#space bubble crisis

[riboism]

warm on a cold night

》 pairing: aged up professor! c.jh x fem student reader

》 plot: Choi Jongho, a middle-aged professor struggling with a midlife crisis and an unfulfilling marriage, seeks a brief escape through an affair with a bright young student he meets at a bar during a faculty Christmas party. What begins as a distraction soon forces him to confront deeper guilt and dissatisfaction, leading him to question his choices and the life he's built.

》 content: aged up and married jongho (40s), college student reader, mentions of OC, emma (jongho’s wife), cheating, alcohol, FAT COCK JONGHO AGENDA, manhandling, spanking, creampie, blowjob, face-fucking, stand and carry position, smut with some angst

》 wc: 4.7k

》 a/n: all credits for this idea goes to @yun-fangz

🎧 warm on a cold night- honne

Jongho leaned against the wall, his whiskey swirling lazily in hand as he watched his colleagues laugh and chat over the hum of soft holiday jazz. The semester had finally ended, and a handful of faculty members had chosen to unwind at a cozy bar just a few blocks from campus.

The place was charmingly festive, adorned with twinkling fairy lights, cranberry-decorated wreaths, bright red ribbons, and polished wood paneling that radiated warmth. Inside, the air was thick with the cheer of the season, a stark contrast to the biting cold winds just beyond the frosted windows. Yet, no matter how long he lingered near the fireplace, or how many shots burned in his chest, the chill from outside seemed to cling to him, refusing to melt away in the glow of the celebration.

Jongho lingered in the corner, isolating himself from the rest of the group. He watched the other professors mingle, their laughter bubbling over clinking glasses. The sight stirred a mix of envy and disdain. Their holiday cheer felt hollow, a performance, and yet he resented how effortlessly they seemed to pull it off.

He’d considered skipping the party altogether but couldn’t bear the thought of going home tonight. Not yet.

He shouldn’t be drinking—not this much, anyway—but he kept ordering pint after pint, convincing himself that each one would drown his thoughts a little more. And for a while, it worked. Until it didn’t. Now, his thoughts swirled darker, heavier, impossible to ignore.

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” or so the song went. Jongho begged to differ. The Christmas trees, the holiday sales, the relentless jingles—it all made him tense. He was sick of it. Sick of forcing smiles through strained dinners. Sick of walking on eggshells at home. Sick of pretending that everything was fine, that he was still happily married, that he still wanted this. And the thought of hosting Emma’s family for Christmas dinner this year made his stomach churn. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up the facade.

What gnawed at him most was that he couldn’t point to any one thing to explain his unhappiness. There’d been no affair, no fights, no children to argue over. Just a slow, relentless erosion of something he couldn’t name. He had simply checked out, growing numb.

Emma, once a beacon of warmth and brilliance, now felt dimmed to him, like a candle flickering from a draft. He thought back to their early years—the long dinners spent debating poetry, the late nights whispering sweet nothings in the dark, tangling into each other over white satin sheets, her longing for him even when he was only a few feet away. Now, their evenings were quiet, their conversations perfunctory. They ate in near silence, their words dried up like an old well. Nights in bed were worse: two bodies lying back-to-back, the weight of unspoken things pressing down on the space between them, the burning desire for each other now snuffed out like a dying flame.

It wasn’t her fault, not really. And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was suffocating.

Unlike the rest of the faculty, Jongho wasn’t looking forward to the long winter break. While his colleagues spoke eagerly of trips, family gatherings, and restful days at home, he found himself filled with a quiet, gnawing dread. Work had become his refuge—long hours at the office, stacks of papers to grade, and the pretense of ‘office hours’ no one ever attended. It was all a convenient shield. The thought of being home with Emma, with no deadlines or lectures to hide behind, felt almost unbearable.

He’d toyed with the idea of seeing a lawyer. The thought of ending it all—cleanly, definitively—had crossed his mind more times than he cared to admit. But every time, the guilt stopped him. How could he serve her divorce papers without a clear reason? No betrayal, no dramatic blowout, just the suffocating weight of his own unhappiness. It felt cruel, cowardly.

So, instead, he stayed. He let his depression settle in, heavy and inescapable, like an unwelcome guest. His wedding ring sat on his finger like a shackle, not a symbol of love but an anchor pulling him further into the depths of his discontent. Some days, he wondered what it would feel like to let it drag him all the way down to the bottom of the sea.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, staring down at the empty glass in his hand. The amber traces of his last drink clung stubbornly to the bottom, mocking him. With a groan, he pushed himself off the wall and stumbled back to the bar, his movements heavy and unsteady. He leaned over the polished counter, shaking his glass slightly to catch the bartender's attention. Without a word, the bartender nodded and began pouring another whiskey neat, the amber liquid glinting under the soft, golden lights.

As Jongho waited, his gaze drifted. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her—a familiar girl, laughing softly among two friends at a table on the far side of the bar. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and her giggles carried just enough to reach him, rising above the hum of the crowd and the muted jazz playing overhead. For a moment, he squinted, trying to place her. Then it clicked.

Y/N. His student.

He remembered your paper on Keats’ Ode on Melancholy. It was rare for him to recall specific assignments, let alone be impressed by them. Most of his students treated his class like an obligation, churning out rushed, half-hearted essays that betrayed their indifference to literature. But your work had stood out—not just for its clarity and depth, but for the way it annoyed him.

You’d written with optimism, arguing that Keats saw melancholy as a companion to joy, as something that heightened the beauty of life rather than drowning it. Jongho had scoffed at your words as he read them, unable to reconcile your argument with his own misery. To him, melancholy wasn’t some poetic counterpoint to happiness—it was a relentless weight, suffocating and inescapable. Still, he couldn’t deny the paper’s quality or the sincerity behind it. 

The bartender slid his whiskey across the counter, snapping Jongho out of his thoughts. He picked it up, taking a long, deliberate sip before glancing back at you. Your friends had gotten up and were weaving through the crowd toward the exit, leaving you alone at the table. You didn’t seem to notice right away, your attention fixed on your phone, but when you looked up, a flicker of disappointment crossed your face.

Jongho hesitated. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But the whiskey burned warm in his chest, loosening his inhibitions and drowning out the voice of reason. Before he could think better of it, he picked up his glass and made his way toward you.

“Y/N?” he said, his voice low and slightly unsteady.

You looked up, startled, your eyes widening in recognition. “Professor Choi?”

He gave you a faint smile, gesturing toward the empty chair next to you. “Mind if I join you?”

You hesitated, glancing toward the door your friends had disappeared through. Then, with a small shrug and a curious smile, you gestured for him to sit.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your tone light but your eyes searching his face.

“Same thing as everyone else, I suppose,” he replied, settling into the chair. “Avoiding reality.”

Your lips curved into a half-smile. “That’s not how you struck me in class.”

He raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “How did I strike you, then?”

You hesitated again, as if weighing your words, before saying, “Like someone who sees too much reality to avoid it.”

The comment caught him off guard, and for the first time that night, Jongho felt seen. Vulnerable, but in a way he didn’t mind. He took another sip of his whiskey, the silence between you stretching just long enough to feel charged.

“So,” he said, setting his glass down. “Do you always come to bars like this, or is tonight special?”

You laughed softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “My friends dragged me here. They’ve abandoned me for some frat party, so… I guess that’s my answer.”

Jongho nodded, leaning back slightly. “Their loss.”

Your cheeks flushed faintly at the comment, and for the first time, he noticed how young you seemed outside the context of his lectures. Yet, your presence held a gravity that felt far beyond your years.

And as the conversation unfolded, Jongho couldn’t quite shake the thought: he shouldn’t be here, saying these things, feeling this pull. But he stayed anyway. “Can I ask you something?” 

You paused, your fingers brushing the rim of your shot glass. You shared the same thought he had: maybe you shouldn’t be here, talking to him, sharing drinks, lingering longer than politeness demanded. But there was something about him tonight—a quiet vulnerability that mirrored your own. You could see it in his slightly hunched posture, in the way his eyes didn’t quite meet yours until they did, holding just a second too long.

And maybe, you admitted to herself, you felt a pull too. You were lonely. It was clear he was, too, and that unspoken connection put you at ease in a way you hadn’t expected.

“Sure,” you said softly.

Jongho leaned in, his voice dropping, as though he were about to share a secret. “Why Keats? Why not something easy, like Poe? Do you know how many essays I’ve graded on The Tell-Tale Heart or The Raven? Yours was the only outlier.”

You tilted her head, a small, thoughtful smile playing on your lips. You rubbed your fingers absentmindedly against the glass, the tequila inside still untouched. “I don’t know,” you said with a shrug, though your tone suggested otherwise. “I guess it’s just… comforting, you know?”

“Comforting?” He blinked, genuinely puzzled. “You think melancholy is comforting?”

You nodded, meeting his eyes directly. “Yeah. It’s like... it’s always there. Inevitable. You can’t escape it, but once you stop trying to, it feels less heavy. More like... a part of you. It’s something to be embraced, something to be experienced. It’s human. I think Keats got that.”

For a moment, Jongho didn’t respond. Your words hung in the air, resonating with something buried deep within him. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, his thoughts turning over themselves. “Most people run from it,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “They see it as a weakness. Something to be fixed.”

“Maybe it is,” you admitted, your gaze dropping to your drink. “But it’s also honest. Keats thought melancholy was the start of a new transition in life. Drowning it out by distracting yourself with alcohol or drugs would just ruin it.”

Jongho looked down at his drink. Your words struck a chord he hadn’t felt in years. This was the kind of conversation he used to have with Emma, back when they stayed up late talking about literature and life before the silence crept in. He felt the faintest spark—a flicker of something he couldn’t name. Connection, maybe.

“You think there’s harm in a little distraction?” he asked, his tone casual but his eyes anything but. His gaze lingered on your face, studying every detail as though seeing you for the first time.

Maybe it was the whiskey or the fact that there was no desk separating you this time, but he realized how different you looked up close. Your eyes were wide, filled with a youthful energy that seemed so foreign to him. They practically radiated life, a stark contrast to the weight he carried in his own. The soft glow of the red Christmas lights hanging above reflected off your skin, casting a warm, rosy hue across your cheeks. He hadn’t noticed before—maybe he hadn’t let himself—but you were pretty.

You tilted your head slightly, your lips curling up in a shy smile as you considered his words. “I guess it depends on the distraction,” you said, your voice light, but there was a hint of curiosity there.

He took a slow sip of the dark liquid, his gaze never leaving yours. “Some distractions are good,” he said, his tone low and measured. “When you’re feeling stuck. Or....”

“Lonely?” you suggested, your voice soft and careful.

His expression shifted, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t his usual polite, practiced smile; it was something quieter, more real. Like you’d hit on something he wasn’t ready to say out loud.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to really look at him. The crinkles around his eyes and the subtle greys in his hair hinted at his age, but there was a boyish charm in the way his lips curved into that sly, gummy smile. It made you wonder what he looked like a decade ago, though you suspected he’d been just as magnetic.

Professor Choi was handsome—you’d known that since the first lecture. Most of the students had agreed on it, passing whispered comments and exchanging sly glances whenever he turned to write on the board. You’d harbored your own quiet crush on him, but it had been harmless, distant, academic.

This, however, was different.

Here, in this dimly lit bar, with his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a sliver of his collarbone, his salt-and-pepper hair slightly tousled, and the way his eyes lingered on you—longer than they should—you felt something shift. A warmth spread through you, pooling in your stomach, forcing you to press your thighs together under the table. 

You traced the rim of your glass with your finger, the smooth rhythm giving you a moment to collect your thoughts. His gaze followed the movement of your hand, his whiskey glass forgotten for the moment.

“And what kind of distraction are you looking for, Professor?” you asked finally, your voice low, testing.

His eyes flicked back to yours, and for a second, he seemed to hesitate. His smile faded into something more serious, almost contemplative. “The kind that makes you feel something…something different,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur.

There was a rawness in his words that made your breath hitch. You liked it. He wasn’t like most of the boys you talked to. Of course, he wasn’t just any boy; he was almost twenty years your senior, and with that came maturity and experience. It was different—refreshing, in a way.

You hadn’t realized how close you were to him until now. Your knees brushed under the table, a subtle contact that sent an electric spark up your spine, though neither of you acknowledged it. The scent of his cologne—a mix of mint and sandalwood—filled your nostrils, making it harder to focus. His presence was all around you now, and you couldn’t pull away.

Your gaze drifted down to his hand, still holding his drink, and there, gleaming under the bar’s soft lights, was a shiny gold band on his finger. The sight of it made something inside you tighten, and your shoulders sagged with sudden disillusionment.

“And what if you’re not sure if it’s just a harmless distraction or a momentary lapse in judgment?” you asked.

He caught your glance at his ring, and the weight of it hit him, harder than he expected. Part of him recoiled, disgusted with himself for letting things get this far. Shame settled over him like a cloak. But another part, the part that had been suffocating for so long, felt a strange relief. He was tired—tired of thinking, tired of fighting. For once, he just wanted to feel something. He twisted his wedding ring around his finger, lost in thought, before looking back at you.

“I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

—

Jongho hissed as he watched you part your lips over his throbbing tip. You were kneeling in front of him, your knees cushioned by the fluffy pink rug that lay before your bed. You two had stumbled into your apartment not too long ago, kissing and tugging at each other’s clothes, until the desire within you grew too strong to resist, and you began palming his crotch crazily until you felt him harden in your hand. 

You guided him into your mouth, your skilled tongue swirling around his girth with delight. His cock was so hard and heavy on your tongue that you couldn’t help but bring your fingers down to your clothed heat, rubbing yourself desperately as you imagined how good he’d feel when he’s buried deep inside you. You held onto his cock with your other hand, giving it a few lazy pumps as you sucked and slurped him.

“Feels so good baby,” he panted, his gaze fixated on you. Jongho refused to blink, stuck in a trance in which he couldn’t escape. You looked so sweet with your mouth stuffed full of him, your reddened, puffy lips and teary wet eyes enticing him even further. He felt himself melting into you, his core tightening in anticipation, but he held himself off, just enough to keep enjoying your warmth. 

Jongho grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling it up into a makeshift ponytail so he could have better control. “All the way princess,”  he coached, pushing you down his length until your nose was pressed against his pelvic bone. “Just like that, good girl,” he hummed, proud to see you take all of him so easily. You gagged around him, tears blurring your vision as he guided your head up and down, his sweet, honey-like moans making your core throb. 

Your eyes fluttered up to meet him, watching intently as he tilted his head back, his brows knitting together and his mouth falling open. Each breath he took grew shakier, more unsteady, and you knew he was close. Despite his efforts, Jongho couldn’t hold it in anymore, and he reached his peak somewhat prematurely. He pushed your head down firmly, his hips stilling as he flooded into you. The taste of his salty, thick cum overpowered you, and you moaned in satisfaction over the crown of his cock, forcing him to grasp onto your hair even tighter.

“Swallow,” he rasped, fucking the last bit of cum he had left into your pretty mouth, “all of it sweetheart, don’t waste a drop.” 

You gulped his creamy white just as he demanded, the bitterness on your tongue and his desperate whines making your head spin. You came off him with a plop, licking your lips to prove you listened to his directions well. 

“Good girl,” he smiled down at you, wiping away a tear from your warm, red cheeks. His thumb lingered over your skin as he watched you lick him clean, your soft kisses on his tender head making his gut tighten in overstimulation.  

You then wrapped your fingers around him tightly, his pretty cock standing tall in your small grasp. You lined his veiny length with wet, messy kisses, grinning to yourself each time he jolted and gasped in response to your touch. When you finally pulled back to look up at him, you were met with the sight of his flushed face, his chest rising and falling heavily. A light sheen of sweat clung to his brow, and he looked utterly spent— as if he might collapse into a long slumber at any moment. 

"What's the matter, Professor?" you teased, your voice low and taunting, "Can't keep up like you used to, huh?"

Jongho chucked at your little jab. He leaned down, cupping your face tightly with his hand. “Oh, don’t worry darling, I’m just getting started.” 

—

“F-fuck!” You wailed for the nth time as you fucked yourself over his hard cock, grasping onto your headboard to keep you steady. Your thighs burned with exhaustion, each movement growing heavier and more difficult. Your pace slowed significantly, despite your determination to keep going. Each time you lost your rhythm, Jongho would send a harsh smack on your ass, warning you to keep going. 

He sat against the headboard, nipping and sucking at your tender nipples as you rode him, his big hands grasping at your rear to keep you in place. He loved how you felt in his hands, your skin so soft and malleable, a complete contrast to your wet and tight cunt. 

Smack. 

The sting ignited a fiery pleasure on your skin, but the overwhelming exhaustion had you teetering on the edge of collapse.“Please, Professor,” You begged with tears streaming down your cheeks, “just wanna cum…wanna cum on your fat cock.” 

Jongho finally gave your swollen breasts a much-needed break, plopping off your flesh and sinking back against the headboard. He looked up at you in pure fascination, completely mesmerized by your messy hair and fucked-out expression. “Then cum baby…” He cooed, “What, do you need my permission?” 

Your pace faltered once again, the little bit of strength you had left in your legs finally giving out. You yelped as he brought down yet another hard smack to your already red, sensitive skin. “Please...need help.” 

Jongho understood now. He repositioned his hands onto your hips, grasping them tightly as he took over and jerked his hips up. He pounded into you so rapidly, the sounds of your frenzied moans and smacking flesh filling up the room. 

“Almost there…” He huffed, his eyes locked onto your core, “cum baby, cum all over my dick, need to feel it.” 

Following his words, your walls tightened around him, and before you knew it, your knees buckled in and a wave of relief took over you. You fell over into his chest, crying out as he pumped himself into you slowly now, your slick gushing all over him. 

“That’s it,” He purred into your ear, your chests heaving against each other, “that’s a good girl. Made such a mess, didn’t you?” 

The way he talked to you made you dizzy, and if it was possible to cum from just being called his good girl, you most definitely would. His movements paused, giving you a chance to catch your breath. Your lips lightly traveled over his shoulder, to his neck, until you finally met his plush lips. You felt his big hands caressing your bare back as he kissed you hungrily, his lips tasting of hard whiskey and sweat. He was still inside of you, and the excitement from your moany, wet lips made him stiffen up again. 

Suddenly, he flipped you over on your back, your head falling onto your stack of pillows. You let out a soft groan as his lips pulled away from yours, longing for the kiss to linger just a moment longer. You ran your fingers through his soft, dark strands as he traced his lips over the swells of your breast, making his way down to your wet heat. You gasped loudly as he pecked your skin, his practiced tongue parting your folds until finally reached your aching clit. 

“Taste so sweet,” he moaned into you, the vibration from his deep voice making goosebumps prickle all over your skin. You were so sensitive now, each swirl of his tongue making you melt further into the mattress. 

You lost yourself in his warm mouth, arching your back and writhing in pleasure over your messed up sheets. But then, the warmth slipped away, replaced by a sudden, isolating chill. 

Jongho stood at the edge of the bed now, pulling you closer to him before abruptly lifting you up. You gasped at the sudden move, your arms and legs wrapping around him almost instantly. 

“What are you doing?” You asked, still feeling hazy and confused from the interruption until you felt him tap his cockhead on your dripping cunt. 

You had never been in this position before. It felt all too new, too risky, and you worried if he’d be able to support you all the way. “Professor, I don’t know…” you hesitated, a look of anxiety washing over your soft features. 

Jongho’s lips curled up in that same boyish grin of his. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Afraid you can’t keep up with me?” 

Your nerves disappeared and gave way to determination. "No," you scoffed, a playful glint in your eye. "I’m just worried about your back. Wouldn’t want you to pull something.” 

Jongho smirked. He liked how quick you were with your jabs. “How considerate.” 

He pointed his cockhead towards your cunt, leveling you down just enough so he could slip inside of you. You screamed out as he pulled you up and down his length, working you open like the pocket pussy he keeps locked away in his office. His unrelenting tempo forced you to hold onto his broad shoulders for dear life. 

Jongho was strong. He held you up with ease, supporting you with a tight and secure grasp under your thighs. The sounds of your broken sobs and wet skin smacking against his made your cheeks flame red, which Jongho noticed immediately. He loved seeing you so bashful. 

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum if you keep screaming like that, sweetie,” He said against your ear. Your pussy was so open, and each pump over his cock felt raw and hard. There was a mix of pain and pleasure; the sweet feeling of his cock massaging your walls, and the pain of him jutting into you so deep with precision. You swore you were starting to see stars.

He slowed down, and you expected to feel his cum rush inside you, but when you looked up at him, his expression softened with worry evident in his eyes. 

“Oh, you're crying baby,” He soothed as he gently placed you back on the bed. You hadn’t realized the stream of tears running down your cheeks, your mind too preoccupied with being split open over his thick cock. He quickly leaned over you, his lips brushing against your salty tears, his hands gliding soothingly along your sides. “Want me to stop?” 

Your fingers tangled in his hair once more, threading through the soft strands as he trailed kisses across your face. A soft giggle escaped you, charmed by his sudden tenderness and care. 

“I want you to cum inside me,” You whispered, your voice tinged with a burning need. 

Without haste, he slipped into you once again, this time slow and steady, his face just millimeters away from yours. He thrust into you in languid strokes, leaving soft touches all over your skin like you were a fragile vase he didn’t want to tip over. 

“You feel so good,” He praised, sucking in the soft bit of flesh at your neck, “you’re doing so well for me.” 

His pace quickened again, he was just seconds away from reaching his climax. His breath felt hot against your skin, his dark brown eyes glinting with a fiery desire. “Kiss me,” he whispered, his voice thick with need, “kiss me when I cum inside you.” 

It wasn’t an odd request, but the way he said it—so desperate, so filled with need—you felt you had no other choice but to oblige. You pulled him in closer, your lips finding his once more. You both moved with equal fervor, your hands cradling onto his strong jaw as his cock twitched inside of you. Jongho groaned, his hips going still as he spilled into you, his warm seed filling you up. You laid like that for a while, your lips continuing to move in sync as his pearly white cum leaked out of you. 

—

Later that night, you rested against his chest, your breathing steady as he ran his fingers through your hair. You were deep asleep now, but Jongho remained wide awake, his gaze fixed on the wedding band he'd placed on your nightstand. A wave of guilt slowly crept in, sinking its teeth into him. He wondered what Emma might be doing at this very moment. Losing his phone at the bar meant she most likely bombarded him with calls and texts, desperate for answers—wondering where he was, if he was okay, when he was coming home. He relished his time with you, the feeling of experiencing something new, something that made him feel alive. But your words haunted him. "What if you're not sure if it's just a harmless distraction or a momentary lapse in judgment?"

He thought it over, turning it in his mind like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. This wasn’t just about one night. It wasn’t about the alcohol, or the thrill of doing something he thought would give him a sense of control. He’d replaced drink with sex, thinking it would numb the ache, solve his midlife crisis, fill the emptiness. But it didn’t. It just made everything more complicated.

He felt even less of a man now. The feeling of power that once came with teaching, with being wanted, had faded. In the wake of it all, he felt small, insignificant. What was the point of it all? What was he really searching for? The guilt had been creeping in, but now it was fully consuming him.

This wasn’t just about breaking away from his marriage; it was about breaking down the man he thought he was. And as he lay there, staring at the ceiling, it became painfully clear: this wasn’t a solution. It was a reminder of everything he had lost and could never reclaim.

The warmth of your body against his and your hair's softness felt like a fleeting comfort. It made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t in years, but it didn’t fix the hole inside him. And no matter how much he wanted to ignore it, the truth remained: he was still trapped in a life he didn’t know how to leave behind.

a/n: feedback is appreciated

[neonovember]

So I currently have food poisoning and I can’t help but it think how mad Carmy would be if a restaurant gave his gf/wife food poisoning

Also Carmy come take care of me and make me soup plz 🙇‍♀️😫

Plus he would give the best snuggles 😭

firstly, sending lots of love and recovery, i've never actually had fp lmao so a lot of time on webmd will be spent. get ur fluids in! secondly, carmen might have to go underground for setting the restaurant on fire. we love him for it

summary: You were hungry and had just finished work and you didn't think about inspecting the goddamn Michelin star restaurant, maybe you should have.

warnings; cursing, food poisoning, richie (he's a warning), hipsters, talks of future arsony, possessive carmen, cracked fic ngl,

divider by @firefly-graphics

i'm slipping back into the unsafe territory of wanting fictional characters. (and i don't care)

You could roll your eyes in annoyance if you weren't hunched over the ceramic bowl of the toilet heaving out the contents of your stomach while Carmen held you hair back.

The one time, the one goddamn time you decide to try a new place without Carmen's input, without his meticulous standards and in depth research behind every night out.

It wasn't like you hadn't tried to vet the new braised beef spot that opened up on west Avenue. In fact, you had heard all but stellar reviews from friends and family, meeting you with suprise hearing that Carmen hadn't taken you. You decided to bring home a small plate, their signature braised meat with plums, red onions and atrichocke hearts.

You had meant to share it with Carmen, and you were going to, but a botched catering order had him staying back another hour than what had been planned. And well..you say you tried to save some for Carmen, but despite its bacteria laced beef and vomit inducing sides it was pretty fuckin' good.

Was this God's wrath coming down upon you? Punishing you for your gluttony? Food poisoning did feel awfully close to perpetual hellfire.

The TV was blaring some indescriptive show, the kind with dramatic introductions and soap opera worthy screams. It helped fill the space of absence when Carmen worked long nights, and you felt quite comfortable wrapped up in a blanket with a full stomach and a warm sofa.

Your phone had pinged with the sound of Carmen's text, letting you know he was on the way when it started. At first you had written it off as mere indigestion, probably from shoveling the cursed meal into your mouth too quickly.

Then, around the time the show's main character had found out her boyfriend got her mother pregnant, the nausea set in. Swirling aches that felt like a whirlpool in your stomach had taken over, sloshing and swirling and never leaving. You couldn't mistake it, as you tried to swallow past a dry throat and the creeping sweats of a headache inducing fever began to ravage your body.

You hated sitting in discomfort, it wasn't as though you were afraid of vomiting no, you just could not bare to feel the way your stomach skipped and jumped with every wave of nausea that took over.

You thought of making yourself sick, but shook your head when the alarming disapproval of Carmen's voice loomed over.

"It's just gonna make it worse, you gotta sit with it till it passes"

Fuck him and his medical knowledge. What did he know?

You had ripped off the blanket that had once felt comforting, peeling of layers of clothing that stuck to your body like a second skin. You just felt hot, so hot, is anyone else feeling this heat? You try to move from the couch to reach your phone, but the sudden movement has nausea bubbling up your throat.

You fall to the ground in a heap, hand clasped around your mouth to stop the possibility of projectile vomiting on the rug you had just bought and shoot your hand up to reach for your phone.

You press Carmen's number, begging him to answer you in genuine crisis rather than when you were drunk with friends and missed him. You feel the urge to heave and crawl quickly to the bathroom, phone clasped in hand and suddenly desperately needed his medical knowledge.

Carmen phone rings from the behind the stack of documents in the office, and he hastily wipes his hands across his apron before trying to reach it before it rings out.

Guilt fills his stomach at the thought of you, he was meant to be home hours ago. The catering order needed a few extra hands to help, and once Carmen began he got lost in it, and now you had spent nearly the entire night alone.

"Fuck- Hey baby, I know I said I was comin' but I had to finish a couple things-" Carmen quickly responds as he swipes the call button.

The groan of pain that responds has Carmen freezing in the middle of the kitchen.

"Baby? What-, are you okay?" Carmen replies quickly, his voice going short as his mind turns every possible scenario that had you whining in pain over the receiver.

"Please come quickly, Carmen I think I might-" You gulp and make a retching sound "I think I got sick from that place I was telling you about" You plead out, breathing heavily into the speaker.

The guilt that had filled Carmen seems to morph into an anger that rushes up his chest as he shakes his head.

"The new place? The one with the fuckin' smoke meat? They did this?"

"Mhm" You mumble "I should've just listened to you" You groan out in sadness.

"Fucking idiots. How the fuck did they even? Okay, okay honey just gimme a second yeah?"

How did he let this happen? Carmen has half the mind to stop at the restaurant that more of a Instagram attraction that a respected place of business. You were so eager and excited t try it, Carmen had his own thoughts but would glue his mouth shut if it meant making you happy.

He'll make sure they get shut down, or at least black listed from Chicago as long as he's concerned. His hands shake with the eager want for the fight, to smash someones jaw for resorting you to a heap of tears and sick. He would, he knows he will, but at this moment he needed to take care of your first.

He mumbles out a rushed reply, phone between his shoulder and ear as he slips out of his work shoes and into his sneakers. He thinks for a moment to grab his things but immediately shut that thought out when he hears you groaning into the phone.

"Just stay on the phone okay? I'm coming now, I need to get you some things alright?"

You let out what you hope is a reply, hunched over the toilet.

Carmen rushes to the store fridge, grabbing containers of soup Tina had prepared for family as the Chicago winter was getting close.

"You alright kid?" Richie mumbles, walking into the kitchen entry way, scratching his stomach as he watched Carmen's erratic movements around the store.

"Fuckin-, she's sick. And I'm here chopping up tomatoes for fucking Guy while she was in pain for god knows how long-"

"Woah, Bugs sick? We talking COVID or.."

"I'm such a fucking idiot. No it's not COVID Rich, Jesus Christ. Some rookie new spot trying something outside of their abilities gave her food poisoning. Fuckin' hipsters"

"Oh that's bad. You know when I got food poisoning the one time I took Tiff to this romantic getaway. Had me projectile vomiting in the AirBnb bathroom. Couldn't even get a deposit back, had to pay some dumb ass cleaning fee-"

Carmen wipes a hand across his face shaking his head. He was already pent up, he might throw a pan at Richie if he doesn't stop talking.

"Richie, I don't have time for this, I need to get her some Sprite or"

Richie shuffles across to the cupboard near the back of the house, grabbing bottles of Gatorade and a pack of saltine crackers.

"How do you even have this stuff lying around"

"You're the one with the inhuman alcohol tolerance Carmy, someone of us actually have hangovers you freak" Richie retorts

"Yeah yeah, thanks. Fuck- I gotta" Carmen replies, to which Richie nods.

"Go. I'll wrap up anything here" Richie replies, understanding in his voice. You took precedence over pretty much everything in Carmen's life.

"And Carm?"

"Yeah?" Carmen calls out, slipping on his jacket as he turns to Richie

"Tell me when we're going to sort out those bearded wearing flannel ass wipes"

Carmen shakes his head with a smile, before nodding and pushing past the kitchen doors. The traffic lights better be green green fuckin' green tonight.

You were stripped to a singlet and sleeping shorts as you knelt over the toilet, blinking back exhausted tears at the state of you.

You suppose you have no one else to blame but yourself, but the indignation righteousness burns almost as bright as the acid reflux crawling up your throat.

You hear the faint opening and loud clang of the apartment door opening and closing and you sigh in relief as you hear the familiar footfalls of Carmen down the hall.

It had felt damn near torturous suffering without him, and as he calls out to you following the trail of loose clothing he spots your figure in the bathroom sprawled.

"Oh honey, I'm sorry" Carmen says

And it was as if your body needed to finally feel safe in Carmen's presence before you felt the nausea spill out of you and splash offensively into the toilet.

You feel Carmen crouch above you, dragging your hair that had gone loose from it's wrapped up do away from your face. Gently rubbing your back, his large hands softly dipping up and down your spine.

"That's it, 'atta girl. Let it all out" Carmen coo's softly

You purged the insides of your stomach into the toilet bowl, retching loudly with every heave as Carmen comforted you. After what seemed like hours, and the nausea had subsided Carmen carefully wrapped his arms up under your armpits picking you up of the floor.

"Slowly, yeah? You damn near emptied out you're entire water content" Carmen murmurs, flushing the toilet and helping you walk to the basin and wash out the taste of bile from your mouth.

"I probably look insane" You cry out, blinking back exhaustion from your eyes as Carmen shakes his head furiously.

"Never, my pretty girl. Need you to go easy okay? Gonna take you to bed and let you sleep through it. Can't have you collapsing on me" Carmen murmurs, wiping at the edge of your mouth, patting the sweat that stuck to your forehead.

You let Carmen carefully maneuver your body, one arm under your legs and the other supporting your back walking to the bedroom. Your wring dry and can barely keep your eyes open as Carmen placed you on the cool sheets you immediately moan at.

You hear the faint rustle of movement as Carmen brings in a paper bag. The clunk of bottles placed on the bedside table as you sing praise for the very short bit of relief you have before the next bout of nausea rolls in.

Carmen pads to the adjacent bathroom, the door opened so you can see the stream of light that illuminates him. Hes running a cloth under water, squeezing the excess and looking up to check on you every so often.

He looked so...domestic, like he hadn't come back from working at one of the most decorated restaurants in Chicago. Stripped of his shirt so he stood bare chested, golden curls pushed behind his ears, sweatpants hung low on his hips and the furrow of his eyebrows in concentration and worry.

Your eyes flutter shut as you thank the midnight sky for bringing him to you, for keeping him for you, this one good thing that was yours.

The skies answer by the sound of his voice listing off all the things you will not be doing in this stage of recovery. Sitting on the edge of the bed as he places the cool rag against your forehead, lips between teeth as he feels your temperature under his skin.

"Just bone broth, Gatorade and bread sticks for you, doll. And no, before you even think it, its not the garlic ones." Carmen tsks.

You were thinking it. He knew you too well, but when he kisses your eyelids and measures out careful tips of the Gatorade bottle, you don't mind it.

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

Hi Derin! Sorry if this has been asked before, but I'm amazed by the vast array of cultures and gender norms in TTO:U. How did you come up with all of it?

I just thought "hey wouldn't it be funny if there was a little guy" and then made them, and thought "hey what norms would exist in a culture under these conditions" and then made those.

In all seriousness, most of my worldbuilding comes down to tearing down assumptions. Brennans exist because I fucking hate gender and I'm sick of seeing the gender binary or "gender binary Plus Nonbinary Extra People (who still live in a world that assumes a gender binary)" as some immutable natural law that all societies will forever cling to, and I wanted to make a society that was harder for readers to inevitably sort into a binary as they always, always fucking do. (Partial success; I have seen some absolutely rancid takes on the TTOU gender ternary that make me want to break my computer.) The array of different cultural family structures exist because those are different ways that societies can be built on smaller units. The Arboreae and the two space elevators and the Khemin exist because that is a potential response to a critical climate crisis.

On top of that, most of my ideas are stolen. I once read a short story about people who lived under the ocean on an alien planet and spent most of their time just cruising around the ocean in big bubble-like biological submersibles and that was their job, because their submersibles cleaned the water by feeding on things in it; they were employed to be part of the ecosystem. The Khemin, wandering about the ocean as both environmental monitors and trash-gatherers, were inspired by this; from there, I just thought on what sort of family structure and traditions such a group would develop for a stable society. When I was a teeny tiny child I saw a guy on Ripley's Believe It Or Not who was trying to build a self-sustaining floating island to sail around the world on. Absolute disaster of a plan, man knew shit about ecology or farming, but a bit later on I got really into swamps for awhile and started thinking of using plant roots as water filtration systems and, with an eventual biotechnology degree, multiple years hyperfixating on ecology and evolution, and touch of Magic Future Genetic Engineering, that eventually became the Arboreae. The social structure of Hylara is somewhat inspired by CJ Cherryh's azi, particularly the way that Florian and Catlan are raised in Cyteen. The Hylarans are very much not azi (the azi being slaves brainwashed from birth via hypnosis) but the way they are raised fed into building a society batch-raised by robots and each other with no natural family unit. You can just steal concepts from the real world or from scifi and build them into your own thing it's fine.

Anthropologically speaking, the golden feature of any social structure or cultural practice is *stability*. This is the one feature upon which everything is judged. Just or unjust, productive or unproductive, authoritarian or free, structured or unstructured, when developing a society your key thing to worry about is "is this stable? Would a society survive for multiple generations on this norm?" and if your Weird Idea isn't stable, either ditch it or -- far more interesting -- adjust it and your parameters until it is. Different norms will be stable in different environments and built on different histories -- Khemin and Hylaran norms are not interchangeable because of the environments, tech, political climate and reproductive methods the two cultures have. But if it's stable, you can throw in whatever weird shit you want.

[jolalibrary]

sunrise

francisco morales x santiago garcia

GIF credit to @perotovar

summary: after mixed messages, pope asks frankie if he'll watch the sunrise with him.

wordcount: 1.1k warnings: none. jo doing jo things with words. just two boys, mixed messages and a bit of hope. an: happy pride. this fic is dedicated to the lovely, wonderful @perotovar who not only is a great friend, but also has never made me feel like i'm not part of pride. it's been a long time since I've written m/m, but erin, your kind words (and gif) filled me with joy. i hope this fills you with joy too.

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz—

He doesn’t need to look, to smack his hand around the bedside table, Frankie knows where his phone is.

Retrieving it, pressing it to his ear—old sleep crusting in his eyes—Frankie lets out a soft groan, the weight of lingering thoughts still pushing heavily against his mind. With a reluctant sigh, he mumbles a tender hello, his voice heavy, gruff.

“Hey,” Pope says.

It elongates, stretches out like a fragile thread suspended between them—as though another word should have followed but isn’t spoken.

“You awake?”

“Am now.”

He doesn’t miss the chuckle that’s embedded into the breath. Nor, how it brushes down and through the phone. A sensation bubbling across his skin, his body remembering how it feels to have it against him.

“You’ve not been replying—in the group chat.”

He rubs his face, the motion all a hopeless attempt to awaken his mind, wishing the act would spur on words. Something. Anything to bridge the aching void between them.

It doesn’t.

It just adds to the other things churning inside him, layering over doubts and questions—the ones that linger unanswered, even when they are alone, haunting the spaces between their moments together.

Sliding the phone back against his cheek, he sighs. “Yeah, sorry. Just… wasn’t checking things.”

“Yeah, thought so.”

He hums, and then releases a heavy breath. Needing to fill the silence before it begins. Not wanting to find out if today it’s comfortable or the opposite.

“You busy?”

“At 3 in the morning?”

Pope laughs—and Frankie hates how much he likes the sound. Despises it, almost. Loathes it, like he detests how he feels.

“Didn’t know if you wanted to watch the sunrise with me.”

“I’m a whole flight from you, Pope.”

“Don’t have to be in the same location to watch the sun come up, Fish.”

“We fuckin’ do if it comes up at different times, cabrón.”

There’s a pause, then a chuckle. One that begins with Pope and then ends with him. It fills the air, the space, the area between them that they pretend not to notice or ask about whenever they come home.

Because home isn’t out there, where they’re adorned in layers that barrier against artillery and threats; home isn’t where they help the other free from it all in the comfort of a base room or a tent in the middle of nowhere. Home is real. It’s chosen paint on the walls and picked out bedding; it’s photographs filled with only the best and souvenirs that remind of good times.

And, right now, the only evidence of Pope here is the memories—

That first kiss. How fuelled it had been, how he’d done it purely to stop the tide of ifs and buts that Pope had been flinging, angrily darting in the hope to hit the bullseye and wound him further than his foolishness had.

And it’s not that Frankie wishes to hang up, it isn’t that he hopes to shove things further into his soul. He’s had his crisis—had it when he’d had Pope pressed against his spine, breath fanning out over his neck, making the hair curled from their earlier activities twitch and tickle.

But, he’s at least come to terms with the fact this isn’t a home thing. A thing which doesn’t exist when he steps on the plane to go back to a life where people call him Francisco. He’s made his peace with it, accepted it—as much as a person can.

He’s done the work to rationalise and reason. So, whatever this phone call is, it feels counterproductive. It feels like sinking, falling through those steps and nets he’s built until he’s drenched in the will-they-won’t-they he’s clambered far away from. The hopes seep into his skin, worming into his brain, threatening to paint shadows on the back of his eyelids at what the two of them could be—

“What are we doing, Pope?”

There’s an exhale. It’s likely a sigh, but it’s hard to assess without the facial expression. The way he wears his feelings in his body language.

“I‘m not sure.”

Frankie expects that, somehow. Yet it still stings, hurts—ripples out like a lashing he’s braced for. Rolling onto his side, he grinds his jaw. Staring at the gap in the curtains, the one that’ll allow light to bleed through in a few more hours, nostrils flaring as he shakes his head.

“I can’t watch the sunrise with you.”

“‘Cause of the time difference?”

Rolling his eyes, he blows out a harsh breath. “No. Because if we do, I’ll confess something that’ll make it hard for you to do that compartmentalising shit that you do about the fact you and I fuck.”

The silence that follows is painful, excruciating. It’s devoid and barren, dull and full of nothing. There’s no background noise to drown it out, the night too quiet, the hour too dormant—to the point it almost makes Frankie feel guilty for disturbing it.

“What if I told you I’m at the motel on 22nd—”

Frankie sits up. Bolt upright. The suddenness of it forces the sheet to fall from his neck to pool at his waist, the air cool flurrying over warm skin, heat blooming in his cheeks.

“—the one you talked about—”

His heart hammers. Pounds.

“—the one you go to when home is a bit too… home.”

“Pope…”

“Fish.”

Swinging his legs from under the sheets, elbow resting on the place above his knee, hand wiping down his face, awake, blood pounding in his ears.

“Por favor no bromees.”

Sighing, blowing it right into his ear. It’s far more soothing, rooting, than it has been before.

“Wanna watch the sunrise with me, Fish?”

Swallowing, fear threatens to poison the joy that is trying to fill his chest. His hand clamps around his knee for leverage, for strength. Squeezing, likely making his skin paler—it returning to colour when he releases as he tries to get his brain to calculate the percentage of how much of a good idea this is.

But then he hears his name. It whispered, with more of an infliction, a question to it.

And so he takes a breath. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I’ll… get dressed now.”

“Okay.”

“Alright.”

A silence unfurls, one nicer, more bearable than any of the others before—

“Well hurry then, Fish.”

And then, as Frankie suspected, Pope ends the call.

tagging: @morallyinept (for your collection)

[lick-me-lennon22]

How you comfort them when they're upset

(hello!! apologies to anon, as i know this is a little late :( I hope you all enjoy regardless and please remember to take care of yourselves ✨️)

John

John tends to internalize his emotions, putting on a brave face even when he's struggling inside

he'll withdraw into himself and become rather cold and distant

he's often weighed down by his own expectations of himself, as well as his unprocessed grief and regret

you recognize his need for space, but understand the importance of gentle reassurance and are always there to lend a shoulder to cry on

John sat on the edge of your shared bed, his head hung in his hands. His mind was filled with memories of the past and words left unsaid. Tears welled up in his eyes as he wrestled with feelings of isolation and regret, mentally beating himself up over things he'd said or done- things he knew he couldn't change but nonetheless couldn't let go.

You had noticed John's uncharacteristically withdrawn behavior and already sensed something wasn't right, quietly entering the room to check on him. Drawn by the heaviness in John's demeanor, you approached and sat beside him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders in a wordless gesture of support.

Your presence alone was enough to comfort him, but though you didn't need to say anything, you felt compelled to nonetheless. You gently coaxed him out of his shell with soft words and comforting touches, reassuring him that it's okay to be vulnerable

"I'm here for you, John." you whispered, and that alone was enough for the dam to break as tears began to roll down his cheeks. In the silence of the room, you held him close for as long as he needed, allowing him to release his pent-up emotions in the safety of your embrace.

Paul

Paul wears his heart on his sleeve, becoming visibly and obviously emotional when upset

interpersonal conflicts and creative challenges tend to get the better of him, and he often feels misunderstood by others

he is rather sensitive to criticism and often takes negative feedback to heart, especially when it comes to his work

you offer him a warm embrace and someone to lean on, showering him with praise and reminding him of his incredible talents

Paul sat at his piano surrounded by crumpled scraps of paper, staring out the window and lost deep in thought. He felt completely and utterly stuck, overwhelmed by his cluttered mind and unable to find inspiration for his next song. Frustration bubbled him inside of him, and tears of frustration pricked at the corners of his green doe eyes.

Noticing his extended absence, you entered the room and called out for his attention. "Paulie? Are you alright in here?" Met with the sight of Paul sat at his piano, surrounded by paper scraps, eyes watery and lip quivering, you immediately realized what was happening in his mind.

You walked over and sat beside him, gently placing your hands atop his. You guided them to the keys, starting with a soft and simple tune and encouraging him to follow your lead.

As you played around with notes and tunes, the weight of Paul's perfectionism lifted and he found reprieve from his oppressive thoughts, finally beginning to relax. The freedom and joy you brought to his work renewed his creative spark and the two of you spent hours creating beautiful melodies, playing for a perfect audience of two.

George

George becomes even more quiet and contemplative when upset, retreating into his own thoughts and emotions and becoming withdrawn

he carries with him a lingering sense of existential crisis and often struggles with feeling disconnected from his purpose

you're always there to offer words of wisdom and a new perspective just as he does for you, helping him find peace and reconnect with what matters most to him

George sat cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom, photographs and mementos from his past scattered around him. As strong as he is, he had been holding onto these feelings for too long, avoiding the painful process of reflection. Each image brought back a flood of bittersweet memories, and tears stained his cheeks as he mourned the passage of time. He began to ponder further, sending himself spiraling and becoming overwhelmed by the swirling thoughts occupying his mind.

Looking up from your place on the bed, you could instantly tell something was amiss. You slowly stood and walked over to George, taking a seat beside him on the floor and wrapping a comforting arm around his shoulders. After a few moments of peaceful silence, you pointed to one of the more joyful photographs.

"Why don't you tell me the story behind this one?" you suggested, and George obliged. Throughout the evening, you and George remained huddled together on the floor as he detailed every precious memory captured in the keepsakes and photos.

When it was finally time to wind down for bed, George found himself feeling noticeably lighter, and endlessly grateful to have you in his life.

Ringo

Ringo's optimistic outlook can become bogged down by self-doubt, feeling inadequate in his talents or insecure about his place in the world

he masks his emotions with humor, cracking jokes even when he's feeling down and deflecting his sadness with laughter

despite his best efforts, you see through his facade and know just when he's in need of a little extra praise

through your unwavering support, you always help to lift his spirits and restore his confidence

Ringo sat alone in his dressing room, trembling with nerves before a big performance. He felt overwhelmed by the pressures of fame and the constant scrutiny of the public eye. The pressure of the spotlight felt suffocating and doubt crept into his mind, tears threatening to spill over as he fought to control his anxiety. He found himself feeling utterly terrified and frozen in place, longing only for a moment of peace and understanding.

Sensing his distress, you knocked softly on the door before entering with a sympathetic smile on your face. You walked over and knelt beside him, helping him lace up his boots. He watched you intently, admiring your thoughtfulness and focusing on your precise movements to distract his racing mind.

When you'd finished the job, you placed a gentle hand on his clothed thigh and gave a supportive squeeze. "You've got this, Ritchie. Knock 'em dead," you reassured, following up with a kiss on the cheek.

With your encouragement, Ringo took a deep breath and found the strength to leave the dressing room with his head held high, ready to give it his all.

[carmyberzattosjournal]

Entry 22: Lipstick Prints

Photo: From Pinterest, JAW getting ready for the Golden Globes

Bearblr Promptober Day 22: Costumes

Summary: Carmy's getting ready for a costume party, and he learns he likes his girlfriend's lipstick prints on him. Fluff.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of trauma, mentions of The Devil (Chef David), mentions of Donna Berzatto, Carmy is startled, comfort, fem reader/generic lass who is a trauma surgeon, she/her pronouns. (1,611 words)

Notes: All journal entries will be titled as such and tagged with #cb journal.

Thank you for reading. Thank you to @carmenberzattosgf for putting together this prompt list. Sideblog for commentary and yapping: @m-z-shoroi

Also, if random letters or words are black/white instead of the colors they should be, that's Tumblr being dumb, I've been fighting it for days.

22 Oct 2024

“Fuck me, Bear, you can’t go looking like that,” she said.

Don’t ask me how it happened (okay, maybe it had to do with her confessing that she wants to have children with me, what the fuck is my life), but I decided to accept Darling’s invitation to a costume party that people from her work were putting on. I don’t know, I had a weird sort of confidence that evening.

Had.

I froze while buttoning up my shirt, a sheer black number that I was pairing with a black suit. My stomach lurched. Did I break a social rule? The fuck did she mean, I couldn’t go looking like that?

“I-I’m sorry?” was all I managed to get out.

“I want to eat you.”

Oh. Oh, I suppose that was valid. I felt myself start to shrink, dammit.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t weird confidence. Maybe I was just fucked up enough to do something crazy in some asinine attempt to ward off gnawing guilt from refusing to pick up 3 calls from ma and then refusing to talk to her when Nat wandered into the kitchen with her on the phone. It was eating a hole through me, those stupid little bubbles on my phone and then Sug’s sad eyes. Missed call from Mom. The number of times I thought about blocking her number or deleting it, and then thinking better of it because surely, surely at some point Donna Fucking Berzatto was going to have a crisis bad enough that she’d call me, and I didn’t know if I could live with my guts twisting into knots knowing she—I don’t know—bled out in a car wreck because she was driving drunk again and I just happened to have her phone number blocked at the time.

Only to then not pick up the phone. To just stare at it while it buzzed at me, frozen in space, drowning in flashes of her tear-soaked face, the smell of stale cigarettes, cheap wine, that old, shitty perfume she wore to cover up the smell of booze. That sting from every time she hit me across the face in my agonizing eternity in that house. I would’ve thought I had enough of my shitty little life figured out to at least pretend to want to hear from her, to not care about her emotional manipulation, her gaslighting, listen to her spun stories, get lulled by her laugh only to get bit by her insults. I could certainly do it while I was in New York, so what changed in Chicago?

I hate admitting it, but I was more bulletproof in The Devil’s home.

Maybe it was because he never stopped whipping me. Kept the armor in check, the drawbridges up, the archers at the ready. And then when it stopped, the exhaustion set in.

And when Darling set in, the exhaustion amplified.

“Pretty boy?” She sung.

My attention and gaze snapped to her. Doorway of the bedroom, long plum-colored dress with a black cloak, a little witch’s broom slung over her back. Hood pooled around her shoulders. More eyeliner, darker, brought out the color in her eyes. Black lipstick. Why did I like that so much?

“Hi.”

“Hi. Hey. Sorry,” I mumbled. Raked back my hai—

“No, no, no don’t ruin it!” She hissed. She darted forward, brushed my hand out of the way, and messed with my hair. “It looks gorgeous right now; I wanna try to keep it that way.”

That’s right. She’d tackled my hair with water and some kind of leave-in conditioner or something, so it actually had a curl pattern instead of whatever bird’s-nest bullshit it ended up in from me dragging my fingers through it a thousand times a day. She had her mother of pearl necklace on. One new to me, a fine gold chain with a little medallion, was just barely visible above her cleavage.

She then started adjusting my shirt collar. “I didn’t think you would have something like this.”

“I own nice clothes. Just, uh, don’t have a ton of opportunities to wear them here.”

“No, I mean a sheer black dress shirt.”

“Yeah, I don’t really, um, have an explanation for that…”

She smoothed her hands down my chest. I fought to keep my eyes open. It was a problem now, how fast my eyes would drift shut if she touched me, how hard it was to stay focused on anything when she had her hands on me, or when I could pick up her scent. It wasn’t just that airy vanilla and citrus note either, there was a scent to her skin. Warm, musky, maybe a bit salty like an arid coastal town that barely qualified as coastal except for when the surf was rough, and that saltwater-laden air would drift further inland. It drove me insane.

“I like it,” she murmured, now tracing her thumb over my lips. “Very witchy. And I didn’t have to buy you a shitty costume.”

I hooked her chin, leaned in for a kiss, she pulled back, and—it was entirely instinct, maybe because of the whole phone call situation, maybe because of other past experiences—I jumped back. My heart shot to my throat and my face flooded with heat. Thinking about it now, the only logical reasoning is that I still had the phone ordeal on the brain because I was expecting her to snap at me. Or swing at me. Not once—not a single time, not once, not ever, no matter what happened—never, ever did Darling make me feel unsafe. Never. It’s why I could love her so much. Why I could crumble apart in front of her, why I could crawl to her after taking a beating during service and just lie on the couch with my head on her stomach and her hands in my hair, soul smarting, stinging, sometimes screaming in pain. I was always safe. Darling is safe.

A look of horror flashed on her face.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” It came out as a whisper. “I’m sorry, Carm. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just didn’t want to get lipstick on you.” She raised her arms a little. Slowly.

And I collapsed into them. She squeezed me—I keep forgetting how fucking strong she is—but the tight hug was needed. Felt like it was holding me together. My heart was still pounding, and it was a million fucking degrees, but I pulled her flush to me, buried my nose in the crook of her neck, and drew in the deepest breath I could, focused on the vanilla, citrus, the warmth. She mumbled apologies repeatedly, pressed her lips to the side of my neck, somehow held me tighter. I wanted to tell her that she’d apologized enough, but words didn’t occur to me. It was honestly just nice to be held. I didn’t realize how badly I’d needed it all day.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I’m okay, I just. I dunno, it wasn’t you, it was-it was other stuff today.”

She pulled back to study my face. “I don’t want you to be scared.”

“No, I’m-I’m okay.” I rubbed my eyes. I doubt it helped her feel better. “I just. I wasn’t expecting it is all.”

She leaned to the side. “Oh. I left a print on you.”

I turned and looked in the mirror. There was a black lipstick print on the side of my neck. It wasn’t perfect, a bit smeared from the angle she was at when she left it. The warmth drained from my face. Was replaced with a comfortable coolness.

“I like it,” I declared.

Her reflection arched her eyebrows. “Yeah?”

I stepped closer and studied the print. It still looked identifiably like her lips, dark gray all over with more of a black around the outside edge and a few little lines near the center of the print. Looked almost like an interesting tattoo. It was a strange sort of feeling, the feeling of being claimed, of being marked as hers. She’d been leaving those marks—lipstick prints, hickeys, bites, scratches—in places clothes could easily cover up for months already, but something about the imprint being so plainly visible, unmissable on the side of my neck, it was an addictive prospect.

Fuck, I could get a tattoo of it.

“Yeah,” I breathed. “I-I like it a lot.”

She stroked my cheek with her thumb. Giggled. “Should I start giving you kisses on your neck to take to wo—?”

“Yes.” I met her eyes. “Yes. Please.” Please, leave a mark on me that makes it obvious that I’m yours. Please, Darling, my love, my sweetheart—I need to show people I belong to you. I don’t know why, I’m not interested in knowing why, I just need it to be obvious to anyone and everyone, most of all, to myself, that I am yours.

It took a moment for a wicked grin to appear on her face. She tipped my head back, pressed her lips just to the side of my throat, right over my carotid. I swallowed a pleased sound and tried to ignore the stir of heat in my core—we needed to actually go to this damned party, after all—and was rewarded with a perfect lipstick print on the other side of my neck, visible from the front. She smoothed my shirt over my shoulders. Leaned in to whisper in my ear.

“There. That one’s for you to look at.”

I bit my lip. Nodded.

I was going to wreck her when we got home.

[littlebigmouse]

Sure, episode 7 doesn't really have much time to spend on Ekko's disorientation in this new reality and everyone else's reactions to it. But I have to respect that the writer's solution to this was to make AU Ekko pretty mentally unstable.

From Powder's perspective, she startles him, he throws something at her, becomes hostile, tries to defend himself with a screwdriver, and then just starts staring into space and goes nonverbal while giving clear signs of a panic attack, and Powder and Benzo's reaction to that is a benevolent and casual "One of those days, huh?"

Given where they leave off, and pick up in the Last Drop again, it's implied Ekko has his crisis the entire way over, and probably didn't react much to either of them the whole time. When Claggor and Ekko remain at the table while Vander and Powder have their conversation, Ekko is ignoring Claggor and drawing repetitive circles over his notes and constantly clutching his head in pain. Right up until he gets up, which is when Claggor finally reacts to what he's doing but is waved off easily, and stumbles outside throwing up in a dumpster. And no one seems to notice or care about him acting weird or being in pain.

Everytime he says something off-colour or outright concerning it's met casually or chalked up to his sleep deprivation and imposter syndrome. Man's dissociating like nobody's business and everyone just claps him on the back in understanding. If that's normal for AU Ekko, or everyone thinks that's normal for AU Ekko, that's uh, pretty concerning actually.

I mean, given context clues and Powder's conversation with Vander, all the kids (or at least Ekko and Powder) withdrew pretty heavily and keep themselves on the down low. I assume they both blamed themselves for Vi's death to some degree and became overly cautious and more quiet. Powder prefers to support her siblings similarly to how Vi did, but there's fewer problems to solve with violence as they grow up (and they all know how that ended) so Powder plays emotional support and prefers to stay in her familiar bubble (The Last Drop, close to her family).

AU Ekko seems to be overcompensating with his inventions, focusing on (academic?) success and productivity. Between his fancier clothes (even fancier than the others, who all have newer outfits, but stick more to zaunite dressing sensibilities than him) and his AU friendship with Heimerdinger it's reasonable to assume that he's involved with the academy in some way, maybe gunning to become a student if he isn't one already. That's a lot of pressure for a kid from the undercity, nevermind that academia itself is pretty competitive even if the deck isn't staked against him.

That all is to say, I don't think the AU is all sunshine and roses, for either of them. AU Ekko and Powder are both way less extreme versions of their canon verses, but especially AU Ekko is apparently way more quiet, withdrawn and insecure (and not at all active within his community?? I'm gonna be honest, I'm a bit mad the Firelights weren't even mentioned that episode, they've been Ekko's main family for the better part of a decade now, they deserve some focus, damn it).

So yeah, I don't think AU Ekko is doing too hot.

(And now I want a fic of him waking up in canon Ekko's body, lmao).

[pen-and-umbra]

Ever Crisis's intriguing development could have far-reaching consequences for the Remake's finale. With it, the circulating theory about Sephiroth assuming a new role just got a boost.

I had suspicions that Ever Crisis was being clever with its storytelling. This was the first scene that caught my attention.

Glenn's team briefly touches upon how secrets as well as childhood memories end up in the Lifestream. The focus on Sephiroth's adolescence in the title makes this detail quite telling.

In later chapters, Sephiroth's cherished necklace, holding a picture of his mother, is also cast into the Lifestream. In a possibly related context, Lifestream Black indicates that OG Jenovaroth discarded his human memories, including those of childhood and friends, to retain independence in the Lifestream and prevent assimilation by the Planet. By discarding these additional memories and linking himself to Cloud, he furthered his agenda in Advent Children. These memories also make their way into the Lifestream.

Previously, the relationship between these tidbits and EoC!Sephiroth was speculative.

Players have observed stark contrast in Sephiroth at the Edge of Creation: his livelier expressions and defensive fighting style against Cloud, reminiscent of past battles with Angeal and Genesis in the VR simulator. Notably, the distinction in pronoun usage was emphasized: masculine 'ore' instead of Jenovaroth's gender-neutral 'watashi,' reflecting the symbiotic relationship between post-Nibelheim Sephiroth's body and Jenova cells that Jenovaroth fixes his lower body with. Drawing from these observations, some fans have theorized that EoC!Sephiroth showed a stronger connection to his human side. With Ever Crisis' latest chapter, that inference is no longer theoretical. Sephiroth at the Edge of Creation mysteriously possesses human memories.

Now, Edge of Creation can be thought of as a smaller-scale pocket dimension, akin to Destiny's Crossroads. Fascinatingly enough, its emergence is accompanied by colorful glow effects, not too unlike the effects of branching universes introduced in FFVII Rebirth.

It appears to be stranded between two universes, as represented by the two separate nebulae in the backdrop. According to developers (courtesy to aitaikimochi translated Ultimania bits), one of them alludes to Sephiroth's winged appearance and was intended to evoke imagery of his menacing presence. I can only imagine it referred to his Safer Sephiroth form.

The red one, on the other hand, displays some parallels to Jenova's monstrous appearance (courtesy to u/nzivvo pointing that out). Thus, EoC! Sephiroth is stuck between “Sephiroth's menacing presence” and “Jenova” figuratively.

And yet, EoC!Sephiroth indicates a desire NOT to vanish/end [presumably as a result of worlds merging?]. As he does so, he glances at "Sephiroth's menacing presence" nebula

So who is EoC!Sephiroth? Various interpretations align with the newly introduced lore. It could be Sephiroth who regained his human senses sometime down the line — a singularity-like dimension appears to exist beyond time-space and is connected to all points in time, just like Destiny's Crossroads. It could be a fragment of his spirit—his human memories, hopes and dreams creating an 'alternate world' within the Lifestream. It could be Sephiroth from some other “world”—perhaps, a timeline where he never went insane and never took a dive at Nibelheim. At any rate, he seems to be trapped in that bubble dimension, which is also destined to disappear [become part of another world] one day, a fate he seemingly opposes. Interestingly, in Aerith's "dream world," it is revealed that she was hiding in one of the worlds that was purportedly "ending" or "embracing its fate [to be merged/vanish]”.

Such circumstances share uncanny similarity to the ones EoC!Sephiroth is facing. Therefore, it's possible that EoC! Sephiroth isn't sealed/trapped by external force per se, but is concealing his presence. For what purpose? That remains to be seen. Peculiarly, FFVII Remake Ultimania provides different entries for Sephiroth we encounter at the end of Midgar’s highway and Sephiroth we talk to at the Edge of Creation.

Moving on. From a storytelling standpoint, it's deliberate that at the Edge of Creation he contemplates his journey to becoming who he is, what values he held and at what cost. His monologue about the cycle of hatred is particularly memorable.

Not only does the scene emphasize his caution when it comes to violence that he ostensibly came to develop after being part of Glenn's team, but also his lack of enthusiasm for it. Notably, he offers the enemy soldiers to stand down, not resorting to combat from the get-go. The monologue further conveys the desire to end the cycle of hatred.

So maybe asking Cloud to lend him strength wasn't a ploy or a trick after all, if EoC!Sephiroth is a being entirely distinct from Jenovaroth, one that remembers that once upon a time he strove to end the cycle of hatred and vengeance.

👋 @pen-and-umbra

[super-ion]

The Voyages of the Padua

Chapter 1

(next chapter)

The first thing she was aware of was the alarm.

She hated it.

The shrill piercing cacophony of it cut straight through the glass wall of the tank into her head.

Then came awareness of the cold.

She hated the cold even more then the alarm.

It was a horrible, terrible cold, a deathly cold. No living thing should ever have to experience this sort of cold.

Her very first impressions of the universe were that it was a harsh, discordant, uncomfortable place and she wished that she could just slip back into the oblivion of non-being.

Then came the injections. Sharp needles from the auto injector bit into her spine and began filling her central nervous system with a cocktail of chemicals that burned like wildfire.

She shifted uncomfortably in tight space as the chemicals seared her nerves, waking up her lizard brain and… oh…

Oh!

The most basic animal instincts inside her came awake.

Survive survive survive!

She was trapped.

She was trapped in a very small enclosed space.

It suddenly became critically important that she not be inside a cryo tank.

She needed to escape. She needed to breathe.

She pounded her fists against the glass and a moment later, some mechanism cracked and hissed. Then she was unceremoniously disgorged, landing painfully on her knees as cryo fluids sluiced through the grated floor.

She scrabbled to remove the breathing mask from her face, nails tearing skin painfully.

She needed to breath! She needed to…

Ah! Finally!

She flung the loosened mask aside and took her first breaths, the cold, sterile air slicing her throat like a knife.

She knelt there, alternately gulping the air and hacking and coughing.

Something… less than a memory, more than an instinct surfaced in her mind.

The most common side effect of extended cryosleep is disorientation. In the event of an emergency, you may find yourself confused in an unfamiliar location. It is vital that you remain calm and follow the direction of posted instructions if attendants are not present.

Remain calm and follow posted instructions. That seemed easy enough.

She rose shakily to her feet, attempted to take a step and tripped over the tangle of tubes and wires that were still attached to various ports on her body.

An image flashed in her mind. A screaming baby, still wet with amniotics, still tethered to its umbilical cord.

Against her will, a laugh bubbled out of her, high and hysterical. That was her, wasn't it? A new baby thrust violently into the universe.

The only difference was that she wasn't the one doing the screaming. The ship seemed perfectly intent on doing plenty of screaming for everyone.

A starship. That was right, she was on a starship en route to… somewhere.

Where…?

Who... who was she??

Did memory loss qualify as disorientation? She couldn't recall amnesia being on the list of statistically probable side effects of cryosleep. How exactly was she able to recall the statistically probable side effects of cryosleep, but not her own name?

The alarm kept on screaming and screaming and screaming.

It was an evacuation alarm.

That meant something, somewhere on the ship, had gone seriously to shit and she needed to move if she wanted to survive. She needed to get to an assembly area and receive further instructions.

Survive now, existential crisis later.

She tugged at the network of umbilicals, and immediately regretted it as several painfully held fast to her.

Shouldn't someone be here to help her? Weren't there supposed to be attendants for this sort of thing? She was alone when she really shouldn't be.

Also, she had ports cybernetically grafted onto her. Was that normal? Maybe, but it seemed like a lot, more cybernetic ports than a person ought to have.

As she struggled with the umbilicals, she looked up the row of cryo pods. A few were dark. A few were open and empty… they probably had been for a long time judging by the state of them, with no apparent condensation or residual moisture from the fluids.

Did they just leave her behind? Why would they do that? Had she done something to deserve being left behind?

She glanced behind her and froze. One pod, maybe half a dozen away from hers had also recently opened. Except the glass of the tank was cracked and the withered corpse on the floor clearly hadn't died recently.

Well, that wasn't good.

A wave of nausea swept through her at the sight of it and she heaved... only there was nothing in her stomach, just a taste of bile in the back of her throat.

Remain calm. Follow posted instructions. Survive.

Survive survive survive survive survive

At some point, the stims would wear off and she would crash. She would crash hard. She needed to get safe before that happened.

One final umbilical, connecting to her forearm, stubbornly refused to disengage.

She was running out of time.

She brought the tube to her mouth and bit down as hard as she could, cutting through the bitter material and releasing a splash of sickly sweet fluids on her tongue. She coughed and spat once more, but she was finally free.

Posted instructions. Where…?

Her eyes fell on the big red stripe along the wall and the placards with the large arrows and the pictograms for “decontamination” and “lockers”.

No time for decontamination.

She was naked. Of course she was, why wouldn't she be naked in a cryo pod.

And he said, Who told thee that thou wast naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat?

“What the fuck?” she croaked hoarsely.

Who the hell was she that her subconscious was quoting scripture at a time like this?

A moment later, her brain processed the sound of her own voice. Something deep inside her stirred, some deep hurt that had scarred over.

Heart pounding, she looked down, taking inventory of her body.

The good news was that it was, in fact, her body. On the whole, it was familiar on some deep fundamental level that even her addled brain understood.

The bad news was... that it was her body. It was hers, but parts of it were… wrong. They always had been. The wrong DNA instructions directed creation of the wrong configuration, the wrong hormonal balance. Somebody, presumably whoever she had been before she went to sleep, had taken great effort to fix what they could, but there were aspects of it that would never be quite right.

“Okay,” she said, testing out her voice at a slightly higher register, “okay, looks like… uh… so there's a lot to unpack there… but one problem at a time, okay?”

The most pressing concern at the moment (aside from the incessant wailing of the alarms declaring her imminent demise) was clothing. She was already shivering and trembling in the chill air. Getting to safety would be useless if she succumbed to hypothermia.

She staggered in the direction of the lockers. Another mental image, a nature documentary, a baby gazelle only a few moments old tottering to its feet.

“It would be nice if these random ass memories contained useful information,” she muttered.

She reached out a steadying hand to the wall, letting the red stripe guide her to the locker room.

“Cryostasis Bay 3” the signage read in four languages. She was apparently fluent in two and passingly familiar in a third… interesting.

Twenty-some pods in bay 3. Extrapolating, that meant at least sixty crew and/or passengers. Likely more, it seemed wrong somehow that there would be an odd number of cryo bays. So where was everyone?

The locker room itself was sizeable, several rows with a constellation of red and green lights that she assumed indicated their locked or unlocked status.

A tremor started beneath her feet, subtle at first, but it rose to a dull distant rumble before subsiding once more.

“Oh… that's not good.”

A ship like this, a ship this size, shouldn't vibrate like that.

What sort of ship was this then? And what was it to her? Was it home? Or was it just a place between here and there?

The questions were piling up faster than she cared for them to.

She hoped that a place that was supposed to be a home would feel more familiar.

The errant thought left a painful ache in her chest.

“You didn't know where home was either, did you?”

The ghost of whoever she had been didn't reply.

She shook her head and stepped toward the location where the red lines converged. The office labeled “reception” in those same four languages was dark, no surprise there, but there was some manner of self service kiosk immediately adjacent.

How would she…?

She glanced at her inner wrist, where a barcode was tattooed on her skin. Okay, that was potentially useful.

Right above the barcode was another tattoo. A cluster of snow drops.

Galanthus. First flower to bloom in the spring.

Somewhat less useful than the barcode. Significantly more opaque in its significance.

And… of course the screen on the kiosk was black. She held her wrist vainly up to the scanner port, then came the pleading, then the smacking of the screen and the side of the kiosk. Nothing.

“Shit,” she said, fighting back a frustrated sob. It was just her luck that the one stupid machine that could potentially provide a clue about her identity was out of service.

Might as well start opening lockers at random and hope for the best.

She wrenched open the nearest greenlit locker.

Nothing.

She shoved back mounting panic and tried the next.

Eureka!

This locker contained a shrink wrapped packet of unisex undergarments, two hanging coveralls, and a pair of halfway decent looking boots.

Now she was getting somewhere.

The coveralls were plain, simply adorned, and well made, the exact kind of thing one would expect on a long haul freighter. No rank insignia, so clearly not military. Civilian? Corporate? This ship didn't seem corporate.

She grabbed one of the coveralls and yanked it out for a closer examination. The space above one breast bore a circular parts patch: a downward curving crescent, probably meant to be the horizon of a planet, a single four pointed star, and the text “Eosphorus”.

Eosphorus. Dawn Bringer. Morning Star.

The name didn't evoke anything within her beyond vague notions of etymology and mythology.

The other breast bore a smaller patch: a simple rectangle with “Cassidy” embroidered on it.

A name? There were no accompanying initials, so probably a surname, but it held even less relevance than Eosphorus had.

A bit of color caught her eye, a tiny splash of green against the sterile backdrop of the rest of the locker room. Posted to the inside of the door was a photograph of a man and a woman posed in front of a majestic vista. Yosemite. Half dome.

She didn't recognize either of their faces. There wasn't even any clear indication which one was Cassidy.

Nor did either of them resemble the bedraggled face that peered out of the tiny mirror just above the photograph.

Gods above and below, she was a mess. Her dark red hair was wet and tangled. Her cheeks were sunken and scratched from her fight with the breathing mask. Dark circles bordered eyes that seemed… tired? Sad?

She shook her head once more and tore open one of the packets. The undergarments fit well enough (though the tank top was a bit tight in a way that made her slightly giddy). The coverall was sized generically and she gave silent thanks to Cassidy, whoever he or she or they or whatever were, for being built similarly to her.

The boots, however, were another matter. Two sizes too small was going to get her nowhere fast and she couldn't very well go barefoot.

It was another ten lockers before she found a pair that actually fit. Along the way, she had managed to collect: seventeen photos (none of them her), four necklaces, a wedding ring (too big), three religious icons (all from unrelated denominations), five pocket sized books (two religious texts, two fantasy novels, one introductory text on the history of mathematics) and a teddy bear.

As she hurried to lace the boots, she stared at the bear, slightly baffled. Everything else was shoved away in one pocket or another on her person.

Why exactly had she collected everything? Wouldn't it have been more practical to leave it all behind? None of these things meant anything to her? Should they have? Who were the people that they belonged to? Were they crewmates or fellow passengers? Friends?

What if she took all these things and their owners came back looking for them? Would they hate her for taking them?

But then why had all these things been left behind in the first place?

What if they never came back at all and the ship exploded and she was haunted forever by the knowledge that she abandoned the only physical evidence that any these people had ever lived at all?

She looked up at the rows and rows of green lights that she hadn't checked yet.

The ship rumbled again, louder this time, and the lights flickered ominously.

Right. Imminent death.

She would save what she could.

She grabbed the teddy bear and shoved it into a generic duffle bag emblazoned with the Eosphorus mission patch along with the second Cassidy coverall and two more packets of the undergarments, and ran towards the far end of the locker room.

Her legs were steadier now, her stride stronger and more purposeful. But her left hand was experiencing the beginnings of a tremor, an early warning for the inevitable chemical crash.

How much time did she have?

The stripe was blue this time, with logograms for the assembly area. She hoped to all the gods and spirits that further instructions in some form or another would be waiting for her there.

[sweetnsour1]

9:36:09

Angsty Fluff, Bakugou x fem reader

Part 9 of the Broken Collection

“You probably still have time to order something online.” You laughed at the immediate soft snarl you received as a reply. “Not every gift purchase has to be a contest, ya know?” 

“Not a contest if I always give the best shit.” He continued to frown at the display in front of him, seemingly assigning blame to the assortment of objects not meeting his standards. 

“If you say so...” You walked past him, making sure to skirt around the bubble of personal space you had imagined to be there, to examine the wall of glass blown wind chimes. He clicked his tongue before diving into his reply.

“You fuckin’ love my gifts.” 

You didn’t turn back around, letting the statement fall without confirmation or denial. Instead, you let the silence build up a small wall between you. You ignored the way your shoulders tensed as you resisted the immediate catalog of presents now attempting to push their way through any other thoughts. He, of course, wasn’t wrong. Katsuki was an amazing chooser of gifts. Even the small random finds for no occasion at all were still some of your favorite things. Presents so perfect they had remained in your home even when Bakugou hadn’t. You weren’t able to move them, much less get rid of them. You never would. You really did ‘fuckin’ love’ his gifts. You swiped your finger against the paper laden strings in front of you, sending a wave of jingles throughout the store.  

“Excuse me, ma’am. Please don’t do that.” 

You snatched your hand back, now noticing a small sign with bold red letters reminding customers to restrain themselves from what you were getting scolded for now. Your face warmed as you apologized, but you still managed to direct a small kick to the shin of the snickering hero behind you. You spun around as soon as the clerk moved out of sight again. 

“It’s not that funny.” 

“It sure as hell is. You always get into some sort of trouble when we go out.” Your eyebrow arched at the phrasing. He coughed before adding, “uh, out shopping.” 

“So am I just here for comedic relief then? Thought you needed help picking out a gift for your mom.” 

He laughed again, stretching his arm over your shoulder and leaning toward the wall behind you. Too close. You turned your head as if to scan the back of the store for any missed items, ignoring the quickly changing proximity. His breath, which you definitely didn’t notice was cinnamon scented from the mints that were still apparently his favorite, brushed against your neck. You froze at the sound of a jingle and met the glare of the same clerk that had just reminded you of the rules.  

“Excuse me, sir. Please-” 

“Yea, yea. I know. We’ll take these.” He had already disentangled himself from your personal space, now holding two glass blown bell wind chimes. “That rule isn’t logical by the way. Unless you don’t actually want people to buy shit.”

“Of course, I can get those wrapped up.” The change in tone was obvious now that a purchase was eminent. Although the clerk ignored the advice, still moving with a swiftness to take the bells as if there really was some looming threat hiding behind the hands-off policy.  

“Are you sure?” The choice just seemed so random.

“Course. She’ll love ‘em.”  

“Um no offense, but why?” Your head tilted as he hesitated.

“I think they’ll be a sort of good luck charm for her.” His words came out slow and measured, the same way you had all been trained to talk to citizens you wanted to stay calm.

“I see.” You didn’t, but you chose to trust him and ignore how fucking weird he was being. “And you’re sure about the colors?” 

“Obviously. They wouldn’t work if they were different.” 

“I see.” You definitely didn’t, but at least he had dropped the crisis management voice.

You caught one more glimpse of glass as the clerk began closing the small wooden boxes. The first one, now hidden from view, had been a translucent grey, spotted with orange and black and a few green specks. The second...you frowned at the familiar colors. They were the same ones you were now expected to only wear five days a week. Your color palette.  

Your feet did not follow the path set by the hero you had been trailing all morning. They stayed firmly rooted as you blinked at the transaction’s completion. Why? Why was he doing this? Why was he like this? Why had so many small things stayed meaningful? Why did you have any meaning for him? For his family?  

Katsuki Never-Picks-The-Wrong-Gift Bakugou had chosen good luck tokens to give to his mother...one that clearly represented Dynamight and the other that suspiciously reflected your costume that his mother had helped design the last time you upgraded. His mother, who, yes had always loved and welcomed you, but shouldn’t care less about your safety after how you’d hurt her son.

You took a moment to berate yourself for questioning the character of a Bakugou. She would never wish for anything but safety for any hero. What was truly upsetting was you had never really let yourself stop to think how he had to tell them months ago. He had to explain to them what you had hardly been able to communicate to him when you left. What had he told them? The truth? That you were detrimental to each other. That it was your fault. That you chose this. That you hurt him. You had a horrible and quickly growing urge to cry. 

The pressure of the door handle against your back jolted you back into the space you were filling. You must’ve been slowly backing away towards the exit. Red eyes turned at the noise of the bell you brushed against as you gripped the means of escape. And, of course, you did what had become so natural when those eyes met yours. The motion came even more easily now that you risked tears visbily falling with every slow second that crawled by. The same action you took nearly a year ago. 

You fucking ran. 

Masterlist

Next part

[milliesfishes]

millie i’m gonna need you to write something about the vasectomy i beg

⋆౨ৎSweet Nothings⋆౨ৎ

[fem reader] contains: pregnancy scare, sexual references pairing: alex nilsen x fem reader summary: you and alex have a scare that causes a big decision author’s note: first alex fic rahhhh! this is based on something that happened in the book but it's millie's version :) Pinterest Board Spotify Playlist

You were late.

Not late in a fun way, like at parties or the last hours of the night. The thing that was late was a certain womanly bleeding between your legs, one you dreaded but needed at the same time. It was a smoke signal, a universal thumbs up that you wouldn't have to worry about a life changing thing for the next thirty days.

Fish curled around your legs as you stared at your calendar, pen shaking above the day marked in black with a single sad face, the day that passed over a week ago. It seemed to taunt you, and you longed for the innocence you'd had when you drew it. Alex used a physical calendar because he claimed he could remember things written there better than on his phone, and you'd adopted the habit as well when it was proven correct.

Your pen clattered to the tabletop as your hand flew to cover your mouth, the realization really hitting you then like a freight train. Your monthly was famously on time, and you always said that it was the only part of you that was. In the past year you'd adopted the habit of going to sleep with a pad in the night before it was set to come, to save several pairs of pajama bottoms.

This week, however, had been a blizzard of work, and there had been a small family crisis that hadn't warranted your flight home, but had kept you on the phone quite a bit, hanging onto text updates. You hadn't even thought about your period since the last one ended.

But now its absence was glaring at you, pointing a finger with a single dreadful word you didn't even dare think yet.

A shaky breath escaped you, and you buried your face in your hands, tears bubbling up and spilling from your eyes. This was all wrong, all so, so wrong. You and Alex had always been careful, or you thought you'd been. One thing you were in agreement on was that you didn't want kids. At least not right now.

It wasn't a money issue. Well, it wasn't not a money issue, but it was more that you wanted to be steady. Your jobs were both secure, lives locked down, love for each other confirmed, but you wanted to enjoy it all. To be young and in love and as stable as the two of you were was a rare thing. Alex had bought a house for goodness' sakes, his grandmother's, but an independent living space nonetheless.

Besides, you loved your life as it was now. To work at a job you enjoyed that made a more than decent living and come home every night to your cat and the love of your life all handsome and happy was everything you'd dreamt of.

And it was all about to be upset if your fears were proven correct. All because of a stupid, undetectable mistake you weren't even aware you were making.

The keys clinked against the doorknob, a telltale sign, and you stood abruptly, staring at the door as it swung open. Alex appeared in its line, the sun lighting his silhouette like a halo. He looked tired, but a smile appeared the second he saw you standing there. With one hand, he firmly shut the door, slipping his shoes off and starting to remove his jacket. Fish padded over to greet him, his black tail bent at the tip. Alex gave him a series of gentle pets before looking up at you with a boyish grin. "Hi baby."

You were frozen in place, new worries overtaking you. How would he react to this? Alex set his bag down and made his way over to you, sliding his arms around your waist and burying his nose in your hair. "How are you?"

"Fine." Your voice nearly broke, but you kept it together, hiding your face in his chest. He always smelled clean and fresh, like laundry, even after a long day dealing with hormonal teenagers. "How was your day?"

"Long." He kissed the top of your head. "Glad it's the weekend. Glad to be back here with you." Alex pulled back, but his smile dropped when he saw your face. Apparently it had fallen back into revealing the nature of your thoughts during its time in his chest. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" You forced your mouth to turn back up, but the way he was looking at you caused it to plummet right back to the depths. The tears you'd thought you swallowed stung your eyes again, and a pathetic little noise worked its way out of your mouth.

"Oh, baby-" Alex pulled you back in, and you began to sniffle, a little sob shaking your shoulders. He managed to lead you back over to your chair, where he sat and pulled you across his thighs. You hid your face in his chest still, humiliated by the fact that you hadn't been able to hide it for more than a few minutes after seeing him.

He rubbed your back, letting his lips fall to your forehead. There was a calm front that you knew would be disrupted the second you told him. Alex was steady and unmoving with your troubles, but this was different. "Did something happen?"

You sniffed, nodding and pulling back to look up at him, searching his eyes. "I...I..."

"Slow down, shh." Alex smoothed your hair behind your back. "Deep breaths, sweetheart. Don't work yourself up." His thumb found your cheek, stroking back and forth, effectively soothing you. "Whatever it is we can figure it out."

Taking a deep, unsteady breath, you searched his eyes, voice breaking every other word. "I'm...I'm...late."

"Late?" Alex frowned, confused, but then he noticed your calendar. The black sad face looming like a homing beacon. You swore he went pale. "Oh."

Squeezing your eyes shut, you bowed your head. "I'm so scared-"

Alex pulled you back in, cradling your head to his shoulder. He must have been hiding his own shock, as was his way. That was how he always was- comforting you first, composing himself.

When he pulled back, he was all soft words and gentle touches, tucking your hair behind your ears and drying every tear that dripped from your eyes. "Okay. Okay, here's what we're going to do." He was shockingly calm, ever your rock in the storm. "I'm gonna go to the drugstore and get a few tests. You're going to stay here-" Alex shifted you off his lap and stood, opening the fridge and pulling out a can of lime-flavored sparkling water, one of your favorites. "-and drink this. Okay?"

You nodded, taking the can from him after he popped it open. "Okay." The voice that passed your lips hardly sounded like your own, it was so tiny.

He kissed your forehead, holding his hand to your cheek for a second longer than maybe he usually would have. "I'll be back soon, alright? It's gonna be okay."

After he left, your mind was blank except for those four words.

It's gonna be okay.

Negative.

Every test you'd taken came back with one line. Alex had waited dutifully outside the bathroom while you relieved yourself on each stick, leaving them on a towel on the counter. He set the timer on his phone, and then the waiting game had been afoot.

He held you through it, rubbing your back and taking deep breaths that encouraged your own. All you could think to do was cling to him and pray.

When the timer had chimed, you felt like you were walking to your doom. Alex stood behind you, and you could feel him holding his breath.

The first thing you did when you saw the matching results on each test was turn around and cry into his chest. His hold on you was tight, and you felt every anxiety from before fly from your shoulders. It was okay. It was all okay.

No words passed between the two of you. Not about what had happened. Alex swept the tests into the trash can, tossing the towel into the laundry basket and asking if you'd be okay for a few more minutes while he went to get dinner. Everything was a haze as you nodded, and he left you bundled in a fluffy blanket on the couch, double-checking that you were okay before he left again.

You passed out, exhausted from the emotions that had been running rampant in your mind for the past little bit. It was an enormous jump from fear to relief, and your body was limply feeling the effects.

It hardly felt like five minutes had passed before you awoke to his fingers in your hair, gently stroking. You leaned into his touch, shifting your feet and feeling something warm and furry beside them. Fish.

Opening your eyes, you blinked sleepily at him, and he gave you a tired half smile. "Hey. You hungry?"

Sitting up, you yawned lightly, nodding as a response. Alex's hand found yours, twining your fingers together. "I got you a salad from that place you like. And a smoothie."

"Thank you." You leaned forward, pecking him on the lips. "That sounds wonderful."

"I'll bring it to you." He was standing up before you could protest, and then Fish crawled half onto your lap, rendering you immobile.

Once Alex returned, he let you settle into his side while you ate, balancing your salad on one thigh and his on the other. It was quiet, but you didn't mind at all, taking the time to reign in your thoughts.

Setting his and your empty bowls on the coffee table, Alex lifted both his feet onto the couch, parting his legs and reaching for you, as if he was reading your mind. You crawled into him, head against his chest, and he tugged the blanket over the two of you. Fish walked over your back, laying slouched between your side and the couch back, right on Alex's arm. He grunted, shifting so he could still hold you but accommodate the cat.

You rested your ear over his heart, the steadiness of its beat soothing your unsteadiness. Alex always managed to still whatever typhoons were raging within you.

He thumbed your hairline, and Fish started purring, vibrating against both of you. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. "Can we talk about it?"

Nodding, you lifted your head, disarmed by his expression like always. He was serious yet tender, unyielding but gentle. You whispered, "That was really scary."

"It was." Alex's hand on your lower back was drawing soft circles through the blanket. "You were so brave."

You shook your head. "No. You were strong and I was a mess. I..." you trailed off for a moment, the words fleeing your mouth before you could regulate them. "Taking the tests...it really made me realize that I'm not ready for that. I...it was terrifying."

"Yeah," he murmured, hand tracing parallel lines up your spine now. You could practically hear him thinking but couldn't deign to guess what he was about to say. Alex inhaled once through his nose. "What would you think if...if I got a vasectomy?"

Eyebrows shooting up, your eyes went as round as saucers. Fish's purring halted for a minute before starting up again. You shifted on his chest to look at him better. "A vasectomy?"

"I was thinking about it for the entirety of both car rides," he explained, petting your hair now. "To the drugstore and to get food. It's something I've considered before but I never really thought about it seriously until now."

You were still searching his eyes, perplexed as to why he'd jumped there of all places. Maybe later you would have suggested better protection, but never would you have asked this of him. It wouldn't even be something you'd have thought of on your own.

Alex cupped your cheek in his hand, and you leaned into it. His eyes didn't leave yours, making sure you were looking at him too. "Seeing you so worried...I never want you to feel that way again. And the procedure's reversable. We can do other things beforehand just in case it doesn't turn out to be. But..." he pursed his lips for a millisecond, letting out a breath. "If you ever take a pregnancy test again, I want you to be excited. Not scared."

Now your eyes were welling up again for an entirely different reason than earlier. You nodded, hand finding his on your face and squeezing. "Okay."

"Yeah?" Alex turned his hand around and brought yours to his lips. "You'll let me do this for you?"

"Yeah," you whispered, and he smiled, kissing your forehead and adjusting the blanket. Fish purred contently, rolling over onto his back, paws stretched out like he was reaching for the moon.

You kept your eyes open, content as could be. Alex lazily trailed his hand up and down your spine, and after a moment, he murmured, "We're going to save a fortune on condoms, baby."

A laugh passed your lips, and you hid your face in his chest, pressing your lips to his heart.

"I guess we will."

[amaramizuki666]

Identity crisis part.2

Danny wasnt having a very good day, week, month, who knows time in the infinity realms has always been iffy. You see danny was recently crowned king of the realms, king of the dead, the balance between life and death, protected of the dead, holder of space, poor kid has a lot on his shoulders.

And now his council including frostbite, amber, and clockwork are suggesting him to marry. So danny can split the responsibility of being king.

Danny is flying to the far frozen when he hears it the call of being summoned. A faint wisper, the wish of those who summoned the ghost king, danny always had a choice weither to go, whether to listen to the whims of the mortals.

But before danny chose to be summoned or not, always depended on what he heard the wisper said. Danny stopped and floated in the green void of the realms. He closed his eyes and listened.

'𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒆, 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒚𝒆𝒕, 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆'

Danny heard the wisper and emiditly let the summon take hold of him pulling him to the one summoning him. Danny opened his eyes to see he was surrounded by a thick ectoplasm like substance. It had the consistency of Elmer's glue and it burned Danny's skin.

Danny looked around himself with ergency trying to spot his summoner. He looked down and saw a kid around his age sinking to the bottom of this pit of green.

His hair was black danny thinks his eyes are blue but cant see them properly they are barely open. The boy looks lucid. But then again he does appear to be bleeding out and sinking in a bit of Lazarus goop sooo.

Danny floats down to the boy and speaks

"𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 ���𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕕 𝕞𝕖, 𝕀 𝕒𝕞 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕕, ℙ𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕠𝕞. 𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥".

The boys eyes fluttered. He tried to open his mouth only bubbles escaped but thankfully danny could hear him or more accurately his desire.

"𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆'

Danny could feel it in his core, the need to save the need to 卩尺ㄖㄒ乇匚ㄒ. But danny cant just do that no he is the king.

"𝕀 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝, 𝕨𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕔𝕒𝕟 𝕠𝕗𝕗𝕖𝕣 𝕞𝕖 𝕚𝕟 𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕟 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕤𝕒𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕪𝕠𝕦" danny spoke.

The boys eyes finally drifted to him, holding Danny's gaze. '𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒕𝒐 𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆' the boys heart sang.

Danny thought for a moment. This really was the perfect opportunity.

"𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕨𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕒 𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕝, 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕗𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕤𝕠𝕦𝕝 𝕞𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕤 𝕠𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕖, 𝕕𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕒𝕔𝕔𝕖𝕡𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕒𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥" danny asks his voice soft yet powerful. The boy accepted.

Danny pulled the boy in ty I his arms. A green aroura not dissimilar to his crown glowed around them as the contract finalized.

This boy was now his. Danny reversed the summoning and brought both of them back to the realms.

Danny looked at the boy in his arms, he was becoming paler. Danny quickly set off for the far frozen. He had to see frost bite regardless. St least now he wont bug him about finding a partner.

_____________

Part 1

Part 3

[shadowcybunny]

NEOPET GAMES THAT WORK

These are games that currently work with

THIS CHROME EXTENSION.

Working means you can both play it AND earn neopoints. There are some games that are somewhat playable but bugged, or you are unable to earn neopoints with them. Some games don’t work at all. I will not be listing those games here. Some of these will be one of the 14 fixed games in the current game room. I am including them because the old game room still has the featured game function, allowing you to earn double the points by playing it from the old link. I hope this makes you as happy as it did me. c:

I would click each one and add them to your favorite game list to make things easier later on.

AAA’s Revenge

Attack of the Revenge

Bagatelle

Mynci Beach Volleyball

Biscuit Brigade: Hagan's Last Stand

Neverending Boss Battle

Bruno's Backwoods Breakaway

Ultimate Bullseye II

Bumble Beams

The Buzzer Game

Carnival of Terror

Escape from Meridell Castle

Caves and Corridors: Mystery Island

Chemistry for Beginners

Chia Bomber 2

Faerie Cloud Racers

Coconut Shy

Crisis Courier

Dar-BLAT!!!

Defender Trainer

Edna's Shadow

The Castle of Eliv Thade

Evil Fuzzles from Beyond the Stars

Extreme Herder

Eye of the Storm

Faerie Bubbles

Faerie Caves II - Fyora's Quest

Fashion Fever

Feed Florg

Flycatcher

Freaky Factory

Gadgadsgame

Igloo Garage Sale

Ghost Bopper

Goparokko

Gormball

Grand Theft Ummagine

Attack of the Gummy Dice

Gwyl's Great Escape

Hasee Bounce

Hubrid's Hero Heist

Hungry Skeith

Ice Cream Machine

Imperial Exam

Itchy Invasion

Jolly Jugglers

Jubble Bubble

Meepit Juice Break

Kass Basher

Kiko Match II

Kiss The Mortog

Escape to Kreludor

MAGAX: Destroyer II

Magma Blaster

Attack of the Marblemen

Maths Nightmare

Meepit vs. Feepit

Meerca Chase II

Mootix Drop

Mop 'n' Bop

NC Shopping Race (AD)

Trouble at the National Neopian

Nimmos Pond

Skies Over Meridell

Petpet Rescue

Petpet Cannonball

Piper Panic

Pterattack

The Great Qasalan Caper

Revel Roundup

Rink Runner

Roodoku

Ruins Rampage

Scamander Swarm

Smug Bug Smite

Snowbeast Snackrifice

Snow Wars II

Snowball Fight

Snowmuncher

Sophie's Stew

Lost in Space Fungus

Spell-Or-Starve

Splat-A-Sloth

Stowaway Sting

Strength Test

Sutek's Tomb

Swarm - The Bugs Strike Back

TNT Staff Smasher

Techo Says

Time Tunnel

Toy Box Escape

Tug 'O' War

Turmac Roll

Typing Terror

Tyrannian Mini Golf

Usuki Frenzy

The Usul Suspects

Volcano Run II

Warf Rescue Team

Web of Vernax

Whirlpool

Wicked Wocky Wobble

Word Pyramid

[sweetbottletops]

I know this was a serious chapter but I need to know Koga saw the RHCP at the LA Olympics closing ceremony event.

Ch 97

Right off the bat a flashback to Koga's panic attack. She really seems to shut down in these situation. It just shows how far she was determined to go to make up with Aya back in the misunderstanding blowout or how far way out of her comfort zone she went during the RHCP debacle. (second shout out)

(But remember she did speak up for Aya when Aya was desperate that time her friends were laughing off her enthusiasm for music. She's been slowly getting more confident over the past year.)

Loud Aya cuts through the noise again.

Aya wearing her emotions on her sleeve seems like a great touchstone for someone who seems to have trouble understandings the moods and actions of others.

I feel like several times over the series during big emotions moments she looks at Aya to ground herself. Aya gave words to how Koga was feeling again.

Aya might not write music and lyrics but she's extremely in tune.

This is Koga reaching back to her more than just a pinky finger promise.

So they are still using last names, but now Koga has leapt past several steps into full body hugs. Last time Aya saw Koga hug someone she had an existential crisis so allow her this Dungeon Meshi moment.

She's getting the words out. She didn't wrap it up into English lyrics Aya wouldn't understand this time either. The distance is shrinking. In fact they can't fit a bible between them. They are having their first slow dance.

This is more direct big feelings than she's ever gotten from Koga. She never could tell exactly how much space she could claim in her life. She just got confirmation what she did was right and where she should be is right with her that close. The uncertainty for now is over.

Now Aya is the one choked up and unable to speak.

I'm not saying a hug is better than a kiss, but the private, reciprocated, desperate hug like this hits right up there for me.

What we won't see is Aya returning to class looking like the Joker with her runny gyaru makeup.

(I'm going to be a little picky now, but I wish the scanlator would reorganize the sentence structure between the bubbles because talk like Yoda Koga does. He has done this all series, but these pages felt more awkward than most with the backwards sentence structure.)

Random, but I looked at the Amazon sales ranking for the english language vol 1 on 8/13...nice.

[mercurygray]

Hii Merc, could I please request #11. "the lover in the sky" for Fred and Brady? Thank you <3 — @shoshiwrites

Thanks for letting me take my time on this one, @shoshiwrites! I hope you don't mind Fred's having...a bit of a crisis.

There was a shiver in the air.

Fred hefted the empty coffee thermos into the back of the jeep, grateful that it had been a busy day and the thing was mostly empty. She was glad she'd thought to bring her tanker jacket, earlier - the warm one with the good zipper that fit nicely over her uniform coat. Summer was still cool, and night out on the tarmac cooler still. She'd left Ken and his crews with fresh coffee, the last of the day, and now it was time for home, and bath, and bed.

"Fred!" Lieutenant Brady's voice came up out of the rising dark. "What brings you out here?"

"Passing out the rest of the coffee. Ken said it was going to be a long night." She paused, and followed his eyes in the direction of the plane, Brady's Crash Wagon in large friendly letters on the side. (Everyone had heard that story, about how he'd brought the thing in from Greenland on no wheels, and they'd renamed it shortly after.) "I could ask you the same thing."

"Checking in on her," he said with a smile. "Looks pretty good, doesn't she?"

"I wouldn't know," Fred admitted with a good-natured shrug. "I've never been inside one." Not even for a little barnstorm, she wanted to add, before someone starting laughing about the absurdity of working at at airbase and never having actually been inside a plane. City girls don't take plane rides at county fairs - and Clubmobile women take boats to Europe.

Brady, however, wasn't laughing. "Do you want to?" he asked, sincere as anything. She snorted, and then realized he was serious, and shrugged in assent. "Are your fellows all done inside, Herb?" Brady asked, shouting under the belly towards the mechanic and his box of tools.

"It's your ship, Lieutenant," Herb said. "I'll leave the stairs out, for when you both need to come back down. You got a flashlight? It's getting mighty dark out here."

Brady waved his and Herb nodded and let them be, Brady steering her towards the tail of the plane and the hatch with its folded down stairs. "Here, you'd better take this," he said, handing over the flashlight, warm from his pocket. "Once you get up top, go along the gangway and watch your feet."

"Don't you want to go first?"

He shook his head. "Ladies first," he said, and waved her on forward.

It was dark, here in the tail of the fort, the only light the two large panels in the sides with their machine guns standing at the ready. She fumbled for a moment with the flashlight until it finally turned on, the small beam casting here and there over the inside of the plane. It felt like being inside the attic of an old house, seeing the ribs of the aircraft jutting out of the walls at regular intervals, the panel of the floor creaking as she made her way around the guns and the bubble of the turret and its enormous oxygen tank, carefully passing by a chair and radio to an even smaller gangway, and passing between an enormous empty space. "Bomb bay," she heard Brady say behind her. "Careful there, there's a step up past the turret. Go left once you're up there."

The step up was over a large opening that must have led to the nose - the light was slightly better down there. Fred hoisted herself up and tried not to move anything, flipping the flashlight off to appreciate the scene in the last bit of light from the sunset. All of this to put a piece of metal in the sky.

Brady climbed up into the right-hand seat, pleased as anything. "How on earth do you manage all of this all at once?" Fred said, trying to make sense of the buttons and switches, each with a name and label more arcane than the last.

"It's just practice," he offered, "A lot of flight hours. And there's a checklist we go through when we start - fuel levels, pumps, ignition switches. Then we pump and prime the engines and start them one by one. Put your hand here," he said, gesturing to the handle between the two seats. "When we're ready on the runway for takeoff, you'd push this forward -" his hand closed around hers on the double-handled throttle - "and away she goes."

She felt strangely powerful, her hand gripping the bar of the throttle, empowered by the feeling of his hand on top of hers. "So," he said. "What do you think?"

Fred looked out the windows once more. Around them the airfield was deep orange and purple, the sun nearly finished setting over the distant tops of the trees. They weren't all that high up, here in the cockpit, but it was still somehow both wonderful and strange to see the field from this height, and pick out the lights just starting to come on in the distance, the pairs of headlights winking and swerving out of the gates.

"Amazing," she said, her voice full of emotions she didn't know she had. All of this could go up into the sky, and fly and fight and come back down again. Day after day, week after week. Hundreds of men, in hundreds of planes, all of it part of one vast, uncountable effort, beautiful and yet terrible in its beauty.

She looked over at Brady, sitting sideways in the copilot's seat, one foot dangling over the door below, and didn't even have time to think about what was happening before he'd leaned over and kissed her right in the middle of her laughing lips.

Time stopped for a moment, and for a bare second it was only the two of them in the dark, breathing together, lips warm.

"You look so pretty now," he offered, almost breathless. And then his smile fell, and the light went out of his eyes. "Fred, please, say something."

There was pressure behind her temples, a high whine between her ears, a magneto that wasn't powering on. Words failed to connect. "…I think I need to leave."

She didn't quite know where she was going - she'd left the flashlight up front with him. She stumbled down out of the cockpit, taking the easiest route out and launching herself out of the pilot's door onto the dark ground below, the asphalt jarring her knees and eating into her hands.

Somewhere behind her she heard him call her name in the dark, but she was starting the jeep and fumbling it into first, hands shaking against the wheel and feeling like her whole heart was about to burst in her chest the same way she had in the cockpit, filled to the brim with the thought of all that love and all those lovers in the sky.

Her heart was still pounding when she parked and made her way back to the Clubmobile, leaning her forehead against its smooth, safe metal side. It's against the rules. This is against the rules. He kissed me. John Brady kissed me.

And the loudest, strongest thought of all - no one told us at training what to do when you don't know if you don't mind.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Climate anxiety means different things to different income groups. At the bottom, it means fear of heat and floods. At the top, it means fear of increasingly desperate people. Billionaires often live in protective bubbles maintained at a considerable cost in dollars and emissions. Some are preparing for “the event”, with plans for doomsday bunkers in New Zealand, Nevada and other remote areas. Others blast off the planet in private rockets and talk of colonising space. Instead of making every effort to reduce emissions, the rich increase their carbon footprint by putting more distance between themselves and the masses. The Oxfam report reveals that the decision-making classes who will dominate at Cop28 – senior politicians including US senators, British ministers and European commissioners – are also in the top 1% of income earners. Corporate CEOs, whose lobbyists also flock to Cop summits, are often wealthier and more heavily invested in carbon assets. Boardroom share options and bonus structures have created an incentive for oil company executives to resist climate action. Instead, they have successfully pushed for expansion of fossil fuel production. Dario Kenner, the author of Carbon Inequality, has identified what he calls a “polluter elite”: anyone with a net worth over $1m who reinforces the use of fossil fuel technologies through their high carbon consumption, investments in polluting companies and, most importantly, political influence. “The polluter elite have blocked an alternative history where the destruction of extreme weather events and air pollution could have been reduced,” he told the Guardian. The international climate negotiating process has failed to keep pace with the growing power of the super-rich. Thirty-one years ago, when the world first came together to tackle climate and biodiversity problems at the Rio de Janeiro Earth summit, there was optimism for a solution on behalf of billions of humans and the countless other forms of life on Earth. Since then, the opposite has happened. Governments remain deeply divided, 60% more emissions are being pumped into the atmosphere and more money, carbon and power is being concentrated in ever fewer hands. The solution to all this is complex but also very simple. Many believe that the key lies in politicians wresting back control of the climate issue with strong legislation and policy. Oxfam is calling for a wealth tax, and a windfall tax on corporations based on the “polluter pays” principle, placing the highest burden on those most responsible and most able to pay. “We need a political discourse that is class conscious, that recognises that the rich and capitalism are the major drivers of the climate crisis,” said Jason Hickel, an economic anthropologist at the London School of Economics and the author of The Divide: A Brief Guide to Global Inequality and its Solutions. “This is about bringing production – and provisioning systems and energy systems – under democratic control.”