#or they're in a heated philosophy class

[randomnameless]

Do you think Edelgard perceives herself as a victim? I’ve been thinking and I can’t decide myself, on one hand she clearly hates the idea of people being victims or helpless, and constantly reframes the victims of the war as “necessary sacrifices” instead of, y’know, tragic causalities of a war she started. She plays up her sad backstory to try to get Byleth to join with her in WC, but then she does all these things to concentrate as much power as possible on herself. On the other (other) hand, she pushes the culpability of the war on everyone except herself, and has trouble taking accountability. She’s obsessed with controlling everything but she doesn’t want to be blamed for the problems she’s created. What do you think?

Oh!

(sorry for replying one literal month later lol)

I find Supreme Leader hard to write because of this, but in a way, I believe that yes, she does.

However, for all the flak Faerghus gets for "ToXiC mAsCuLiNiTy" and "Chivalry BaD", there's something very toxic with the way some Adrestian victims (often women... blame the writers I guess?) deal with their abuse.

I'm not going to spend a lot of time on Doro because I already typed a lot about her, but while she still sees herself as a victim from what she endured and suffered in her childhood, she adopted the toxic mindset of "this suffering is a thing of the past and I grew from that/beyond that to become the person I am now" - which we can also see in Manu who suffered from, roughly, the same traumas.

Petra also follows this pattern, being a hostage and treated like shit, but she grow "beyond" her status of a victim to become the strong person she projects and believes she is - it's only out of House that she realises more accutely her status within the Empire, the reality of her situation and, in Houses, refuses vassalage to Adrestia to make her country independent without having to "ask the Emperor".

It's the same pattern : "I was a victim" but "I became strong" so "I am not a victim anymore, this is something of the past".

Applied to Supreme Leader...

Well, trying to ignore the Agarthans and her dad's own infuence on her character (which is kind of hard, since the games try their hardest to make Agarthans responsible for everything BaD and we're not clear on how much they had an influence on her), I think Supreme Leader believes she was a "victim" of abuse.

But - through further abuse and surviving said abuse - she became strong* enough to "not be a victim anymore".

Which is why her line of "if the weak remain weak it's their fault" feels like it echoes part of her mindset : she was a victim but became strong enough, maybe by hardening her own feelings to become "strong", so she is not the same helpless "victim" she once was.

If she managed to do that, then everyone can do the same.

As for the "necessary sacrifices", since early 2019 someone theorised that "the people" she pretends the fight for as seen as some general "concept", much like the "greater good". So if some people are sacrificed, it's for her ideals - the goal and aim of her newfound strength - , and it piles on her drive, she must realise them otherwise those people would have died (and she would have suffered) for nothing.

However, despite acknowledging her past self as a victim, and because she's now "strong", she's not above using her past trauma (but actually, still present! Remember the rat scene?) to reach her goals, because, at her core, Supreme Leader is soemone who is very determined. Maybe it's her only drive to grow beyond the trauma, or her own illusions, or a mix of everything, but AM made it clear, Supreme Leader is not above, well, using herself if it means seeing her goals come to fruition : unlike Lobotogard from AG, AM!Supreme Leader willingly transforms in Hegemongard.

This is the cost she's willing to pay, so while the memes about Lord Farqaad were on spot, I still think that Supreme Leader is ultimately willing to sacrifice** herself for her goal (but only when there's no other way to ensure her future will come to fruition, and in a way, I guess she thought she would survive the Hegemon transformation, jury's out on what she meant to do in AM's finale, but imo, she still tried, even beaten and battered as she was, to claim Dimi's head).

Ultimately I think everything's a bit muddled by the fact that, as @fantasyinvader pointed out, Supreme Leader is a liar and knows the importance of maintening good PR.

She lies and manipulates the truth to reach her goals (which again, is a red flag when CF claims to want to restore the "distorted history" of Fodlan!) and for all the flak I give them, the devs managed to scrap enough material to give us a peek in Adrestia's mindset (or at least its top nobles), they're not people who self reflect, they are salty because they aren't ruling the world anymore, and they feel like they are better than the rest of Fodlan.

Put everything in the mixer, and you indeed have Supreme Leader (but also her court, especially Ferdie in SB who dares to say, as he is invading and trouncing people who don't really like and accept the idea of being invaded, that the fear those people feel are only in their mind, or something like that? Like, dude, you're rolling over their people and country, of course they'll fear and hate you!) giving her weird rhetoric lines (why are people opposing me if they are going to die?), victim blaming (something Treehouse swallowed like honey, if their lolcalisation is anything to go by, remember, it's Rhea's fault for not offering her head on a platter that is the reason why the War continues in CF!) and so on.

IDK if the devs wanted to bank that much on the Dany parallel with her "if I look back i am lost", but again, I don't know if her drive to make a "better Fodlan" is motivated by her trauma, Adrestian revanchism, Ionius telling her dumb things or Agarthans agarthaning, but her goal and vision are everything to Supreme Leader.

So she will do anythign to see them realised, even if it means sacrificing her people, starting a war, tweaking "the truth" or using her own trauma to motivate and recruit powerful people who might assist her with her goals.

To reply to your question, IMO she sees herself as someone who had once been a victim, but won't let that stop her from reaching her goals, even if it means creating thousands of "hers" in the process, because, in her mind, reaching her goal is more important than anything else.

*I know, she refutes Dimitri's claim that she is "strong" or laughs at it, but imo, it was more in the sense of "I was weak and became strong" so everyone can "become" strong.

**I don't think she wanted to throw away her life, but more something in the lines of "putting my life on the line" or sacrificing her precious (and to see how precious it is, just play CF lol) humanity.

[thyandrawrites]

On (soccer) partnerships, commitment, and why Nagi and Reo are the poster children for always doing the opposite of what the series is about

Alright fellas, this started out as something completely different, so forgive me in advance if it feels disjointed, but.

Have you wondered why in chapter 18 of epinagi, Nagi’s inner monologue complains that his “heat is being stolen away”? Or why even in the main series Nagi can’t seem to win a single match even after he and Reo get on better terms? Well, if you have, this post might be a fun read for you. If you already have answers, I might sound like I’m stating the obvious because none of this is particularly subtle or particularly new. But since both series have hit the Nagi Flop Era, I thought it’d be fun to take a deep dive into his character and Reo’s, the themes of the story, and how their codependence contradicts the entire premise of blue lock, intentionally so. I’m going to go over why stagnancy is the entire point of their partnership, and why the fact that they keep failing and failing is instrumental to the type of story Kaneshiro is trying to tell. 

So, without further ado. Get comfortable, this will get long. 

So, as I anticipated, Nagi and Reo are very very often written to be at odds with the themes the story functions around, and I think their regression is another instance of that. In a manga that often underlines the importance of making soccer your “reason to exist” if you’re serious about it, Nagi and Reo are the only duo repeatedly singled out as more committed to each other than to the sport itself. This, the story tells us, being the root of why they so often fail. 

The premise of blue lock is that you can’t become the best in the world until you dedicate your whole self to the sport. Only that egoism will push you in the right state of mind to go above and beyond for a victory. 

Time and time again, we see the most outstanding goals happen in what gets called the hottest place in the field. This “center of heat” comes up a couple of times, and it’s usually represented by a person. According to Ego’s philosophy, the idea is that the world’s best striker possesses a soccer-specific kind of charisma. When he enters a state of flow and pulls off a world-class play, he’ll have a ripple effect on the players around him, pushing them to reach flow too and elevating the level of the game itself. We saw this happening in the U-20 match. Ego’s not really aiming to create a national team, or to foster the talent of the new generation. He only cares about nurturing one person into that role, betting it all on the fact that once that striker awakens from its “rough diamond” shell, they will fire up their teammates & lead Japan to victory. 

Because of this, ideally, everyone aiming at becoming the world’s best striker should strive to be that center of heat. To an extent, even Nagi does. His motivation is spotty at best, but whenever a game heats up, Nagi’s ego gets tickled awake the same as everyone else’s. This is not limited to the times Isagi challenged him, by the way. He reacted to Rin’s skill in much the same way. 

Problem is, neither Nagi nor Reo seem to know how to become that center of heat by themselves. They only react to someone else raising the stakes of a match. Even when Nagi feels fired up, his lack of creativity & playmaking sense fail him against any opponent who is more tactical than him. In a similar way, even when Reo starts going after goals alone in the wake of his split from Nagi, he still can't see his vision of a goal through to the end, or gets outsmarted and beaten to the punch by other playmakers. 

The only times they really get their head into a game is when they're working as a duo. Compare for example Nagi losing grasp of his heated frenzy when he splits from Reo to how quickly he reaches flow when they go back to playing together.

So why is this an issue? If Nagi's limit is his over-reliance on instinct, and Reo's is the lack of self-centeredness that's key to scoring, then shouldn't teaming up solve the problem and make them a powerhouse? How come, even after somewhat resolving their communication issues, their soccer still is no match to that of the blue lock elites? 

Well, before I can begin to unpack the answer to that… A big theme driving the soccer partnerships is that you won’t go very far if you rely too much on the other person to carry your weight. This is the reality Bachira faces in the 4v4, when he “disappears”, swallowed by everyone else’s growth. This is also the lesson Rin learns from Sae when his brother returns from Spain a completely different, overwhelmingly superior player. The series tells us that relying on others to pick up your slack makes you less sharp and prone to noticing your weaknesses because someone else will cover your back. 

For a practical example of this, Rin's style when he played with Sae mirrors Nagi's around Reo: they both relied on instinct, trusting that the ball would always come if they just positioned themselves in the right spot to score. And for a time, it did. But that's not the level the rest of the world plays at. Nagi and Reo's winning streak ends when they face an unpredictable, explosive talent like Isagi, who doesn't operate according to any predictable patterns. Similarly, Rin's playstyle gets wrecked in a matter of minutes by a Sae who got to experience the "real" soccer played overseas. 

The point, then, is that Nagi and Reo never really assimilated any of Ego's lessons, instead resisting his philosophy to a fault by choosing each other. From the start, they’re not very good at being apart, given how their strength draws from being a team. Both of them are noted to only ever increase the level of their plays when they are working together, but not as much when alone.

Nagi’s the brawn to complete Reo’s brain, and their dynamic too often falls back on that codependent partnership. In fact, they default to their roles even when they're not playing with each other. During the second selection, Nagi replaces Reo with Isagi, continuing to rely on someone else's creativity and game sense, while he just follows. And in the 3v3, we similarly see Reo fall back on playing the midfielder to Kunigami and Chigiri's forward, offering up the perfect passes to make them shine and get all the scoring options they want. 

But what about when they're together? Aren't they strong then? Didn't Nagi score a crazy super goal thanks to Reo's assist? What do we make of that? 

You'll probably remember how Ego got a sense of foreboding from Nagi's five shot revolver. Of course, you might say, Ego never liked their soccer! He was cussing them out for playing together since day one! Of course he's a hater! 

Well… Yeah. But Ego's also an authorial insert, and he's there to tell us the themes of the story, and comment on the characters growth. Or in this case, their stagnancy. Nagi's returning to his reliance on Reo's brains and Reo's willingness to entertain it are both framed as a bad thing because it specifically contradicts the idea the series is based on: that a real striker is an egotistic, self-reliant existence that doesn't bend to other people's rules, but instead dictates their own, and makes everyone follow or fall through in their wake. 

There are several players this definition already applies to. Rin, Barou, Shidou and of course Isagi all come to mind. Isagi's growth in particular has been rotating around this concept. Isagi not only believes in his (meta) vision, but he also possesses the sharp-wit and the cutthroat resourcefulness to see it through no matter the odds, at times even to the detriment of his teammates. Nagi and Reo, on the other hand, can pull off some incredible plays, but it’s never enough to land them a solid victory, especially in the NEL arc. Usually, in a story, when a character fails enough times to become stagnant, the author is making some kind of point. In this case, as the narrative itself points out through Isagi first and Agi later, it’s the concept that relying on their teamwork is actually making Nagi and Reo’s soccer worse. 

Sure, Nagi might've caught Isagi off guard with those feints once and managed to score, but that's still him relying on instinct over brains. If you dissect that match, you'll see that aside from the fake volley itself, which is the product of a non-replicable state of flow, there isn't a single move Nagi and Reo made during that game that Isagi didn't see through, expect, and match their pace at. This is by design, of course. It's meant to indicate that while Isagi grew, learning from stronger players and assimilating new elements in his arsenal of weapons, Nagi and Reo are still stuck playing the same way they did in the second selection. With Reo as the heart, brain and anchor directing Nagi around, and Nagi as the leg kicking the ball into the net following a momentary burst of inspiration. 

The fact that this is intended as a setback in their path towards a more egotistical soccer is made more obvious by the timing. It's not a coincidence that Nagi went back to Reo the moment he got frustrated by how hard creativity and tactics come to him when he's on his own, without a "handler" like Reo (and later Isagi) taking care of all the hard parts. 

Nor is it a coincidence that Reo was faced with the choice to go back to helping Nagi out right when Reo was beginning to go after his own goals, without help. Nagi comes up to him and shakes him up literally one (1) panel after Reo's dramatic, resolute decision to prove himself alone.

Had they gotten anywhere in their quest to polish their individual skills during the split, maybe their partnership could’ve aspired to become more like Isagi and Bachira’s, eventually. However, they weren’t apart long enough to master their respective strengths, or to consolidate their egos as something separate from their status as partners. Thus, when they resume playing together, they instead hold each other back. 

So is their ego the problem here, then? Ever since that five shot fake volley, we see Nagi’s dissolve, leaving him unmotivated again, grasping for answers he can't seem to reach no matter how many people he asks. And surely, its disappearance is significant, much like how Reo's ever changing definition of his own ego is also significant. But I think the real issue is something else. Egos can take many forms, and Nagi and Reo aren't the only players whose so-called “protagonism” isn’t rooting for their own success. Most recently, Hiori gained an ego too, and it was framed as a good thing even though it doesn’t strictly lead to him becoming the best striker in the world. 

My idea, then, is that it's less that they lack the "correct" ego, but more like they lack the correct attitude towards soccer to begin with. From the start, they're both motivated by something that is not inherent to soccer itself, but only tangential to it: the World Cup—or rather, their promise to each other that they'd win the World Cup. Because of this, I think, they center their football more around their partnership & their shared dream than any genuine passion for the sport, unlike pretty much the rest of the cast (now including Hiori. Yay!). In other words, the problem is that neither of their egos is really about themselves, yet. So it fails them because it's not conductive to "protagonism", but centered around an "us" that drags them off course.

Let's go with Nagi first. On the surface, "commitment" and "Nagi Seishirou" don't seem to go well in the same sentence. Nagi doesn't do anything excessively. He's content to coast through life doing nothing more than he strictly needs to survive. As long as he can put in minimal effort and still have time to play video games and nap, he's happy. When his teachers asked him to fill a form about his future, he couldn't think of anything he wanted to do. He's the embodiment of living one day at a time cause it's too much work to figure out his life past that. Yet, he genuinely commits to soccer. 

Or does he? 

Sure, he agrees to not only playing the sport, but to dedicating several years of his life to becoming pro. That’s dedication, for sure. But is it really for soccer? I would argue that no, Nagi’s commitment is to his partnership with Reo, not to the sport itself. And okay, you can’t have one without the other, but the distinction is important to understand Nagi’s (and Reo’s as well) resistance to character growth. 

So, Nagi had no passion for the sport until he saw the level some other elite blue lockers played at, and got curious and frustrated enough to put real effort in it himself. But until then, soccer was simply something he tagged along in. In fact, he was pretty unenthused with the idea of playing until Reo promised him an easy life and made it so Nagi wouldn’t have to work hard for it. Nagi signs up for blue lock with the expectation that he’ll be the one to flunk out first, without being too torn up about it. Clearly, it’s not a career as a professional soccer player he has an attachment to. I’d argue it’s more the fact that he feels comfortable around Reo, and he is invested in what only their agreement can bring forth. That is, a life more exciting than any nap or game. 

The excitement part is the focus here. At their core, both Nagi and Reo’s characters are motivated by the wish to escape boredom. So much so, the epinagi movie made that its tagline. Thematically, dissatisfaction with boredom is the catalyst for every choice they make. While everyone else is motivated by an ambition that is inherent—that draws from their wish to excel—Nagi and Reo are more prize-oriented, lacking the conviction that they’re special on their own. It follows that the challenge of bringing home the World Cup represents just that—for Nagi, it’s the thrill of a final boss with the prospect of an easy life afterwards, and for Reo, something hard to obtain that he’d conquer by his own merit. In both cases, soccer for soccer’s sake is not the end goal. It’s just a tool to achieve what they really want. 

Neither of them ever really dreams of becoming the world’s best striker, and neither swears their entire life to soccer, either. Not even Reo ever brought up a career in the sport, past winning for Japan for the first time. This is why I say their commitment is more to each other than to football, and also why they struggle to advance in the program. 

Let's think about it. The Cup was never really Nagi's dream; beating Isagi was. Yet, when their partnership all but crumbles down, Nagi keeps making choices with the Cup in mind. The boy who never fought for anything becomes determined to honor his promise to Reo even if he's not certain that Reo still cares about it. By his own admission, he chooses Isagi and then England because both of those things bring him closer to their original goal, and Nagi's resolve for that has never waned, even if for a time he thought Reo's had.

It's like he clings to inertia to avoid thinking what the sport means to him. Despite how Reo seemingly turned his back on him, Nagi doesn't want to give up on what made them partners. To him, soccer never stopped being something they shared (to a fault). That's why, I think, when they make up, a big part of their reconciliation is going back to sharing a dream. This time, with Reo helping Nagi out instead of the other way around. And I'm saying that's a flaw because his subconscious need to seek answers and help from others made it so that whenever he's alone, he doesn't have a very defined idea of how to move forward. But again, a striker should be self-reliant, and have the capacity to evolve on his own even as the match is unfolding. But Nagi didn't even believe in himself until Reo convinced him he was special, so how can Nagi have the right mindset to seize his protagonism?

Similarly, Reo’s drive is also not based on anything inherent. From the start, he doesn’t believe he was “chosen by football” the way geniuses like Nagi and Rin are. Because of this, he never bought into Ego’s striker philosophy, nor has he been a very fitting candidate for it yet. Much like with Nagi, his set up as someone willing to step away from the spotlight positions him in defiance of the story’s themes. While Nagi has the talent and instinct to become a powerhouse but lacks conviction, Reo is a born leader outside of the facility, but within blue lock’s rules he can only make it to the U-20 bench, and so far no further. 

The point here is that Reo’s readiness to be Nagi’s crutch is lowkey framed as a voluntary burden he places on his potential growth, a fact that the narrative condemns. 

Reo was born for success—bred and raised with every luxury to make sure he'd step into his father's shoes and be one of Japan's wealthiest and most capable businessmen. And Reo takes obvious pride in his social status, too. We can see it in the flaunted wealth of his spending and daily habits, as well as in the way he interacts with his peers. He funds his Hakuho soccer team and easily seizes captainship. Blue lock teams don't have captains, but he still rises to a similar position even within an environment designated to promote violent competitiveness and a wolf-eat-wolf mentality. Heck, he asks Nagi to call him "boss" and demands Zantetsu recognizes him as "super elite". Pride in being the best and excelling at everything he does is written into Reo's code.

Yet, the moment Ego suggests that there is no such thing as cooperation within his training program, Reo is quick to bargain—take him, he’s the real star. I will tag along and ensure his success. 

Ever the businessman, right? Problem is, renouncing his pride for someone else is the opposite of the attitude he should have. Same as Nagi, Reo puts a lot of weight on their shared dream. Too much weight. Somewhere along the line, “I want the World Cup” became “If Nagi’s at my side, we will win the World Cup”. Being partners until the end became so entangled with Reo’s dream that he can no longer separate the two. When Nagi leaves, Reo’s image of that finishing line crumbles. Iirc, he doesn’t even mention the World Cup as his goal anymore until Nagi comes back to him. When asked to put into words what he wants to achieve with his soccer, Reo tells Chris that he wants to go after goals alone. It’s only later, when Chris questions what happened to his solitary resolve in the wake of Reo’s restored friendship with Nagi, that Reo is like “well, my actual dream was the World Cup anyway, so this still counts.” 

That is both true and a deflection from the truth. Yes, Reo’s real goal has always been the cup… but he also subconsciously sees it as something inseparable from his promise with Nagi. He can’t have one without the other. Or he thinks he can’t, is the point. Partly because of that, and partly because Nagi is his best friend, Reo is very resistant to Agi’s criticism. The story’s trying to nudge Reo towards personal growth, telling him that the only way out of this impasse is to quit what isn’t working. However, because Reo’s meant to resist the themes of the story, the choices he makes are rarely the right ones. That is, the choices a real egoist would make in his place.

This isn’t anything recent, by the way. For this same reason, for example, winning Nagi's trust back becomes his main motivation to survive past the loss in the 3v3. By his own admission, Reo is the only guy in blue lock who not only has a safety net outside the program, but a very comfortable life to fall back on if a career in football doesn't work out for him. But when push comes to shove and he faces the chance of dropping out, Reo resolves to improve by thinking of Nagi and their shared dream.

Let’s compare that to Barou, who was similarly broken down and had to crawl his way up again. Barou goes the egoist way and finds his resolve within himself, vowing to double down on his king shtick and devour Isagi back. To Barou, the simple idea of passing a ball is akin to defeat. When he envisions a future of normalcy, with football as something to only watch on tv, Barou’s hunger to reign the field like a king rears its head again and motivates him forward. Reo, instead, never reaches a point where he embraces the series’ trademark selfishness. In fact, he does the opposite. When he vows to step up his game, he doesn’t do it because he thinks he’s the top dog like everyone else. The root of his despair is not a wounded pride, or a desire to prove himself further, to “devour” others back and rise to the top, but just the loss of his fix against boredom. Remember, chasing an exciting life is both Reo and Nagi’s main motivator so far. To put it simply, Reo doesn’t want what awaits him outside of blue lock. 

That’s the seed of his actual ego, by the way. Not the Cup, not making Nagi the best, but rather obtaining something by his own merit. But because of his reliance on Nagi (and Nagi’s on his), Reo hasn’t yet reached the point where he can realize this and use the knowledge to better his plays. In that sense, their partnership holds both of them back from exploring their inner motivations and individual strengths further.

And I said that this is instrumental to the kind of story Kaneshiro’s telling because it’s meant to show us all the ways a striker can’t be. This is not a manga where the power of friendship will get you anywhere. No matter how stubborn you get about having it your way, obstacles will materialize in your path and set you back the longer you refuse to play for your own sake. 

Yet, Reo doesn't want to advance in the program for the sake of becoming the world's best striker. He never did. He wants to move forward because Nagi left first, and he wants to meet him on the other side (quote, "beyond our dreams"). In other words, to return to being friends, even if he fears that Nagi might've replaced him with Isagi and "forgotten" about him. It doesn't have anything to do with soccer per se. It's more like Reo sees soccer as his chosen tool for self-determination. It was the trial to prove to himself, as well as his father, that his "worth" wasn't handed down to him by circumstance, but was inherent. He could achieve something worthwhile thanks to hard work, and not just reap the benefits of his last name. 

And the thing is…If he were literally anyone else, at this point he would’ve already channeled that into individualism, but because it’s Reo, he doesn’t. Despite possessing that seed of egoism, Reo doesn’t water it. His ambition doesn't make him an egoist in the way Ego Jinpachi intended, but instead becomes something that's meant to be carried by two people, contradicting the story.

Reo’s resolve is then always a bit off from falling in line with the rules of blue lock. Even when he gets something right, he does it for the wrong reasons, stumping his development. For example, his resolve after the 3v3 is both a step forward and two steps back. The positive is that he "engraved despair". He faced his shortcomings, realized his powerlessness, and took measures to improve to avoid being left in the dust again. The negative part is that being on his own should've given Reo a taste for real egoism, a hunger for self-reliance, but it does the opposite instead: it makes him long for what he had, and put all his willpower into restoring that partnership however he can. If the issue was that Nagi's improved enough to no longer be satisfied by the level of Reo's plays, then Reo's solution is to make his soccer exciting again in Nagi's eyes to, quote, "be enough to satisfy" him.

Because of that, however, the moment he has Nagi's trust back, their partnership back, Reo pretty much stops trying to improve. His chameleon style is still a go, but it becomes yet another tool to assist in Nagi's goals. It didn't start that way.

Initially, it was what Reo intended to use to score alone, remember?

Yet, even after coming up with a style that's solely his, that focuses on his strengths and brings no value to Nagi's, Reo keeps committing to stagnancy. In different but similar ways, both do. 

Teamwork and passive codependence are the two things Ego asked all the blue lockers to leave behind, but Nagi and Reo make it their job to bring typical shonen manga dynamics into a series that sets out to break from the norm. And that’s the point! 

In this sense, Reo is more at fault than Nagi, who instead realizes that sometimes being apart makes you better, and doesn’t mean the end of your friendship. If I were to pin down Nagi’s role in the narrative, then I’d say he’s meant to show that talent doesn’t equal success without discipline, self-awareness and determination. So the world’s best striker can’t just be good. He needs to know what he’s doing, and when and where he can do it to make the most of every play, since nothing happens by chance on the field. Whereas Reo’s role is that of showing us the mindset of a real striker. Because Reo enters the program without accepting or even understanding Ego’s rules, Reo’s faulty beliefs get challenged at every turn, with the author basically spoonfeeding us the correct path to soccer stardom. 

So in the end, since they struggle so much to even understand what they should be doing, their fumbling around makes it so the story goes more into depth about its own themes. Their job is to be incompetent, basically, but in a way that doesn’t rule out eventual growth. They just need to come to terms with the rules of the competition they entered first. So far, they’ve been content to just live in a bubble and coast through the increased stakes of the selection. If they’re serious about their dreams, however (and we’ve established that they are!), they will have to make a choice between what’s comfortable and what’s necessary. Cause, to quote Ego from epinagi chapter 2, in blue lock there’s no place for self-conscious babies who don’t want to ever get their feelings hurt. 

So what will they choose? Each other again, or the only way they can make it past blue lock and thus actually chase their dreams? 

[sirjuggles]

Things My Partner Knows About The Locked Tomb Through Osmosis

I am an unrepentant and annoying TLT fanboy, to the point where my partner has sworn to never read the books on principle (for this I respect them). However, given that I never shut up about these miserable books, they have picked up quite a bit of knowledge about them purely through my rants. With that in mind, I asked them to describe to me everything they think they know about The Locked Tomb (notes in italics are mine)

There are characters named Gideon, Nona, and… something like… Pacifica Sales Bonecruncher of the West? I'm pretty sure this is supposed to be Harrow's full name and title.

It's a scifi-fantasy world in a necromancy space realm 

There's… 10 kingdoms that are all part of an Empire? Or maybe houses? But they're part of a monarchy? 

The ruling classes of each of the realms gets summoned by God because they want to play a Hunger Games thing to find their… new God child? 

It's not a God child like he's gonna adopt them… it's like rebirthing them into a new god? They will also become God? 

Each one of the realms has a special quirk about them, something that's their specialty. Like, one realm are accountants. Shockingly accurate.

Gideon and Pacifica’s realm are like cool goth themed? More goth than the others. Extra-goth.

Oh there's a person named… Electra? They have long blonde hair and kickin curves and they're really hot? Everyone likes them? I'm pretty sure this is a conflation of Alecto and Corona as seen through reblogged fanart.

Personal philosophy aside rant: The whole necromancy-as-center of-an-empire thing… I find it kinda rude? I don't like the idea of people and their remains being used as a resource/tool. Like, I don't like using people as interchangeable cogs in a machine under someone else's control, both in life or in death. It doesn't seem consensual or respectful. In death your obligations should be released. 

I think Gideon has a big hero’s death while trying to save Pacifica, and then their… souls mingle? And then after that Pacific has Gideon-flavored intrusive thoughts? And I'm not sure if it actually is Gideon or just, like… the same as if you stare at the sun and get the after image burnt into your cornea. This isn't wrong, but I'm almost certain part of this is actually my ramblings about Baru Cormorant leaking through.

Is reincarnation or resurrection a thing? I feel like it should be in a necromancy setting. 

DIRECT QUOTE: “Is there a Jesus allegory in here? I feel like there is. Wait... Is Gideon Jesus?” Folks, upon hearing these words casually spoken out loud by someone with no knowledge of context, I straight up left my body.

God is just a chill dude. He's just a guy making pancakes, and occasionally he'll go “How's that whole Hunger Games thing going? You want a snack? I'm just gonna be over here.”

God was wanted by aliens or something? There's something bigger going on with entropy or heat death or the Discworld auditors and it's a problem for God and that's why he's doing the whole Hunger Games thing. 

I think God used to be not a God and that's why he's such a chill dude. And then there was a problem and everything was dying so he did something and necromancied everything and that's why he's God now and also why things are so weird? 

One of the groups from the houses was two annoying siblings who split from the party and died really quickly. 

Gideon is big and bulky and has short red hair. 

[tacofriend]

I keep thinking about Gordon Ramsay's terrible grilled cheese sandwich and how his failure is not of skill but of classism.

I think all chefs should read this Tumblr post from @doebt and make it part of their core philosophy.

If you can't eat a Ritz cracker on its own and understand what makes it great, you should be kicked out of culinary school!

Because there is a lot of nuance to a Ritz cracker if you pay attention. It's why I down those things on their own whenever they're around because there's this brilliant balance of flavors in what is commonly seen to be a low class food.

Likewise, grilled cheese sandwiches are a low budget food that when done with care and attention, those cheap ingredients shine, not in spite of their cheapness but because of their cheapness. American cheese melts like nothing else. White bread crisps up nicely, soaks up whatever butter is in your pan or on your griddle while also being thin enough to allow heat to reach the cheese. It's also soft enough that you get that nice crispness on the outside while not being entirely crunchy.

And Gordon took all of that and threw it in the trash because he doesn't pay attention. He's a classist person who sees cheap ingredients and instead of seeing their strengths and how they shine in a good grilled cheese, he only saw their prices and assumed that they were no good. So he swapped everything for more expensive ingredients that may be better at high class foods, but they are terrible at being a grilled cheese sandwich. Those hard aged cheeses don't melt, so he burnt the fuck out of his already hard bread trying to get them to do something that cheap American cheese does brilliantly.

Gordon Ramsay is a good chef, but he's also a classist chef who will never be able to appreciate the beauty and warmth of a cheap grilled cheese sandwich and that is his loss. I feel so sad for him.

[atlas-library]

☾ baby girl ☽ a college au.

〝i know that you got daddy issues.〞

fandom: jujutsu kaisen characters: inumaki toge (afab!toge), ryōmen sukuna (amab!sukuna, twin!sukuna) pairing: sukuna x toge universe: alternative universe (college!au)

genre: (mostly) fluff headcanons rating: pg-13 word count: 900 trigger warnings: nsfw mentions

more jujutsu kaisen ⭒ more inumaki toge ⭒ more ryōmen sukuna ⭒ taglist ⭒ ko-fi

This is just a nice little surprise for @heartvexer. Hi darling, here's some AU for you. ❤️​

Behold, one of the most cursed crackships of all time: our lovely Sukuna and his gremlin, Toge.

In this AU, Sukuna is Yuuji's twin; they're 21 and both got a sport scholarship— Sukuna for (American) football, Yuuji for basketball.

Toge is 22 and is majoring in zoology— He also has three minors, in music theory, American Sign Language (ASL) and Japanese Sign Language (JSL). He only chose JSL because he wanted that extra credit, otherwise he's fluent and isn't learning anything from his classes— Not that it's the professor's fault.

Sukuna is majoring in history and minoring in psychology and philosophy. Compared to Toge, who considers his minors as backup plans, Sukuna only has them as hobbies. Same for football, he's doing it because it's fun for now, not because he wants to become the best quarterback ever— Although he's the best in his team.

No one expected Sukuna and Toge to be dating. Not even them. It all started as a one-night stand at a party, then one month later Yuuji is crying to Megumi and Nobara about these two making out on his bed (Toge didn't know it was his. Sukuna obviously did).

They are surprisingly the healthiest couple on campus right now.

They've been dating for almost two years now. They still make out on Yuuji's bed whenever Sukuna's feeling like being an ass.

Sukuna is only nice to Toge. Which is cute, funny, and lowkey terrifying, 'cause what do you mean it's the 5'5" gremlin getting the 6'9" monster to behave?

Toge proudly wears lots of feminine, girly clothes, leaning on the kawaii fashion aesthetic. That, or he's going full punk. No in-between.

Yes, Sukuna calls him 'baby girl' as a joke. Yes, it's also an official nickname now.

Just to be clear, Toge is genderfluid and mostly uses he/him and they/them but also really likes feminine terms. He rarely uses she/her, though.

Sukuna almost snapped at a teammate who was misgendering Toge ("That's your girlfriend, Sukuna?" "Yup." "She's cute!" "He is, yes." The teammate messed up at least twice more before Toge had to calm Sukuna down).

Don't worry, now everyone gets it.

Sukuna and Toge, lovingly and mockingly nicknamed "Sukimaki" (because it sounds like "Sushimaki", AKA Toge's username on social medias), both have lots of tattoos and piercings. More on them in another post, probably. I have lots of thoughts.

Sukuna has been learning JSL, quite fast too, so he could speak with Toge whenever the latter goes non-verbal.

Toge has daddy issues, which, according to Sukuna, makes him great in bed.

Those two are insatiable, someone needs to inject some tranquilizer in their veins so they stop fucking like two rabbits in heat.

Toge clawed Sukuna's back so hard once that Sukuna got teased in the showers after training. Now everyone in the team whistles and howls whenever Toge comes watch Sukuna train.

Sukuna reaches Toge's chest when he's sitting down, and fully takes advantage of that to hide his face against Toge's breasts.

Toge has a small chest, very cute, and likes to show it off with corsets. Sukuna is smug about how cute he looks, but also has that ominous look if someone stares for too long. Toge's aware of it, but he likes pretending he's clueless— And Sukuna knows about it.

Toge is a pro at makeup, and loves going all out whenever there's a match— Especially for the football team. Since they've been dating for two years now, Sukuna can easily guess which makeup took time to do or not, and what's an easy fix or not.

When he didn't know better, he once accidentally smudged some of Toge's eye makeup while roughhousing a bit; Toge ended up crying and he got called an ass by pretty much everyone, "because he spent 5 hours getting ready for you". He's now very careful with Toge's makeup— Unless Toge teases him about it.

They both have to remind each other to "be nice" whenever someone annoying talks. It's surprisingly harder to get Toge to act nice.

Sukuna's a picky eater, so Toge cooks for him and makes him bento lunchboxes.

One day, Sukuna forgot his lunchbox and Toge brought it to him while he was training; everyone howled at them. All Sukuna did was sit down, bring Toge closer with an arm around his waist, then snap: 'Too single for your girlfriend to bring you food, losers?!' Everyone went silent.

Toge pretended to ignore everything by petting Sukuna's hair.

Sukuna originally wanted a minor in linguistics, but his high school teacher was a bit too enthusiastic about it. It made him give up that idea, but Toge buys him linguistic books from time to time; Sukuna blabbers about it after sex.

Toge only tells Sukuna he loves him through sign language. JSL has its own version of "I love you", but also uses the ASL version of it (🤟🏼). When Toge showed him, Sukuna forgot his braincells and asked 'Are you a metalhead? Or Spiderman?'

Toge chuckled awkwardly and explained the meaning to him. Sukuna never felt dumber— Is that what being Yuuji feels like?

Toge told him to forget about it and Sukuna simply redid the sign. They do it from time to time now, always hidden though— It's a private thing.

taglist (ask to be + / - !)

@artmistersealy

@heartvexer

Feel free to like and reblog; if you wish to be added to the taglist, my comments and inbox are open. My askbox is currently open for any question or opinion. :)

[aloeverified]

🎸🎤 HEX GIRL HEADCANONS 🎤🎸

Before forming a band together, each member had a miniature career of their own. Luna was a pretty popular online figure for her performances at bars and restaurants, Dusk went viral a few times from her rave shows, and Thorn had a history of starring in plays and talent shows all her life. They eventually found each other online and began talking, and after Thorn and Dusk immigrated to the U.S., they formed a band.

Although they live in America, Luna is the only one who was born there. She's Creole and was raised in New Orleans, Thorn is French-Candian and from Ontario, and Dusk is Japanese and from Kyoto. Due to where they grew up, they all speak different languages as well. Luna is fluent in Spanish and French, Thorn was raised speaking French just as much as English and knows a bit of Italian, and Dusk's first language is Japanese and she's fluent in JSL. They all began learning ASL after forming a band since Dusk is deaf in one ear and hard-of-hearing in her other.

Thorn's real name is Sally McKnight, Luna's is Selene Moon, and Dusk's is Twilight Yami. Thorn picked her name due to her love of roses, whereas Luna and Dusk simply picked names that have the same meaning as their own.

Due to her hearing loss, Dusk doesn't wear shoes when practicing or performing. When coming up with songs, Thorn doesn't wear shoes either since she claims it helps her feel closer to the music. Luna sometimes doesn't and says it's for the same reason but it's actually just because her boots hurt her feet after a while.

They each base their personas after different horror monster icons. Thorn's is Dracula, Luna's is the werewolf, and Dusk is inspired by both Frankenstein monsters. They also have very different gothic styles; Thorn being more of a romantic vampire goth with some witchy accents, whereas Luna is a trad and corp goth with lots of glam, and Dusk being more in the visual kei and metalhead scene with some cyber and bubble goth inspiration.

Thorn is known for being a bit of a bachelorette and dates anyone ranging from a trucker to a theater kid who thinks he's a vampire. Luna and Dusk, however, are in a relationship that they keep private from fans. Luna is a lesbian, Dusk is bisexual, and Thorn doesn't feel the need to label her sexuality.

Their fans often get into heated arguments over the girls' heights since Dusk is typically shoeless and the other wears heels. Thorn typically looks pretty tall since she's in the front and wears high heels, with Luna looking about the same in her boots behind her keyboard, whereas Dusk looks the shortest while barefoot and sitting down to play the drums; but the truth is Thorn is only about 5'4, Dusk is 5'8, and Luna is just over 5'10.

Their fans have nicknames for them based off of different creatures, with Thorn being called a succubus due to her seductive voice and dancing, Dusk being compared to a banshee since most of her back-up vocals are screams and her unhinged drumming, and Luna being recognized for her werewolf persona due to long nails, canine fangs, and loud howl-like laughter.

Rather than visiting a salon, they have nights every few weeks were they touch up their hair. Dusk is albino with naturally platinum hair which makes it so she she has to redye her hair every so often, whereas Luna and Thorn have to actually go through the process of bleaching their hair. Dusk typically dyes her hair a darker blonde or adds different shades of green streaks, Luna switches between dark red and blonde every so often, and Thorn either dyes her naturally brown hair black or bleaches it to make it a bright red — sometimes a combination of both.

They're all university students who avoid actually attending classes by taking online courses. Thorn is majoring in envoirmental science with a business minor, Dusk is a literature major studying philosophy, and Luna is in the process of graduating art school.

Thorn is most inspired by bands like She Wants Revenge and London After Midnight, whereas Dusk takes more after Malice Mizer and Bikini Kill, and Luna is one of the biggest fans of The Cure and the Bauhaus.

They regularly go on adventures together to places that are regarded as haunted or cursed. While on tour in different countries, they make it a habit to try and visit any attractions they haven't seen yet. Thorn particular likes haunted castles and cemeteries, Dusk is interested in asylums and prisons, and Luna is obsessed with any place that has a tragic backstory.

While Thorn is relatively good friends with Daphane due to their shared love of fashion and past romantic interests in Velma, and Dusk enjoys terrifying Shaggy and Scooby, Luna and Fred are actually able to have normal conversations

They love getting together with the Mystery Gang when possible. When she's not flirting with Velma, Thorn spends her time with Daphne talking about fashion and gossiping about their past experiences with stupid boys. Luna is also pretty good friends with Fred and they could have conversations for hours about random niche interests. Dusk and Velma have a shared passion for gothic literature and Velma also enjoys watching Dusk terrify Shaggy and Scooby when she's bored.

[pare1dolia]

[Flesh and Blood TCG] An Analysis of Maxx "The Hype" Nitro

(aka Blorbo Bleebus from my Card Game) (we're in for a long one boys)

Note that this is, primarily, going to be a story analysis rather than a mechanical one. As much as I love Maxx's mechanics, they're pretty straightforward in terms of the Mechanologist hero class. One of these days I'm gonna build him, I swear.

Part 1: The Background of Maxx Nitro

To begin, the guy's an orphan. He's taken into Rosario Orphanage, of which there are many in the city of Metrix, at the very young age of six years old. However, even at this very young age, Maxx shows an aptitude toward destruction. However, it's not just destruction that he's got an aptitude for; he's also exceedingly good at chemistry.

"While the other six-year-olds were making mud pies in that open sewer they called a playground, I was making potions in the janitor’s cupboard. Yeah, too young to be messing with chemical compounds, but I was never one to be age appropriate. Chucklate Bistink was my most successful concoction, especially when heated in the canteen oven. Cleared the whole place for days. Orphanage management had to put us up in a hotel while they deodorized the place."

This quote from the story System Failure gives a really good bit of insight on this. At the age of six, the age of a first-grader in our world, Maxx was capable of taking chemicals from the janitor's closet and making very, very potent stink bombs at the very least. But, there's something else that is brought to light, and that's how Maxx seems to describe Rosario.

Given his disdain for "the system" to begin with, there's some obvious bias in the language he uses to describe the orphanage. However, it doesn't seem entirely uncalled for, either. As discussed later, Rosario seems to be a privately-owned business, and their true nature is exposed later as a hub for experimentation.

"Turns out the Rosario Hills Institute runs most of the city’s orphanages. Not out of the goodness of their hearts. The orphanages are gathering grounds for their “subjects”. Special kids like me. Kids with unusual talents. At first, I thought it was a bit of a lark. My own room, good food, a decent bed, and attention from some very interested whitecoats. Then the tests started, the prodding and poking, the scans and samples. I soon discovered that special isn’t all it’s cracked up to be."

Maxx discovers this through personal experience, somewhere between the ages of eight and ten. This was after he taught himself how to hack into computers very adeptly at the age of seven. At this point, it's very obvious that while he's almost always had a want for dismantling defunct systems, there's a definite reason for it: Rosario Hills Institute input not only a fear of, but an anger toward systems that are supposedly there to help.

That doesn't mean he's completely unsympathetic to people, though. As the story of System Failure progresses, in Maxx's breakout of the local prison, he shows more concern to "humaniforms" (read: non-robotic lifeforms) than he does to robots. This extends even further to calling emergency services for any humaniforms that were injured within the initial breakout.

This leads to our next part.

Part 2: The Philosophy and Paranoia of Maxx Nitro

Synthetic Futures takes place before the prison breakout of System Failure. In the opening scene, Dash and Maxx are having a discussion on how best to overhaul the systems that dictate life in Metrix. This is already a fascinating scene to me, because typically individuals like Maxx aren't given the time of day in fiction of this kind.

Dash asks if Maxx wants to overthrow the healthcare system, the public transit system, even the sewer system. Maxx responds with a no to all of these, and eventually follows it up with:

“The oppressive systems, Dash! You know, the ones that exploit us, grind us down. Like the enforcers.”

Which leads to this next part:

The mere mention of the e-word makes the anarchists twitchy. Particularly Maxx. He leans forwards, changes to a harsh whisper, like that’ll fool any half-decent surveillance device. “They’ve been tracking us all for weeks now.”

And this illustration of Maxx, which accompanies the passage:

Notice how bloodshot his organic eye is. The scraggly lines for stubble across his jawline, or even the way his hair isn't quite fauxhawk, but rather just a mess of uneven bits. While this could have just been a purposeful way to make him seem "crazy," given the background as discussed in Part 1, there are a few assumptions and headcanons that can be made here.

First off: Maxx's philosophy is to help humanity while breaking down the forces considered oppressive, such as the police unit known as enforcers. This also includes megacorporations such as Cogwerx and Teklovossen, and by extension, more than likely the Rosario Hills Institute. Privatized systems that say they want to help, but also cause intense problems for anyone involved.

Second off: He's intensely paranoid. It's likely he's been losing sleep over the possibility of surveillance, and he really has no way of knowing how to mitigate that. Again, given his background, it's almost to be expected; he's been poked and prodded enough. Never again.

Part 3: Conclusion

So what does all of this leave us with?

Maxx Nitro was a victim of a system that not only failed him, but also the people he grew attached to during very traumatic experiences. This led him to want to destroy these sorts of systems, which exploit vulnerable people to create something profitable. (Sounds familiar.)

This led him, in his adult life, to be intensely paranoid because of the desire to break these systems and start anew. That being said, he doesn't actually seem to want to hurt anyone. Nobody organic, at least.

Does that mean what he's doing wouldn't have consequences? Of course it would. He's kind of a morally grey character, but in my opinion, he's on the lighter side of grey than others in the Flesh and Blood roster.

I dunno. I just think he's neat.

[roydeezed]

"What's in a name?" asks Juliet.

To me, darling Juliet, everything.

What are words if not names for the human experience?

Fluid, ever-changing, tongue-shifting attempts at naming the ineffable. Love songs dedicated to describing that same burning, roiling feeling that's roared through our chest cavities over the years and decades and centuries and millennia. Eulogies grasping at words, trying to find any that fit the hole left behind. Empty promises of ephemeral allegiances and arrangements. All names for the things that we are so eager to shape and form. What's in a name? Everything.

I was looking at the new pictures from the James Webb telescope , 19 Spiral Galaxies defined in colours and shapes and names worthy of Shakespeare's greatest tragedies; NGC 1300. NGC 3627, and NGC 5068 among others, and I was struck once again by that familiar feeling I get every time the sky clears up and stars sparkle in the not-so-light-polluted urban sprawl of my perpetually twilight city. That feeling of insignificance. The words I'm writing, in the minutes in the hour and day of the specific year I'm writing it in and in the language it's written in are all as insignificant as me in the grand scheme of things. A speck in the cosmic and temporal sense. Maybe even less.

But then I remember philosophy class from High School, me hunched over my cell phone, biting the skin off of my thumb in nervousness as I read about the lava like crawl of Donald Trump to the south of the border and his march against the weight of words, the zero-g fervour he seemed to incite amongst the disllusioned. My, friend, _ _ _ _, clapped me on the back and asked me why I was so anxious. In Philosophy we learned about the beliefs of individuals and groups across the ages and the role the specificity and semantics of words played in that. And maybe it was also because of my teachers Robin William-esque ability to bring forth the idealism within us, but I answered quite earnestly, though in a much angrier and less elegant way, "I was worried about words." Or more like, I was worried about the degradation of meaning. Of that losing of form that words gave to things. That power names had to define. That birthday party sleight of hand ability to manifest meaning like a coin behind the ear.

And unfortunately that worry wasn't unfounded. As I once again see the march of demagoguery in my own country and the erosion of meaning from the mouths of Pierre Poilievre and Danielle Smith, I can't help but think of those galaxies once again. They're a red shift snapshot in time, eternally changing, eroding and disappearing outside of that time the pictures captured. May be that's what we are. Just a snapshot. It's in the nature of things to change and maybe that erosion is just a part of the process.

My friend, _ _ _ _, is formed by the letters that make up his name. Four letters in sequence that I know him as. I see him as that snapshot in time from that year, white shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled in the sleeve, a poor pastiche of Alex Turner's poor pastiche of a greaser, as we walked by ponds and forests playing Pokemon Go as the summer heat beat down, the star seemingly having a mid life crisis as it attempted to hinder our progress in catching them all. I wonder if Ponyboy would've ever been excited to hunt down a Dragonite. Those four letters in a sequence make up someone who's a little bit of an asshole, fond of playing the devil's advocate in any situation possible, arguing to the point of semantic cage matches. Those four letters in a sequence make up someone who's indescribably kind, taking on every burden possible to help others. Those four letters in a sequence make up someone who's as close to a soulmate I've ever met, the platonic ideal of a friend with whom I can pick a conversation after not having seen for over a year. There will come a moment where I'll see him for the last time. Where shortly after, in the grand scheme of things, the life will leave his body and the four letters in a sequence that make him up will cease to refer to the body he was, an eroding, decomposing, soon to be formless mass that nature will redistribute into new forms. Thus is the nature of things.

But it's in that moment where we are formed that we mean something. Over Thirteen Billion Years ago was when it all began to form. Or so the Big Bang Theory purports. And no, not the Bazinga! spouting excuse for a sitcom that's co-opted the term, though I'm sure the idea's in there somewhere. No, I mean that cosmic theory of everything, everywhere, all at once. That idea that galaxies and all that we know as the universe began to form and expand moments after a big explosion of light. Much like how words and letters and names shape the people, places, things, and ideas that we so hold dear, and much like how there was moments before they existed and there will be moments after they've ceased to exist, the moments where they hold shape, however brief in the temporal and cosmic scale, are the moments where they matter. The moments where things have names, that second hand's worth of time on the universal clock where that concept even matters, is everything. It's all we'll know. And in that sense, all that matters.

[abookishdreamer]

Character Intro: Favian (Kingdom of Ichor)

Age- 34 (immortal)

Location- Skyline district, New Olympus

Personality- An enlightened individual, he's quite pragmatic, creative, and values his capacity for deep thoughts & appreciation for the arts. There's always a new question or theory on the horizon. He's single.

He has the standard abilities of a god except shapeshifting. As the god of philosophy his other powers/abilities include photokinesis & telepathy. He also has various specialized powers based on the different schools of thought and philosophy.

Favian lives in a spacious condo at The Parthenos Plaza, a luxury building in the Skyline neighborhood of New Olympus. He shares the condo & is roommates with his best friend Neicus (god of debate & appeal). The inside of the condo is exquisitely spotless and organized. The interior design is sleek & modern with colors of steel gray, royal blue, cream, and beige. They pooled their money together & was able to buy the largest (and most expensive) flat screen TV on the market- measuring at 150 inches & costing 220,000 drachmas from iCHOR Tech. The TV is made with ultra chroma technology, has 4K ultra picture quality, built in Wi-Fi, and is touch screen operated as well as bluetooth friendly.

Favian has a single pet, his animal companion- a she-dragon named Dreamseer. A slender beauty, she's primarily covered in vibrant dark blue-green scales with silver crests and teal wings. She's his usual mode of transportation.

His immediate family includes his younger sister Sophia (goddess of thought). They're as close as any brother & sister, a constant thing for them getting into heated debates through text and in person, though all in good fun! Biweekly, they have a family dinner, usually at Sophia's brownstone.

A go-to drink for him is earl grey tea. He also likes dry martinis, scotch on the rocks, manhattans, white russians, pinot noir, and gin & tonics. His usuals from The Roasted Bean is an olympian sized roast coffee (with a bit of sugar) & a large chai latte.

Favian starts off his mornings at home doing a session of tobata yoga before jogging through Eaglepoint Park, ending the early hours with use of his premier gym membership at Fit 2 Be a God.

For breakfast he almost always goes for the spinach & artichoke baked egg souffle from The Bread Box.

One of his biggest vices are cigars- especially ones that are rolled with tobacco sourced from the Underworld.

In keeping with his "outworldly" way of thinking, Favian is a firm believer of traveling, being exposed to different people & cultures. He's been to most states in Olympius (including the deserted island Sicilios) and has traveled to the Underwater realm twice. He's currently planning his upcoming sabbatical to the Underworld.

A guilty pleasure for him are olympian sized cajun fries from Olympic Chef.

Favian is the latest male deity to be on a billboard in Acropolis Square modeling Thunderstruck briefs, the king's underwear brand.

For his most recent birthday, he was gifted a pair of Celestial Bronze cufflinks from his best bro!

Favian's main job is overseeing the philosophy department at New Olympus University. He personally teaches the ethics class. He's also an acclaimed writer of a few academic textbooks as well as literary works- including a popular steampunk series titled The Machinery of Alchemists. For other work & means of income he models for Platinum Alchemy, is a frequent guest co-host on the Nocturnal Thoughts podcast, and is a contributing writer for O Dianooumenos. He's also an executive producer on an upcoming social experiment TV show created and hosted by Litismós (goddess of culture).

His social circle includes Momus (god of mockery, satire, & ridicule), Pathos (god of emotion), Coeus (Titan god of foresight, intellect, & knowledge); his beloved mentor, his sister's girlfriend Eikono (goddess of iconography & literature), Dimósia (goddess of debate), Agathodaemon (Daemon) (god of vineyards, grainfields, & luck), Chiron (the immortal centaur), Psionikós (god of the mind), Isorropía (Isorro) (god of duality, balance, & equilibrium), Pistis (goddess of trust, reliability, & good faith), Orthosia (goddess of wealth), Aplistos (god of avarice), Aion (god of time, eternity, & the zodiacs), Moros (god of doom), Nomos (god of laws), Mnemosyne (Titaness of memory & language), Harpocrates (god of silence & discretion), Horkos (god of oaths), Aletheia (goddess of truth), Sophrosyne (goddess of moderation, temperance, & restraint), Apólafsi (god of enjoyment), and Achelous (god of freshwater).

Favian also admires Atlas (Titan god of strength & endurance).

His favorite dessert is the tiramisu from Hollyhock's Bakery. He also likes his sister's rasmalai.

As far as his romantic life, Favian is enjoying his singledom after getting out of a long term relationship with Mesembria (Bria) (goddess of the afternoon). It's been awkward still being in contact with each other seeing how Favian is a financial backer for her business. Now he's keeping romantic encounters on the casual side. Favian hooked up with a siren dancer at a burlesque show he went along with Momus & Neicus and he's had a one night stand with Amphictyonis (Amy) (goddess of diplomacy). He's currently seeing a model named Almada, who's a maenad. Favian appreciates his close bond & friendship with Dimósia. They posted videos of themselves doing viral dances on Fatestagram and has even slept over each other's places. There have been a few times where he wonders if there could be more.

His most viewed video on his PanopTube channel is his vlog at The Luxe where he partook in the most expensive tacos (along with Neicus)- a gold flake infused corn tortilla added with kobe beef, beluga caviar, black truffle brie cheese, and an exotic salsa blend made from scorched tartarus peppers sourced from the Underworld). It cost a whopping 25,000 drachmas!

His all time favorite meal is spanokopita with his sister's chicken saagwala.

"The mind once enlightened cannot again become dark."

[a-heart-like-a-sparrow]

March 10th, 2024 - It's gonna get bad, I'm telling you

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So, the storm from yesterday was only the beginning. Apparently, it's gonna rain on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesdsy... literally the whole week. The worst part is that it's gonna be extremely hot (between 30°C to 40°C), and there'll be a lot of humidity.

I lile rain. I don't like the heat. This is gonna be bad...

Anyway, today was sunny tho. I watched two movies: "The Holiday" (2006) and "I Want You Back" (2022). I liked The Holiday more. My mother loves that one! It was great.

I watched those on TV. Before that, I was watching "Perfume: The Story of a Murderer" (2006). I didn't really plan to watch it, but I saw that they're removing it from Netflix after the 15th.

I like it so far. I'll finish it after I write this.

Finally, my mother drove me around the town for a while. I'm pretty sure we did it to distract her. She told me for the 11th time that Sundays make her very sad and nostalgic.

Nothing else happened. I didn't watch NANA or listened to Beach House. And I have to go go bed now because tomorrow I have school.

Fortunately, I don't have gym class tomorrow. And I definitely won't have on Wednesday either lmao.

Oh shit, I didn't read my Philosophy book anymore. I have to do it as soon as possible.

I'll read some more in the morning. I'll go to bed now.

Rest well!

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[ufohio]

Welcome to the University of Flight in Ohio (UFO)

Congratulations, future pilot. You've just been accepted into one of the most prestigious schools of flight in the country—and as if that wasn't enough, our 100-year-old institution is also known as the most thrilling, original, and experimental program in aerospace aviation and rocket power today. 

At the University of Flight in Ohio (UFO), you will have access to the best philosophers and flight instructors in the field, and you'll be able to graduate into some of the most lucrative flight contracts around—from special certifications with the U.S. government to any number of aerial licenses and/or in-demand rocket career paths. The best companies in flight and rocketry always prefer to hire from UFO.

"After all," says noted business magnate and spacecraft enthusiast Howard Hughes II, "a UFO graduate is not merely a gifted pilot, talented radar operator, or whip-smart engineer—they're also visionaries, explorers, and the inventors of American dreams."

For brave explorers who feel at home in the clouds or among the stars… 

UFO offers its students the very best in flight instruction, orbital hours, engineering, and philosophy, putting its students years ahead of other schools. Courses at UFO may be supplemented with core classes and electives offered at the local Armstrong State Community College. 

The following are just a sample* of the exciting classes and topics our students can explore…

Fall Semester Aviation Literacy and Fundamentals  Introduction to Plane Geometry Introduction to Air Laws Meteorology I: Earth Science Aerial Composition & Rhetoric (Sky Writing Certification) Instrumental Navigation & Avionics 101

Spring Semester Rocket Science 101 Introduction to Commercial Rockets Second-Wave Venusianism Meteorology II: Mercury through Pluto Meteorology III: Actual Meteorics Gravity Fields Forever: Orbital Mechanics in the 22nd Century

Winter, Spring, and Summer Break Programs:

Asteroid Belt Basic Training Course—This intensive two-week winter course will drill you on the navigational challenges of manually piloting the inner asteroid belt in both automatic transmission and stick. 

Terraforming Basics: Growing Roddenberries in Zero Gravity—Cohosted by the National  √4-H Council, this one-week Spring Break program will teach you the basics of space agriculture aboard the Historic International Space Station (HISS). 

Mercury Retrograde Field School—Mercury's scorching climate provides the perfect backdrop for logging high-heat rocket hours while also completing field research on the planet's unique radio signal interference in this four-week academic summer program. 

 

*This is by no means an exhaustive list, and UFO course selections and offerings are updated each semester.

SNEAK A PEEK AT ONE OF FOUR SUGGESTED STORYLINES FOR UFO-ALIGNED CHARACTERS...

David, Goliath, and the OFU... UFO has been rivals with Oklahoma Flight University (OFU) since before cars had wings. And recently, OFU has taken the rivalry up a notch by stealing UFO’s talented flight instructors away from them! Now OFU is poised to win all their famous aerial and astro competitions, like sky polo or the end-of-the-year ring race around Saturn. Without their beloved trophies—for synchronized skydiving, asteroid hurdles, the long hyperjump, the cloudathon, and more—how will UFOs ever fly high again?

[withahappyrefrain]

Thristy thursaday you say? How about possesive Peter who sometimes just get’s worked up by his own imagination and has to fuck you to remind both himself and you that you are his?

Why does this scream Mob!Peter, let's write some Mob!Peter bc he gives me brainrot 18+, also we got some Daddy and breeding kink here. Don't like that? Don't read it.

You hated these dinner parties.

Peter knew that.

He always tried to make them tolerable for you by buying what dress or jewelry you wanted, as well as never staying longer than needed.

You knew it was important that the two of you were here. It was part of maintaining control, an image, a reputation.

You just couldn't listen to Betty Brandt rant about her neighbor's lawn anymore.

"I'll be right back, just need to refresh my drink," you said with no intention of returning. She'd find someone to ramble to soon enough.

After refilling your wine glass, you leaned against the wall, taking in the party. In the corner, you could see your husband talking to several 'colleagues'. You could tell the conservation had to do with business, given Peter's harden expression.

"Nice party, right?" A voice interrupted your gazing of Peter.

You turned to see a young man standing next to you, wine glass in hand. He looked vaguely familar- most likely a new hire.

"Yeah, it's pretty nice," You said dryly, turning your attention back to Peter, who was still talking to his men.

"You know, I'm amazed at how they're always having to talk business. Even when it's after hours." Did this kid not know who you were?

"Some things can't wait. Tends to happen a lot with this line of work," You continued to sip your wine, your eyes zoned in on Peter.

"I just think it's impolite. It's best to live in the now, take it all in. " The man reminded you of those guys who took one philosophy class and declared themselves to be the next Aristole.

You turned to face him, keeping your wine glass close to your face (which conveniently was being held by your left hand).

"I just also think it's much more enjoyable to talk to new people....beautiful people." You began to clink your ring finger against the glass.

Either the kid was just brazen or absolutely daft, considering your engagement and wedding rings were hard to miss.

"That Watson girl over there models," You motioned over to the redhead who was talking to a group.

"I don't really go for models," He scoffed, "Between you and me, they tend to be pretty shallow."

"Oh, she's actually quite lovely," you paused, "I know because we used to model together."

The panic in the man's eyes made your sip of wine extra delicious.

"Oh, so uh...what do you do now?" He asked, now quite nervous.

Before you could answer, you felt a large hand place itself on your hip. Another hand grabbed the wine glass out of your hand.

"Jason, my wife's wine glass needs to be refilled. You can do that, right?" Though it had been phrased as a question, Peter made it quite clear 'no' was not an option.

The now nervous Jason quickly grabbed your glass, avoiding eye contact. As he walked away, you looked at your husband.

"You interrupted a very stimulating conversation," you remarked, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

Peter ignored your remark, his eyes taking all of you in, "Follow me."

"For what?"

"I said, follow me," He hissed in your ear, the grip he had on your hip tightening. The dominance sent heat straight to your core.

You simply nodded your head, following your husband out of the living room, down the hallway. You were disappointed to be lead to a room, rather than the front door.

Peter opened the door, motioning for you to step inside. You obeyed, walking in first. He quickly followed you.

It was some study. A couple of bookshelves, a nice mahagony desk, a chair that looked quite comfortable. The sudden click of a lock turning broke you out of your thoughts.

Oh.

So that's what he wanted.

"Get on your knees." You thought about making some bratty remark. Considered telling him to make you.

But the hunger in his eyes told you that wasn't the best idea.

You sunk down to the carpet, thankful there was some cushioning for your knees. The sight of your husband undoing his tie as he walked over to you made you clench your thighs.

Peter stood in front of you, armed crossed, his clothed erection now at eye level. You looked up at him, waiting.

"Go ahead."

Your hands reached up to his crotch, unbuttoning his pants. You made quick work of freeing his cock. You wrapped a hand around the base, leaning forward to-

"Did I say you could do that?" Peter asked sternly. You shook your head, removing your hand.

"Who do you listen to?" Peter's hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look up.

He was in a mood.

Good thing you knew how to fix that.

"Y-you, Peter. Only you," You shifted from one leg to another, trying to soothe the ache between your legs.

He smirked, "That's right. Now suck."

You wasted no time taking Peter into your mouth, going as far as you could without gagging. It was so sudden, he nearly stumbled backwards. You used your free hand to grip his hip.

"Fuck, baby...." He was breathless, "Such a good mouth. And all mine."

You did your best to nod as you continued to bob your head up and down on his cock. The groans and grunts coming out of Peter's mouth went straight to your core.

"Stop," He ordered. You pulled his cock out of your mouth, dropping your hands. You looked up at him, waiting for the next set of directions.

His hand cupped half of your face, his thumb rubbing your bottom lip. Your lipstick was most likely smeared but who cared at this point?

"Who's good girl are you?"

"Y-your's, Daddy." Judging by the grin on Peter's face, it was safe to assume he was pleased to hear you refer to him by his favorite bedroom nickname.

"Why don't you bend over that desk so Daddy can remind you that no one else can fuck you so well?"

You nodded your head, standing up. You slowly walked over to the desk, gripping the edge as you bent over.

In a matter of seconds, you felt two hands all over your body. Your chest, your throat, your ass, your thighs. Peter's hands finally landed on the hem of your dress, pulling it up towards your hips.

"You've been walking around this whole party with no underwear?" He pulled you so your back was against his chest.

"F-for you. Wanted to surprise ya," you somehow managed to get out with Peter's hand gripping your throat. The cool metal of his rings provided additional pressure.

"Ya liked it when that kid tried to flirt with ya?" You shook your head.

"N-no! Only want you, D-Daddy." You gasped at two of his fingers entering you.

"You're so fucking wet, I don't even have to prep ya. How'd I get so lucky?"

You saw me on a billboard and somehow got my Manager's number, is what you wanted to say. But that wouldn't get you his cock.

"P-please fuck me. Want ya s'bad, Daddy," you didn't care that you were whining. The ache between your legs was burning you alive.

Peter bent you over the desk, entering you in one smooth motion.

You yelled at the sensation of him filling you up instantly. Half of Peter's men had already heard you two fucking from the countless "breaks" he took during meetings at your house. Their wives would give you a dirty look at the next dinner party and then stay silent about it.

Peter pulled out of you, slamming back in to create an unrelenting pace. You gripped the edge of the desk, desperate to steady yourself.

"Ya like it when Daddy fucks you nice and hard?"

You nodded your head, a gasp escaping when you felt his cock brush up against that sweet spot.

"Love it s'much. Feels s'good." It was difficult to tell if you were drunk from the alcohol or your husband's cock, or both.

"You're mine. All mine."

"All your's D-Daddy."

"Maybe I should fuck a baby into ya. Make everyone know that only I get to fuck this amazing cunt." His words sent you closer and closer to the edge.

"Ya want that?" Peter tugged on your ponytail, forcing you to tilt your head back to look at him.

"Yes! P-please. Want it s'bad. Want your cum s'bad." Your moans continued as you felt two of Peter's fingers begin to circle your clit.

"Then come on Daddy's cock. Show me how bad ya want it."

The sound that escaped your lips was animalistic. Your orgasm knocked you over like a wave in the ocean. If it wasn't for Peter's arm wrapped around your waist, you probably wouldn't be able to stand.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, baby," You heard Peter mumbled as he continued fucking you through your orgasm.

With a gutteral groan, Peter's hips stilled as he came inside of you. The two of you stood there, holding onto each other as you tried to catch your breath.

"Ya really meant that? About wanting a baby?" He whispered. There was a hint of nervousness in his voice- something only you got to see.

You titled your head back, bringing one of your hands up to caress the back of his neck.

"You're the only person I want to have kids with. No one else."

He pressed a chaste kiss against your lips. You could feel the smile spreading across his face.

"We should...we should call your doctor. Get that IUD taken out," He said when he broke away.

You chuckled, "We should clean up first."

"Yeah, I think I have a handkerchief in my pocket," Peter looked around, locating the jacket that was halfway across the room.

"Well, if anything drips onto the carpet, we'll just blame Jason," He said, chuckling as he prepared to pull out of you.

"Peter!"

"What?"

[prelovednikaidou]

cunning ; geto suguru [01]

Genre: college au, fwb, slight angst, smut

Summary:

In which you found your secret crush stood in front of the student board, staring at one particular picture. Lifting his index finger to the tempered glass; Geto Suguru lightly muttered,

"I want to fuck her so bad."

-and the picture was you.

Warning: voyeurism

series masterlist

[01; pervert]

You couldn't tear your eyes off him.

He stood tall on his imposing figure, drawing enough attention to himself as he settled beside a gray-haired boy, who was the trophy of the philosophy department.

While his partner was the most popular student in your batch, your heart still ached for those beautiful ebony manes. Perhaps, it was the way how his pale skin complimented the stark contrast from his dark image; Geto Suguru was simply ethereal in your vision.

You were about to leave your seat when you heard the other girl replied, "But lately, my taste has changed. Easy-going boys are...meh. But bad boys, hmm..so dangerous. Like.. he's so mysterious and unapproachable. I've never seen him talk to a girl before."

You were about to leave your seat when you heard the other girl replied, "But lately, my taste has changed. Easy-going boys are...meh. But bad boys, hmm..so dangerous. Like.. he's so mysterious and unapproachable. I've never seen him talk to a girl before."

You were about to leave your seat when you heard the other girl replied, "But lately, my taste has changed. Easy-going boys are...meh. But bad boys, hmm..so dangerous. Like.. he's so mysterious and unapproachable. I've never seen him talk to a girl before."

Both girls giggled and continued watching the basketball training ahead of them.

Your smile dimmed before you walked your way to the cafeteria. Their words lingered in your head and an uneasy feeling rose in your chest.

It would be harder now to watch him since others would start doing the same. It got to you mentally but you just brushed it off. He wasn't yours so this sense of ownership disgusted you.

Looking down at the short skirt you wore, the soft material twirled along with the soft breeze. A skirt has never been a thing for you. Yet you wore one since you've heard that Geto likes short skirts. Well, maybe you knew a little bit too much. Like, he is a silent pervert who has weird fetishes...

You rubbed your heated cheeks, calming down the blush that resulted from your indecent thoughts. Most of the stalls have closed, leaving you no choice but to buy your drinks from the vending machine. It was placed rather far from the dining places so you have to jog a little before you reached the dark corner of the stairs.

Since it was already approaching 7 p.m, most people weren't around except for the club training students and people who stayed to watch them. You felt at ease a little, knowing no one would bother you but unusual sounds erupted from the stairs; you were scared of being robbed by some scoundrels so you slowly got onto your knees...

And peeking through the tiny gaps your eyes could see.

It was too dark and your socks were already dirtied by your crawling. Thinking that you were just hearing things, you were about to turn around when a sudden moan escaped from the tiny gap.

"Hggg.. harder.. ahh..so good..yes, ease the itch please.."

Your breath quickened but the shock you received from it - you remained rooted to your place, listening to the continuous of other's affair.

Gosh, this is so embarrassing..! How can they do it in public..! Well, they're not really in public but I can see them..!

The wet strokes of two flesh met, causing your face to blush deeper. However, it aroused something in you.

Pornography and erotic materials were never within your access despite being 21 years old. You knew them from the biological classes you took but apart from that, you knew absolutely nothing and this was just another source of learning you think you could take advantage of...or so what you confronted yourself.

The two of these pair seemed too engrossed in their business and goosebumps rose in instant. You felt dirty as your lower body unconsciously clenched, releasing slick fluids. This was so wrong and you should stop.

Abruptly standing up, your head knocked against the railing, shocking those lovers before you ran away. You were too afraid of getting caught that you left your drink and hurriedly fastened your steps. Head bowed down, covering your blushing hard face; your view was strict to your feet.

You ended up colliding with a person who was walking in the opposite direction, making your chest tightened. "Sorry, are you okay?" A rich, magnetic voice spouted his concern but you were too anxious about what was inside your head.

So you only nodded like a parrot, leaving the man watched your figure disappeared.

How regrettable would your face be if you realized that the man of your haunting night dreams hold you a while ago and you didn't even speak a word?

Geto's scorching gaze bored into your body - he had been watching you.

Initially, he only wanted to take a short break from the exhausting basketball training. But when he couldn't locate you beside the two other girls, he thought to himself that it was better to search for you.

After all, you weren't that hard to find. You were in his mind as long as he could remember and it didn't take a single fool to know that this is infatuation.

This shouldn't be dismissed with a petty interest as 'crush' because he knew damn well that no one jerks themself every single day as much as he did just from the slight memories he collected about you for the day.

He was about to lose his mind when he saw the lavious curves he dreamed of, was kneeling on the floor - doing whatever god knows. Hesitation and excitement ran through his body when you looked too good on your knees kneeling. Now, he has a new memory unlocked.

Yet, knowing that you were always so shy and easily flustered - he didn't make any approach. He wanted you to submit yourself of your own will. But on each passing day, his patience was wearing thin. It took a single provocation before he snapped and that happened to be this day.

"What is this fool doing? Isn't she worried others could see her?" Frustrated, his long strides shortened the distance but you suddenly stood up and he cursed a little.

Judging from the flustered look on her face, you must have seen something bad and it brought one sadistic smile on his lips.

How naughty.

Your short yet fast steps amused him and it was within his intention to bump against you. A small hand grabbed his arm, correcting the staggering posture but it irked him that he couldn't see your face.

"Sorry, are you okay?" He attempted to make you look at him but those beautiful eyes were glued to the floor. His jaw ticked when all you did was nodding your head and before he could press for more, you were already out of his grasp.

What a tease.

Not only he knew how that waist could form one hell of a sexy arch, but your well-rounded fleshy bottom was also something he couldn't get out of his mind until he dies.

His wrist was going to be sore tonight and he didn't care about it all. Nearing the vending machine, the drink you left was still cold. He kicked the door that leads to the staircases and a strong stench of sex dispersed.

His wolfish grin broadens and his eyes were glimmering with a well-hidden hunger. A deep laugh came from him,

"What a dumb stool. Why did I even wonder about her refusal? There ain't no way an innocent girl would stay and listen to people fucking."

The thought of you being a pervert aroused him and the hard strain on his pants couldn't hide his thick greed.

"If running is what you love, then run all you can. Wait til' I catch you in my hand."

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[erensangel444]

competitive nature

jean kirschtein x reader x eren jaeger

modern!au

dni if not 18+ thank u!

i started thinking about jean, and then about eren, and then the thought of BOTH OF THEM

this fic is jean + eren x fem!reader, if you guys would want to see some gender neutral fics just let me know in my asks inbox! i’m open to any suggestions, if you want a fic that’s specifically tailored to you whether that be race-wise, gender-wise, any disabilities, etc,. just let me know!

likes/reblogs/comments are always appreciated:D

this fic has been proofread but if i missed something just let me know!

a/n: these two would absolutely, positively, wreck you. *sigh*, a girl can dream(it's me, i'm girl, and i'm dreaming about eren + jean ruining me :D

also i made mika a bitch in this but we all know she's all about girls supporting girls because fuck eren(literally and figuratively).

warnings: language(most of my fics do contain language), smut; threesome, degrading + praise, slight spit kink + along w/ that mentions of spit, oral(slight fem!receiving, male!receiving), spanking, slapping, unprotected sex w/creampie

word count: 6.3k

summary: it’s funny how mutual friends work. jean + eren are ‘friends’, and they both definitely want to be more than friends with you.

you had met jean and eren on separate occassions. it wasn't until that night that you found out they were friends.

meeting eren; ɪ

you had, begrudgingly, thrown on a pair of pajama pants and a hoodie, trekking across campus to your 10 AM modern philosophy class. your head was pounding, the alcohol from last night biting back with a cruel hangover.

you made it to the room 5 minutes before class, setting your bag down next to your usual seat. you sat down, pulling out your computer, and opening the tabs you needed.

you felt someone shuffle into the chair next to you, the person huffing out a breath, though it didn't sound like the girl who usually sat beside you. alyssa sat next to you most classes, though you didn't particularly like her, the girl giving you unwarranted glares throughout class. 

"is this seat taken?" a deep voice broke you from your thoughts, forcing you to look up at them. upon seeing his face, you instantly regretted not throwing on actual clothes earlier. you realized you probably looked a hot mess, your cheeks heating up in embarrassment.

he was hot, very hot. you wouldn't mind if he started to sit next to you everyday. you quickly recovered, weary of letting him know how he affected you so easily. "alyssa u-usually sits here," you mentally chastised yourself for the slight stutter, "but i don't really like her, so you're fine," you said, turning back to your laptop.

the boy let out a soft chuckle at your bluntness, sitting down next to you. you felt his shoulder brush against yours for a slight second before he leaned to his right, pulling his laptop out of his bag.

the professor started discussing the lesson, and you typed in time with his rant, the words running across the document in sync with your fingers moving along your keypad. "rough night?" the boy beside you whispered and you turned to look at him.

"that obvious?" you joked, the boy laughing softly, causing you to smile. "pink whitney's a bitch," you whispered before turning back to your computer, trying to refocus on the professor's words. "so you're a pink whitney kind of girl," he hummed, smirking, "that's very telling,". "hey!" you whisper-shouted, nudging him in his shoulder. "what's that supposed to mean?" you questioned, still smiling.

he just laughed, turning back to the professor, but still talking to you nonetheless. "nothing," his hands flitted across his keyboard, "it's just that a person's drink is a large factor in determining what they're like," the boy sighed jokingly. you scoffed, the smile on your lips growing as you turned towards him.

"so what's your 'kind of drink'" you emphasized your words with airquotes, "mr. alcohol connoisseur,". the boy leaned towards you, his breath fanning against your neck, his lips barely grazing your ear.

"i'm more of a bourbon guy myself," he whispered, "but pink whitney is saved for special occasions," he joked, pulling away from your ear with a smile before turning back to his laptop. you couldn't help but blush, turning back to your computer while trying to contain your cheesy smile.

you could feel his eyes flicker towards you throughout the remainder of class, but you forced your line of focus to remain on your screen. the professor dismissed class as you shut your laptop, putting it into your tote bag. you stood up, throwing it over your shoulder, but before you could head towards the door, the boy stopped you with a tap on your shoulder.

"never told me your name," he was smiling at you, "don't want me to be stuck calling you pink whitney, right?". you smiled back at him, telling him your name. "y/n," he tested it out on his tongue before grinning. "very fitting," he said, the cryptic phrasing similar to his words from earlier.

you couldn't help but chuckle, "again, what is that supposed to mean?" you eyed him with a smile. "it's a pretty name, fitting for a pretty girl," he drawled, smirking at you. you couldn't help but scoff at him, though his words did make your heartbeat quicken.

"what's your name mr. drink expert," you asked, the boy laughing. "eren," he said plainly. "eren," you tested it out on your tongue just as he had, elongating the 'n'. "very fitting," you teased, repeating his words. eren chuckled before speaking in a slightly higher pitched voice, "what is that supposed to mean?". you laughed softly, glaring at him playfully, "i do not sound like that,". your cheeks hurt from how much you were smiling now.

eren just laughed, the conversation dying down as you eyed each other, blushing. his hand lifted to the back of his neck, rubbing it. "do you wanna go grab a coffee, feel like you could probably use it," eren asked, his eyes lighting up. you just nodded, smiling softly, eren walking beside you towards the door.

"think alyssa will mind if i steal her seat?"

meeting jean; ɪɪ

it was a friday night, and here you sat in the library. there were a few other people sitting at other tables, but the library was empty otherwise, seeing as it was a friday night. your textbook was open, your laptop sitting in front of you as your fingers hovered over the keyboard. 

you sighed, adjusting the blue-light glasses on your face before groaning. you looked at your notebook, squinting your eyes at your rushed handwriting. you typed a sentence on your computer before deleting it. you were forced to come to a pause, unable to figure out where you wanted your essay to go.

before you could become consumed in your self-pity, the doors to the library swung open, slamming against the wall. the librarian’s head shot towards the noise as she glared at the boy who stood in the doorway. he was tall, with ash-brown hair, and brown eyes. 

he winced at the sound of the doors slamming on the wall, holding his hands up and whisper-yelling a “sorry!”. you couldn’t help but smile, watching him walk towards a table and set his bag down on the table. he turned to look towards you, and you looked back down to your computer. 

when you looked at him again, he was still looking at you, smiling this time. you smiled back at him, and before you could comprehend what he was doing, the boy was walking towards your table, setting his bag down in front of your laptop. “mind if i sit here?” he asked, to which you shook your head left and right. he sat down, opening his laptop.

you both fell into a subtle silence, the only sound being your fingers clicking on your respective keyboards. a couple of people had filtered out of the library, only two other people and the librarian in the room with the pair of you. you peeked at each other over your laptops, the both of you smiling softly when your eyes would meet.

“my name’s jean,” he broke the silence, closing his laptop and leaning back in his chair. “y/n,” you said plainly, pushing your laptop to the side. “do you not have homework to do?” you asked, motioning towards his closed laptop. 

“eh,” he sighed, grinning at you, “my sociology essay can wait,”. you couldn’t help but laugh, “well if yours can wait then mine can too,” you said shutting your laptop. jean smiled at you before sitting up in his chair, “i really regret taking that class, honestly,” he complained, to which you nodded in agreement. 

“do you like donuts?” you asked, jean humming in a question. your hand fell into your tote bag, pulling out a white paper bag. you pulled out a donut hole, handing it to jean. “i’m not supposed to take food from strangers,” he joked, causing you to laugh softly. “i don’t think we’re strangers, jean,” you smiled at him. jean took the donut hole from your hand with a grin.

you and jean had both opened your laptops again, reluctantly nonetheless, focusing back on your essays. jean held an airpod out towards you, and you smiled accepting it. it was silent for a moment, before devil in a new dress by kanye west began playing in your right ear.

you couldn’t help but smile at the song choice, jean looking over his laptop at you. you looked up at him from your laptop screen, smiling at him. you mouthed the lyrics to jean, grinning the entire time.

‘the way you look should be a sin you my sensation’

jean laughed softly at you, before leaning over the table, his mouth next to your ear as he whispered the lyrics into your ear,

‘we ain’t married but tonight i need some consummation’

you laughed, leaning back in your chair as jean fell back into his seat, grinning at you. you and jean stared at each other, smiling. he raised an eyebrow jokingly, causing you to snort. you covered your mouth at the sound, your eyes wide as jean laughed.

your essay was forgotten once more as jean told you a story. “i swear to god that weed was laced, i have never felt that way in my entire life,” you couldn’t help but laugh at how serious jean was. “i looked at my fingers,” he created a visual for you, by putting his hands in your face. “and i swear to fucking god, it was like they had disappeared,” he closed his hand into a fist. 

you couldn’t help but laugh, maybe a little too loudly. “remind me to never smoke with you,”. jean held his hand to his heart in mock offense, “i’m very fun, high or not, might i add,” he grinned at you. 

the librarian cleared her throat, causing you both to look over at her. she was glaring at the pair of you, causing you and jean to look back at one another. you couldn’t contain your laughter when you saw jean trying to do the same. you stood up, grabbing your bag. “come on,” you said to jean, heading towards the door.

he scrambled after you, jogging towards you before slowing and walking beside you. “where are we going?” he asked, looking at you. “well i’m hungry, and i’ll need coffee if i’m gonna finish this essay,” you explained, turning down the hallway. “and i barely saw you write any of your essay, so i think you probably need coffee too,”. jean nodded, his shoulder brushing against yours.

you had ended up in a cafe not too far from campus, you and jean sitting at a table near the window. needless to say, you hadn’t gotten much more of your essay finished, but you stayed at the 24-hour until cafe until 3 in the morning, over-caffeinated & smiling as jean walked you back to your apartment.

friends helping out friends; ɪɪɪ

the strobe lights flashed from the ceiling, shoulders bumping against yours as you jumped up and down to the beat. though you had been reluctant to come at first, you were glad you finished up your homework and decided to go.

you stopped bouncing for a moment, grabbing sasha’s shoulders, and leaning into her ear. you attempted to yell over the music, “i’m gonna go grab a drink,” sasha nodding before yelling back a “be safe,”. you smiled in response, pushing your way out of the mosh pit. 

you had made your way to the kitchen, not realizing how out of breath dancing had made you. you walked over to the counter, grabbing one of the red-solo shot cups before pouring in tequila. you deserved to let loose and have a little fun after the week you had. 

you shot back the alcohol, your face contorting at the slight burn. “okay, i see you miss pink whitney,” you heard from beside you. you already knew who it was, a grin making its way onto your face. eren continued with a smirk, “seems we’ve switched to,” his hands reached for the bottle beside you, “tequila...for tonight, though,”.

you smiled at eren, “as a very wise man once said, pink whitney’s saved for special occassions,”. eren grinned at you before holding his arms out for a hug. you obliged, wrapping your arms around his neck, eren’s arms around your waist. he smelled like vanilla, and his arms caged you into his muscular body.

you both pulled away as you grabbed another red solo shot cup, holding it out to eren in question. he shrugged with a “fuck it,” smiling at you. you grabbed another cup for yourself, pouring tequila into both of them and handing one to eren.

“on 3,” eren said, his eyes twinkling. “on 3,” you affirmed, counting down. “1...2...3!”, you both raised the cups, letting the alcohol pour down your throats. eren let out a soft “woo!” before grabbing your hand and dragging you back out towards the main room.

he held your hand as he pushed through the mass of bodies, looking back as though he needed reassurance that you were still there. you smiled once his eyes met yours, eren smiling back.

the song changed to rehab(winter in paris) by brent faiyaz, eren’s hands falling to your hips. he lifted them for a second, hesitating as he looked at your face for any disagreement. you just nodded, eren visibly relaxing as his hands rested on your hips.

your fronts pressed together, the bass from the song thumping throughout the room. you looped your arms around eren’s neck, grinning before rapping the opening lyric to eren.

“i got too many hoes,” you drew out the last word, eren laughing before joining in, “but they ain’t you,”. his hands navigated to your backside, resting on your ass. he pressed his forehead to yours as the song continued playing. 

“if you ain’t nasty don’t at me,” eren smirked with that lyric, attempting to push your hips closer into his. the song continued, your desperation growing as you reeled from everything eren was doing; his hands on your ass, his smirk as his forehead pressed against yours, his hips softly pushing into yours.

the song ended, eren’s eye contact unwavering as the song shifted to something faster, eren pulling away in response. you and eren danced for a couple more songs, but you eventually pulled eren out from the center of the room and headed back towards the kitchen, wanting another drink to make your buzz even more delightful.

walking into the kitchen, you saw a familiar figure, yelling out to her. “sasha!” you grinned, possibly too happy at the sight of your friend. you were a happy drunk, the slightest thing bringing the brightest smile to your face. “was looking for you,” she said with a smile, hugging you. you turned to look at the boy next to her, gasping once again with a smile.

“and connie!” you unlooped your arms from around sasha, hugging connie. eren laughed from behind you before walking over to a bucket full of ice and pulling out two bottles. he handed one to you with a mutter of “smirnoff alright?”. you nodded in response, grabbing the bottle from eren’s hands. you, eren, sasha, and connie stood in the kitchen for a little while, conversating, soft laughter flowing in between the conversation. 

“y/n?” you heard your name from across the kitchen, turning at the sound. you were met with an all-too familiar face, smiling at the sight. “jean!” you cheered, walking over to him and giving him a hug. “jean?” you heard from behind you, turning around to be met by eren, who was raising an eyebrow.

“eren, what’s up man,” jean said almost plainly, holding his hand out. eren and jean came into a half-handshake, half-hug, eren patting his back maybe a little too hard. “i didn’t know you knew y/n,” jean said to eren, the boys sharing an intense stare.

eren nodded, holding back a smirk, “we have philosophy together,”. jean nodded, both him and eren looking back down at you. you could feel the heavy tension, trying to think of a solution to ease the aura between jean and eren. 

“i don’t know about you guys,” you said to jean and eren before turning to sasha and connie, “but i need to sober up, wanna go to moe’s?” you suggested.

the five of you ended up walking the couple of blocks down to the 24-hour diner, eren on one side of you, jean on the other. the restaurant was pretty empty, the hostess immediately sitting you in a booth. “jean, why don’t you sit next to connie, so y/n can sit next to sasha too?” eren suggested the unnecessary sitting arrangement.

“or you could,” jean grumbled, staring at eren in contempt. “yeah, but i suggested it,” eren rationalized, holding back another smirk. jean rolled his eyes, sliding into the booth next to connie. sasha looked at you, raising an eyebrow before sliding in next to you, eren sitting on your left. 

“hi, welcome to moe’s what c-” the waitress started, “eren!” she smiled as you turned, looking to the boy next to you. eren looked away from you and towards the waitress, “oh hey mikasa,” he said plainly, “didn’t know you were working tonight,”. “yep!” she cheered, still looking only at eren.

“i’ll see if i can get you a discount,” she mused, eren only nodding in response. though you hadn’t noticed, eren was to preoccupied, looking at you, analyzing your face as you looked at the menu. the waitress’s face deflated, her tone becoming more monotone, “what drinks can i get started,”. “can i just have a water, please?” you asked, looking up at the waitress.

mikasa had noticed the way eren was looking at you, a certain distaste towards you boiling in her heart. she refrained from rolling her eyes, but still gave you a mild glare nonetheless. you looked back down to your menu, eager to ignore any unwarranted confrantation.

mikasa had come back later with drinks, taking food orders at the same time. it was now 1 AM, the table littered with plates and numerous cups. sasha leaned further back into the booth, her body slumping as she rubbed over her stomach. “so good,” she sighed, causing you to laugh. you nodded in agreement, “for real,” you groaned, pushing your plate to the side.

you all left cash on the table, navigating your way to the door of the diner, the bell ringing as the cold air brushed against your faces. “get home safe,” sasha waved bye as you repeated a ditto, walking the opposite way of sasha and connie with jean and eren. “i can walk you home,” eren offered with a smile, jean butting in with a “me too!”. you nodded, letting out a simple “thank you,”. 

after walking for a little bit, you had finally made it to the entrance of your apartment complex, turning around to face eren and jean. “thanks for tonight,” you smiled softly, both jean and eren letting out an in-sync “of course,” before not-so-indiscreetly glaring at one another.

you could see the anticipation radiating off of both boys, eren shifting his body weight from his heels to the balls of his toes, jean fiddling with the ring on his pointer finger. “would you guys want to come in?” you offered, your tone soft.  “yeah, of course,” “i mean only if you want,” both jean and eren started before glaring at one another again.

you pulled out your keys from your purse, unlocking the door before holding it open behind you for eren and jean. the elevator ride up to your apartment was silent, the bells ringing once you arrived on your floor. you tried to quietly put your keys into the keyhole of your apartment door, weary of getting another complaint from your neighbor about how loud your keys were at night. 

the three of you walked into your apartment as you threw your purse down onto the table, offering to get some water for jean and eren. you came back with two glasses, sitting down at your kitchen table next to jean and eren.

“so-” “i-” both jean and eren started, the tension between them finally snapping. “i swear to fucking god, jean,” eren groaned, kicking him underneath the table. jean winced, yelling back at him “what are you, fucking five years old?”. eren rolled his eyes, scoffing, “you fucking ruined tonight, me and y/n were having a great time...alone,” he enunciated the last word.

you wanted to tell jean that you were glad he had come, but he was already talking before you could do so, “yeah? cause it seemed like she was real happy to see me, i think she was getting pretty bored,” he glared at eren. eren opened his mouth for a rebuttal, but you stopped him before he could.

“guys!” you said in an authoritative tone, both boys turning to look at you. “i invited you both up here for a reason,” you said a little more quietly, looking down at your hands. “you mean-” jean started, his words falling into a huff of breath. “want us both?” eren asked, causing you to look at him with a blush as you nodded.

“so greedy,” jean chirped, and you looked away from eren and towards him. “can’t just have one, huh? gonna make me share you with this asshole?” you looked back down to your hands. eren gripped onto your chin, forcing you to look at him. “unlike jean,” he spat the boy’s name, glaring at him before turning back to you, “i can be civil if it means i get to fuck you,” you whimpered at his words.

“been waiting all night,” he sighed, his hand letting go of your chin as he moved in towards your neck. he littered kisses on the expanse of skin, muttering into your neck, “been waiting since that first philosophy class, whitney,”. you couldn’t even laugh at his joke, too occupied with the feeling of his lips on your skin. 

“b-bedroom,” you stuttered, eren pulling away from your lips. jean lifted you from your chair, and you wrapped your legs around his hips on instinct. eren trailed behind you, smirking at you, his eyes burning holes in your face. you nuzzled your head into jean’s shoulder, unable to hold the intense eye contact.

before you could process, jean threw you down onto your bed. he peeled off his shirt after, eren doing the same as both boys towered over you. you sat back on your arms before letting out a ‘fuck’ at the sight before you. both of them were toned, incredibly so. you lifted off from your arms, kneeling on the bed before you ran your hands over their abdomens.

eren’s hand gripped your wrist, pulling it off of his body as you raised one eyebrow in confusion. eren smirked down at you before he spoke, his voice low, “it’s unfair if only jean and i are undressed princess,” his hand let go of your wrists, his fingers falling down to the button of his jeans.

he pulled the pants off of his body, only wearing his boxers. “sad to see it go, but i think it’s time we take this pretty little dress off,” jean said, agreeing with eren. you sat up on your knees, your dress falling to mid-thigh. you grabbed at the bottom of it, pulling it up your body and over your head.

you heard groans from both boys as your breasts fell from the dress. you hadn’t worn a bra, deciding to be more bold with your outfit choice. “fuck,” eren sighed, “so pretty,” his hand groping your breasts.

you saw jean starting to walk away, and you reached out for him with a whimper. “don’t worry,” he reassured you, sitting on the bed before leaning against the headboard, “not going anywhere c’mere,”. you shuffled back to sit in between jean’s legs, your back against his chest. eren followed like a lost puppy, laying on his stomach in between your legs, before his lips attached to your nipple, sucking on the hardened pebble. 

“s-shit,” you whimpered, jean chuckling from behind you before his mouth was on your neck, suckling on the skin. “did you ever think of me?” jean muttered into the skin of your neck, and you moaned at the feel of eren and jean’s mouths on your skin. he started to repeat himself, “did you ever think of me when you played with your pretty little pussy in this bed?” his voice was deep. 

you nodded eagerly in response, whimpering out, “yes, yes! thought of both of you,”. “show us then,” jean said, pulling away from your neck, “eren, sit back,” he somewhat ordered. eren groaned, but pulled away from your breasts, nonetheless. 

“let eren see, show us what you would’ve done if we hadn’t come home with you tonight,” jean quipped, his voice gravely. you nodded, biting your bottom lip before bringing your hand down to your clit. an explicit fell from eren’s mouth at the sight of you touching yourself, and you could feel jean’s bulge pressing into your backside.

you rubbed your clit in earnest now, desperate for orgasm. you began to thrash slightly in jean’s hold, jean noticing and gripping your wrists, preventing you from reaching that peak. you whimpered, tears forming in your eyes. “were you gonna cum without asking?” jean asked, pouting mockingly. 

you shook your head left and right, eren speaking up, “liar,” he said plainly, smirking at you, “weren’t even gonna ask us, you were just gonna take it like a greedy slut,”. he tilted your head back into jean’s shoulder before his face hovered over yours, eren spitting into your mouth. “swallow,” jean commanded from behind you to which you obliged.

“you know what eren,” jean started, his hand trailing down from your left breasts, towards your thigh. “i think you’re right,” his hand traced up your thigh, right next to your center before falling back down. “i think she is a slut,” he said, announcing the last word with a harsh slap on your clit.

you yelped, twisting in jean’s hold, one tear falling down your cheek. “fuck,” eren sighed, leaning towards you, his thumb brushing across your cheek. “she’s crying,” he smirked, his tone filled with delight. “can’t take it, huh?” eren said. you shook your head in response, staring at eren. “c-can take it,” you reassured, “w-wan’ it”, you whimpered.

“it’s all yours,” eren murmured against your skin, kissng down your body. he reached your dripping center, rubbing a finger through your slit with a groan. “so fucking wet” he said airily, before licking a stripe up your slit. he was sucking on your clit, alternating between suction and harsh kitten licks. 

his focus on your bundle of nerves had prevented you from noticing his finger that toyed with your entrance. he began to slip it inside of you and only then did you notice. “so tight,” eren marveled, grinning up at you. “only one finger and she’s sucking me like a vice, jean,” he said to the other boy, talking about you as if you weren’t there. it made your feel even more hot and bothered.

jean groaned from behind you and you could feel him push his hips up into your backside, his bulge evident. “think you’ll be able to take me inside?” jean teased, grinding into you more. you nodded, moaning loudly as eren slipped a second finger in.

“so loud, baby,” jean drawled, slipping two fingers into your mouth, “suck,” he said plainly, to which you obliged. eren was now pushing his fingers deeper inside of you, brushing against that sweet spot, his pace quickening. at the same time, he was placing kitten licks on your clit, the slight stimulation along with his fingers sending you into overdrive.

jean pulled his fingers from your mouth, a line of spit connecting the digits to your lips. “watch out, jaeger,” jean said, bringing his fingers down towards your clit. eren obliged with no rebuttal, moving his tongue away from your clit, jean’s fingers taking their place. 

“f-fuck,” you moaned before sighing, jean rubbing slow circles on your clit. his slow movements offered a grueling opposite to the fast pace of eren’s fingers. you couldn’t focus on the complexity of their actions, to consumed in the pleasure that those very actions were giving you.

“c-close!” you yelped, jean’s fingers rubbing quicker circles on your clit. eren’s pace remained fast, a squelching noise sounding throughout the room. “come on,” jean murmured into your neck, leaving sloppy kisses on the expanse of skin, “be good and cum for us,”.

you looked down to find eren’s sea green eyes already looking up at you. he smirked at you, that being the final push you needed. you squirmed in jean’s hold, your hips thrusting up in a static way. when you began to twist from oversensitivity, jean pulled his fingers away from your clit, and eren slowly pulled his fingers from your dripping hole.

“wanna taste?” eren teased, looking at you. you nodded, opening your mouth slightly. eren placed his fingers on your tongue, your lips wrapping around their circumference. you could taste yourself on his fingers, and you whimpered at the lewdness of the entire situation.

“so dirty,” eren groaned, pulling his fingers from your lips. “jus’ gonna leave me out,” jean grumbled from behind you, turning your head to face him. your neck craned awkwardly, but you ignored it because jean’s lips were on yours.

he pulled away with a smirk, looking over to eren. he pushed you up from where you sat in between his legs, one hand pushing your head down into the mattress. your ass was up in the air, jean still behind you. “i get to be inside her,” jean proclaimed from behind you. you looked up to see eren’s facial expression twist, “fuck if you do!” he sputtered from above you.

 you couldn’t take their bickering, you just wanted more, wanted them. “p-please,” you whimpered, so quietly that jean and eren almost hadn’t heard you. “just want something, anything,” you slurred, your drool falling onto the pillow. both boys scrambled at that, eren now standing in front of the edge of the bed, jean still behind you. 

jean lifted you up, setting you closer to the edge of the bed. you were on all fours now, eren’s cock now in front of you. he had taken off his boxers and you hadn’t notice before, but now you couldn’t help but notice, his hard cock right in front of you. the tip was a raspberry color, and leaking his arousal. 

before you could lower your mouth down to the tip, jean pulled you up by the hair. “gonna take care of us both, yeah?” he drawled in your ear, positioning the tip of his cock at your entrance. you nodded, “y-yes!” you whimpered. jean laughed softly behind you before he pushed inside of your leaking hole.

“fuck,” he sighed, drawing out the ‘u’. “so fuckin’ tight,” he groaned. he bottomed out, allowing you a moment to adjust. he had let go of your hair now, letting you fall back onto all fours. you looked up at eren, the boy smiling back down at you. “come on, suck my cock, angel,” the boy beamed from above you. 

you nodded, wrapping your mouth around the tip of his cock. you licked at the underside, before prepping yourself to take his cock further down your throat. jean pulled almost all the way out from inside of you before thrusting back in harshly. the power behind his thrust made you almost ricochet forward, eren’s cock slightly deeper down your throat as you moaned loudly. 

“yeah, fuckin’ take it,” jean groaned from behind you, thrusting in and out of you now. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed throughout the room, along with the sound of you choking on eren’s cock and a collection of moans and groans. “so, so pretty,” eren admired you, his hand latching onto your hair.

“think you can take more?” he asked sincerely, looking down at you. you nodded as best as you could with eren’s cock in your mouth, as best as you could with the way jean was pounding you from behind. you let eren guide your mouth on his cock, your whimpers being muffled by his length.

he had pushed your head all the way down to the base, your nose brushing against the skin of his pelvis as you gagged once. jean had toned back the intensity of his thrust, mumbling, “that’s fuckin’ hot,” as he watched you take the entirety of eren’s cock down your throat. 

eren lifted your head off of his cock, smiling down at you, “did s’good,” he praised, his eyes taking in your pretty pink lips covered in spit, your lust-blown eyes looking up at his. jean took the moment to resume his harsh thrusts, pulling you back up by your hair once more. your back brushed against his chest as you moaned loudly, jean’s cock sliding against your walls.

your hand fell to eren’s cock, stroking him as best you could, trying not to become too consumed with the pleasure jean was giving you. “you like it?” jean groaned into your shoulder, biting the skin. his voice was shaky, and with the way his thrusts were stuttering, you could tell the pleasure was overwhelming him the same way it was you.

“l-love it! god lo-love it so so much!” you all but yelled. jean’s hand came barreling down on your ass. you lurched forward at the stinging contact, yelping before biting down on your bottom lip to contain the gurgled moan that threatened to fall from your mouth.

“think she liked that, jean,” eren said, looking at the boy behind you. jean took eren’s words as intiative, leaving another slap on your ass, this time rubbing at the skin softly after the harsh contact. “fuckin’ slut,” jean hissed from behind you, his hand still holding onto your hair tightly. “you like getting slapped around,” eren leaned closer to you now, his lips ghosting over yours.

he thumbed at your cheek, giving you a soft smile. before you could process it, his hand was coming in contact with your face, a slap being left on your check. the contact stung, but you reveled in it, desperate for more. your tongue had lolled slightly out of your mouth, moans falling from your lips along with slurred whimpers of ‘please!’.

jean let go of your hair, allowing you to focus your attention back on eren. your hand wrapped around his cock, your mouth suckling at the tip as your hand stroked where your mouth couldn’t reach. “so fuckin good-shit,” eren groaned from above you. you looked up to be met by the image of his head thrown back. he looked back down at you, his cheeks flushed pink, his eyebrows furrowed, and his mouth slightly agape.

“f-fuck gonna cum!” jean panted from behind you. “please!” you begged, “w-want it deep inside,” your words were slurred as you sucked on the tip of eren’s cock. your head bobbed on eren’s cock more enthusiastically now, desperate for him to reach his high the same time as jean. as you sucked on his cock, eren’s moans falling from his lips more freely now, one of jean’s hand had navigated its way down to your clit.

your body shivered at the feeling, jean rubbing fast circles on your bundle of nerves. “g-gotta cum first, angel,” his hips were stuttering, but he attempted to remain at a steady pace. with his cock brushing against that sweet spot inside of you and his fingers playing with your clit, you came undone on jean’s cock. 

your second orgasm hit your harder than the first, the intense feeling causing an intense shudder to flow throughout your whole body. “gonna c-cum!” eren yelped from above you before his hot seed flooded your mouth. you swallowed as best as you could with his cock still in your mouth. you pulled off his cock, swallowing his cum, grimacing at the taste nonetheless.

jean was still thrusting in and out of you, his pace slowing as he got closer and closer to his high. “pl-please jean! need it,” you moaned loudly. jean’s hands gripped at your hips so harshly, you wouldn’t be surprised if you had bruises on the skin the next morning, but you wouldn’t mind. it was all worth it when you heard jean coming undone from behind you, one long groan and then soft whimpers following.

“fuck,” he sighed, pulling out of you. your body slumped as you lay flat on the bed now. jean pulled you to lay against his chest as he rested against the heaboard. “watch, jaeger,” he said, still slightly panting in recovery from his high. “shit,” eren groaned at the sight of jean’s cum dribbling out of your hole. 

“bet it looks so good, huh?” jean drawled, hand rubbing circles on your left thigh. eren just nodded, his eyes laser-focused on your pussy. you panted, relaxing further in jean’s arms. eren had left for a moment, your eyes closing. he came back with a wet wash cloth, patting softly at your center, wiping the mix of your slick and jean’s cum from your inner thighs.

“did so good,” eren praised as he cleaned you up. “i think that was some amazing teamwork, on all of our parts” you joked. jean chuckled from behind you, eren smiling. “i could eat a grilled cheese,” eren said mindlessly. “come on,” you said, lifting your head up from jean’s shoulder before sliding to the edge of the bed. you stood up before slightly wobbling. you sat back down for a moment before you heard jean and eren snickering from behind you.

you laughed, turning to them with a playful glare, “shut the fuck up!”

fin

thank you 4 reading!! it took me a while to write the smut, but i’m glad this bad boy is finally finished:D

get some rest + take care of yourself!

[quolant]

west wing college au

oh ok! i think some of this probably overlaps w @palukoo's (much better) academia au

1. ok i think this is gonna be more of a college/grad school au???? ok. so like i think that actually out of all of them josh is the only polisci major! i think like maybe sam or charlie or donna minor in it but i think josh is the only polisci major who also does model un and also will literally debate shit to the bitter end. i think maybe josh minors in like, another humanities topic but i'm not sure what. also either sam or matt skinner is his roommate

2. sam is an english major bc. it's sam. i think, like i said before he minors in polisci or maybe philosophy but an indulgent part of me sort of wants him to be a stem minor in something bc galileo! and sam getting excited about sciency stuff! he and charlie are on the mock trial team and they're constantly having a debate w josh and amy on whether mock trial or model un is better. i see charlie being a history major??? and either like a lit minor or an economics minor that maybe is jed's ta at some point? bartlet is like in charge of the economics department i think. leo teaches polisci and is also the dean. josh taed for him at some point but was laughably bad at it

3. grad students cj and toby and andy! ok this may be because of my zombie apocalypse au but also the thought of bartlet being toby's advisor and both of them getting in heated debates is really really funny. so ig toby studies economics! (or maybe lit or polisci but i love bartlet as toby's advisor so shhhhhh) cj is either a polisci or a communications graduate student and interns on campaigns and runs what ever the college's political newspaper/column thing is. andy is their law student friend that is also friends with sam and charlie and is... confused about why josh is even going to law school (tbh most ppl are) i could also see andy having done model un in undergrad!

4. donna! ok like canon i think donna finds a lot of interest in a lot of different things so she ends up trying different majors and things—i'm not sure what she'd stick with but i think she'd find value in all of the new things she's learned from all the classes she's taken. amy! ok im kinda lying i also see amy as a polisci major that minors in philosophy or maybe gender studies? i also think the idea of amy and donna as college roommates is really really interesting

5. ok! abbey probably like works as a prof in the med school/university medical center at this college and i think she also runs a research lab with a lot of grad students. like her lab is The Lab. she has many masters and md and phd and md/phd students working in the lab and i think she also teaches!

[subarubi]

Desert Days

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Reader

Summary: “If this war ever ends-- and he assured you that it will eventually-- you’ll tell Sam Wilson you love him.”  

Warnings: 18+, profanity, angst for days, extreme injury and death (blood), mentions of PTSD, implied smut

A/N: 9.6k word count, goddamn. This is a very Sam heavy one-shot. Also, I tried to make the reader as gender neutral as possible! 

2001. 

A colossal mountain of mutilated steel and concrete rubble sits, smoking, in the center of the world. Lower Manhattan. Financial District. Eight blocks that make up ‘Wall Street’, some elusive playpen for the invisible but potent power of ‘stock’. Destroyed. And with it, lives, hopes and dreams. 2,606 bodies buried there in the debris. An illusion of invincibility crushed in too. In the flames that lick at ruins of the Twin Towers, an Indian summer. The warm September haze forcefully burrows itself in the guts of New Yorkers, Americans, the world. It’s fear, not flush. It’s anger. 

How could this happen? To us?

The news outlets evoke the memory of a vastly different war. They call it a day that will live in infamy. Which, it will. Undoubtedly. Yet, it’s hardly the same as Pearl Harbor. Perhaps, the only thing comparable, but dissimilar all the same. Since the greatest generation created generations of their own, the pastime of waging war happened elsewhere. On other lands. In other homes. To other people. 

September 11th, 2001 burst the bubble of willful ignorance. War is happening. And there is a debt to be paid for crimes. All crimes. Even American. 

Sam Wilson is only twenty when it happens-- 

--waking up next to a girl from English class that he’d been playing footsie with in the library the day before. Her cellphone, pink and bejeweled, rings at 7 am drawing them both from slumber. Sam rubs the hangover from his temple as she unwinds her limbs from his, both sticky with sweat. Through tears she turns and tells him. 

Four planes hijacked. Two crashed into the World Trade Center. One at the Pentagon. Another in a Pennsylvania field.

Sam’s from New York City. Harlem. He’s stood at the bottom of those towers before-- a kid with a skateboard carving lines over all five boroughs. But he hasn’t been back to the East Coast in years. No reason to. Mom was laid to rest next to Pops and Sam ran away to the other side of the country not long after. The news isn’t any less devastating.

He’s at UCLA, majoring in philosophy of all things. It all seems so pointless then. Studying knowledge, reality, existence, when the rest of the world is bleeding. 

Everyone is in pain. 

Soldiers. Doctors. Accountants. Car Salesmen. Kindergarten Teachers. They demand their pain be spread. They want revenge. They want blood. War is now felt by all.

In October, the US invades Afghanistan.

Sam enlists in November. 

2003.

“Superman School” is what it’s called. Sam thinks it should rather be called simply, “Hell”. 

Indoc is easy. Sam has always liked the water and it’s just nine weeks of basically swimming. But what follows is two grueling years of vicious emotional and physical exertion. The events, the ache inside that led him there, are practically forgotten when the training starts. In Combat Dive School, he’d panicked the first few times an oxygen tank was strapped to his back and a regulator shoved in his mouth. In Paramedic training, he’d slipped and stabbed his fingers practicing sutures so much that he lost feeling there for a week. During SERE, Sam lost a toe nail; that hurt like a motherfucker. It was probably the most physical pain he’d ever been in at the point of his life. The guys, other PJs in training, don’t let that one go for a couple of months. At least. 

The best part, perhaps the only remotely good part, is Army Airborne and Military Free-fall Parachutist training. 

“It’s not exactly flying, but it feels like it,” Sam speaks animatedly into the receiver after chow on a Tuesday night, “It feels like fucking flying and you always imagine that flying is cool but then you do it and, I swear--”

He spends the next fifteen minutes going on and on and when his girlfriend, Lisa from English class with the pink bejeweled phone, finally hangs up, Sam feels like there’s so much he still hasn’t gotten to say about it. 

In a different life, I might’ve been a bird, he says during a poker game later that night. 

They're all chasing their own highs after the first jump, but no one’s as dumb with it, as corny about it as Wilson. They give him shit for it. Sam is too hopped up on finding his first love to care.

It’s easy to forget why they’re there and what they’re working toward. Graduating. Deployment. War. 

Afghanistan is a long way from Lackland Air Force Base, Texas. But with every day, every training course completed, Sam Wilson closes that gap with flying colors. And eventually, in May of that year, he found himself in Nevada with the 58th Rescue Squadron. Impossibly, closer now to Afghanistan. 

There, he’s given a maroon beret and dubbed a “Guardian Angel”. Small consolation prizes for the news he’s being deployed. 

2004.

It’s hot in Afghanistan, he’s heard. Sam had never expected it to be so bad; it’s summer, everywhere’s hot in the summer. The hottest place on earth is the Lut Desert in Iran. Barren, sparsely vegetated, open scrub. 70.7 Celsius recorded. That’s about 160 Fahrenheit. But nowhere, not even the hottest place on earth, is as sweltering as Bagram Airfield in July. With fatigues stuck to his back with sweat, stomach coming up on ‘E’, split red knuckles being bandaged: 40 Celsius feels like 5,000 Kelvin. Dry heat with nowhere to go but through him. It adds ten pounds at least to the weight in his shoulders. 

Sam made one comment. Just one. But a scathing reply from his least favorite Squadron member was enough to unravel him. 

This is the land of your peoples, Wilson, stop bitchin’.

Sam flexes his fingers on his bouncing knees, sitting and waiting stoically; internally, he’s burning. 

When he enlisted just three years ago in a fervent bout of passion and patriotism, he didn’t anticipate the racist pieces of trailer park trash he’s supposed to call brothers. The amount of self-control it would take to not punch the asshole square in the jaw. The fucking heat.

Three years after waking up that fateful morning, turning on the news with Lisa taking calls non-stop, flames and smoke reflected in his brown eyes and he’s stuck waiting in a tent for disciplinary action. At least it’s reprieve from the merciless Afghanistan sun. 

The tent flaps rustle softly, heavy boots command Sam reflexively to stand at attention. It gets his knee to stop bouncing. It’s in his face when he sees you. The faltering expression in his eyes that he tries to hide behind a stone slate. You’re not his CO there to NJP him, he’s never seen you on the base and he’s sure he would’ve remembered your face had he, but the patch on your chest dominates him anyway. A stray bead of sweat tickles Sam’s temple underneath your blank stare. You’re not, but you look ten feet tall over him. He’s never been someone so easily intimidated, but you? You are formidable. 

He wonders which part of you gets to him the most.

It might be your impossibly straight posture, one that he could never fully get right much to the ire of his commanding officers. Or maybe it’s the sharpness to your eyes, dissecting him piece by piece before he even hears your voice. Or, it could be, that you’re really fucking hot. 

Christ, are you. 

But that last one might be skewed by the fact that he’s been on tour now for a couple of months and his girlfriend, not Lisa, now Kerry, has been giving him blue balls. Sending letters so salacious, they’ve found home in the john for everyone’s personal use. 

He’d remember you if he saw you. He’d never be able to forget. 

Another body entering the tent brings a breeze to save him from the downright oppressive warmth of your stare. A man, another Sam has never seen around, stands much more relaxed and close to your side. He’s tall and blonde and somehow pale even after hours spent in the sun. 

You look at him and smile. So nice and pretty without any trace of your previous hardness. 

“So, you’re Sam Wilson?” he asks with a hint of a smirk in his voice, “Heard a lot about you.” There’s laughter playing at both of your smiles and Sam’s fists instinctively clench. Are you making fun? He’s not in the mood. It’s hot and sticky, and he might be fighting down an embarrassing and painful semi. 

“Yes, sir.”

The man at your side laughs, digging his elbow into your side, “You hear that? He called me sir!” 

“Fuck off,” you roll your eyes, flicking his ear so hard it draws a hiss. The first words he hears spill from those lips, twisted now in a smirk, don’t match your silvery voice.  

Fuck off, so rough and yet said in dulcet tones with affection. 

Sam’s hot again when you step forward, away from your partner-- the breeze was only fleeting. Nowhere is as hot as in that tent on Bagram AFB, you, just five feet from him, hand held out with a soft smile to introduce yourself. Warm and sweet, but somehow it burns. 

God, he needs to get laid, like, yesterday. 

He didn’t even realize he shook your offered hand until he misses the feel of it as it slips from his own. “And this is Riley, he got dropped on his head as a baby,” straightening beside the man in question, Sam catches an all too short flash of white as you laugh. 

“So, what did he say?” Riley asks. At the quirk of Sam’s head to the side, he gestures to the wrapped right hand, “I mean everyone’s talking about it. You’re gonna be on latrine duty for weeks!”

“Riley,” you sigh, smacking his chest that shakes in laughter with the back of your hand. A comforting smile when you turn back to Sam, “We have business to do.” The file you hand him, which he had not noticed was in your hand until it was heavy in his, it changes everything. 

Why me? Sam doesn’t let the question slip past his tongue, but it’s there. 

You shrug, as if you’d heard him, “You’ve made quite the reputation for yourself, Sam Wilson.” A soothing smile, big and easy. Like the one you sent Riley. He’d like to see it his way again. 

And you’re not lying. 

9 months in Afghanistan and word carries of a PJ falling from the sky like some vengeful archangel of salvation, laying suppressing fire steady as breathing, healing hands flipping the bird at death. Sam Wilson, orphan boy from Harlem, amateur philosopher, provider of quality spank bank material, was made for this.  

The first time he sees it, Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s looking at. 

Like a big black horseshoe crab, washed up dead on the shore, metal back shining slick with sea water. Three of them, laid out on a table in a hangar removed from the rest of the air base. Engineers rattle off all sorts of specs, some Sam understands, some he hasn’t the slightest idea the meaning of. He looks to his right, at you, then Riley. The pair of you, grinning at each other, bouncing on the balls of your feet like children. Always so lively with each other. Always overflowing with enthusiasm-- in each other, something you now extend to him. 

All happening so fast. Too fast. Sam’s queasy from the whiplash. 

A month ago, he’d only just gotten used to the cycle: Jump. Find cover. Fire back if need be. Don’t mind the blood. Do what he can. And if he can’t, say a prayer. Swallow his vomit. Back to camp. Brush his teeth. One. Twice. Rinse. Repeat. 

How did the saying go? ‘These Things We Do, That Others May Live’. Sam’s swallowed enough of his own vomit that the taste doesn’t even phase him anymore. Partially because he’s scrubbed his tongue raw and numb with toothpaste. 

Then, you and Riley ripped him from it. 

Bought him dinner in Kabul. Offered him a cold beer. Which, he hadn’t had one in a year and fuck if it wasn’t orgasmic on his tongue. You two wined and dined him, told him he was special, he was meant for more. Made him feel good. Reminded him he wasn’t just some cog, some tool in a war that was quickly losing support. That he had a chance to do something important. Christ, he was surprised there wasn’t a good old fashioned fuck at the end of it. He’d put out on the first date.  

EXO-7 Falcon. In a different life, I might’ve been a bird. He maintained a year out that jumps were everything. 

But wings? Actual wings?

It’s unbelievable. No. Fucking insane. He can’t fathom it. Not free-falling and convincing himself its as close to flying he’ll ever get, but actually flying without the disappointing fact that eventually he’ll have to pull the chord. 

It’s just a prototype, don’t blow your load too soon, you laugh, hand on his bicep, for now, we just get to ogle them looking all nice and pretty. 

He doesn’t have the balls to tell you he already has. In the showers. Numerous times. Your smile flashing behind his eyelids. 

It’s just a waiting game now for the prototypes to be approved. 

Sam finds his stride again, much quicker than the last, in this new routine. He suspects his easy adjustment has everything to do with you and Riley. PT at 0600. Showers at 0800. An emergency non Falcon rescue mission about two, three times a week. Chow together in the mess at 1730. Sometimes, the three of you eat MREs outside instead, watching the sunset like a bunch of cornballs. 

You guys talk a lot, typically always over a meal. And Sam, who usually speaks a mile a minute, is slowed and forced to take a breath. Between the three of you, the fight for air time is intense. 

Everything is learned and shared in that small circle of three, sometimes too much. 

In some sleepy Georgia town, five houses away from each other, you and Riley spent your entire childhoods not meeting until basic.

Kismet, Riley grinned between mouthfuls of a macaroni and chili MRE that he traded for. That green sucker had no idea what he was getting into with Riley’s chicken a la death. 

The pair of you, southern belles, you’d joked. Attended the same Sunday service, learned how to ride a bike on the same stretch of asphalt, enrolled in the same high school but different years. Riley lost his virginity to your older sister in the back of his dad’s wood paneled station wagon. You remember she complained about a cum stain on her favorite skirt around that same time. 

Too much? you ask with a widening smirk at Sam’s grimace.

The two of you are so close, Sam can only be grateful for how easily you’ve let him fall into place by your sides. As welcoming, as kind and as warm as you are, in those early years, Sam can’t help feel an outsider sometimes. 

You and Riley are so so close. 

He’s sure he’s only seen you guys separated by bathroom breaks and sleep. An inordinate amount of time side by side. Fond smiles come often and effortlessly. Only ever fully at-ease in each other’s vicinity. You’re left handed and Riley’s right handed and your elbows always knock when eating. Which seems purposeful because once, when Sam suggested you just switch your normal places at the table, he was met only with blank stares and shrugs. And when the three of you walk across the airfield together, Sam naturally has to fall back slightly because he’s pretty sure you and Riley are tethered together with an invisible string, footfalls in sync. Your right leg in time with his, strides equal. 

He’s not sure he’s met a pair of friends ever more suited to each other.  

So, are you guys, like, together? Sam asks Riley hesitantly one night when you’ve gone to speak with some other officers. The pair of them lay on their backs on the rocky ground, gazing up at the clear expanse of stars. The new addition to your little merry band of friends tries to appear casual when asking. But really, it’s been nagging at him for months now. 

It’s a valid question. 

You and Riley are almost abnormally close for two people that have only known each other for a couple of years. Sam’s never seen anyone, not even his disgustingly in love for 30 years parents, so attached. If he were honest, sometimes it’s scary. Uncomfortable. 

Mostly, because it’s never been defined. And Sam is, by nature, curious. 

Partly, because the things he thinks about you... well, he doubts Riley would appreciate him thinking about his significant other that way. Especially a friend thinking that way. 

Riley’s bellowing laugh draws angry hushes from surrounding PJs trying to sleep. He cackles so hard with hands clutching at his abdomen, he practically rolls.

You’ve got it bad, Wilson, is his only reply before getting up to go take a leak. 

2005. 

Euphoria. That’s the only word Sam can use to describe it. Like sex. Maybe, even better. Up there, in the clouds, where everyone below are just little black dots, his stomach lurches and flips and folds itself over and under. Actually flying, not free-falling and biding his time until he eventually must pull the chord. He’s shaky with it at first. Like a baby on fresh legs, wobbly and awkward. Even still, he’s fucking flying. 

Back on the ground, him and Riley gush with it. Joy. Freedom. Ecstasy. 

They talk a mile a minute, even though their burning lungs are screaming for them to just breathe. They brush off the medical staff urging them to put on oxygen masks for a few minutes. Can’t, Riley rejects it, too fucking wired. 

You’re up next, burning with the need to get yours too.  

It all moves so fast. Sam and Riley each in one of your ears, telling you how amazing it feels. How much you’re gonna love it. They watch, chests heaving, hands on hips, as you’re strapped in, take your place 50ft away and nod along to all of the instructions given. Giving you pointers like they’ve been doing this for years. You roll your eyes. The pricks only have an hour of experience each. Though, that’s an hour more than you have, so you listen despite your pride. 

You fail. And just as everything you do is, you fail brilliantly. 

Sam and Riley watch helplessly as you crumble in the clouds, tumbling in the wind, barreling towards the hard rock and sand beneath their boots. The limp wings thrash in the wind, punching sharp welts into your sides. Your blood curdling scream rips out above, echoing in the valley. They can see you scrambling, panicked brain searching for a fight or flight response. But you can’t do either. 

Can’t fly. 

Can’t fight the merciless pull of gravity. 

You get ahold of yourself long enough to pull the emergency chute at the lowest possible altitude. A heap of nylon lines and cloth on the ground, your impact striking up a cloud of dust. 

Their feet can’t move fast enough, rushing to your side, hearts in their stomachs and stomachs in their asses. 

Don’t fucking touch me! 

Riley’s hand that gently grabs your bicep swiftly retracts as if you’d burned him. You won’t let them help. You just lie there, forehead pressed into the sand, body shaking with adrenaline, pained wails vibrating behind your grit teeth. 

Silence except for the sick sound of your brokenness. 

More than the acid cuts on your palms and cheek. More than a cracked rib. More than the ugly smattering of red and purple that will appear on your torso later. You mourn what is lost in your failure. 

Back on the ground, you gush with it. Wrath. Anguish. Woe. 

Sam feels sick beside Riley. Watching you there is the hardest thing he’s ever done. He reminds himself of the careful routine. Don’t mind the blood. Do what he can. And if he can’t, say a prayer. Swallow his vomit. He remembers the taste now. 

The prognosis is: you are a no-fly zone. 

You barely hear the flurry of words thrown at you, in front of you, around corners when you’re not supposed to hear. Cracked rib. Major contusions to the trunk. Sprained wrist. Can’t handle it. Right side too weak. Six weeks recovery, then return to regular duty. Maybe, you can work on it in PT and try again in 6 months. Not likely. Third prototype destroyed. Only two Falcons. 

Weren’t supposed to hear that. 

The next few days are eerily quiet. Filled with silent tension, Sam and Riley sending worried glances your way, forcing down winces at your every labored movement. You’ve abruptly walked off at seemingly random points of conversation. You’ve lashed out at Riley when he tries to help a little too much, pushes back against your attitude a little too hard. You’ve retreated. No joking around, no smiling. They have, at least, the clemency to avoid any mention of the Falcon jetpacks in your presence. 

When they train, you avoid it like the plague. 

The crowds they draw. The hooting and hollering cheers of the other PJs as Sam and Riley defy all odds in the air. The time will come soon, for them to employ the EXO-7 Falcons in an actual rescue. You pray that you aren’t healed by the time the first mission comes. 

God, whomever, hears your pleas whispered into the tough canvas of your cot. 

Four weeks after your failed flight test, an Apache helicopter goes down in Taliban infested territory. You haven’t been cleared. 

Sam walks up on the Chinook, dressed for the first time in his full suit. It would feel so gratifying, had you not been standing there with Riley, heads bowed lowly in short whispers underneath the raucous whirring of the engine. 

You haven’t talked to Sam in more than a few words. Only Riley. You only really talk to Riley. Sam has walked in on an abruptly cut off conversation a few times now. Shut out. It burns at him in the middle of the night, keeps him from drifting off in much needed slumber. You and Riley are his people now. Confidants. Friends. Comrades. Family. He wants to be there for you both, but you don’t let him. Just, give her time, she’s upset, Riley had supplied a dejected looking Sam when you stormed away at his advance for the third time. 

Now, at his careful approach, you look up and force a tight smile across those lips he sees in his dreams. An awkward, heavy hand on his shoulder that makes his heart clench, Good luck, Wilson. 

He’ll still feel it burning through his fatigues hours later. 

When they successfully return with the entire crew safe and sound, the base is alive with celebration. A friendly football scrimmage is thrown together by Riley in amber skies of late afternoon, their focused play-calling set behind 50 cent blaring on the boombox. 

You’re noticeably absent. 

Sam stands outside of your barracks with his hands stuffed in his pockets, uncertain if you’ll even speak to him. You haven’t before. Why would you now? When everyone is happily relishing in something you can no longer be a part of. His boots scuff in the sand as he debates leaving. Letting you alone for the night to surely lament in your loss. 

“Shouldn’t you be out there kicking ass, superstar?”

Your face, a familiar smile there that he’s been desperate to see for weeks, evokes an overwhelming sense of guilt in his gut. It was you and Riley from the start. Always you and Riley. The two of you had recruited him. And now he’s taken your place and they’ve left you in the dust. 

His return smile comes out more like a grimace without his permission. 

The large tent, usually filled to the brim with airmen stacked atop of each other, is empty. Everyone’s either getting chow or at the makeshift field spectating or playing. It’s just you sitting on a makeshift bed on the ground, softly closing the book you were reading when he entered. Sam doesn’t think the two of you have actually ever been alone together. Not like this. No Riley, no one milling about in the background, no rescue mission. The closest thing might’ve been the first time you met. And even then, you hadn’t said anything to each other until Riley joined. 

“Honestly,” Sam swallows hard, shaking his head in what looks like a humorous gesture, but really, he’s trying to find his footing again. “How does Riley have so much energy?” 

You smile wider and his heart, it fucking aches. For you. 

Knees pulled up tightly to your chest, ignoring the sharp pangs in your ribs at the action, you tilt your head softly up at him, “It’s all sugar and tai chi.”

Sam nods, a ghost of a chuckle humming from his throat. He sits on the ground next to you, knees bent, forearms hung over them. Tries not to make the hitch in his breath known when your thighs brush against each other ever so lightly. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. 

You shake your head at the ground, sighing deeply in defeat-- as if it would magically ease the pressure in your temples. “I think I forgot, it’s so easy to forget. But I dunno, all this self-pity and for what? Because I don’t get a cool pair of wings?”

“You’re allowed to be upset,” his hand hovers over your back. Half afraid of hurting you, half afraid of you rejecting him. 

Eyes like the cosmos lift to his and you lean back to close the distance for him. The press of his palm over your shoulder is warm, his fingers flexing slightly in the contours of your back. Gooseflesh fanning out from where they indent your skin, hidden beneath the fabric of your shirt. 

“My last rescue op, that kid whose lower half was blown to shit?” Sam nods solemnly, he remembers. How could he not? “He couldn’t stop crying about how his girlfriend was gonna break up with his dickless ass. And then he broke into a whole other fit because he didn’t have an ass either,” you laugh humorlessly, “I’m alive and in one peice. I’ve got a sweet ass and a fucking elephant trunk of a dick swinging between my legs.” Sam snorts, can’t help the gap-toothed grin that makes his cheeks ache.

You pause, licking your lips. Sam’s got a smile is like the sun. All warm and bright. The way it feels to bask in it’s glow, a personal beach day, you don’t think you’ve ever been so content to just be looked at. 

“I guess, I just-,” brows furrow, struggling to find the words. “You spend months preparing for something, with your best friends, you’re all excited about it, mostly because you’re doing it together. Me. Riley. You. Demented three musketeers,” you smile sadly, a cracking phantom of a thing Sam has come to love. “And then it all goes to shit. So easily slips through your fingers.”

There are tears that you’ll never let fall, but you trust Sam enough to let him see the way your eyes shine with it. The glossy finish of your glum and how it paints you blue. 

“I’ve been with Riley since basic. Never been an op where I haven’t had his back and him mine.” 

You know. You know you’ll never fly again. No one’s said it outright, but they look at you like a kicked puppy enough for you to get it.

“Will you promise me something, Sam?”

Sam. Sam. Sam. He’s heard his name said a million times in a thousand different cadences, but never like that. Never so soft and honeyed and certain. All at the same fucking time. 

“Anything.”

“There are going to be ops for just the two of you that the rest of the unit, that I can’t go on. Will you look after Riley?” You’re so close, practically whispering. Sam could count your lashes if he wanted to. “I love him, but he’s a fucking idiot. Just doesn’t think sometimes.” 

Without question. Fervently. For you, “Absolutely.”

And you just listen to each other breathe. In and out. So steady and sure. Content in just the sweet sound of each other, living.

2007.

Hands, calloused from fast-roping down from a helo, splayed out on the contours of his shoulders. Hot and urgent, everywhere and nowhere at once. The emotion in them permeates through his skin-- flooding him, filling him to the brim. Had he always been so empty before? Or had that space always been carved out for your touch? Your eyes are above him, searching, pleading. Lashes fluttering down at his face. Lips falling open in soundless utterances, mouthpiece of the gods. Breathless. His ears are ringing, eyes blinking away that white hot blindness licking at the edges of his consciousness. You’re so beautiful there, rays of sun peeking out behind you, he might pass out.  

Wilson, can you hear me?  

And then a laugh. Loud and boisterous and Holy shit! You just got your world rocked! Riley beside you, his face a picture of delight, buzzing with adrenaline. 

Along with the rapid pops of gunfire and cracks of an AK returning, gentle jingling of hot casings hitting the ground, steady lines of communication running down the line of airmen, Wilson, I need you to confirm that you are okay.

He nods dumbly at your insistence. Remembering suddenly how to breathe when you grab him by the vest and yank him up off the ground. He’d been blown on his back by the sheer force of a screaming mortar impacting the earth nearby. Your smack on his helmet is enough to refocus him, and all attention is back on the vic, packing the wound, applying pressure. You radio in controlled and calm-- GSW to the leg and shoulder, hoist out exfil necessary, popping green smoke on our location. 

Helmand is hell. But you grin and bear it so well. 

Things have levelled out. The three of you adjust to yet another new routine; much remains the same. The months are filled with morning PT, showers, any and every conversation under the sun shared over chow, a game of Slapjack or Bullshit after the sun’s gone down. Standard combat search-and-rescue, thankfully, for your sake is unchanged. But you have to get used to watching Sam and Riley soar through the sky like it’s what they were born to do. You stick to field medicine when they become something altogether different than PJs. Though, they were never just PJs. And you pretend it doesn’t just ache the tiniest beat when they leave you behind for some confidential mission.

Being the failure is hell. You grin and bear it to keep the pain from spreading to them. 

Hours later he finds you pelting the metal floor of the HH-60 Pave Hawk with an unwavering jet stream of water, diluted blood dripping from the sides. 

“Any special plans for when you get home?” Sam watches your face as it remains focused on lazily hosing down any memory of a bleeding young Corporal laying slack in your helping hands from the bird.

Six weeks. His tour ends in six weeks. He plans on sleeping-- sleeping hard, sleeping in, sleeping around. Riley joked about Sam burying himself in alcohol and puss, ‘it’s a toss up which addicts anonymous circle he’ll end up in’. Sam laughed and cheered in good fun, but the scent of JP-8 stung his nostrils. You and Riley have three more months left in this tour. Sam doesn’t like to think about the fact that he’ll be home, smelling apple pie and boob sweat, and you’ll be stuck here, sniffing jet fuel; that’s the smell of freedom, airmen say. 

“Might take up yoga,” he quips. 

Your eyebrows raise slightly, lips spreading into an easy and knowing smile, “Bet you would, you horndog.” Yoga pants, nylon and lycra second skins that hold everything just so, are all the rage all of the sudden. 

Sam laughs, leaning against the side of the helicopter with a cheeky smirk. That smirk you know so well now after three years. You count on that smirk. Pray on it. How something so small can bring you so much comfort, impossible to say. 

“If you come to LA, I can take you to all the studios. You’d love it.” 

Sam Wilson’s always been a social butterfly. The lifeblood of every party. The guy that gets along with everyone. The funny, effortlessly cool guy. He thrives on meeting new people and cracking jokes. 

But really, if Sam could do anything when he gets home, it would just be to see you. And Riley, of course. He wants you to come to LA, go to a bar, hide in some corner and just talk. Like you always do. Except, in civvies and heavily lubricated. He’d wait that excruciating month and a half before you’re back stateside too. He’d wait, not so much as think about alcohol, if it meant the three of you could share that first cold one together. You and Riley, you’re family. The first he’s had in a long while. 

He can’t help himself. “Will you? Come to LA?”

You smile, so nice and pretty, big and easy, like the one you’d once reserved only for Riley. 

2008.

Hands, softened with shea and two months R&R, fisting the back of his shirt so tightly he fears the fabric might disintegrate. Feverish and needy, fingernails digging into his warm skin, leaving ardor shaped crescents in wake of their campaign to conquer his back. Scorched in the spots first touched, soothed by the soft sound of sliding skin. 

Panting. Clenching. Burning. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, tears pricking at the edges. Lashes, all 359 of them -- he’d counted -- fanning his cheeks. Sweet wetness. Trembling fire. Mouths, hot and urgent, moving against one another. Whiskey tongues, sliding together, worshipping every inch. Lips numb. Teeth clanging. Both chests heaving, humming with moans too gentle and too desperate. You’re so beautiful there, in a bar’s dark and dirty bathroom stall pressing chest, groin, thigh, and leg against him. 

Gushing with it: joy, freedom, ecstasy. Overwhelmed by what he swallows from that heavenly spout: wrath, anguish, woe. 

You’re so beautiful he might die-- without question, fervently, for you. 

2009. 

The world works in strange ways. People will pay a 1,000 USD for a mattress that perfectly shapes to the curves of their spines. Commercials demonstrate you can balance a wine glass and simultaneously jump like a giddy kid in a hotel room without any risk of stain-- and for good measure, in the event it does stain, some special formula ensures it’ll come right out. Such strange desires of men. Sam sighs into his pillow-- zero cost, no secret formula. Sand, his mattress covered in 1500 thread count egyptian cotton; rock, his feather pillow that corrects his posture; a heavy coat of dry heat, his comforting New Zealand sheep wool blanket. Riley snores soundly beside, drool dribbling from the right corner of his mouth, chest spluttering in his exhales-- his white noise machine. 

He’s never been more comfortable. And in strange ways, he’s glad to be back, just starting his second tour at twenty-seven now, another successful Falcon mission recorded with the capture of Khalid Khandil. 

Sam’s almost disgusted with himself. He’s so stupidly content to be there, in the middle of the Afghani desert, sleeping on the ground. As if it’s not a fucking war. 

Well, as the world turns. 

Do you ever think it’ll be over? you’ll ask one night, a whisper on his lips as soft as the dripping beside you. Never defined, never talked about, but most nights, when sleep evades you, you’ll slip from the barracks to the empty showers. And you’ll sigh in pleasure in time with the echoing splash of leaky faucets.

And Sam has to bite his lips from saying the words ‘God, I hope not’ into your neck. 

Stateside, he has a joke of a life. The year in between tours was almost unbearable. He’s supposed to call that land home? It feels more foreign to him now than Afghanistan. A place where people create mattresses with different settings on two sides for maximum comfort. 

Strangers see him in uniform and either say ‘thank you for your service’-- which always feels hollow-- or looking like they want to spit on him. Suffocating. He could only breathe the three times you visited him in Los Angeles and the five times he came to Virginia for you. Only felt comfortable there with his face in your thighs, heart and breast in his hand, lips in his teeth. 

Here, he has structure. Purpose. Brotherhood. You. In war, he’s important. He’s helping people, not in any misguided, easily skewed fight for freedom and self-righteousness. He’s actually helping people. ‘These Things We Do, That Others May Live’. It’s what PJs do. 

In Afghanistan, he gets to fucking fly. 

In the US, his wings are clipped and everything feels so dull in comparison. 

Eventually, it has to, he’ll murmur back to spare you from his terrible thoughts. You’re so soft and sweet under him, and Sam knows just how much this war tears you apart. 

The guilt that plagues you because not everyone can be saved, but everyone should be. You’ve said before that the PJ credo implies death yourself. ‘That Others May Live’. But you’re alive and so many have died beneath your palms despite best efforts. Those trained fingers that sometimes feel useless apart from bringing Sam to bliss.

If you knew how he truly felt, how even if he’s a good man he harbors such selfish thoughts, it would only hurt you more. 

So he keeps it to himself and kisses your worries away. Soft pecks at your eyes that never cry but are always on the brink; the tip of your nose that’s become immune to the overwhelming metallic scent of blood; the crease between your brows that screw together in torment; lips, that despite all of the above, smile for Riley and for him. 

He’ll hold you so tenderly with strong steady hands, that it’s easy to forget the two of you are pressed together in a shower stall. You seem to have a habit of getting into compromising positions in bathrooms with Sam. 

A soft moan of appreciation escapes your lips, just to see that charming gap-tooth grin it draws from him. A taste of his light. So wanting, so desperate for that warm glow that emanates from Sam Wilson, you peel the shirt from his back sticky with sweat. Fingers scrambling to run across the smooth, hot skin there, chasing that tranquil day at the beach that is him even in the middle of a goddamned war. Greedy hands draw silken lines down the length of Sam’s spine, smiling in his mouth at his shuddering. How he leans into your touch reflexively. 

You’re drawn tight against him, his arms snaking around the base of your back, your hips flush against his, heels digging into his hamstrings. So close you become almost indistinguishable from him, simply a heap of warm skin and desert camo bracing the shower walls. 

A single kiss, languid and saccharine, suddenly turned quick. Sam is urgent in unfastening your top, splaying it open to lay you bare and panting before him. Each snap undone, a breath more labored. Your own hands, fumbling for the belt at his waist, mourning the loss of kissed raw lips against you. Hurried, as if at any moment one of you will perish. And the other, having tasted a body so divine, would simply crumble into dust-- there could never be another that they craved the same. Disappear forever in this desert, to perhaps be stamped down by another set of lovers’ boots. Here, in the sand soaked with your blood, Sam’s sweat, Riley’s tears

A vow taken in the sighs of pleasure quieted by amorous mouths. 

If this war ever ends-- and he assured you that it will eventually-- you’ll tell Sam Wilson you love him. 

2010.

He’d wished for this, hadn’t he? 

To live in War. This ungodly, disorienting flurry of chaos that feigns a sense of order. Mayhem, no matter how many hours ripping apart his muscles to put them back in place in accordance with military regulation, how much firepower there is to decimate enemies. A messy, merciless machine, endless. Running on the energy expelled from eating-- young men chewed up and spat out, shoved back into the hungry mouth, and chewed and spat again. And again. An emulsified puddle of blood and sweat leaking from the bottom.  

This, is war. Not fucking in the showers, watching the sunset while playing cards, and trading MREs like it’s elementary school. 

Structure. Purpose. Brotherhood -- all of the things Sam craved. It all means jack shit once someone steps on an IED, the distinct crisp sound of AKs firing off, or staring an RPG straight in the eye. 

Sam can’t stop looking at the way the blood squeezes through his shaking fingers. Thick and scarlet and slippery, bubbling through the cracks, seeping into the lines of his skin. Unyielding to Sam’s hands desperately clasping at the ripped flesh, trying and failing to apply pressure to the wound. No matter how much pressure he applies, the blood persists. Gushing, oozing, turning black under his palms. Because it’s everywhere and he only has two hands. Why did God make man with only two hands? Why?

Come on, man!

It’s a pathetic sound, the way it rips from his throat, raw and pleading. His arms, trembling so hard they shake the body beneath him too. 

Sam removes one hand to pop a yellow smoke outside of the ditch he’d pulled them into, using his teeth to pull the pin from the canister. 

He’s whimpering, choking down the sobs he so desperately wants to let out, communicating in broken sentences through the radio. Deaf to the return chatter. 

His eyes refuse to leave his bloodstained hands when the Pave Hawk is hovering above, his team of six fast-roping down, quick and methodical in employing care under fire protocol. Four of them stationing themselves at a pole just outside of the ditch, laying suppressing fire. 

You’re there, he can feel you rushing forward with your pack already slung over and onto the ground at their sides. But Sam won’t look at you, can’t-- if he sees your face, he’ll lose it. 

Moving, but nothing feels like it’s by your own volition. Rather, muscle memory. Flipping up your NVG, your eyes flit over the scene fast, thinking, but not feeling. And somehow, you’re thankful you’re numb at the sight. 

You’ve never seen it quite so... he doesn’t look human. 

It was just supposed to be a standard op. A marine stepped on an IED, and no one had metal detectors so the normal PJ unit couldn’t land. They were supposed to fly in and out, barely even touch the ground. 

And it all got fucked. How had it gotten so fucked? 

Helpless. Nothing he could do. Like he was up there just to watch. Squint in the dark night for a body barreling towards the ground. So much like your first flight test. That sickness churning his gut. 

Sam. Sam. Sam! 

His eyes flit to meet yours wide and white in the dark and just can’t bear it. He careens over to the side, retching this morning’s powdered eggs ugly and loud. Emptied, body too spent, the sobs finally overtake him. 

Quickly, you cut open his top, pulling the tattered fabric from where it tangled up with his body. Your hands take up the spot where Sam’s once pressed, pulling out combat gauze with your teeth. Deperately packing until you run out of gauze. It does nothing. The white is quickly stained so red that it just resembles more mutilated strings of flesh. 

“Okay,” you breathe, but it does nothing to return the oxygen to your lungs, “okay we need to stabilize the wound, tourniquets”-- the wound, he’s more wound than whole-- “and I need someone on chest compressions.”

You’re met with stares. Seven red-rimmed eyes, just staring as the very fluid of his life drains from him, body going cold under your hands warm, soaked in his blood. The only thing holding him, all mangled chunks of burnt tissue, together is you. 

“But-”

“But what?” 

But, it was an RPG. So what? We’re fucking PJs, aren’t we? But, he’s lost too much blood. We’ll do a transfusion. But, he’s dead. 

“Just do it!”

No one has the heart to stop you.

You work over Riley’s corpse for the entire ride to the hospital. They have to rip you from him on arrival. Because he’s dead. And you’ve just spent an hour elbow deep in a mess of blood and guts that feel like your own, exhausting yourself-- keeping nothing alive but your own sanity. 

Riley’s a pair of boots, an M16, a helmet, and two shiny dog tags clenched in your fists.  

That’s it. 

The rest of him was put back together as best they could, shoved in a pine box shrouded in stars and stripes, and sent off to Georgia. He’ll be received by his parents, two little brothers, three nieces, and his dog. They’ll write about him in the paper, a hero he’ll be called-- when really, he was a dumbass that got dinked by a rocket. 

He’d enjoy the fame in your small town. 

Idiot. 

Dropped on his head as a baby. 

As you squeeze the dog tags hanging from his M16, so do you squeeze a tear from your eye. A warm thing running down your left cheek that feels just like Riley’s blood in your palm. 

Sam’s behind you, head bowed low, maroon beret in his hands. The amount of times he’s said sorry, some blubbery, some frustrated, some murmured in your hair, some screamed at you.

You’re both raw. 

Hands scrubbed with soap, but stained Riley red.

Those showers have been tainted now with the fresh memory of pink streams circling the drain. Where once you found yourself lost in lust, now, in misery. Riley in your hands disappearing into the pipes, into nothing forever. 

“My tour’s up in three months,” Sam watches you carefully as you release the silver tags imprinted with Riley’s information. You stand and face him, wiping away that traitorous tear. “I’m going to leave active duty.”

When he was twenty, and the world was bleeding fresh scarlet, he’d hardly imagined he’d be retiring at thirty. But twenty seems so far now, just as the aftermath of 9/11. Now, the blood has caked into a mountain of pain, dried brown. Revenge, and then some. 

He enlisted for patriotism, duty, selflessness. He stayed for you and Riley, for flying. 

He can’t stay anymore-- can’t see you die too.

"You’re retiring?” your cloudy stare, brows pulled together, eat at him, “Okay.”

Okay. Sam never tried to guess what you’d say, but ‘okay’ somehow seems like the only thing that would ever make sense on your lips. So soft and simple. You. Always supportive, always sure. 

You nod with a gentle smile, and while he doesn’t know where you’re headed-- somewhere that’s not Riley’s makeshift shrine-- Sam trails closely behind. Partially because he has more to say, but mostly, because he’s bound to you now. His chest is tethered to yours, feet instinctively falling in line. He heels, like a dog. For you. 

The barracks are empty for chow again. Neither of you are hungry. Meals are different without Riley.  

So familiar, the two of you sitting side by side on the ground, knees bent, forearms resting on them, thighs brushing. Alone together. 

Sam has ocean eyes. Warm brown eyes that look like the ocean. They’re still on you but they move. You’ve never noticed. How they swell and glimmer, so constant yet always in motion-- pure in how he allows himself to live so freely. Going with whatever flow his heart takes him: dropping out of college and enlisting; punching ignorant airmen; and giggling like a girl at the feeling of flying. Making promises you both know he has no control over. Kissing you in a bar because he can’t take the longing for a second more. Leaving the Air Force because it’s getting in the way of his light. Even if it means giving up flying. 

Sam slips his hand in yours, so warm and soft, his squeeze, a plea. 

“Come with me.”

You’ve never met a person who lives like him. 

You laugh, fondly. Sam Wilson is so earnest in almost everything he does. 

“Can’t.”

So tempting. You remember now, how close those words once were to falling from your tongue. I love you. It seems pointless to say now, he’s leaving, you’re staying. 

“Come on, don’t be a martyr.”

Like Riley, he says without ever needing to flex his vocal chords that way. 

Morbid as it may be, you’d be glad to die like Riley. He always believed in the cause more than either of you. He was dumb and goofy, but he truly believed in it. All of it. You’ve never been so bound by an unearthly force like that-- religion, ideology, patriotism. 

Must be nice, Riley mused, not having to answer to God. No, it really isn’t. It’s... lonely. You want to try your hand at it now. Might do you some good. You’re looking at another two years, or whenever your tour is up, alone now. Why not fuck around and find some higher power? God, the PJ creed, macaroni and chili MREs. You’ll figure it out. 

“Eventually, it has to end. Right?” It’s his own words. You knew he never believed them. And neither do you now, really. “So I’ll see you then.”

Or in a pine box. 

Ocean eyes are wet with his sorrow. You are so lovely. Love. He loves you. He thinks he might’ve loved you from the moment he first heard your velvet voice. Fuck off. So lovely. Sam kisses you, and the waves have come to drag you out to sea. If he could, he’d beg you to come home in his riptide. 

Wherever that is. 

2012.

A Goliath building with tall glass windows that turn sunbeams into rainbows with rows upon rows of fresh tulips surrounding. Brilliant yellows and oranges-- like poppy field sunsets in Afghanistan. In the center of the free world. So much meaning there now behind what it means to fight for freedom. No place knows it quite like this house of warriors. This is a place of healing. Of mending brains put in a blender, frozen in some eagle shaped mold, and then thawed out with guns in their hands and a burning vendetta to satisfy. 

Sam Wilson is thirty-one now, and remains a man of routine. 

He wakes to darkness. Unfolds himself from the tight ball he’d curled into at some point. On the floor. Again. Sam gives himself just five minutes to lay blinking at white walls painted 5 am blue, bleary eyed birds just starting up their morning songs. 

And then he’s up. His teeth are brushed, sneakers laced up, keys thrown into the pocket of his shorts. Sam runs along the Potomac with the familiar soft pink aura of dawn crawling along the horizon. Around the Washington Monument, past the Lincoln Memorial, down Pennsylvania Ave.

He feels so small among those giant monoliths of the land of the free. Not purple mountain majesties, but the marble Hill. 

Sometimes, he feels you and Riley running beside him, like all those years ago bright and early for 6 A.M. PT-- wearing ankle high socks, grey t-shirts with white wings splayed across the chest and those little navy shorts Riley complained crushed his balls. 

God, he misses Riley. 

He misses you too. 

In college, Sam was a philosophy major of all things. He studied questions of human nature while picking up ‘cerebral chicks’. 

A decade later, the questions he once pushed away have all come up again. It all seems so important now. 

When he closes his eyes he sees your smile, yes, but he sees fire and smoke too. Like the rubble of the Twin Towers, his memories of war are shrouded in destruction.  

Sartre said, Once you hear the details of victory, it is hard to distinguish it from defeat.

So much cost, tangible and not. Cities riddled with bullet holes and missile craters, conquered and hailed as a successful operation so long as it forces the Taliban back. Beautiful landscapes marred with IEDs and shrapnel which will make the Americans wish they never step foot in Afghanistan. Invisible things too, like a mass grave of men, women, and children-- some military, some civilian. Glass shards of minds, not broken, but cracked. 

Sam is bleeding. Veterans are bleeding. Everyone is bleeding. 

The puddle of blood and sweat at the bottom of that machine, fathomless. 

He ends up in D.C., staring up at that Goliath building with the scent of fresh spring tulips in his nostrils-- Department of Veterans Affairs. He needs help and he needs to help. Post-traumatic stress disorder is such a big name, and he never fully understands his meeting. What he does know: sleeplessness, irritability, paranoia, numbness, waking nightmares. 

Healing is a process, but Sam’s doing it now. Himself, through others. 

Things are getting better. 

He’ll never be completely whole, but the circle helps. ‘It’s a toss up which addicts anonymous circle he’ll end up in’, Riley joked. Sam laughs up at the sky, his dumbass friend was probably sporting a smug smirk wherever he is. 

This morning Sam is chipper, today is a good day. He smiles wide at the girl at the front desk; she’s pretty and shy and always tucks her hair behind her ear when he’s flirting. Sam  snags a classic glazed from the box of free donuts from Astro and it hangs from his mouth as he goes about setting up for a meeting. Unfolding chairs, he arranges them in a comforting position. In a circle, everyone is equal-- no one is alone or an outsider. 

And then he waits with a welcoming smile as everyone filters in. Some are regulars and he’ll exchange ‘how are you’s. Some are new and uncomfortable so he gestures to an open chair and says ‘Welcome’ with that beach day grin. Soothing, calm, comforting. 

Sam listens so well. 

For as much as he likes to talk, listening is sometimes better. He only speaks when he’s sure they’re done and comfortable, offering what has helped him best. 

Adjusting to civilian life is hard. No one expects how hard it truly is, because it’s never talked about it. They’re supposed to push themselves to the extremes of human experience and then come back as if any of that was normal. As if they didn’t just come from a war, that still persists. Even if by a different name, in a different place, against a different group, it persists. And no one ever tells them how hard it is to just sit there, surrounded by friends and family where you’re supposed to be happiest, and act like it’s not burning you from the inside out. 

But it’s important to remember the good things too, he’ll tell them. When the dark shadow threatens to swallow them up whole, there is always light. It’s important to know that and make sure they stay separate. 

Like Astro donuts and playing soul music all the time and showering without a dozen people next to you. And the freedom of getting to do whatever the hell they want. 

Sam tells them, if it makes them happy: do it. 

“You’ve made quite the reputation for yourself, Sam Wilson.”

He’s seeing you, looking just the same as the last. With that smile, that’s only his now-- nice and pretty, big and easy. You are beautiful, so beautiful Sam wonders how he’s survived so long without seeing it. 

His own smile falters when his ocean eyes travel from your face.

You are exactly the same, except, you’re missing a few pieces. 

Your left arm, which he expects to lead down to those calloused hands somehow impossibly soft, is cut off abruptly, cruelly, above the ghost of your elbow. The left hand, your dominant one, that he had known the comforting feel of on his shoulder, burning through the cloth of his uniform, gone. The hand that breathlessly trailed down his torso, tickling and seducing, leaving goosebumps in its wake, missing. 

He’ll ask another time. You’ll tell him of more casualties of war, this one visible, and of others invisible. 

But for now, he’s rushing at you, and it’s still not fast enough to quiet his screaming heart. He grabs you, doesn’t care if there are still people lingering from the end of the meeting, and really kisses you. And your right hand still finds its way to his torso. 

I love you, breathless. It was never pointless to say. 

No, the war is not over, maybe not even eventually, but you’re here in D.C. wrapped in his waves, alive. 

He’ll never be completely whole, but you get him damn near close to it.