bad execution. You might not regret watching it, but you wouldn't recommend it either.

1.5 Stars: Bad

A step up from very bad, this movie has some redeeming qualities, but not enough to make it enjoyable. Perhaps it had potential or a decent concept, but the execution was too flawed. You’d remember it as something that didn’t work, but with a couple of decent elements.

2 Stars: Not Great/Meh

A movie that was competently made but left you feeling indifferent. The acting, plot, or pacing might have been fine, but it didn’t engage or entertain you. There’s nothing fundamentally wrong with it, but there’s nothing memorable or engaging either. You’re not upset you watched it, but you wouldn’t want to revisit it.

2.5 Stars: Average

It’s right in the middle: a movie that does what it needs to, but nothing more. It’s not bad, but it’s not particularly good either. It might have a few moments that stand out, but ultimately, it’s forgettable. It’s the kind of film that passes the time, but it’s not something you’d recommend or return to.

3 Stars: Good/Enjoyable

A solid, enjoyable film. It may not be groundbreaking, but it was fun to watch and kept you engaged. You’d say, “I liked that!” without necessarily feeling the need to watch it again soon. It did what it set out to do well, and you left feeling satisfied.

3.5 Stars: Very Good

A movie you really enjoyed, with solid performances, direction, or writing. It might not be a personal favorite, but it was a high-quality film, and you’d be open to watching it again. This rating reflects movies that stand out above average but don’t quite hit the “great” mark.

4 Stars: Great

A well-made, highly enjoyable film that resonated with you. It’s something you’d recommend and likely rewatch. It may not be flawless, but its strengths far outweigh any weaknesses. This is the kind of movie that left a lasting impression on you and was worth the time invested.

4.5 Stars: Excellent

Nearly a masterpiece, this movie hit almost every note right. Whether it’s the acting, direction, or emotional impact, it’s something you think about long after watching. It’s a film you’d go out of your way to recommend and possibly rewatch multiple times, with only minor imperfections keeping it from being a personal classic.

5 Stars: Personal Classic/Masterpiece

The best of the best. This is a film that is not just technically excellent, but it also resonates deeply with you on a personal level. It might be a "bad" movie by conventional standards, but for some reason, you absolutely love it. It has rewatch value, emotional impact, and maybe even shaped how you think about films. This is your top tier.

[bradfoe]

Vampires at Universal, 1930

Last weekend (this is an article from 2015), the actress Lupita Tovar passed away at the age of 106, more than eighty years removed from her starring role as the female lead in Drácula. This distinction had made her one of the last surviving links to the early days of Universal Pictures, when its founder Carl Laemmle oversaw the transition to the new era of talkies. Universal was then earning a reputation for its horror movies and the worldwide success of Phantom of the Opera in 1925 only added to its growing association with Victorian monsters.

Universal had an inadvertent role, though an inciting one, in the birth of sound cartoons. Through the actions of independent producer Charles Mintz, to whom the studio had given a contract, Walt Disney was dismissed from the Oswald series just prior to the revolution he helped to unleash with Steamboat Willie. After that, Universal was quite slow to respond, trying some half-measures to keep up with its more technically savvy competitors.

In a sense, the jig was up. The studio had to respond with versions that had dialogue in those languages. And mind you, the art of dubbing had not yet taken hold. So, on October 10, 1930, filming began on a movie that perfectly illustrated a short-lived Hollywood solution. In most ways, it was exactly the same movie as the classic Dracula starring Bela Lugosi with his sweeping cape and leering glare. However, this alternate version had a Spanish-speaking cast and was titled Drácula. It made use of the same sets and a translated shooting script.

Lupita Tovar

The role played by Helen Chandler was performed instead by Tovar, who was recently signed on contract from Mexico to be a “Universal player.” In fact, the entire Spanish version of Dracula was shot at night, 7pm to 7am, after the English-speaking cast and crew were finished with a day’s work. They did not cross paths, working on opposite shifts. Tovar said she never once even met Lugosi. All of her scenes were filmed with a caped Carlos Villarías as the famous blood-sucking Count.

The existence of this nearly shot-for-shot counterpart, a sort of movie doppelgänger, has spawned a fairly lively internet debate about which is better, with a lot of momentum pressing toward the lesser known “Spanish Dracula” on account of a crew that, it is rumored, was competing to make a superior version at night. A century later with side-by-side comparisons online, the debate has hit high gear, but the famous performance of the undead Lugosi does not lie down easily and so the argument continues.

Regardless of which version is better, a certain respect arises from knowing that the Spanish-language shooting schedule enforced a vampire lifestyle on all its cast and crew. There is a ‘Method acting’ purity to this version: everyone involved slept during the day and then went to work at night. Just knowing that makes it seem intrinsically more authentic. Here is an edited clip from Drácula, released in 1931:https://www.youtube.com/embed/MoO_QWF7q8Q

Perhaps less well known is that Walter Lantz, who inherited the responsibility for producing the Oswald the Lucky Rabbit cartoons, might also have been up late some of those nights while Conde Drácula, played by Villarías, was readying for his closeup on the legendary Stage 28 at Universal. This revelation comes to us from a 1978 interview with Manuel Moreno, in which he disclosed that the Oswald production schedules were so challenging to maintain that Lantz would work at night even after a tough day at the studio.

“Lantz used to come at night, and he’d stay there all day Saturday,” said Moreno. It is easy to get the impression that Walter, lacking a precise production discipline, may have brought the cartoons across the finish line by fusing the elements together himself, working alone in the editing room. Considering how loose and improvised we know these early Universal cartoons were—recollections exist of animators stating how nonspecific their scene directions could be—it would make sense that Lantz used the quiet of his nighttime work to assemble his vision from among the individual parts.

Manuel Moreno, a leading animator at Universal, seen here reflected in a mirror at his desk.

In a way, the knock on Lantz has always been that he delegated creative vision for his cartoons to his directors for most of his career. However, the situation would have been different in a year like 1930, when he was a new producer charged with keeping Oswald relevant in light of innovative new sound cartoons coming from Disney. The technical challenge was paramount and Lantz had actually proven himself quite a whiz with hybrid cinema techniques on his prior Dinky Doodle films for Bray, so he was versatile and up for the task.

In 1930 he was still actively a director in addition to being a producer. He was young and hungry and he was the force moving the Universal Cartoon Dept. into the sound era. However, Lantz was not hard-charging and uncompromising like Disney, so maybe some of the magic of his process only manifested as something special if he could bring it all together with the final edit and post-synch. The orderly sophistication of the Disney method was challenged at Universal by a more slapdash approach. And because of the tight budgets Lantz was given, his pragmatism was always a factor in the making of his cartoons.

Bill Nolan was the other producer-director working alongside him, but Nolan was chiefly there for his prodigious ‘pencil mileage’—as one of the fastest animators in the industry—and not necessarily for his management skills. Eventually, as Lantz became the undisputed boss, Nolan moved on and Moreno unofficially became the manager of the animation staff, basically a surrogate who was taking on directing responsibilities. According to Moreno:

“The sound recording was always supervised by Lantz. I had nothing to do with the recording because I couldn’t afford the time, and there wasn’t much that I could do, with Lantz there as supervisor. He knew exactly what the story was about, because he had been with it all through its construction. And the sound effects were no problem: a lot of times [story man] Vic McLeod would record the sound effects or [Pinto] Colvig would… Lantz did all the editing and patching the sound together, synchronizing the tracks”.

It seems that Lantz developed a business practice of being involved in the initial story meetings and then supervising the recording sessions at the end. For the middle of the process he appeared to be mostly hands-off. There were no “sweatbox” reviews of the pencil animation to ensure quality and continuity, as with Disney. That would have been too costly and, in any case, Moreno felt that “we were practically always behind schedule.” The animators really only had one shot at any sequence.

Lantz felt the stress of his situation, especially because his Universal budgets decreased year to year, but he was remarkably easygoing in spite of it and he negotiated the setbacks quite capably, keeping Oswald in production for nearly a decade. It is interesting to think of Lantz returning to Universal at night, editing and completing the cartoons. Lantz was technically adept and perhaps he liked the solace of quietly working alone without distractions.

Walter Lantz at the Movieola

I suspect he developed this nocturnal habit by 1930, growing his proficiency with the finer art of comedic synch-sound. Since this was a paradigm shift that shook the industry, failure to adapt was not an option. Musical director Jimmie Dietrich helped him with this process during regular hours, but it may have been at night that Lantz honed his craft, running the strips of film elements back and forth. Although Lupita Tovar never met Bela Lugosi, it is possible she crossed paths with Lantz. It is fun to speculate about such a thing, though we will never know.

A connection we do know is that Manuel Moreno and his brother George were amateur film enthusiasts and, during the early 1930s, they shot a home movie of the Universal animators clowning around on Stage 28, the legendary ‘Phantom of the Opera’ set that was repurposed for many classic monster movies. Judging from a copy of this home movie that I own, “The Gang at Universal” — as they are referred to on the title card — had a blast using the opera house façade for their filmed gags.

As an animated homage to this famous stage of horror, the 1930 Lantz cartoon Spooks is an outright spoof of Phantom of the Opera, possibly even made to be shown in front of the featured “international sound version” released that same year. Oswald meets the phantom in the cartoon and then vanquishes him by answering a riddle (“Ouch!”) that was the punchline to a popular American joke at the time. Enjoy watching this cartoon. And imagine Walter Lantz working the vampire shift.https://www.youtube.com/embed/oR067Tv7-SI

Manuel Moreno was interviewed by Milton Gray in January 1978, in Santa Ana, California. Excerpts above are from this interview, a copy of which exists in the Manuel Moreno collection archived at Stanford University. The frames of Walter Lantz and Manuel Moreno are taken from a “Going Places with Lowell Thomas” short titled Cartoonland Mysteries (1936) from an HD transfer by Steve Stanchfield. For the top image, I stitched together Bela Lugosi and Lupita Tovar, day for night, forever linked and yet never to have met.

[creative-person-1944]

Abortions Debate Pt 2: Are They Really Murder?

Murder (Noun) The unlawful killing of another human being by another

So firstly, is a fetus a human in the womb? Some might say that life starts at conception, but I disagree. I, personally, think that life starts only once the baby is born and has actually taken a breath. A fetus cannot survive outside of the womb up until a certain point. That point is 6 somewhere in between 6 - 7 months. At that point, an abortion could potentially be illegal. That’s just a way of appeasing the pro lifers, to try and please everyone.

When you think about it, at its core, a fetus/embryo (Or a zygote for biological terms at conception) is basically just a clump of cells undergoing a reaction and evolving. The cells start off as one which goes through mitosis to create two, and then that creates, four, and so on, until they differentiate. One could argue that all animals do that, but it doesn’t make sense. When a fetus does it, it is growing new parts. When we do it, we’re simply healing and generating new cells. There’s a difference. A fetus cannot feel pain, does not have an opinion, and does not have any thought processes.

When it’s conceived, and when it’s developing, a fetus could technically be considered a part of the mother. It’s using nutrients from her body, using her body as a host, and so on. Even after birth it still uses her body (Breastmilk).

Religion’s Role

Compare two countries that use religion a lot. Christianity (USA) and Islam (UAE). In Christianity, no matter the circumstance, be it a woman’s life is in danger, or the fetus will be born with fatal deformities, an abortion is murder. However in Islamic countries (UAE for example), an abortion is justified if the mother’s life is endangered by the pregnancy or if the fetus will be born with fatal deformities. When you look at the religious aspect of things, you can’t just look at one. You have to look at multiple. 

How Can A Fetus Possibly Consent?

A fetus can’t. A fetus can’t consent, but you’ve also got to consider that at the same time, it can’t ask for anything. If we’re bringing consent into this, then wouldn’t a fetus need to consent to the mother taking vitamin supplements? Vitamin supplements can affect the fetus’s development. So can alcohol and smoking. Doesn’t the fetus need to consent to the mother drinking and smoking too? How does it possibly make sense?

What About Adoption?

Adoption is not a solution. There are thousands of children in foster care, and 25% - 40% of them are abused. If a woman got an abortion instead of condemning a child to a life of foster care where they’re more likely to be abused than adopted, which one is more morally correct? In 2019, only 26% of children in foster care were adopted, and that number has been steadily decreasing, with the abuse rates increasing. Not to mention, studies show that youth in foster care are two and a half times more likely to contemplate suicide than youth not in foster care. If abortion is murder, if it does take a life, all it does is speed up the process. If a woman gives birth to a child and puts them up for foster care, only for them to kill themselves 10 -15 years later, thinking that they’re unloved, what’s the difference? You’re still condemning them to death. So pro lifers need to ask, which is better? Foster care or abortion? 

Whose Choice Is It Really? The Fetus’s Or The Mother?

We need to ask, why is it that an unborn human being has more rights than a human being with family, friends, a job, people they love, etc.? Why does bodily autonomy apply for one person instead of both? In the end, who is more affected? If the fetus is aborted, what does it lose? Emotionally? The fetus has no friends, no emotional connections, etc. The mother on the other hand has everything to lose. If she can’t financially support a child, what happens? She could end up on the streets. What about emotional support? The child will end up with a distant parent. In the end, the topic of abortions affects the women more than the fetus. 

[ofakillerwithin]

Beautiful on the outside, but a killer on the inside. Quinn wasn’t always this evil or had a killer instincts its the incident with Riche that pulled her into this side of the edge. Quinn was sweet, she had those eyes that made it impossible to say no to. And she was her dad’s little princess. She once had the person life; but her father and Brother had always been born killers; it was never confirmed but her brother and father killed our mother because she was abandoning us, she was heading out to leave us. Nothing was ever told to me, but I heard the whispers of the cover up a few years back. 

I kept secrets close to my chest. I rather play nice and act innocent than to feel myself lose control. But Richie he was my oldest brother; he was someone I admired; he put in the effect to call every week. He loved to hear about what I was up to; we weren’t estranged siblings. He cared and when news broke about his death I felt my world fall apart. I felt the air leave my body and the strawberry blonde only felt rage. Each time she was forced to put a smile on in front of Samantha and Tara and their idiot core four name, it made her spit up in her mouth. It made her body boil. She had been plotting her venges for weeks, but now that Liam oh precious Liam was innocent. He was broken and she was definitely using it to her advantage not that the boy would complain obviously. Hints why Quinn outed her secret to him about being Richie’s sister it gave that sinister edge the one that would force the boy to trust her. It did help he was nice to look at; which made her efforts; her desire to flirt her way when needed more appealing. 

The female had her arm looped through his own as she wore that continuous grin she knew would rope liam right through her finger. And for now it was easy to do so. His question was earned as she debated how much of her plan to reveal to the innocent boy; who had been lied to by his own flesh and blood. Who had trust issues, who had fallen into the trap of not only my darling brother but also just as well with myself. 

“ It’s not clear cut, we need to ensure no eyes are on us, first order of business is decide who we will kill first. I’m close to the murders that killed my brother, but will it be a conflict of interest for you, considering..” Technically speaking Samantha was the boy’s half sister seeing as she was the daughter of Billy who was involved with his mother? All the boxes were a tiny bit confusing on my end; but before I revealed more I needed to know if Liam could be trusted. He was handsome but his brain cells were what can I say dim? I was the brains of this little plan; obviously I said to myself. As I pushed myself through the quiet diner. 

Gentleman; after all he did hold the door for me, With a hint of a smile; the female had stepped inside. Boots being heard against the floorboards. Hands finding the empty booth in the back. Lowering herself down as she removed her arm from his, and waved her hand to the seat across from her. 

“ Sandwiches are good, but I stay for the milkshakes they have.” A good treat after a long days work. 

@ofakillerwithin

[Anger issues. I scoffed at the thought. Was I perfect? No. Did I get myself into sticky situations, from time to time, sure. Did some of the people on the receiving end of these situations end up needing medical attention? Yeah, but in my defense, they brought it on themselves. A defense that my parents didn't seem to understand... Well, adopted parents, to clarify, since it turned out my whole life was a compilation of lies, secrets, and scandal. It wasn't until nearing the end of high school that I realized the people I had been deceived into believing were my parents, were actually my biological aunt and uncle. If learning all of that wasn't enough to give a guy "anger issues," then I didn't know what was. Of course my aunt and uncle didn't see it that way. A fact that they unknowingly made known to me one night when I overheard one of their conversations. Okay, okay, so I roughed a guy up at school, but given all the shit he had been putting me through, he got what he deserved. To my aunt and uncle though, they overlooked the fact that the asshole had been bullying me and giving me shit for weeks, so when he came at me one night at a game, and I fought back, suddenly I'm the bad guy for breaking his arm, nose, and a few of his ribs too. Exhaling loudly at the memory. It was that same night that I learned my "parents" were actually my aunt and uncle, after overhearing my aunt ask my uncle if he thought I was turning into my father... My father? What the hell were they talking about? Of course I busted into the living room immediately to confront them that night, which was met with more lies and cover up attempts from them. Why the hell wouldn't they tell me the truth about who I really am? I had a right to know where I really came from! Their refusal to tell me the truth, and to add insult to injury, to feed me more bullshit, just made me even angrier with them for keeping all of this from me, for so long. Over time, and following a slightly physical altercation with the man I had learned was actually my uncle, my aunt confessed that my "cousin" Sidney, who visited the mountains here a few times a year, was actually my birth mother. Apparently she had me young, my father was no longer in the picture... Supposedly after learning she was pregnant with me, he bolted and left her on her own, so in order to give me the best shot at life, she turned me over to my aunt and uncle to adopt me. I confronted Sidney, and just like my adopted parents, Sidney also lied to me about my father; claiming he was just a one night stand, and she never heard from him again. Considering all of the bullshit my family had fed me over the years, I knew better than to believe this story either, which prompted me to do some research of my own on my birth father. This being the point where I made my first trip to Woodsboro to get some answers. I met Richie soon after arriving in Woodsboro, which was refreshing since he was the one who told me the truth about my life. Turns out my father wasn't some dead beat who slept with my biological mother, then bolted when he found out she was pregnant, like my adopted parents fed me. He also wasn't a one night stand like my biological mother told me. No, he was actually her long-time boyfriend, who allegedly turned out to be a mass murderer in the town of Woodsboro. Of course he never had the chance to defend the accusations made against him, since Sidney killed him first; costing me any chance to ever know my father. I was angry, to say the least, which prompted me to leave my adopted parents' home, and live on my own for awhile. Not long after high school ended, I learned my friend Richie had been murdered by some bitch named, Sam. Figures, the one person in my life I could trust was taken from me too. I had nobody now. Nobody! This fury and thirst for revenge bringing me to New York, where Sam and her group had moved to for college. I didn't know what I'd do or say once I finally came face to face with that bitch, but I did know, I'd make her pay for murdering my only real friend, Richie]

[wildbornsiren]

Idle Hands | Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin/Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Idle Hands.  Summary: The promise of not having to eat mess hall chow leads to consensual breaking and entering. Homemade pasta, white wine, and kisses. One shot 1,439 words. Slash Warnings: None.  Notes: For the TGM fic exchange. A humble attempt at Hangster. Likes are appreciated, comments and sharing are absolute gold. Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate it so much and it means the most. 

“Hey Bradshaw,” Jake is sprawled out on the bunk opposite him. “You got anything planned today?” He’s quiet for a few minutes, before putting his book down on his chest. “What do you have in mind, Hangman?” He tips his head to regard the man who was focused on him. “Something other than laying around the barracks all day.” Jake sits up, a silver key ring dangling from his fingers. “I want to cook, I’m tired of mess hall chow.” “Who’s keys are those?” Bradley sits up, intrigued at the possibilities that Hangman’s offering. “Nat’s. Her and Bob are renting a place. She’s out with Halo, and Bob’s watching the Star Trek films with Fanboy.” “That’s somewhere I don’t want to be.” Bradley chuckled. Fanboy and Bob would often get into spirited ‘debates’ over which of the space operas were better, Star Wars or Star Trek. “Wait, you stole Nat’s keys?” “Technically, they’re Bob’s, they fell out of his pocket in the locker room.” The key jingles as Jake spins it around his finger. “Come on, I miss being in the kitchen, you like to eat, and we’ll leave leftovers as a peace offering.” “You’ve put a lot of thought into this plan, considering you’re assuming I’m in on it.” “Come on, you’re just as bored as I am Bradshaw. You’ve been reading the same page for half an hour.” Jake’s grin is genuine and real, dimples on display as the full force is turned on him. Bradley drops his gaze a little uncertain with the flutter in his stomach. Bradley knew it was just due to proximity, and seeing each other every hour of every day, but that grin made him weak—though he was loathe to admit it. “You’re not wrong.” He gets to his feet. “Come on then.” Jake nearly springs from the bed, grabbing his keys and wallet. “I have an Instacart order showing up at their place,” he looks at his phone. “It’ll be there when we get there.” The drive to Phoenix’s place is pretty enough and they’re pulling up to a gray rambler with a brilliant yellow door. The walkway is an explosion of flowers, the riotous color and sweet smell going to Bradley’s head. Jake turns when he’s halfway up the walk, sunlight illuminating him with a brilliant glow. That smile hits him again, and Bradley’s heart nearly stops in his chest. “Come on, Bradshaw, they’ll be back before we know it.” Bradley picks up the last grocery bag, following Jake inside. The house was clean and well lived in, and once again he was thinking about his choice of staying in the barracks rather than finding space of his own. Though, bunking with Jake wasn’t all that bad. He follows the other man into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Jake makes himself at home. The blond had retrieved an apron from somewhere, tying it around his waist, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, and beginning to unpack bags. “So, what are you making?” “Hand cut tagliatelle, with spicy Italian sausage, spinach with an alfredo sauce.” Jake is scrubbing his hands, before drying them on the apron. “Do me a favor and open that bottle of wine.” Bradley reaches for the bottle of white wine, opening it, pouring some into the glasses that Jake places in front of him. One is offered to him, and he takes it, a shock running through him when his fingers brush Jake’s. He’s acutely aware of the fact that he’s never truly been alone with Jake. Sure, they bunked together, but they intersected in the shared space only in the morning and evenings. Their days were spent with the rest of the group, or in the air. Jake moves around the kitchen the same way he does everything else, effortlessly, deliberate. “If you’re not going to talk to me,” that grin is back on his face, “then turn on some music.” “I don’t want to distract you.” Bradley says. Jake tips flour onto the countertop, making a well and cracking eggs into it, and another egg yolk. “If I wanted to avoid distraction, I wouldn’t have invited you.” He tosses a wink Bradley’s way, and he can’t help but mirror the way Jake smiles again. “You think I’m distracting?” Bradley leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re the second best looking in the group.” “I suppose you’re the first?” “You tell me.” Jake flicks flour Bradley’s way. He licks his lower lip, mouth dry, the wine doing nothing to sate the discomfort. “You know you are.” Bradley blinks noticing the stain of red that appears on sharp cheek bones. Jake’s attention very focused on the olive oil he’s adding to the blob of pasta dough. It’s almost cute, which is a word one wouldn’t use to describe one Jake Seresin, but in this situation, it worked. “This needs to rest.” Jake mutters more to himself, draping a kitchen towel over the ball of dough. He washes his hands again. “What are you looking at Bradshaw?” “You,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve seen you happy before.” It was the simplest way to describe the easy grin, the way Jake’s shoulders are relaxed, the ease he moves around the kitchen. He notices that Jake’s hand fumbles the wine glass when he sets it down. “Am I really a distraction?” Another slow spread of red, across Jake’s cheeks, down his neck. “Everything else is a distraction. It interrupts my thoughts about you.” Bradley sets his own glass down, walking around the island. Jake’s throat bobs as he swallows, looking down at the marble surface, brushing invisible flour from it. Bradley hesitates only for a moment, letting his hand rest on top of Jake’s. “What sort of thoughts?” There’s a moment where Bradley doesn’t know where he’s at, just that the edge of the counter is digging into the small of his back, Jake’s hands are in his hair, and his lips are parting under the slow drag of Jake’s tongue against his lower lip. His own hands find purchase on Jake’s hips, pulling the other man closer, flush against him. The sound Jake makes goes straight through him, the kiss deepening. Bradley groans against Jake’s mouth when those nimble fingers pull just right on his hair. Warm, open-mouthed kisses trail down his neck Jake’s tongue lingering on the scars he finds. “Better than I imagined.” There’s a softening of his words, the drawl more pronounced. Hands sneak under the hem of Bradley’s t-shirt, palms skimming up the flat of his stomach. Jake’s pulling away hurriedly, Bradly blinking a little fuzzy headed. The absence of Jake’s warmth against him makes him shiver. Green eyes flicker toward the door, and there’s the sound of conversation, getting closer. Natasha and Bob cross the threshold. “Told you that was Seresin’s truck.” Bob says. “Boys,” Natasha grins easily, dark eyes flickering between the two of them. “What’s going on?” “Jake-Jake’s cooking.” Bradley steps back to safety, the other side of the island, next to Bob. “What are you making Hangman?” “Pasta, and plenty of it.” Jake starts rolling out the dough into thin sheets. “Start a pot of water and toss some salt into it. “Bobby, grab a cutting board and start dice the sausage.” “Let the man loose in the kitchen…” Bradley mutters. “You want to finish that sentence Bradshaw?” Jake points at him. “Insult the cook and I’ll order you McDonald’s.” He turns away, and starts messing with a pan on the stove, the smell of onions and garlic beginning to cook filling the air. There’s an ease between the four of them, Bob’s cracking terrible jokes, Natasha’s laughing so hard there’s no sound coming out except for the occasional snort. Jake’s singing along with the old country song on the radio, terribly off key as he cooks. There’s the sound of footsteps, and Payback and Fanboy enter the kitchen to a riotous noise. Silverware clatters, Mickey setting the table, Reuben’s spinning Natasha around the kitchen. An ache settles in Bradley’s chest—a warm familiar ache that somehow, doesn’t hurt this time.  Bob’s trying to sneak a handful of parmesan cheese into his mouth, only to be chased away by Jake brandishing a wooden spoon chasing the lanky WSO away from the cheese. “You were right.” Jake startles slightly, “What do you mean?” “I was bored,” Bradley murmurs, one arm dropping around Jake’s waist. “And this smells better than mess hall chow.” “Damn straight it does.” Just for the briefest of moments, Jake leans against him once more. “Now go sit, lunch is ready.”

 ------- Tagging in: @ratcatcher2world @shadeds-library @lt-natrace @blue-aconite @writercole @hoe-on-the-range @hederasgarden @callsign-phoenix @therebeccaw @sailorscuttle @imjess-themess @jostystyles​ @iloveprettyboysblog​  @evansrogerskitten @marvelandotherfandomimagines @mayhem24-7forever​ @green-socks​ @mandylove1000​

[sunkissedpages]

instead of you [part fifteen]

pairing: [best friend’s brother] tom holland x college!reader

summary: you didn’t expect to spend your summer pretending to be your best friend’s girlfriend- then again, you didn’t expect to fall for your best friend’s brother, either.

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption

word count: 1.7k

series masterlist

Don’t tell Sam. Sam. SAM.

“Shit.”

You had to fix this in a matter of seconds. Should you slap him? Act like nothing happened? Pretend you were drunker than you actually were and play dumb?

“Wait, you’re not Sam?” you squinted your eyes like you were trying to see who was in front of you, acting like you were too drunk to remember who you were with. “Oh my god.”

“Y/n, I’m so sorry,” Tom tried. 

“I-” you didn’t know how to respond. “Why did you do that?”

He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I don’t know, it didn’t mean anything!” You’d be lying if you told yourself that didn’t sting a little. If he didn’t have any sort of feelings for you, why would he kiss you? “I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Please don’t tell my brother.”

“You want me to lie to my boyfriend?”

“I mean, is it lying if you just don’t mention it?”

“It’s a lie of omission- are you really going to debate me about philosophy right now?”

“Then yes, I do want you to lie to your boyfriend because if he finds out he’ll never speak to me again.”

“You realize what kind of position that puts me in?”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes.”

You couldn’t even think straight. Feelings of confusion, panic, anger, and regret fought for control of your conscience. “What if someone had seen us? Taken a picture of us? You’re a public fucking figure, Tom. That could’ve put your career at risk.” “Don’t you think I know that?” he growled. “I don’t need you to lecture me on how stupid it was.”

“You’re an asshole,” you scoffed.

“I know.”

You stood from the table to leave, hoping he wouldn’t follow you, but he called after you, your name echoing in your ears like a warning. Reluctantly, you turned back to face him with a bitter taste on your tongue.

“You won’t tell him, right?”

You stared him down for a moment, watching nerves etch themselves onto his features before answering. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

It was a promise you didn’t want to make, but you felt like you had no other choice. You hadn’t just broken the ‘no flirting’ rule, you’d blown straight past it into completely uncharted territory. And technically Tom had been the one to initiate, you hadn’t kissed him back, but you couldn’t say you hadn’t felt something when he did. 

You had never lied to Sam before- at least not on this scale. You felt sick to your stomach, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol. 

You almost didn’t want to go back to your room. You urged the elevator to go as slow as possible as you checked your appearance in the reflective wall. The tarnished gold was smudged with handprints, but you were still able to make out your ruined lipstick. You weren’t sure it had been messed up sometime during dinner, or if it was Tom’s doing but you couldn’t take a chance. You used your thumb to wipe away the evidence as the intercom on the elevator let out a ding to let you know you’d reached your floor.

With a shaky breath you pushed yourself into the hallway and forced yourself to put one foot in front of the other to walk to your room. You didn’t have a key, so you had to knock. You half-hoped Sam was already asleep, even if it meant you’d have to spend the night in the hallway. 

But as luck would have it he was still up and he opened the door seconds later. He was definitely out of it, blinking at you to put you in focus. 

“There you are,” he said tiredly, rubbing one of his eyes with his hand. “I was wondering when you’d come up.”

“I hope I didn’t keep you up,” you apologized as you breezed past him into the room. 

“Nah, I was just messing around.”

A lie, you knew, but you let it slide knowing you were keeping a much bigger secret. He was already dressed for bed in his boxers and one of your t-shirts and his hair was wet from a shower. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, noticing your anxious energy.

You nodded. “I had too much to drink.”

“Ah, me too, I think. Come take a shower. It’ll help.” 

You took his advice and tried to sober up in the shower, letting the cold water run over your bare skin until you were shivering. When it didn’t make you feel any better you turned off the faucet completely and dried off, wrapping a towel around your body and sitting on the edge of the tub. 

“Y/n?” came Sam’s muffled voice from the other side of the door. 

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” 

You sighed. Why did he have to know you better than you knew yourself? You pushed yourself up from the tub and opened the door. 

“I had like three more shots after you left,” you mumbled.

The color drained from his face as he took in this additional information and he frowned. “Jesus, I thought I was drunk. Do you feel sick?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay, well let’s go to bed,” he urged. His accent was always thicker when he was drunk, and in a funny way it sounded like home, like all of those Friday nights back on campus. 

Sam gave you space to change into your clothes for bed and crawled under the covers to wait for you. You dressed yourself, hung your towel in the bathroom, and shut off the main light before feeling your way through the darkness over to the bed. 

You managed to get your drunk ass in bed without tripping which you considered to be a miracle. Sam slung his arm across your stomach as soon as you settled on the mattress and pulled you against his hip. You tensed underneath his touch, but he didn’t seem to notice. 

You couldn’t relax no matter how hard you tried, and sleep taunted you for hours, hovering just out of your reach. 

Sam’s alarm woke you from restless dreaming some hours later, when the sun had barely brushed the horizon. 

You groaned and rolled over onto your stomach, burying your face in your pillow. Your head was pounding and you didn’t even want to think about facing Tom. The simple motion of rolling over had made you nauseous and you knew that standing up was going to be a whole nother ordeal. 

“Come on, love,” Sam said, nudging you with his knee. He was already sitting up, rolling the tension out of his neck from a night on the stiff mattress. “We gotta be downstairs in a few minutes.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and you felt pathetic. You didn’t have the strength to be around Tom today, especially with Sam right there.

“Don’t feel good,” you moaned.

“We’re all hungover,” Sam sighed. “We’re not even doing that much walking today.”

You turned your head enough for him to see the tears running down your cheeks and he pursed his lips, expression turning worried. 

“Oh.”

“Can you make something up?” you pleaded. 

He nodded. “I’ll tell them you have a fever or something.”

You swallowed your shame and squeezed your eyes shut, whispering thanks into his shirt. Sam kissed your forehead and then got up. You vaguely heard him moving around the room getting ready, but drifted in and out of sleep as he did. 

Once he was dressed he softly told you goodbye, that he hoped you felt better, and that he’d bring you back some food later on. 

The door clicked shut and you let your guilt continue eating you alive. 

You wondered how Tom would react when Sam told his family you weren’t feeling well, if his face would give anything away. He was an actor, he should be able to handle it. But you also wondered what he was feeling, if he felt as guilty as you did- or even more so. Or maybe he wouldn’t even care. You never knew when it came to him.

You rolled onto your back and propped yourself up on a pillow, using the free time to respond to some messages from friends and family. It was the middle of the night back in the States, but at least they’d wake up knowing you weren’t dead. To be fair, everyone knew your communication skills weren’t the best so they probably weren’t expecting anything from you anyway, but you still wanted to put in the effort. 

The rest of the day passed by quicker than you would’ve liked. You spent it in bed, tossing and turning as you desperately tried to fall back asleep. You kept pushing the blankets off of you, then burying yourself beneath them again, flipping between hot and cold. Maybe you really did have a fever. Your clothes were suffocating you so you ended up stripping and dropping them on the floor by the bed. 

By the mercy of some higher power you were able to nap for a couple of hours scattered throughout the afternoon, but by dinner time you were wide awake again and passed the time by watching Avatar: The Last Airbender in Italian on the hotel tv. 

It was playing an earlier episode, the one where the gaang visited Kyoshi Island. You couldn’t understand any of the dialogue, obviously, but you still found comfort in the familiar scenes. 

There was a knock on the door suddenly, startling you out of your focus. You jerked your head towards the sound and scrambled from the bed. You slipped back into your t-shirt, but didn’t bother putting on pants before opening the door because you figured it was just Sam. And it was. He looked exhausted, but in the best kind of way and was holding a styrofoam container of food that was presumably for you.

“Forgot the key,” he said sheepishly, offering you the food. You smiled and took it from him, stepping aside to let him in. 

He didn’t take your cue, instead he stayed where he was standing in the doorway awkwardly. It was then that you realized he wasn’t alone, that his older brother had been standing behind him the entire time.

Sam offered no explanation, only shrugged like he didn’t know why he was there either.

“Tom?” you asked, awaiting an explanation for yourself.

“Can we talk?” 

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[parkers-gal]

yay! okay so I was thinking, what I'd the reader and Tom had a fight, could be over anything, but the reader was pregnant and a few years after, they bump into each other and they get back together. Sorry if it doesn't make sense.

this has been sitting in my inbox for a fat couple of months… sorry 😭

wc: 1.7k ! <3

—

“No, because you’re selfish and you can’t handle the fact that my life doesn’t revolve around you and your needs.” Tom spits out the words angrily, viciously, voice harsh and crisp.

You’re both frustrated beyond belief, and the bubble that had been overblown had finally popped, splattering your relationship and all the joyful aspects of it. Right now, you felt as if all that was left was the toxicity of two unbearable people who happened to love each other. You knew, deep down, that you loved each other enough to get through this, but with every passing moment, with every exchanged word, you realized at least one of you wouldn’t survive the damage.

“No, Tom. You’re selfish. You’re conceited and you only care about being a goddamn movie star. What happened to the family man, huh? What happened to staying tied down with me and your brothers?”

“Nothing happened to him! I’m still that person. I am a family guy.”

“Not to me, you aren't.”

“Well you’re not family!” He seethes through his teeth, anger radiating off of his short-tempered demeanor. You don’t even know how to react, so you spend the time soaking in the situation and how you should respond instead of actually doing it.

“You’re a fucking jackass. I asked when I could spend time with you and now you don’t even consider me as part of the family.”

“No,” He’s clear and concise even through the anger. “You asked when I’m going to stop living my life.”

“I said no such thing.”

“You didn’t have to! We both know that’s what you meant.”

“You’re not even on the same page as me anymore,” You scoff, arms crossing. “Seems like all this time in Hollywood made you forget that you’re not always the main character.”

“Fuck that, Y/N! Fuck! That!”

“No, Tom. Fuck. You.” You over-express your emotions, and after two more minutes of unbearable silence and screaming, he’s leaving your apartment just as fast as he arrived. You’re in shock, fingers shaking while you clear your throat, which is frayed and sore from all the yelling.

You sit back, elbows on your knees while your hands smoothen out your forehead. Tear after tear escapes your sobbing body, and eventually, you fall asleep on the couch.

In the weeks to come, you’ve realized the blow-out of a breakup could’ve been handled so much differently, but Tom hasn’t seemed to cool down at all — he’s petty enough to unfollow you on all social media, and you figure it’s time to let the hatred be mutual. You don’t touch your imessages, however, letting the love in those texts linger for a little longer.

Before you know it, you’re throwing up into the toilet boil, coughing violently at the action and spitting the bitter taste as best you can. You clean up, and when you check your phone, a small notification from your period tracker app alerts you that this is the second period in a row that has gone by without a hello.

Worried, you call Aisha, your closest friend and confidant. She’s over in no time, bringing along her girlfriend while you rant on the phone about your worries. They stop at the drugstore on the way.

The cause of your problems is discovered that day, and you collapse on the bathroom floor in agony, hands wiping at your face — through all the anger and fear and worry, you still love Tom. So much that Aisha even attempts to call Tom. But, alas, it’s sent straight to voicemail, and you realize he might’ve gone to extreme extents in blocking everyone.

You’re stuck going to the ultrasound with two lesbians and a frail old cat. Aisha is as supportive as ever, but as the doctor explains the process of each option, you feel sicker and sicker about the idea of getting rid of the fetus. In the end, you choose to keep the child you’re bearing, even if your ex-lover isn’t even in the picture.

Inevitably, the months pass, and as baby Charlie is brought into the wonderful world, you realize life as a single mother isn’t as scary as you thought it would be. In the first few months of your pregnancy, you’d kept tabs on what film Tom was doing and which was coming out next, but after the hormones and cravings, you’d decided to let the past sizzle and fade out in the way it was meant to all along.

It’s been almost three years since that fateful breakup, and Charlie is just reaching two and a half years old. You’re still single, and you’re okay with that. Charlie is all you need, all you’ve ever wanted, and the most important thing in your life. He’s young, and school is still a couple years away, but you enjoy having the toddler by your side, walking hand in hand with you because you’re his guardian, his provider, his only parent. You make him your only priority, because you don’t want him to grow up without anyone to love, or anyone to love him.

It’s hard, though. It’s hard because he’s a constant reminder of what didn’t happen, a constant reminder of what went wrong and of what you no longer have. You miss Tom more than words can express, and Charlie’s mop of brown curls reminds you of all the moments you’d run your fingers through Tom’s hair. You reminisce more than you’d like to, about Tom and your past, and though Charlie is technically half of the Brit, he’s one hundred percent yours. Because you’re the only one here, and that’s alright.

“Mummy,” Charlie tugs on your shirt’s hem while you move the shopping cart forward through the aisle. “Can we get the goldfish with superheroes?”

You jutt your lip out in a smile, nodding happily. “Of course we can, bub.”

As you step forward, you pit stop in the aisle, nearly tripping on the cart. You make direct eye contact with the man you used to love with your entire heart. The man who walked out with your heart and never gave it back. He’s staring right back at you, curls looking as fluffy as ever, face still a soft glow. Your breath hitches, and it’s then that you realize Charlie is still talking.

“Mummy?” He asks, and it’s just loud enough for Tom to hear. Harry, who’s beside Tom with an arm full of crackers and chips. Tom moves forward a few steps, hastily in an attempt to get more information.

“Uh, hi,” His smile is tight lipped as he stands at the other end of your shopping cart. Charlie shies away from strangers, standing behind your leg and holding your shirt with his grubby hands.

“Hi,” you return his awkward, reserved demeanor.

“Mummy who’s this?”

“‘Mummy?’” Tom has a follow up question for everything, and you internally panic, unsure on how to approach this.

You’d spent so long deciding how you should tell Tom that he was a dad. You spent hours debating on if you should pick up the phone or drive over just to tell him a truth you’ve kept inside for so long. You’ve abandoned social media, only sharing aspects of your life you can afford to post. Charlie is only occasionally on your page, but it’s not like Tom would see that, not after all that’s happened.

Your mouth opens and closes while you debate on how to reply. You’re physically incapable of saying your response, and it makes you even more nervous. You’re nervous on how he might react, what he’ll say, but most importantly, if he’ll stay.

“Is this…?

“My kid…” You fill in. “I- I mean our… our kid.” You pull your bottom lip between your rows of teeth, and you watch as Tom’s face undergoes thousands of expressions all at once. He’s surprised, shocked, happy, afraid, uncertain. You want the world to swallow you whole, suck you up so you don’t have to go through any of this again. But you don’t. Instead, you hold Charlie’s hand a little tighter.

“Our kid?” He drops a can of soup and you flinch at the loud noise.

“Mummy, who’s that?”

“That’s…” You don’t know how to answer his question. Instead, you lean down to his level, comfortingly and gently. “He’s a man.”

“Who’s that man?”

“He’s… your daddy.”

“I thought… no daddy?”

You purse your lips and furrow your brows. Tom’s watching the entire encounter from his place, but after a few beats, he steps forward, entering your bubble. Charlie doesn’t cower away this time, but looks up in curiosity.

“Hi, Charlie,” Tom extends his hand, adjusting his jeans so he can lean down just as you are, kneeling beside the young boy.

You look down, avoiding your worries and Tom’s gaze. He’s tearing up, and you want to cry too. You’re in a fucking supermarket, for god’s sake. This wasn’t how you envisioned any of this planning out, and though you’re mentally kicking yourself for letting it happen this way, you can’t help but feel like maybe this was meant to be. Written in the stars or whatever the folks say — you’re just grateful Charlie has at least a sliver of hope for two parents. Not that you can’t handle it, because you can, but you know someone like Tom wouldn’t want to miss something as important as this.

“I’m To- I’m…” He swallows thickly, making brief eye contact with you before looking back at Charlie. “I’m your dad.”

“Do you love my mummy?” He’s not shameless, but he’s still that shy little boy. “My friend says daddy’s love mommy’s so you must love mine, right?”

Tom lets a tear fall while he exhales a chuckle. He swipes the drop with the tips of his fingers, and the hand gripping Charlie’s squeezes it a little tighter. A glance in your direction is all it takes for him to answer Charlie’s question. “Yeah, buddy. I do.”

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[achillieus]

we’re fools. (bucky barnes x reader)

summary: for all bucky barnes knows, he hates clichés. and this thing between you two, happens to be the biggest one. 

(enemies to lovers trope or i watched the society on netflix recently and based this entirely on harry bingham and cassandra pressman)

pairing: college au!bucky x reader

warnings: alcohol, mentions of depression, angst, bucky is a cocky bitch, but bucky also needs a hug

(other parts)  (masterlist)

part 1/3:

It’s December, his sophomore year of college and Bucky’s watching you again. From afar, always from afar. He’s scared if he goes near, something will give him away and you’ll laugh at him. He doesn’t remember when his fixation started but he’s certain it’ll pass. A load of girls on campus like him. Sometimes he thinks he likes some of them back. But not you. Bucky doesn’t like you. He’s beyond you. (Actually, you’re beyond him. He would never admit that.)  He watches you and notices how your fringe has grown the last few weeks and how a few strands are falling down your eyes. You brush them away and keep writing your essay. He decides it’d be better if he started writing his too. You’re a year younger but he knows you’ll probably get a higher score than him anyway. You’re good with words, he has noticed.

-

It’s March, your freshman year and you breathe out. You’re leaving the library, arms wrapped around books about Hamlet and Shakespeare, when you see him. Lately he seems to be everywhere you are. It’s getting annoying. You promise yourself you won’t stare at him again, but you cheat a few times. He’s wearing one of his overpriced shirts and he smiles at a sophomore girl. You know Bucky Barnes. You’d known him even if you didn’t want to. Because everybody does. Because that’s who he is. Everything you dislike about the world distilled into one label-whoring, conceited, 5′11″ tall boy. And everybody seems to be smitten with him.

He comes to you first.

“It’s destiny, Y/N,” he says, a smug look on his face, “third time I bump into you today.”

You tense. This is new. Usually, you don’t talk to each other if not for arguing in Romance Literature class. It’s one of the two classes you share.

“I must be very lucky.” Bucky chuckles and it’s somewhat engaging because he hasn’t given you a smile since the first day you met him.

“Admission office is on the left, doll”.

You had thought he was nice then. And beautiful. God, he was so beautiful. Please, he’s not. He’s an arrogant smartass. And now he’s standing here and for some seconds he laughs and you can see the dimples in his cheeks. You blink.

His light eyes divert to the books you’re holding.

“Try not to have too much fun.”

He mocks and walks away.

-

It’s July, end of sophomore year and Bucky joins a summer book club. (He doesn’t tell anyone. He enjoys his facade.) Every morning he grabs an iced latte and a butter croissant and he goes to the meetings. He reads a lot. And he loves it. It helps him feel. It’s a getaway. Bucky always stands proud and tall, trying to hide how easily he can be torn.

Running one finger along the starched collar of his shirt, he reads quietly and he considers the ever-changing art of literature; words and metaphors that allow him to imagine entire worlds and fathom his own sensitivities. He almost feels vulnerable. He decides that reading together with another person is an intimate act and he’s thankful he doesn’t really have any interest in anyone in the club.

But then it’s Monday and his teenage dream walks in, hair falling gracefully your shoulders, Gone with The Wind in your left hand. And it could have been the sun gleaming through the windows, but Bucky swears his whole being flickers. In a way or another he always responds to your presence.

You sit two rows behind of him and when he involuntary turns to you, you look surprised and yet you smile.

He tries to avoid you and he’s good at it, until someone decides it’d be fun to present the next book in groups. You’re the only two without a friend there and you end up paired together.

“I don’t like this.” he says.

“Oh, I know.” you whisper.

You spend an evening in his dorm, discussing the author and the plot holes. At first, he talks a lot, trying to impress you. But then he lays on his back, listening to the summer rain outside and you reading out loud. Regardless of what you feel for each other, he thinks it’s a beautiful sound.

Next morning, he buys two butter croissants instead of one.

-

It’s October, your sophomore year and you’re not exactly friends. Or enemies. Bucky has stopped teasing you and you think it’s because of your days in the book club. Actually, it’s because he’s dating Natasha Romanoff now and he promised he’d be kinder.

You realize sooner or later and you say it’s obvious you don’t care. (Who is it obvious to?) The girl is pretty, clever and vibrant and she’s a good person. You like her. You just can’t figure out what she sees in Bucky.

-

It’s January, his junior year and he’s not doing well. He knows it’s his fault (he always loved half-heartedly) and that makes the hurting worse. It’s guilt driven. He tries to get Nat back but she’s not ready. And it’s awful because nobody warned him and he didn’t know; it’s hard to feel lovable after a break up. He desperately needs a distraction. He pushes himself past his breaking point. Carves his grades into the back of his neck. Devours facts and theorems. Almost joins the football team for extra credit. But to be honest he’s never been that much into sports. Debate team, it is.

That’s where he truly learns to despise you. Who do you think you are? The proud jaw, those smart eyes, your feet planted on the ground as if the world’s wisdom belongs to you. You’re at your best while he’s at his lowest point.

He watches you and then he watches himself.

“Your last argument was weak,” you say, raising your eyebrows, “you should concentrate more.”

Bucky bites his lip in frustration.

“You’re not the boss around here.” He says, crossing his arms in his chest, “You may think you are, but you’re not.”

(Technically she is, Bucky. She’s the captain of the team.)

“Don’t start again.” You sigh. “I just want us to win next week.”

He rolls his eyes at you. He would never admit it out loud but a part of him is enjoying this. Feuding with Y/N feels natural. It reminds him of who he is.  And he feeds on that.

He takes a step towards you.

“Of course, so you can take all the credit.”

You just stare at him. Sometimes you don’t understand what Bucky is trying to prove. That he’s better? Or that you’re worse? You hate it. How quickly he can make you lose your temper.

(How quickly he can exhilarate you.)

“If you don’t like the team,” you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze, “you’re free to leave.”

Bucky laughs. This is how you are. This is how you will always be. Both strong, you just, him lost.

“You need me to win, Y/N,” he sets his shoulders back and smirks, “I’m good at this.” He remains close to you and refuses to look away. He can see you parting your lips for a second or two.

(Did he just glance at your lips?)

“I know you are,” you breath out and Bucky is incredulous, “so start acting like it.”

(Did you just compliment him?)

-

It’s the first day of February, your sophomore year and you think you’re losing your sanity. Bucky invites everyone at his dorm to celebrate their victory at the National Debate Championship. And it’s strange because Bucky never really invites anyone he doesn’t like. If you didn’t know him, you would have bet that he’s been feeling lonely.

You don’t want to go at first. But you’re glad you do. Under the green lights he has installed and all the alcohol in his body, he looks different and it’s the first time you genuinely see him. A boy with silky black hair, blue eyes and skin that looks like it’d be cool to touch. There’s something attractive about him, in a rugged way, and you’re seeing it again after a long time.

Your allergies must have gotten in your head.

He doesn’t talk a lot that night. Not to you. Not to anyone. You deduce pretty early that Bucky just wanted company to drink. You wonder if he’s still messed up because of the break up.

Probably. Everyone on campus is talking about how Natasha was hanging out with that boy, Clint.

He tells you, you don’t have to, but you still stay to help him clean up.

“Why are you doing this, Y/N?” His voice is low.

You started taking a new antihistamine, maybe it’s the side effects.

“It’s called being nice,” you say firmly, “you should try it.”

Bucky makes a little humming sound and keeps collecting plastic cups. The room is quiet, but for the sound of trash bags and you count the seconds before you speak again.

“How are you?”

“I’m not that drunk, don’t worry.” He half-answers, half laughs but he pronounces the last word with enough irony.

“No, I meant,” you breath, “Is everything okay with you?”

“Seriously, you make no sense Y/N.” He’s careful not to look at you.

“I just wanted to say,” your voice sways for a second, you’re a novice in talking with him about anything different than books and words and that makes you weak and nervous, “You’ll be back with Natasha, I’m sure.”

Bucky’s face hardens around the edges, his eyes saying more about him than any words could. He comes close to you and it could have been the smell of alcohol but you feel like you want to throw up.

“You and I, we’re not friends.”

You don’t blink. You stare blankly at him, waiting for what follows. But he just leaves the room.

You promise you will never go to any of his parties again.

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