#the longer this goes unanswered the more questions i have

[roxasboxas]

to this day i am still losing my mind over Ven being teased prior to his introduction with lines from Xigbar "He always used to give me that exact same look" (to Sora, who's got Ven's heart in) and "Why is it that you always have to glare at me like that/you always look at me like I killed your goldfish" (to Xion, who's got Ven's face on) and then when he's properly introduced in BBS the two have. one line of dialogue in terms of interaction.

and THEN. THEN KH3 is like "Xigbar is Luxu! From the keyblade war!" and we're like "oh so Luxu and Ventus are going to have interactions in KHUX then?" and the dev team is like "nope! :)" so to this day they still only have that one bit in BBS. what are you hiding Nomura whats their deal

[occamstfs]

Wouldn't It Be Funny?

Back again with a longer military tf, Hope you enjoy! - Occam

Curtis and Joseph were bored out of their minds. After growing disenchanted with university life the two were well into a gap year and have been finding progressively less stimulating ways to waste away their time. Without assignments piling up and biweekly mandatory lectures they were firmly adrift as the days of the week blur together. Curtis continues scrolling on his phone while Joseph, phone ever-so-recently dead, tries to think of anything to do while it charges back up.

“Wait! I think my brother left a stash of beer last time he visited!” Curtis looks up and squints at his friend, “the best thing you think we could be doing right now is day drinking alcohol your brother left here months ago?” Joseph makes a motion inviting Curtis to produce a better idea which goes unanswered as he rolls his eyes and gets up to accompany Joseph on this ignoble quest.

Joseph leads Curtis to the hall closet where he had apparently thrown everything his brother, Nick, had left after staying over for a couple weeks. There is some deodorant and other toiletries scattered about although the floor, first and foremost however, what catches Curtis’ eye is an army uniform laying in a heap, in the corner of the closet. There is just something about it. Any time he starts to move his attention away from it another question pops into his mind requiring a deeper inspection of the jacket. He wonders how durable the uniform actually is? It looks as if it's never been worn though he knows that Nick has certainly done some training in it. He simply must have a closer look.

Before he could act on that, the jacket he so craved was chucked at him as Joseph found his bottled quarry underneath. “Score! It’s almost full too, we can have two each and rock, paper, scissors over the last one.” Joseph heads to the kitchen well on his way to some palatable lukewarm beers as he continues to chat busily at Curtis. His roommate doesn’t hear him however as the only thing on his mind is the scratchy jacket in his arms. 

He almost blushes looking down and feeling it in his arms, quite a bit heavier than he thought it would be. Surely he should toss it back with the rest of Nick’s things but it’s such a nice jacket. Quite a shame it's gone so long just sitting in their unworn. Maybe he’d just toss it on as a prank. Yeah Joseph would love that, seeing his friend in this massive jacket. His body acts quicker than his mind though, swiftly putting it on, pulling the hem down to straighten it out and pulling the sleeves up so you can just see his hands out the end.

Curtis hears his friend opening bottles in the kitchen and grins as he pictures the look on Joseph’s face as he sees him wearing this. He zips it up and struggles to get wrinkles out of the pockets before the grand reveal. No reason to not try and look legit. For it to really be funny it needs to look good. As soon as the thought that this would be funny enters his mind however he has a sharp headache and groans. No longer able to recall the incongruity of the situation as he steps out to see his friend.

Rounding the corner Curtis quickly starts what is meant to be a comedically poor salute but instead executes one with the precision of a machine. This only heightens the comedy of it all from where Joseph is standing however, halfway through a bottle of beer he chokes and spits up the beer all over the counter. He takes a moment to recover from this waste of beer before looking up once more and laughing so hard he can’t stand up straight.

Curtis in turn clenches his fist hard enough to pop a joint as he feels aggressively defensive. Why is his friend laughing at him. His back tenses with more effort than he has sustained in months, and more strength then he has wielded in a lifetime, as he cannot let this slight go unreciprocated. “What’s so funny, Kid.” Joseph looks up to see Curtis with an expression of rage more genuine than any emotion he had seen of his friend in months. It is immediately met with a flinch and a recoil as Joseph can’t bring himself to his friends’ burning gaze, “Jesus Curtis is everything alright? I thought you were doing a joke?”

A Joke? Curtis’ neck spasms breaking him out of his statuesque posture and upon rubbing a neck more muscular than he thought possible, he remembers, of course he was doing a joke! Why else would he be wearing Nick's Jacket! Smiling as he remembers how good it landed, he heads over to his friend, “Sweet you already opened a bottle for me! What’s the move now, did you want to game?” 

Joseph, shell-shocked by this return to spirits, assumes that the whole thing was now some shit joke, hands his friend a beer and heads to set up his PS5, “sure whatever dude, can you get the lights?” Which Curtis quickly does, not noticing his arms definitively stretching much further out of the jacket than they should. Waiting for his friend to finish the setup Curtis paces behind the couch, each step louder than the last as he grows less careful of his footing and he continues to ever so slightly grow into this jacket.

“Can you chill dude?” 

“Oh! Sorry did-”  

“And why are you still wearing my brother’s jacket!”

“Your brothers-” Curtis pauses to look at the name stitched onto his chest and is also shocked that he’s wearing Nick’s jacket though decidedly not for the same reason that Joseph assumed. “Woah sorry kid? I guess I was cold? Do you want me to throw it back in the closet?”

“Just take it off dude! And stop calling me kid,” puffing as he sits back on the couch and starts to play some game Curtis feels like he should recognize before taking off the jacket and heading to put it in the closet. He scratches at his chin as he tries to work out what feels so off right now. Hanging up Nick’s jacket, sure not to leave any creases, he remembers that he’ll probably need to shave soon so he doesn’t get a mark at the next inspection, his rougher hands feeling around his sharper jaw to check the damage.

Returning to the living room he trips over what he assumes is his own feet but is embarrassed to find; Ah! It’s his jacket! Thank god he let his discipline slack here and not back at base. He picks it up as Joseph turns around hearing the stumble and begins to hurry him back before instead asking, “did you do something with your hair?” To which Curtis tilts his head like a dog before Joseph shouts once more, “Dude! Are you wearing my brother’s socks!?”

“No of course not they would never fit.” He says looking down to see the same army green socks he always wears, not Nick’s. “Well my feet do seem larger than I thought they were.” continuing as he bends down to inspect his feet, Joseph scrambles over to do similarly, though neither notices as they slowly inch even larger across the carpet. Instead Joseph is immediately thrown for a loop hearing a loud groan from his friend as he stands back up. Now almost a head taller than he was before bending down.

“Fuck dude you’re so tall!” Joseph reaches up to put his hands on his friend’s shoulders. Curtis was always taller, a fact Joseph was already none too pleased with, but this was ridiculous. He almost has to strain and as he does finally get his arms up he immediately finds thick traps under his friend’s strained shirt, “Asshole! Have you been working out without me!?” 

“Of course not. When would I? Or who would I even-”

“I mean, with recruiters right?” Joseph offers forth without the thought even consciously entering his mind. It made no sense to him but it was true. Suddenly it's as if some form of static fills the minds of both the men, a warm static buzzes through Curtis’ mind and body as he starts to unconsciously put the newly reclaimed uniform back on himself. Joseph experiences something far harsher in his own mind, the static is unbearably cold and punishing. He claws at his head, no longer able to hold two ideas of who Curtis is in his mind. And it is clear which reality is prevailing as Curtis slides his thicker arms into the jacket, flexing to make sure his uniform is fitting just right.

As he begins to zip up the jacket his pecs begin to make themselves well more than apparent. His decidedly larger nipples poking out as the apparently nylon shirt hugs his defined chest and he struggles to get the zipper closed without being uncomfortably tight on his pecs before deciding to just leave it unzipped for now. “Why would I be working with recruiters, lil’ dude?” He looks confused at his friend, or his friend’s little brother? Before smirking and seizing the chance, “If anything you’re the one who should be working with them, gotta be bigger than that to join up with us!”  He puts a hand on Joseph’s head messing with his hair, jolting Joseph back to this new reality.

“Curtis! Do you not think something weird is happening here!”

“Oh? Did your brother not tell you I go by Curt?”

“My brother? Fuck dude! It’s his jacket! You’re wearing his jacket again!”

“Ah no lil’ dude this one here is mine, check it!”

Joseph looks at the clear name tag on his chest clear as day with Curt’s last name on it, not noticing as he seamlessly uses Curt’s apparent preferred name. Instead he stares at a symbol over the center of Curt’s chest clearly also different than the one on his brother’s uniform. Curt smirks as he points to it himself, “Impressed kid? I’m already a Private First Class, not too hard to outpace Nick though. I mean love the guy but come on! Show some hustle! We enlisted together for a reason dude!”

Suddenly Joseph feels that this statement was a bridge too far. He feels a pit in his chest as he feels he has just lost something greater than he can understand going to slap the exemplar of a man in front of him, “Snap out of it!” Before even nearing a strike however his wrist is snatched out of the air and held fast above his head. Curt stares daggers into Joseph at this sign of aggression, this challenge. His eyes darken as his stubble grows out even more. Joseph feels Curt’s grip grow even darker watching as the hair on his arms darkens spreading out from the sleeves. He brings in Nick’s little bro closer to his face as his warm, heaving breaths distract Joseph from the pain in his upheld wrist before he lets go and guffaws, “You’ve gotta be quicker than that kid if you want to enlist with us! Where is your brother anyway? ‘S why I came over right?”

Joseph is perplexed as Curt lets him go, also unsure as to why this mammoth of a man is in his living room. They are quickly assuaged as Curt gets a text from Nick. “Oh you need a ride did ya kid? No problem! He just wants you to bring over the jacket he left over here and we’ll head on out.” Curt struggles to shove his feet in his combat shoes before finding himself distracted as the shoes push out to fit his ever larger feet.

Joseph’s mind remains a battlefield but it is clear which side is soon to rout as he heads to the closet where he just wanted to grab some beer. Inside he finds not only his brother's jacket, expertly hung, but a second one that looks almost supernaturally comfortable. He pauses before reaching out, feeling an existential aversion to the jacket hanging in his closet. before there’s a brisk breeze through the house and he shivers. Joseph quickly grabs his brothers and slides into the latter jacket, a tad too big but the world around him feels much warmer now that he has it on.

After suiting up Joseph quickly rushes back to his brother’s friend, quite wanting to make a good impression on the private first class. As he rushes his footsteps quickly grow in volume as his tennis shoes thicken into pristine combat shoes and grow far wider as his feet race to keep up, filling their increased space. Barely avoiding tripping over his now massive feet, he sees that Curt is of course not a private at all but his Corporal, as he freezes and salutes. His biceps straining his sleeves as his stained white shirt begins to slowly make room for the soldier’s expanding muscle. “At ease Joe, Let’s go ahead and head on out.”

Curt leads Joe out to his lifted truck and has him get in before loading a few more things into the bed of his truck. There is a load of clearly dirty towels in the back seat as Curt clearly has an issue bringing in laundry after his workouts. Although he doesn’t make it a habit of driving recruits so it’s not usually an issue. Sitting in the musky cabin does immediately cause issues for Joe however, as he puts the seatbelt on he feels his body start to expand in every direction it can. His pecs push against both his shirt and the seatbelt. He pulls his tight shirt down, straining it to the brim as he feels a sudden itch in his crotch. His hand already down there and finding it impossible to bring his attention anywhere else he sees his bulge push out, almost doubling in size as he scratches his increasingly overgrown pubes. He struggles to cover the impossible to miss bulge forcing his brother’s jacket over his crotch, the added pressure and warmth overwhelms him as Curt notices from outside

Curt watches as his new recruit’s shoulders broaden and his jaw widens. He slightly shifts in his seat, almost gyrating, running the hand not shoved in his pants through his hair, leaving behind a respectable high and tight demanded of any respectable recruit.

Curt slowly opens the door giving the recruit the briefest of chances to at least perform decency. Immediately wrenching the hand from his pants to salute, shouting “Sir!” towards his Corporal, eyes growing deathly serious as he touches a visibly sweat covered hand to his brow. Curt’s eyes glint as he notices the action flung Nick’s jacket off and exposed Joe’s still expanding bulge and unzipped pants. The two feel a hunger starting to grow in their chests as Curt hops into the driver's seat. Adjusting his rear view as he juts up once more in height, his jacket making it apparent to all he is now a sergeant, Curt begins to drive off towards the base. 

Curt puts his hand on Joe’s inner thigh, overstimulating the private who roughly clenches his jaw trying to keep it together. He feels pre start to soak through Joe’s fatigues as he starts to rub his thigh. Grunting as he too feels a powerful stirring in his crotch, his cock forcing itself further down his leg. “Wouldn’t want to stop at my place first, would ya’ Joe?” Joe stares at the sergeant ahead of him with a lust deeper than the can understand, and a hunger to grow even larger. Curt chuckles, “gotta release some of this energy before we break the new to Nick anyway.” He turns his car and begins to race towards his apartment on the base. 

As the heat in the car begins to fog up the windows the two men could not remember anything besides who they were since joining the army. After an anything but quick fuck, they would get back to work on the base. Curt distracts himself as he commands his troops and Joe gets ready for his promotion ceremony, ready to rub it in his brother’s face that he was already going to be higher ranked. The two follow orders flawlessly as they always have, performing their duties with rigor. The only thing more present on their minds than dedication to their fellow soldiers being the excitement for the next time they are to fuck.

[hairmetal666]

It starts in Eddie's second senior year, close to the beginning of the semester. Eddie's in trig (again). He's good at math, but Mundy fucking sucks, always giving Eddie shit for breathing, or his shoes squeaking on the linoleum, or whatever, and he ends up with detention most days. So, he hardly ever shows and can't be bothered to do the homework, even though he knows the answers more often than not.

On this particular day, Mundy is in a bad mood, on Eddie's case way more than normal. In the heat of frustration, Eddie scrawls, "I fucking hate this class" on a scrap of notebook paper, and for reasons he can't begin to explain, leaves it folded on the window ledge. He doesn't think anyone will answer; fully expects the paper to be gone come morning with maybe another detention slip under his belt to show for it. He's a little flabbergasted, the next day, when the note is still there, and loses his mind a little when he sees the words "tell me about it" underneath his first message. He doesn't recognize the handwriting, sloping and a little looped, and for most of the class period, he's too bemused to respond. Right before the final bell rings he scrawls, "trig. You?" He leaves the paper on the ledge again. "Algebra 2 :(" is the response.

They keep it up, just a few words at first, before Eddie accidentally doodles on the page, and the other guy scribbles a hasty formula, the math spectacularly wrong. There's a little arrow leading to the words, "this shit sucks." Eddie re-writes the formula with the correct math, leaving careful notations of how and why. The next day he sees, "Shit, dude, I totally get this now. Mundy should retire and let you take over." Which pleases Eddie down to his core.

The messages get longer, nothing super personal, but complaints about life, math help, Eddie's silly little doodles, bad jokes, the slightly lewd drawings typical of teen boys. Eddie's never had a better attendance record in his life, but there are some days where his notes are left unopened. Most remarkably a couple week period before Thanksgiving, where he goes unanswered for so long he figures whatever thing they had going is done. But after the holiday, the notes start up again, with no acknowledgement they ever stopped. Eddie doesn't bother questioning it.

They keep it up almost all year, and they're definitely friends, even though they're totally anonymous. And that wouldn't have changed, except it's the day before spring break and Eddie's vibrating out of his skin with anticipation of the time off, so he forgets his dnd notebook in Mundy's class. He makes it all the way to Click's before he realizes, then sprints back across the school. He crashes through Mundy's door, tripping a little over his own feet.

"Sorry," he pants. "I just left--" he looks over to his desk, far corner right by the window, and then forgets every word he's ever known because Steve Harrington Steve Harrington King Steve, stares right back at him. And he just. He stops and fucking laughs, because all this time--this whole goddamn year--it's been Harrington he exchanged notes with. And sure, the jock's star has fallen in the last few months, with the breakup with Nancy and all that shit with Hargrove, but it's still Steve Harrington. With his big house and his fancy car and his girls. It's pretty Steve Harrington, the focus of Eddie's most hopeless daydreams.

He has a few seconds to see Harrington's hazel eyes go wide, before Eddie spins on his heel and makes a hasty exit. He absolutely doesn't spend the break thinking about the notes, matching what Harrington wrote with the gossip Eddie heard on him from the past few months.

Once break ends, he doesn't bother going to Mundy's class at all.

The Friday of the first week back, Eddie walks out to his van, only to find King Steve leaning up against it. He's doing that obnoxious thing where he has one leg bent, foot resting against the side panel, arms crossed over his chest, stupid hair falling in glorious cascades around his face. It's ridiculously, unfairly attractive.

"What do you want?" Eddie asks. He opens his front door without fully looking at Steve.

"Can we talk?"

Eddie snorts, "what could you and I possibly have to talk about."

Steve narrows his eyes. It's so bitchy and so fucking cute it makes Eddie queasy. "You know what."

"Enlighten me, Harrington."

"C'mon, man, the notes!"

"What about them?

"Don't be stupid, Munson, you know what. Why'd you stop?"

Eddie pulls a pack of camels and his lighter out of his jacket pocket. "Lost its appeal once I knew who was on the other side. Surprised you even want to keep it up now that you know you've been writing to the freak."

He pointedly ignores the little jolt Harrington gives at that, like the words hurt. Which is pretty rich from Steve Harrington, former #1 bully of Hawkins High.

"I've always known it was you," he says.

"You don't--wait what?"

I've known since, like, the first week, Munson."

"How??"

"What do you mean 'how,' dude, you're always drawing little pentagrams and d20's. Writing the word "Slayer" over and over. Who else would it be?"

And he can't even deal with the fact that Harrington knows what a d20 is (what the fuck) with everything else the other boy just said.

"I gotta go," is his only response. He ducks into his van, slamming the door basically in Harrington's face, before peeling out of the parking lot.

✏️✏️✏️✏️

It's the last day of school. Eddie's failed again. His grades, which weren't great to begin with, took a sharp nosedive after spring break, and he just can't wait to be done with this place for a few months. Harrington hasn't spoken to him again, and Eddie tries his hardest to ignore the other boy (aside from seeing him hanging out with Robin Buckley, a junior and a band geek, besides, and he forcibly has to remind himself that he doesn't care what Harrington does).

He slouches into his last math class of the year, slumping over in his seat. He rests his head on his desk, eyes blankly staring out the window as Mundy talks about what a joy most of them were to have in class. His eyes are unfocused, he contemplates a nap, and then he sees it. The tightly folded piece of paper resting on the window ledge.

Eddie almost doesn't take it. He almost ignores it, but he physically can't stop himself for reaching for it, unfolding it, staring at Harrington's now familiar handwriting.

Hey man, I'm pretty sure I fucked things up with us, and I owe you an apology. I've always known who you were, but you had no idea I was me. Buckley helped me see how that maybe freaked you out a little. I know I used to be a piece of shit. But I'm better--or I'm trying to be. And I'm so fucking sorry for the shit I did to you before and the things I didn't bother to stop. You don't owe me forgiveness, but you should know that I regret all of it. I liked passing notes with you. You made me laugh, and I don't know. It was nice to think someone liked me for reasons other than that I'm Steve Harrington, or whatever. I'd really like it if we could be friends. I get if you can't do that or don't want to.

Whatever the note actually ended with is scribbled out in pen so thick Eddie can't make it out.

All day he thinks about the note, the apology, all of it. Eddie thinks, if he's smart, he won't forgive Harrington. That he knows better than to trust him. But Eddie's never actually been that smart in this way, so he's not totally surprised to find himself walking to Steve's car after the last bell rings.

This time, Eddie's the one with his foot resting on the side panel of Steve's BMW, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't have to wait long before Harrington makes his way to the car, chestnut hair dancing in the breeze, biceps on display in a short-sleeve polo. A little smile dances across his lips when he spots Eddie.

"So, you gonna tell me how you know what a d20 is, Harrington, or do I have to guess?" Eddie offers the other boy a cigarette.

"Babysitting?

"Babys--Are you serious??" Eddie splutters. Steve Harrington babysits. Steve Harrington babysits little dnd playing nerds. Steve Harrington wants to be his friend.

A full grin spreads across Steve's perfect face and Eddie is absolutely, 100%, fucked.

(Part 2)

(Steddie Notes is now posted in full on ao3!)

[buckyalpine]

Catch Me If You Can 2/3

Mob!Bucky x single mom police officer

I am so happy you all loved these two so here is more from this AU. I had the story half in mind but wasn’t sure if people would feel it, once again, LMK if you want more! 

Warnings: fluffffff, single mom reader, crappy ex, Mob Bucky is a whole ass warning 

Part 1

Part 3 

-

You woke up to the smell of fresh coffee, sun pouring in the giant room, your body still aching from the night before but the peaceful rest proved to be helpful. You smiled at the steaming cup that sat by your bedside table, picking up the hand drawn card that was placed beside it; giant heart coloured red was in the middle with the words Get Well Soon decorated in bold letters. You grinned, opening the card to read your sons hand writing. 

Dear mommy,

Get well soon. Uncle Bucky says he took good care of you and that you’ll arrest him once you’re all better. He bought me a kinder egg. He seems nice. Maybe give him a running head start. 

Love and kisses and cuddles,

Jordan 

PS: Can we stay a little longer? Peter is still trying to beat me in Mario Kart

On the side of the card were a bunch of other messages, each signed by Bucky’s men. You shook your head at the signatures, your son having asked every one of Bucky’s men to sign the card, well wishes from them all scattered across the paper. A knock at the door broke you away from the card as Bucky peeked in, happy to see you were awake. 

“Where did he get art supplies” You snorted, while Bucky walked in, carrying a tray of eggs and toast. You whispered a quiet thank you as he set it down for you, taking a seat by the edge of the bed. 

“Had Steve pick some up” Bucky couldn't help but chuckle, remembering the way your son had asked him to sign the card before proceeding to go around the house with a glittery pen. 

“He loves to draw” you hummed, tracing over the bright, colourful letters on the smooth paper, the materials clearly from a higher quality art store. As nice as everything was at the moment, tension lingered in the air; the question of how you ended up in this position in the first place still left unanswered. 

“What happened” Bucky spoke softly while you turned away not meeting his gaze. Your jaw clenched as your hand skimmed over the bandage that covered your gash, a dull ache still radiating through your side. 

“It was-nothing” You lied poorly, unsure of to explain the situation to Bucky of all people, “Just some people trying to scare me” 

He didn’t believe it for a second. 

“This was personal doll” Bucky tilted your chin to meet his eyes, knowing damn well even some of the more unruly gang members in the area wouldn’t dare attack a police officer in their home, especially when they had a child. “Who hurt you”

“It doesn’t matter” You shook your head feeling helpless, knowing the problem wasn’t something you’d ever be able to easily get rid of. Bucky chewed his lip, deciding not to press the matter further but he couldn’t help the curiosity that still picked his brain. 

“Jordan came to me...didn’t call 911″ He cocked his head, wondering why your son would chose to come to  his club over easily calling 911 to help you, something you would have surely taught him. (Especially after he had kidnapped him...)

“He goes to people he can trust” You stated, nibbling on the toast, groaning at the grin that spread across Bucky’s face, “Don’t get it twisted, that doesn't mean I trust you” 

“Of course, officer” 

God, he was such a little shit. You hated the way his charming laugh made your insides giddy along with the way he was taking care of both you and your son. As if he could read your thoughts on que, he spoke before you could mentioning leaving. “Stay a little longer”

“Bucky-”

He shook his head, not letting you speak further, urging you to finish breakfast instead. 

“Your home was compromised, the locks were broken off. Let Sam and Steve clear some stuff up a bit and reinstall some new locks. They’re on it right now” 

You wanted to protest but you also knew there was no arguing with him, if all past encounters with his illegal antics proved anything. When he set his mind to something, he did it. This was one of the few times you were secretly happy he was so hard headed. 

“Alright” You smiled softly, cocking your brow at the smirk that danced on his lips immediately after. 

“Can’t promise I won’t give myself a spare, doll” Bucky winked leaving you to finish eating and rest up while he quietly made his way out to make sure your house was taken care of. 

As promised, Sam and Steve had gone above and beyond, cleaning and patching up all the damages, including replacing the broken photo frames that were smashed to bits. The locks they added were far stronger than the ones you had from the Home Depot, clearly purchased from somewhere you had no idea existed. Bucky had dropped you home along with a very excited Jordan who felt like he had Christmas twice this year, hauling bags of art supplies behind him.

“Y’know this changes nothing” You reminded him,  your cheeks warming up at the way he bit his lip, giving you a cocky smirk. 

Little shit. 

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, doll” 

*****

As expected, gang activity was back up and you were back to your job of investigating the latest nonsense Bucky was up to. You seemed to still be the only one concerned about stopping what he was doing while the rest of the department pretended not to see a damn thing. Most of the day would alternate between you trying to do your job and being told to lay off the mob boss. 

The worst was the little traitor that lived under your own roof. 

“Uncle Bucky is kinda like Batman” Jordan stated while you gave him a pointed look, continuing to make him breakfast which now consisted of scrambled eggs and toast, just like how uncle Bucky makes them. 

“Explain”  You knew you were going to regret asking as soon as it came out of your mouth.

“Well, he’s rich. Very rich. He likes to help people. He wears a suit. He stops the bad guys”

“He is a bad guy Jordan” You had your hands on your hip, challenging Bucky’s latest swimfan. 

“But the badder guys! That has to count for something” He peeked at you with hopeful eyes before turning back to his toast, nervously poking at it. “Can I play with Peter?” 

“Peter” You frowned, not remembering any of Jordan’s friends with that name. “Peter who?”

“Paarkerr” He drawled out, blinking up at you while you connected the pieces together, your eyes growing wide. 

“Absolutely not” 

“But moooom” Jordan gave you his best puppy pout, “None of the kids in my class are as good, you told me I should challenge myself” 

“That doesn’t mean you find competition in the house of the Mafia, Jordan!” You scoffed while he slumped his shoulders, hopping off his chair to get ready for school. You knew he was guilting you, acting as if you had refused to feed him for the rest of his life, staring out the car window like a sad puppy on his way to the pound. You kissed him goodbye, promising him you’d “think about it” before driving over to the prescient, most of the day filled with paperwork, a part of your actually thinking about letting Jordan play video games with Peter before you shook some sense back into your head. 

Just because he saved you once didn’t mean you had to let your son play with his junior henchmen. 

*****

You sipped on some tea as evening rolled around after helping Jordan with homework, the rest of his night spent using the newest fancy art supplies he’d gotten. You no longer paid attention to the show on TV, frowning at the unmarked truck that had circled the block twice. Then three times. You carefully reached for a gun tucked under the sofa and stood by the side of the window just out of sight. The SUV came to a stop near your driveway; uncalled for butterflies erupting in your tummy when you realized who it was. 

Bucky stepped out of the truck while you opened the door, your son much quicker than you, slipping past your arm and darting straight outside. 

“Uncle Bucky!!” Jordan grinned, bounding towards the all black SUV, ignoring your calls for him to slow down, maybe not run with so much passion and admiration for a man who had once kidnapped him and taken care of you and nursed you back to health and changed your locks and why the hell were you feeling hot and fuzzy right now. 

“Hey kid” Bucky smiled while you huffed, making your way over, poorly masking the smile that tugged at your lips. 

“Did you get lost Barnes, or were you here to kidnap me today instead?” You teased while Jordan slipped back into the truck to talk to his second favorite “Uncle” Steve. 

“You wound me doll, y’know, I’m not just a heartless gang leader” his facial expression almost the exact same as what Jordan had given you earlier. “Just came to see how you were” He said sincerely, not realizing his heart rate had calmed as soon as he saw you and your little one safe in your home. 

“We’re safe” You nodded, your heart fluttering at the way his gaze softened, scanning the area just to be sure there wasn’t anyone he didn’t recognize lingering near by. 

“Good to know” Bucky murmured, giving you a once over before getting back in the truck and leaving for the night. He didn’t like that he was still in the dark over what your story was. He didn’t like not knowing who hurt you; they were still out there and it made him sick. You didn’t deserve that. Jordan didn’t deserve that. You didn’t need to know that he had done some digging, learning a bit more about you but not enough to get answers. 

You also didn’t need to know that his unannounced visits were more frequent that you realized, sometimes a car circling around Jordan’s school, sometimes a quick roll around the block at midnight. 

Steve and Sam were only able to contain themselves for so long, making their own betting pool over how this would all end. 

They hoped it’d end with them getting a nephew. 

Maybe one day. 

*****

6 missed calls

4 voicemails

100+ text messages

Your jaw clenched watching your phone ring again, the No Caller ID screen shining bright as you ignored the call. Of course you still had the other issue to deal with. One that you had kept hidden ever since you moved to the city. One that had followed and found you over and over again, even after you managed to change your number and address.

The nightmare never stopped.

“You gonna get that? Someone’s been trynna to reach you all day” Your boss piqued as he walked by, curiously eyeing your phone that had been ringing the entire morning and afternoon, eventually muffled when you stuffed it in your bag.  

“It’s fine” You gave him a tight lipped smile, waiting for him to pass by before calling your son’s school and making sure he was still there, informing them to not let anyone else pick him up but you. 

As you drove home with him, you were on edge, your nerves ready to snap, heart rate spiking erratically. Jordan chatted your ear off about how he was still the reigning champion of his video game but you couldn’t help but feel a sense of uneasiness, the same feeling you got the day Bucky rescued you. The same day you were attacked. 

You just knew. 

The front door was still locked as you inserted the key. 

The lights were all still turned off.

But you knew. 

The hairs on your neck stood up as soon as you entered your home, the smell of alcohol enough for you to know who was already inside.

“Babycheeekss” 

Your stomach flipped, the blood in your veins turning into ice as he stepped out from the shadows, his feet crunching over the glass from the window he had broken into. 

Not again. 

“Baby, go upstairs” you whispered to your son, who was reluctant to leave your side, refusing to look at the man that was supposedly his father. You nudged him, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze urging him to leave; the last thing you needed was for him to be further traumatized. Jordan shakily made his way up, stopping at the top of the stairs so he’d still be able to see you, reaching for the baseball bat he had kept by his room. 

Uncle Bucky would be proud of me, he thought, his small hands tightening around the handle, fiercely protective over his mama. 

“Why are you here” You hissed, flashbacks clouding your mind over the way he had broken into your house and didn’t take no for an answer. 

He’d rather have you dead than live peacefully single. 

“To see my son” Your ex shrugged, taking another casual step towards you while you backed up, slowly reaching for your gun. “I mean, he is my son, isn’t he? Unless you think there’s reason to believe he isn’t” Andrew sneered, while you scoffed, your hands trembling, hoping Jordan was safe in his room before you drew your weapon. The last thing you needed was for him to get hurt while protecting the both of you. 

Before you could do anything,  the front door swung open with a bang, your ex’s eyes growing wide, frozen in place, focused on the man that was now behind you. 

You turned around, gasping at the soft baby blue eyes that were peering down at you, his pink lips this time with a deep frown instead of his typical boyish smirk. Bucky gently tugged your arm, pulling you behind him, keeping you far away from your ex who was staring daggers at the both of you. 

“What the fu-”

“Stay away from her” Bucky growled while you ex scoffed, taking a step forward instead. 

“And who the hell are you? Her latest fuck? A new boytoy to play with?” Your ex challenged, unable to hide the quiver in his voice. If not for the seriousness of the situation, Bucky would have laughed. It was a valid question. Who was he to you anyway?

“Mommy?” Jordan padded down the stairs, instantly rushing to your side, his worries washing away when he saw who had come to the rescue. 

“Stay upstairs Jordan” You tried to urge him back upstairs but he stayed rooted in place, not willing to leave if there was someone trying to hurt you. 

“Let me see my son-” Andrew tired to take a step forward but Bucky wasn't having any of it, keeping the both of you behind him, and pushing your ex away. 

“Don’t” Bucky growled, keeping his itching hands away from his gun. It would have taken him all but 1 second to put a bullet between Andrews eyebrows and have the body disposed of within the half hour but he didn’t want to either of you to have to witness that. 

“Hey bud” Your ex tried to reach out for Jordan again, hoping he’d get some leverage if he got him in his hands. “C’mon, you missed me, didn’t ya?” 

Jordan trembled, his small hand clutching onto the back of Bucky’s suit jacket, the other still holding his bat. He shook his head, tightening his grip when he saw the anger flash across his fathers eyes. Bucky reached behind, taking your hand in his, holding it firmly in his grip hoping to ground you. 

“Leave” Bucky stared at your ex, nodding towards the door, giving him a final warning to leave with his life. Andrew glared at him before narrowing his eyes at you and Jordan while he silently left, the look he gave you telling you this wouldn’t be the last time he’d see you. Or so he thought. 

As soon as he was out the door, Bucky immediately turned to you, his hand cupping your face, scanning you up and down for any signs of injury, his features softening when he didn’t see anything. 

“You’re coming with me” Bucky stated, taking your hand in his again, ignoring the way his heart was still beating out of his chest. You wanted to argue against it but you didn’t feel safe in your own home and a hotel didn’t exactly seem like a safer option. 

Perhaps sleeping with the enemy wasn’t so bad...

At least sleeping at his house. 

You cocked an eyebrow, glancing at the door that was perfectly in tact, no signs of a forced entry from when Bucky entered the house. How the hell did he get in. 

“How did you-”

“Told you I’d make myself a spare” Bucky grinned, twirling a small gold key between his fingers, itching to wrap his arms around you. He squeezed his hand to his side instead, letting you go up to pack some things to take to his place while he waited for you outside. 

-

You had agreed to stay at his place until the window as fixed and a security system was installed throughout your house.

Then you agreed to stay for an additional week just to be safe.

Then that turned into two weeks to make sure Jordan was extra safe. 

Then that turned into three weeks while Bucky took care of business. He didn’t tell you what that meant but he promised you’d never have to worry about Andrew again. 

The nature of your relationship was confusing.

You spent time with Bucky, sometimes with Jordan and sometimes all by yourself while both boys ditched you to do something that would probably leave you reeling. There had even been a number of times where Bucky himself had gone to pick up Jordan from school, your little one more than happy to ride in the huge dark truck, any chance he got. 

You had no idea what to do with yourself, screaming internally on a daily basis, wondering why someone who did 101 illegal things a day made you feel giddy, feel safe, feel butterflies, all while quietly tossing a body off into the lake. 

It didn’t matter what you felt. 

It didn’t matter than his charming smile made you melt.

It didn’t matter than he took care of you in every way possible, not once looking at you in a way that was disrespectful. 

Nothing mattered. 

You were both still too different for anything to happen. 

Sweet as Bucky was, nothing would happen between the both of you.

That's just how things had to be. 

You reminded yourself that every night, whenever Jordan rambled on for hours over how much fun he had with uncle Bucky, how he taught him self defense, bought him more art supplies, beat Peter at video games again, got used as a human volley ball between uncle Steve and Sam. 

That's just how things had to be.

Then why were you still in his house. 

- 

“I don’t think I like the name Uncle Bucky anymore” 

“You don’t, huh?” Bucky smirked at his little side kick, your son no longer paying attention to his homework which he now often did in Bucky’s office. He took a sip from his apple house, swirling the ice around the glass cup just as Bucky did with his whiskey, taking another long drag before setting it down. 

“We look alike” Jordan stated, looking up at the mob boss while they both sat on the office couch, neither of them focused on their work anymore. Jordan reached over for the kinder egg that sat on the table, a treat Bucky had bought him for doing well on his math test. 

“We do” Bucky nodded, while Jordan smiled in satisfaction, munching on the chocolate, scooting over a little closer to Bucky. 

“Some people say you look like my dad” He spoke a little more quietly this time, inching closer until he was pressed against Bucky’s side. 

“Uh-huh” Bucky watched Jordan curiously while he assembled the toy, chewing on his bottom lip. 

“Sooo...”

“Soo?” Bucky waited for him to continue while Jordan fidgeted with his kinder egg toy, his eyes now trained on his lap, worried about what the answer would be. 

“Can I call you dad instead?” His voice was small, wavering slightly, unsure how Bucky would react. He held his breath, not daring to look anywhere else, hoping his request wouldn’t upset the mob boss. He didn’t need to know that he’d already been calling Bucky dad in his head for a while.

What would da-uncle Bucky say? 

Tags: @glxwingrxse @hungryyeyess @sebsgirl71479 @beabutterfly987 @teambarnes72 @witchywhore @jamesbuckybarneswify @slutforsexyseabass @chrisdrysdale @littlemarvelmenfan @buggy14 @whimsyplaty92 @sergntbarnes @inkedaztec @pono-pura-vida @moonlightreader649 @brooklynscherry-z @elle14-blog1 @justsebstan @littlelightnings @happyt0exist @emmabarnes @bethyruth @matchat3a @cjand10 @getwellsoontana @cherryschaos @lokisasgardianvampirequeen @ashenc-blog @buckybarnessimpp @potatothots @goldylions @high-functioning-lokipath @morganemorganite-blog @kingfleury @peaches1958 @spiderman-stilinski @peaceinourtime82 @gublur @wintersmelodie @geeky-politics-46 @lolawassad @almosttoopizza @a-poor-gryffindork @alternativeprincess @buckycallsmeaslut @kamaria-sweet-writes @charmedbysarge @xnorthstar3x @kryoee7 @alina02 @gh0stgurl @polishprincess999 @jessybarnes @alltheficsiwant @chemtrails-club @eralen @perdidosbucky-yyo @clqrosmgc   @buckybarnessweetheart   @pandaxnienke   @manyfandomsfanvergent

[januaryembrs]

LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO MASTERLIST

DESCRIPTION: She’s all Steven can think about in between the missing days and the American man inside his head. When Harrow’s jackals leaves Marc with a difficult choice, his hectic life is spun out of control as Seth, God of Violence and Chaos, comes to reap his reward in the form of a woman from Soho with a dark past and a crush on Steven Grant. (Lightly inspired by Last Night in Soho dir. Edgar Wright)

TRIGGER WARNINGS: (specific warnings at the beginning of each chapter) 18+ DARK PAST. Sex trafficking/prostitution. Grooming. Explicit. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Abuse ex-boyfriend/lover, death, murder, gore, drug use. Any smut written will be consensual sex only, but there will be some implication to dubcon content. PLEASE CHECK WARNINGS BEFORE YOU READ. AGAIN MINORS DNI. * = smut warning

STEVEN GRANT & MARC SPECTOR X (EVENTUAL) AVATAR!READER. Friends to lovers trope (Steven Grant) Sunshine x Grumpy trope (Marc Spector), Light smut, explicit language, no use of Y/N, goes by nickname Dove. I ADORE LAYLA EL-FAOULY so she is still in the narrative but as Dove’s reluctant friend. Female!reader. AFAB!reader. I am English and do not have DID but have tried my best to do all the research I could on the themes I talk about (Ancient Egyptian culture/history/language. Experiencing DID etc) but if I am misinformed and offend anyone, know I am truly sorry and am more than happy to hear anyone’s corrections in my inbox and will do my best to fix it!

main masterlist

CHAPTER ONE - Steven finds his life slowly turning upside down when the man in the mirror starts talking back, he's sleepwalking all the way to the Alps, and the woman he's besotted with from work finds herself more caught up in all of it than he'd ever wanted.

CHAPTER TWO - She wakes up with a killer headache and a million questions when she realises two things: 1. the man in her room is not infact Steven Grant and 2. her body no longer belongs to her but to the God of Death.

CHAPTER THREE - With Marc and Steven captured by Harrow's men, Layla has no choice but to work with her ex-husbands mistress to get them and the scarab to safety. But things take a turn when Seth comes to reap his reward.

CHAPTER FOUR - Dove wakes up in Steven’s apartment for the second time covered in blood with only one thing on her mind. What the hell happened last night?

CHAPTER FIVE - Marc and Dove adjust to their new mission: catch Harrow before he can release Ammit and for the love of gods don’t let Seth have the body again.

CHAPTER SIX - Summoning a council with the gods sound easy enough, right? Except the man on trial knows the dark secret she has yet to tell Marc.

CHAPTER SEVEN - Marc, his ex-wife and his supposed mistress head to Mogart’s to find Senfu’s sarcophagus, whatever could go wrong when the god of Chaos wants to be involved?

CHAPTER EIGHT - Dove, Marc and Layla escape Mogart’s with only more dead ends and questions unanswered. They’re running out of time before Harrow reaches the tomb, but one thing keeps sticking in Layla’s head more than the rest. Why does Dove look so guilty?

CHAPTER NINE * - Layla, Steven and Dove set off towards Ammit’s tomb across the dunes, only Steven and Dove have a heavy confession they’ve each been meaning to make.

CHAPTER TEN - Marc finds out the truth about Dove, and pays the mortal price.

CHAPTER ELEVEN -

CHAPTER TWELVE -

CHAPTER THIRTEEN -

CHAPTER FOURTEEN -

CHAPTER FIFTEEN -

Comment or send an ask to be tagged in new chapters!

[catbread0]

Hi!! It's so rare to see someone writing for this obscure fandom, I have so many request ideas lol... May I request 2007 anime Kusuriuri with a fem or gender-neutral reader who likes to draw him? Like they have an entire sketchbook full of drawings of him. Thank you kindly!

Kusuriuri (2007) x Fem Reader

Thank you for the request! I hope this is to your liking. Forgive me if it's not and I apologize for any grammar mistakes.

Enjoy reading! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ♡

Words: 644

Pure fluff

Mononoke (2007) Masterlist

Emphasis

There you were, nose-deep focused on that sketchbook of yours, drawing your colleague once again. But could you blame yourself?

Your colleague was a peculiar person. When someone would ask what his name was, he would always respond with a calming tone.

“I’m just a medicine vendor.”

Many people refer to him as Kusuriuri, a Japanese word for medicine seller. As bewildering as it is not to have a name, the way he stands out with his outfit and his appearance.

You yourself don’t even know if it’s makeup or if it’s permanent, so many questions go unanswered because he doesn’t answer you directly.

It's no wonder why you would draw him, but it's also because it feels as if he added more coloring to your drawings after you met him. 

Before you met him, you drew people's portraits, family portraits, samurais, and wedding portraits. It was the Edo period, and every time you drew or sketched, the traditional art felt as if they were a repeat of each other, even if it’s called rich culture.

However, when you saw Kusuriuri, you felt a change in your drawings. With him always looking incongruous, it added more emphasis. Your eyes would always look at him first in your drawing because of all the vibrant colors he is wearing.

That is how you saw it. Everyone looked normal and plain while Kusuriuri looked so dissimilar to the people around him.

As you were about to finish your sketch of Kusuriuri, you realized you had run out of ink. You were currently staying in an inn, and the vendors were nearby. It wouldn't hurt to be away to buy some more materials. You close your sketchbook and put it back in your box carrier.

“Kusuriuri-kun, I’m going to run some errands for a bit if that's all right with you.”

You saw Kusuriuri glance at you before he returned to continue what he was doing to his box carrier, most likely reorganizing his medicine. 

“It’s all right, return before they close the inn. You wouldn’t want to sleep outside, right?”

Kusuriuri saw you nod before leaving your shared room. Once Kusuriuri knew you exited the inn, he decided to see what you were sketching.

You never showed him your drawings. Whenever he would try to get close to see, you would close it immediately and hold a tight grip onto it. 

He opened your box carrier and started to look into your sketchbooks. He was stunned to see almost every single page with a drawing of him inside of it, including a few with Hyper, his alter form. He would look at every detail you put into each drawing. He felt a pinch of pride, knowing you make every page of your drawings with him in it.

He puts back where every sketchbook and paper goes, not wanting you to know just yet of his discovery. 

You return to your shared room sometime later, and as you start to organize your box carrier with the new materials you recently bought. 

“I’m honored to be your muse (Y/n)” Kusuriuri says with that monotone voice of his. It makes goosebumps crawl through your body, and you jolt a bit.

You were silent a bit from awkwardness, “...I apologize. If you feel uncomfortable with it, I will stop.”

Kusuriuri's lips curled upwards with his purple-painted lips, “No need to stop, continue with your drawings of me. After all, being an artist's muse isn’t easy to achieve.”

For the whole day, he would tease you about it, but he would now always look at how you would carefully draw, and you would no longer close the book.

Maybe one day you will draw a special portrait of him with you, a painting where it would feel like it's only you and him together, separated from the world around you.

~Lilly's

[empresskadia]

I feel like Spartans would also be attracted to someone who can give them competition. Like, if Kelly had her fastest time at the Infinity's track tied by a medic in full kit, or Linda having her high score at the firing range beaten by another sharpshooter with unorthodox firing positions.

Oh, 100% and no one can convince me otherwise. Like the Spartans love a good challenge and I believe this causes some of them to obsess because they get overly excited, especially since this is out of the norm. Granted for this to work and be true, that someone would have to be at least Spartan-IV or have augmentations.

The words 'oh no,' would come out of Fred's mouth when Linda saw the leaderboard and she had been bumped into second place for the third time that week. First, all of Blue team was surprised but none of them were prepared for how excited Linda got, someone had beaten her? At shooting? Her? For the first time in her life? None of the other Spartan IIs could come close to making the shots she could, but here her name was, right above Fred's and finally, finally below someone else's. Linda has to know who it is, she is grilling Roland for information; she wants this Spartan's mission record, she wants their full profile and I believe this might be where Linda's obsession starts. Linda herself makes shots from unorthodox firing positions and to find another person who does it? She'll be asking Captain Lasky to pull some strings to get onto a mission with this Spartan and their team. And for the first time in the UNSC Infinity's history, the number one spot keeps bouncing between Spartan-058 and Spartan [L/n].

The day Kelly sees her record time tied with someone else, she stands there for a solid minute unmoving. She even goes to grab John or Linda and points asking if she's finally going insane and seeing things. Kelly wants to race. Who is this person and where can she find them? Fred has to hold her back from sprinting around the ship to find who the hell this other Spartan is. The longer this question goes unanswered, the more unraveled she gets, she's always been the fastest, and no one in the Spartan II program could catch her but here someone was with the same speed as her? This has got to be a lie, and she doesn't believe it until she sees a spartan playing rabbit for their team on the field and she immediately knows this bitch person is them. And when she finds out that they're the team's medic, Kelly wants to know more. She'll ambush them in the middle of the hall or in the medical facility, Kelly has question and you will answer them. Honestly, a part of her is excited to run full speed with someone matching her pace.

[azulera]

Sweet Like Açai

Pairing: TAA x Black Reader

Summary: He’s still raw from a rough break-up, his club is trudging through a mid-season slump, and somehow Trent still develops a fat crush on the server at Merseyside’s newest smoothie place.

Notes: this will be my last story for a while, but it is a longer one, and who doesn't love wingman curtis and flustered shy trentski 😃 here is chapter 1, but all other chaps will be posted on ao3. pls enjoy and do tell me what you think!

—————————————————————————

The new café that Curtis suggests is only a 15-minute drive from AXA, so after their last meetings and quick showers they take off in his Range Rover and make it there in ten. The owner, he says, is a friend of the Jones family, a former footballer who took the constant chiding of his nutritionists to heart and built a second career from it, and Curtis promises Trent that it’s the best combination of chilled fruit, yogurt, granola and whatever other superfood magic that he’s ever tasted.

But it’s not that Trent needs the backstory that his teammate gives or really much convincing at all - after training his stomach feels as big and empty as a house, and, even still, he figures he deserves it. The past months have been less than kind to him, and closer to brutal: the team’s performance has continued to nosedive in what by Liverpool standards was already an aggressively average season, and he’s still deciding if he’s moved on from the mutual but still painful breakup with his long-term girlfriend two months ago. “Self-care” is a foreign thing he’s been trying to practice at the insistence of his mum and Hendo, since they claim it’s okay to let himself have nice things, to not always push harder when the going is already tough.

A quick, sugary pick-me-up can’t possibly do too much more damage.

A little bell chimes as they step in the door and the air that greets them is pleasantly cool, and sweet. Dark purples and greens blend with browns and oranges on the walls in a swirling pattern, and rustic wood tables with high stools are arranged in rows from one side of the space to the other. There’s a couple sat together at a spot near the window, twin purple cups in front of them, and a single, serious-looking man on a laptop near the back, but the line to order and the self-serve kiosks are both empty. Curtis walks up to the counter, as in any room, like he lives there, and has been there a million times.

“The açai one’s gonna blow your mind, lad, I swear to ya. Plus, the place is Black-owned and that, supportin the community.”

Trent laughs once before settling his hands in the pockets of his sweats and looking up to the menu. There are too many options, really, but at the moment his stomach is non-discriminating.

“Yeah, it better. Won’t shut up about it, you. What’s good- the bowl or smoothie?”

“Hold on – Y/N? Is that you?”

Trent’s question goes unanswered, and smothered by the sound of Curtis’ yell. His voice lifts across the space, shouting the unfamiliar name another time, and again Trent is astounded by just how loud his teammate’s voice can be. That level of volume is helpful on the pitch but embarrassing in public, and Trent feels the eyes of at least one of the patrons on them.

“Curtis? Curtis Jones? Oh my days, one second–”

The ceramic counter holding the ingredients curves around into a small kitchen entrance on the left, and from where he’s standing, Trent can’t see what, or whoever it is that Curtis sees. But the mutual excitement in the voices can’t be missed.

“No way! Get over here!”

Curtis shouts, bouncing on his toes. A moment later, a blur of movement in the shape of a girl flies in from the kitchen, and has Curtis pulled into a tight hug. His teammate reciprocates, and Trent can see his shoulder muscles working to tighten the squeeze, even with the width of counter between them.

“Long time no see, Curt. Was starting to think you were something we dreamed up, only ever see you on the telly.”

Trent can soon confirm the voice does belong to a girl, and on the first glance he gets of her face it is slightly squished against Curtis’ shoulder, but painted in a look of open, undisguised surprise and happiness. It’s the kind of strong emotion he would only ever show on the pitch, almost never in a public place like this, and it almost feels like too much to witness such vulnerability from someone he doesn’t yet know, and who’s heartfelt reunion he seems to be third-wheeling on. He would look away, but his eyes betray him and zoom in, already busy taking inventory without consulting him first.

They start at her skin, which is glowy and smooth, and the same color he likes his tea, on the off day where he does drink a cup. He thinks it’s probably poor to compare a woman to a beverage, in fact, he knows it is, but blames it on his grumbling stomach and moves on. His gaze locks next on her lips, because she and Curtis are speaking again, loudly.

“Could say the same to you, can’t I, been ages since I’ve seen ya! And I’m loving the hair.”

“Yeah, wanted to try something different. It’s been a few years since I’m growing them.”

Her hair, Trent notices when he pulls his eyes from her face, is in locs like his, but lighter brown with amber highlights strewn throughout. They swing about her shoulders as she moves, so that she regularly has to push the strands back behind her ears, away from her face. The familiarity of the movement triggers a thing in his brain that yells “Me too!”, and his eyes travel the rest of her, suddenly hungry to find more things he recognizes. The first are her eyes, which are a warm, chocolatey brown, maybe two shades lighter than his own. The close second is that he finds her unpredictably, and undeniably attractive.

That feeling inside him that went dormant two months ago starts to fidget.

“How is everythin, though? Uni? And how’s the fam?” Curtis asks.

The two of them continue catching up with excitement that hasn’t yet worn off, and Trent stands to the side, trying not to intrude and trying not to be awkward. In a way he hopes is sly, he continues scrutinizing her features while intermittently looking at his shoes, up at the artsy menu board where the offerings are, impressively, engraved rather printed, and briefly at his phone.

He should, he supposes, listen politely to their conversation, try and contribute, but in truth he only checks back in after a loud burst of laughter. She's covering her mouth with one hand, and Curtis is straightening up from being almost doubled over.

“Whoo, I had nearly forgotten about that, you know! Your brother used to be absolutely mad. But hey, I was round here last week and didn’t see you. Are you workin here now?”

“Yeah, I am.” She pulls at the cafe emblem on the corner of her mauve t-shirt. “I’ll be working the front end of things while we’re still small. Only been at it a few days now, but Dad’s made sure I’m working hard.”

“I don’t doubt it, but you tell the big man he ought to hire some more staff, ‘cause me, I’ll be telling the whole city about this place. Dragged Trentski here as soon as I could, just to show him. Me first convert.”

The sound of his nickname evaporates whatever was left of his distraction, and he steps forward a little, as if finally being invited into the conversation. He looks up and finds she’s looking back at him.

“Alright?” She asks, smiling. “I’m Y/N.”

She waits for him to introduce himself even though if she’s a friend of Curtis and a footballer’s daughter, she surely knows who he is. Or does she? Either way, he decides he likes her for it.

“I’m Trent. Nice to meet you.”

“Good to meet you, too, Trent. Let me get Curt situated and then I’ll be right with you, yeah?” She smiles again, and it isn’t one of those plastic, forced customer service smiles, but one that lasts, like she means it. The light from it floods her eyes, and makes them even shinier, independent of the artificial lighting buzzing above them. In it’s glow, his chest does that stupid thing where it feels filled up with too much air.

He watches as she moves down the line and makes his teammate’s bowl with laser focus, trying to guess if what he’s sensing is just politeness, if her smile lasts as long every time. When the flash of white does appear behind her lips again, and twice more before she calculates Curtis’ total at the register, he gets too distracted by it to count the seconds.

“What would you like?” Too quickly she’s in front of him again, hands poised around a brown paper bowl.

“Em, yeah,” He clears his throat. “A bowl, please. Not a smoothie. The açai one?”

“Good choice.” She nods, while scooping portions of the purple fruit-yogurt mix into the container. “Any special add-ins for you today? Plant protein, energy, antioxidants?”

The health-food buzzwords set off signals in his head, and he gives the answer that would make his nutritionist proud.

“Need all of it, honestly.”

She laughs again, but it feels different this time, since he’s the one who made it happen, not Curtis.

“Good boy. Bet your nutritionist loves you. Which fruits?”

Trent freezes a second, affected in equal amounts by the “good boy” and the feeling that she’d read his mind. She pushes the right side of her locs back behind her ear in the silence.

“What about banana? It goes really well with the açai.” She offers.

“Yeah, banana’s good.”

She nods again and uses metal tongs to arrange the pale yellow pieces artfully over the yogurt. He goes on, choosing available fruits from the names listed on the clear glass shield, and trying not to stumble, again. The bowl gradually fills up, and it’s a smooth exchange – it’s much easier to do this, to talk and focus, he realizes, when her face is turned down – until they reach the last two options.

“Pineapple?”

“Em, nah, no pineapple, it-” The next bit of information he adds not because it’s particularly important, but because their interaction is almost over, and he doesn’t want it to be. “-makes me tongue feel—”

“All tingly? Yeah, that’s a thing!”

Her eyes light up as she exclaims and to Trent it seems her face sudddenly changes over — there’s more color in her cheeks, and vibration in her voice. But maybe he’s imagining it. She flits the tongs through the air as she continues.

“There’s an enzyme in pineapple, bromelain, that breaks down proteins, and you’ve got a bunch of those on your tongue and cheeks. It’s what makes it so acidic, and makes it burn a little to eat, but it’s interesting, cause, bromelain is also really good for you? Helps treat inflammation, and indigestion-“

“Not now, Y/N, just give the lad his food! If he wanted a lecture he would have gone uni with you.” Curtis teases from near the register, looking up from where he’d been on his phone, waiting. She graces him with a beautiful and dramatic roll of her eyes, but when she turns back to Trent they’re sincerely apologetic.

“I get a little carried away with the nutrition thing, forgive me. It’s nice to have Curt here, though, to keep me humble. Coconut?”

Trent wants to say, “No, it’s okay, I don’t mind it” but all he manages is a kind smile. He could care less now if she adds the shredded bits of white to his order or not, but he wants her to keep looking at him, for the excited glow on her face from when she’d mentioned food science to return.

“Em, yeah. Thank you.”

Minutes later, their bowls are bagged and paid for and they’re heading towards the door, fond words of parting on all their lips.

“You all come back, okay?” Y/N probes, pulling out from another Curtis, cross-counter hug. “And I’ll tell me brother and Dad you came in, Curt, they’ll be buzzin.”

“Oh for sure, I’ll send him a text as well. It’s been so nice seeing ya.”

“Same. And hope to see you again, too, Trent. Not just on the telly.” She waves at him, more a wiggle of her fingers, and it should look silly but somehow it isn’t. He wiggles his own back, and hopes it works for him too.

In the car, they dig in, setting aside the plastic lids unceremoniously on the dash. Curtis is obnoxious about the cleanliness and quality of many things, his clothes, trainers, and phone screen, but strangely his car isn’t one of them.

The bowl Trent ordered turns out to be far better than average. The yogurt is perfectly tart and tangy, the fruit crisp and juicy and the açai deliciously purple. He still hasn’t got the girl from the counter, Y/N, out of his head.

He’s four bites in when he finally asks the question bumping around his brain the past five minutes.

“How’d you know her again?”

“Who? Y/N? Her brother’s me mate. She was a year older, but we all grew up together in Toxteth. Why?”

“No reason.”

“Do you fancy her?”

“No-what lad?” Trent screws his face his up, unsure how indignant he truly is, and though he saw the question coming. Curtis only shrugs.

“I said, do you fancy her? I saw your face while yous was talkin, and you almost never ask after girls. Just pull with your mind games or telepathy or whatever it is you do.”

Trent gets a mouthful of coconut to formulate his answer, and the taste makes his stomach feel funny. He remembers why he doesn’t usually go for it.

“No, I mean, I think she’s good-lookin, yeah, but I don’t fancy her. Don’t even know her.”

“S’not hard to change that- I could put in a word for ya. Know she’s real busy, real serious about school and that, but you’re you, innit. Trent Alexander-Arnold. Be mad not to go for it.”

Trent lets the drama of Curtis’ compliment slide off him with a shake of his head. But the “you’re you” sticks; it’s what he’s been telling himself the two month’s he’s been girlfriend-less and on a season high not-winning streak, sitting middle of the table with indications to fall. He’ll keep on repeating it, or hearing it repeated to him, until it feels true again.

“You don’t feel weird about that? Since she’s your mate and all?”

“Why would I? You’re both sound people, better than sound. And if chattin to her gets rid of that kicked-dog look you’ve been wearin the past month, brother, I’ll plan the weddin.”

“I haven’t been— there won’t be-“ Trent splutters, before resigning to the chaos that is his closest teammate and friend. “I’ll keep the offer in mind, lad. But let me finish me smoothie bowl first, yeah? Let’s start there.”

“Okay, okay. You’ll remember I told you so.”

Trent keeps eating, lets Curtis switch the subject, and it's not until he’s home, scrolling the lists of Liverpool-based Instagram profiles containing the name “Y/N”, that he questions just what would be the subject of his friend’s “I told you so” — Y/N or the smoothie. He decides to treat him to another one tomorrow to find out.

[cameronspecial]

Assisting In Deception (Part 9)

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings:  Swearing and Name Calling

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 2.5K 

Summary: Rafe wants to talk to Y/N but his anger chases her away and he slowly realizes what a mistake he made.

Masterlist

Knuckles hitting the thick wood slab reverberate in the quiet hallway. It may have been because of the actual force of his fist, but he thinks it more likely has to do with the fact he is so consumed by thought, that any sensory input comes in tenfold. She wasn’t there the morning after they had sex. His texts went unanswered. It was the weekend so he couldn’t talk to her yesterday because they did go to work. He questions if they went too far. If they made a mistake in her opinion. If he did something wrong. There is a need in his stomach for her to be his. For everything that they go through together to be real. And he wants to know if she feels the same way too. His questions can no longer go unanswered, so this leads him to her front door. 

The door opens with the aroma of cheese, tomato sauce, bread, and grease filling his nose. An adoring smile finds its way onto his face, imagining the look of excitement on her when the pizza arrived. The tips of his lips slouch a little at the sight of Juni. “Hey Big C, what’s up?” she asks. He tries peeking his head into the room to see where Y/N is, “I’m looking for Y/N. Can I go to her room?” The girl gives him a pitiful look because she can see the hope and love in his eyes. 

“She’s actually not here.”

“Oh, did she go out to get something for the pizza? I can meet her at the store or wait in her room.”

“She isn’t at the store, Rafe. She’s on a date, so she won’t be here for a while.”

The brightness on his face dims completely. There was nothing in the contract against dating other people as long as it didn’t get into the media. Yet, he never thought either of them would make use of that point in the contract. His disappointment turns to anger as he realizes she is going on a date two days after they had sex. The only words that come out of his mouth: “Where?” 

——

Henry sits across from Y/N in the small restaurant, chuckling at the joke she just told him. The smell of greasy pizza also fills the air in this room. The floors are sticky and the glass of the food display is a little smudged. This isn’t a place that Rafe Cameron would normally be caught frequenting, but ever since he started spending time with Y/N outside of work, he became a weekly visitor. Usually on the days when she is the one to pay. He doesn’t mind that this place isn’t anywhere near as costly as he is used to, her insistence on being the one to treat them to a date is what filled him with a feeling of being loved. The happy memories of them together are now being replaced by the image of her here with someone else. Henry uncrosses one of his hands from his arm, moving towards her hand that is lazily outstretched on the table. Rafe’s eyes reflect his anger and he wants to throw that man sitting across from her on the ground. 

The heavy footsteps of his feet on the adhesive floor cause her head to turn in his direction. She would know those footsteps anywhere. “What are you doing?” he practically screams. She looks at him incredulously, “What does it look like? I’m on a date.” 

“What about us?”

“What about us, Rafe? None of it was real.” 

“So the sex we had didn’t mean anything to you? You are telling me that you didn’t feel anything.”

“I’m not saying that. What I’m saying is that we weren’t meant to fall for each other. That at the end of the day, when this is all over, your life virtually goes the same and I have to go back knowing what is out there.”

He didn’t interpret this the same way as she meant it. “So we only kept the agreement after the wedding and the charity event because you wanted my money? I never knew you were such a gold digger. You don’t have to worry about this being real anymore because I’m ending our contract,” he rants. His anger overtakes him and he doesn’t give her a chance to explain herself before leaving the restaurant like an angry child. Y/N stares at the place he was just occupying; emotions brewing like a storm within her. His words dig their way under her skin, burying themselves into her self-esteem. Her worries about being seen as money-hungry and a status climber all come into play. Being with someone like Rafe Cameron, she knew everyone was saying those things about her already; however, it’s different hearing those things come from him. 

She let him into her life. She let him worm a place for himself in her heart and his opinions matter to her. If not because she is in love with him, then because he is her boss. 

The call of her name pulls her out of her head. She forgot that she was on a date. “Y/N, are you okay? Who was that guy?” Henry frets, looking back toward the door Rafe left through two minutes ago. She doesn’t know what to say. How do you explain to your date that you were fake dating your boss? It sounded kinda pathetic when she said it out loud, but it was the truth. This isn’t a normal conversation that happens on a date. She decides that explaining it isn’t going to help, so she just gets up from the table and leaves. She needs an escape. 

——

The office. A busy place filled with workers terrified of their boss, especially since his softened mood has now returned to cold and distant. Yelling is often heard throughout the office for the tiniest of things. This doesn’t go unnoticed by everyone at work. 

“Ms. Y/L/N, photocopy these. Three copies,” he orders, throwing the papers onto her desk. Her curt nod is the only response he gets before returning back to his office. Topper’s eyebrow darts up at the sight. She gets the copies done and knocks on the door prior to entering. When Rafe’s eyes don’t light up upon seeing her, Jenna turns toward her to see her reaction. The verging tears in her eyes tell Jenna everything that has happened. Y/N gives him his copies, quickly leaving the room while closing the door behind her.

Topper makes his way over to her desk and hands her a tissue so she can wipe her eyes. “Are you okay?” he worries. She dabs the water filling her vision, “Thanks. I don’t think I am. He hates me so much right now. I hate that he won’t let me explain and it’s really frustrating.” Hiccups start to tear through her body and her shoulders start to shake. He goes around her desk to reassuringly rub her shoulder, “I’m sorry he is being such a dick. Just give him some time to calm down first and then maybe you can explain everything.” “I hope so because I don’t know how I’m supposed to go back to my life before if I know what it feels like to love him.” 

——

Her phone line starts ringing, telling her that Rafe is on the line, so she picks up. “What can I do for you, Mr. Cameron?” she asks with fake pleasantries. He notes her tone, “Get me coffee.” She can deal with his orders, he is her boss after all. But she can’t handle his rudeness. Her desk is left empty as she storms into his office. Her sadness and insecurity can no longer be found. Instead, those feelings are replaced by anger. “Could you please get me coffee, Ms. Y/L/N?” she begins. “Why of course, Mr. Cameron, I would be happy to. See that’s how you be polite. Just because we ended things, it doesn’t mean you can be rude. We still have to work with each other.” He looks at her with a frown, “What do you want me to do, Ms. Y/L/N? Pretend that it didn’t hurt that you were using me?” 

“You never let me explain myself!”

“I don’t need you to explain something I already understand clearly!”

“You know what?! I’m not going to deal with your childishness. If you won’t let me explain and you are going to keep acting this way, then I quit.”

She storms out of his office, taking her bag on her way out. The on-lookers in the bullpen watch as she burns a hole through the floor. They look between her back and Rafe’s enraged gaze, wondering what in the world just happened. 

——

The voices coming from behind the door concern Juni, thoughts of a break-in cross her mind. She pulls out her phone to call the police, but the sound of Michael J. Fox as Marty McFly eases her fear of a thief in her apartment. The grind of the hinges is unacknowledged by the pouty girl on the couch, her full focus on the movie and ice cream in front of her. The dim room makes it hard for Juni to see Y/N, so she turns on the lights to catch her roommate's attention. This makes her aware that the ice cream is not the first sweet Y/N has devoured. The floor is littered with Twinkies and cookie wrappers. The multiple bottles of iced tea unease Juni, worrying about the amount of sugar her friend consumed while she was at work. 

“Good, you’re home. We are out of cookies. Could you please get some more? I want to eat it with the ice cream,” she says without even moving her head away from Doc and Marty’s conversation. Juni sighs, “Sweetie, I don’t think you should consume any more sugar. You might send yourself to space with the sugar high you are giving yourself.” The dipping of the couch because of the new weight moves Juni against Y/N and she takes the opportunity to wrap a reassuring arm around Y/N’s shoulders. “What are you doing home so early? I thought you had to stay late to help with one of his meetings,” Juni questions, keeping her face towards the TV to keep the pressure off of the sad girl. Y/N leans into Juni’s touch. The smell of cinnamon tells her that her friend stopped for a cinnamon bun on the way home. “I quit,” she simply states, not wanting her anger to make another emergence. 

“Oh, Sweetie. Was it that bad after yesterday?” 

“Yes! He was so rude and wouldn’t let me tell him what I was really feeling. Then I just got so angry about that. I couldn’t take it anymore.” 

“I’m going to kill him. No wait, maybe castration and then murdering him is better. But look on the bright side at least. You always said that being a personal assistant was temporary, so this pushed you to actually quit. Now, you can figure out what you actually want to do.”

“I guess. I just can’t figure out how he is the only guy that I’ve ever wanted more with but none of it was real. He was the first person I wanted to go to whenever I found new restaurants I wanted to try. He made me so excited to go to family events because he got along so well with my family.”

“I know, Sweetie. I know. I could see how you felt about him. How much he means to you.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what I’m going to do now that I’m not working.”

“You’ll figure it out. I’ll help you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

——

The dark room remains silent as he goes through his notes on today’s candidates. This one is too perky. This one is so slow at typing. This one keeps flirting with him. This one smells too much like Chanel. He knows there are no real problems with most of the people he interviewed today. It’s not their fault that they weren’t her or that he chased her away when he got scared instead of just talking to her like an adult. During the week that she has been gone, his anger quickly dissolved into longing. He misses her daily post-it notes she would leave on his desk every day since she started working for him with a different quote, fact, drawing, joke or comment. He always expects to hear her music blast throughout the office when they have a late night alone in the office like he is now. 

His search for her doesn’t only extend to the workplace but to his house too. He waits for his front door to be thrown open with her excitement to see Dax. The shine in her eye no longer stares back at him while he lies awake at night talking to himself about his fears and wants. He didn’t realize how much he depended on her presence and he wonders why he never gave her the chance to tell him her truth. 

“Staring at the papers until you fall asleep isn’t going to help you decide who to hire,” Topper jokes, coming over to look at the papers from over Rafe’s shoulder. “How about him? He is pretty qualified.” Rafe glances at the candidate Topper points out, “I didn’t like his handwriting.” Topper looks at him in annoyance. “Really? You don’t even like handwritten documents. You passed an electronic policy just for that reason. Plus, I highly doubt he is the kind of person to leave you little notes every day. He seems more serious to do that,” Topper comments. Rafe glares at him at the suggestion of his words, “That’s not the reason why I don’t like his handwriting. I could still see it on electronic documents dummy.” Topper shakes his head at his friend’s irritation. 

“Okay, so beating around the bush isn’t working. I’m just going to say this directly then. You miss Y/N. There is no reason why you have to be so stubborn and not apologize to her.”

“I know you are right, but you didn’t see how heartbroken she was when I called her a gold digger at the restaurant. Or how angry she was when I was being an ass to her at work. I don’t think I can make it up to her.”

“Yeah, probably not. But it doesn’t hurt to try, Rafe. You intertwined your lives together perfectly when you were fake dating. Just imagine how amazing it will feel to do that again when you are actually dating. You could feel that way again; you need to apologize first though.”

“I know you are right. Let me take some time to figure out what to do. It’s going to need to be perfect if it’s for her.”

“I’m always right. You know what else I’m right about? The personal assistant you should hire. Trust me, if she takes you back, you are going to want a male assistant.”

Taglist: @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @aprilrudgate @loving-and-dreaming @thepatriarchykeychain @maybankslover @abbybarnesstuff @wh0reforbucknasty @spencereidbasis @drewsmusee @starkowswife @mskezza @h34rtsformilli @ijustwanttoreadlols @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @bellbottombaby @jaydaaasworld

[mastermindmp3]

Chloe et al.

Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus (hereby referred to by Chloe et al.) is a very classic Taylor Swift song. With a strong emphasis on the lyrical twists on phrases, distinct visual imagery, and an understated backing track (the piano is crystal clear, and the later backing vocals are so lovely.)

We see that idea of a distinct visual in the opening lines. The speaker describes "Your hologram stumbled into my apartment, hands in the hair of somebody in darkness, named Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus, and I just watched it happen."

Describing her (presumably, lover) as a hologram implies that they are not, truly, real. They are not grounded, not a physical thing she can have. Later in the song, she mentions a lover who "needed drugs more," so this hologram-state could also imply that they are under the influence. Her lover has their hands in another person's hair; they are bold enough to bring their affair almost to her door, with someone the narrator can't even see. The names dropped in this opening are not literal people, but the kind of exasperation of "who is it this time?" names listed from the top of a hat. They are, also, rather generically common English names.

And I just watched it happen. The narrator, knowing that her lover is not solid, not real, doesn't seem to bother to stop them. She goes on to describe how the two drift over "the decade," and how her lover, too, "just watched it happen."

(Also, I love the use of the phrase "saw my bones out with somebody new." If her lover is a hologram, unreal, then she is bones - solidly real but dry, dead.)

An interesting point in all of this is ambiguity. The narrator doesn't know who her lover is seeing in darkness, and she addresses this song directly to her lover(s?) I did see an analysis bringing up that the speaker could be addressing two different people, as the chorus's main refrains imply different types of relationships.

If you want to break my cold, cold heart, just say "I loved you the way that you were." Here, it sounds like the narrator and her lover have been together for a very long time, and her lover no longer loves her present self, longing for her before the change. If you want to tear my world apart, just say you've always wondered. This, on the other hand, implies a lover who is returning, who is tempting her with old times.

This reading is also propped up by other songs from the Tortured Poets Department which confirm the idea (Who's going to stop us from waltzing back into rekindled flames) However, I like that it is also left in the dark, even for the listener. Who is left wondering if they could've made it? Who said they loved her the way she was?

The final verse ponders her lover(s), and has my favorite extended metaphor I think Swift has ever written. "Can we watch our phantoms like watching wild horses, cooler in theory but not if you force it to be; it just didn't happen." It's so direct: We tried to force this relationship to work, and it broke down. The idea of phantoms as past lovers (dancing phantoms on the terrace / my beloved ghost and me / well, me and my ghost, we had a hell of a time ) is scattered throughout the Tortured Poets Department.

Yet, the question goes unanswered - all her questions do. She doesn't know if it'll be enough to "float in your orbit," if the memory can fade from this "scarlet maroon." Chloe et al. much like its title, is a song uncertain, and in that uncertainty, the speaker reveals a bit of her heart, the held anxiety like a breath underwater. The only actual conclusion the narrator comes to that she will wonder.

"Will I always wonder?"

[gravityglitch-blog]

To All the Drones, Always and Forever, Part 3

First part here

Second part here

The rambling strikes back.

Once more, spoilers incoming.

I kind of hate myself for being fooled by this, even for a minute. One of the things I'd feared in this episode was a tragic kill.

But that made the relief so much better when I realized it was another Solver illusion.

This next shot is beautiful to me. Uzi, who's spent most of her life feeling like an outcast, no longer has to face her nightmares alone.

She has people she loves, and people who love her, to fight by her side now.

(I hear the Avengers theme)

I loved this line from N.

Yes, they do.

And then they actually make some up during the fight.

The final fight between Uzi and the Solver was a joy to watch, especially the final strike.

Again, just like an old-school vampire story.

The slayer goes for the heart, and the vampire burns.

I was super confused when everything changed to black and white, and the heart seemingly became a null sphere. But I did not predict what happened next.

Apparently, neither did the Solver.

Glitch, Liam, you guys gotta stop scaring me like this!

But it's all right.

This next scene makes up for everything.

And so we come back around to an idea that I'd thought about posting a few days ago, but feared sounding dumb.

The idea that they told us the end at the beginning.

Here's Uzi’s presentation from the pilot.

And her presentation from the finale.

She was always going to return.

And thank goodness, because I don't think my heart could stand to lose her.

"That's my girlfriend!"💜💛

Against all odds, against all my fears, we got a happy ending. I almost can't believe it.

Is there a word for crying and laughing at the same time? Because that was me in the episode's final minutes.

Do I still have unanswered questions?

Yes. There are many more themes I wish there had been time to explore. Like where the Solver came from, and the chance to meet Cyn before she was taken over.

There's also this.

"Have you considered a bow??"

I kinda interpret this as Uzi taking the Solver curse on herself alone, as possibly the only Drone strong enough to contain it. Or maybe the Solver is so much weakened that it can now only be a nuisance instead of a world-destroying horror.

I'm still worried about Uzi (maybe this is subtly leaving the door open for future stories?), but I have faith in her💜

That said, I do have a sense of closure.

These characters I've come to love have survived a journey through hell and back.

Now they can heal. Now hopefully, they can do more than survive, but live.

To all the Drones, to Liam Vickers, to Glitch Productions...always and forever, I thank you for this adventure.

[reds-skull]

BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

So many projects, so little time... anyway, here's chapter 11, "The Battle-Sick"

Page 3 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable ?:

I was a wonderful thing, shaped for fighting, Loyal to my masters, I slayed living warriors, Friends and foes, I was a weapon of war. I shall never be avenged, shall I fall in battle, As I am cursed, in the eyes of kin and enemies, To be not a man, but a monster. I am starved, of blood and flesh, Alone I roam this land, a damned Beast.

Soap can feel Ghost’s gaze burning at his nape, questions left unanswered in the silent space between them.

In the span of a few hours, Soap saw someone else come out of Ghost’s actions. A man, buried years ago in dry earth, dead in all ways but physically. The man Captain Price mourned, the man he aspired to be.

The man that saved those children wasn’t the infamous Ghost. 

Soap brushes a shaky hand over his mouth, the metallic taste of blood still sticking to his teeth. He’s running out of adrenaline, he knows, and the wheezing of his breath seems to be only getting louder in the empty alleyways.

He trips over nothing, barely catching himself on the cold wall, when strong arms pull him up.

“Coffee shop, on our three. Hold on just a little longer.” Ghost murmurs, hand coming under his shoulders to support his weight.

Soap goes to answer, finding his voice weak and scratchy, “aye.”

Ghost’s breath on his neck is somewhat soothing, in a way Soap shouldn’t find from a man like him.

The coffee shop has seen better days, to say the least. The stairs to the first floor have collapsed, and the ground floor is completely trashed. Quite like everywhere else in the city, Soap bitterly thinks to himself.

Ghost lets him down on the only chair that seems stable in the shop, and turns to clear it of hostiles. Soap gets up to follow him, but his vision darkens the moment he tries to get on his feet, and he falls back with a huff.

It would’ve made him angry, to be left so useless, but…

Simon has been left paralyzed, defenceless, shoved a knife to his palm and bared his scarred throat, and still trusted him. Never looked at him with any less than…

Than what? What is that emotion, in Simon’s eyes, when he looks at Soap? He blinks away the dark tendrils encroaching on his vision, brows furrowed as he tries to keep a semblance of a train of thought.

Ghost returns before he can veer it back on track. “Please tell me you found somethin’ teh drink.” Soap groans.

“Affirmative, got us a tea.” Ghost spreads the supplies he gathered from around the shop on the table next to Soap, teabags among the bottles of water and scrap fabric.

Soap sneers, “awa’ an’ bile yer heid, we’re in a fuckin’ coffee shop and ye pull out tea, fuckin’ Brits-”

His list of expletives is cut by rough coughing, and Soap has to spit out the excess mucus on the floor. Ghost crouches down, and gently cups his cheek. Soap’s eyes snap to his. Whatever emotion is swirling in those dark brown eyes, he still can’t name, but it makes his heart twist.

Ghost tilts his head up, brushing fingers over the probably bruised skin of his neck, “have any trouble breathing?”

Soap’s breath catches, not from any physical wound, “no. Jus’... throat pain. Ah didn’t lose consciousness.” cold hands soothe over his bruises, making him involuntarily sigh.

Ghost nods, “tea will help with that.”

“Fuck off.”

He chuckles as he pulls back his hands, Soap almost chasing them. Fatigue is starting to take its toll on him, and his head feels like it weighs more than a LTV right about now. A tap to his cheek makes him open his eyes (when did he close them?), “can’t sleep yet, Sergeant. Gonna clean your face.”

That’s the only warning he gets before a wet towel brushes over his mouth, sweeping over flaking, dried blood. “Surprised the wee ones weren’t afraid o’ either of us. One skull-faced bastard, the other looks like a damn vampire.”

Silent laughter shakes Ghost’s shoulders, “those kids were tough ones, swear they were about to fight me when we first met.”

“Tougher than they need teh be, at their age.”

Ghost’s movements become somber.

Soap catches one of the many questions floating through his tired mind, “why’d you save ‘em?”

The towel is thrown to the side, replaced by a dry one, “...I wanted to.” Ghost simply answers.

It doesn’t satisfy him, “that why ye worked with the Hunter?”

Ghost’s hands freeze for a short moment, before continuing to softly clean Soap’s neck. His words weren’t said with anger, but the harshness of them remained all the same. It leaves a bitter note in Soap’s mouth.

At what point did seeing Ghost get hurt by his words stop bringing any sort of satisfaction?

“I worked with the Hunter because… I worked with anyone. No questions asked, no job too dirty for me. Not that it was ever about money.”

Ghost lowers his hands, resting them in his own lap. His eyes drift downwards, lost in the past, “I did what I did because I didn’t know anything else. Survival meant fighting, and it didn’t matter who.”

Ghost rises to his feet, taking a cup off the nearby shelf and setting about to make the tea, “as long as there was blood on my hands that wasn’t mine, I knew I was alive.”

Soap opens his mouth, cruel words at the tip of his tongue, but he falters when Ghost’s really hit him.

Because he knows that feeling.

That hunger for violence, that need to feel bones break under his hands, a yearning stronger than anything for fresh blood. It is not a want, it is not something they take pleasure in. It’s simply the only way to feel alive. For Soap, it may be only for the Hunter and their soldiers. 

But when you’re constantly trying to survive, won’t the whole world start to look like an enemy?

“Why didn’t you stay with the civilians?” Ghost shakes him from his reverie.

The answer is stupidly simple. “I told ye we’re doing this together.” Soap stares deeply into Ghost’s widening eyes, “and I meant it.”

“But…” Ghost sighs, “we don’t have a way to find the Hunter.”

He hands Soap a cup, the aromatic tea somewhat pleasant for once. It is cold, but it does help the scratchiness in his throat as it goes down.

“Aye… We’ll-” a yawn cuts off Soap’s sentence, “we’ll need teh catch another fecker, maybe…”

Ghost’s eyes narrow at him, “what you need to do is sleep, Sergeant. You can’t even stand on your feet, can you?”

Soap scoffs, “‘course Ah can, ye weapon.” he thumped the mug down on the table, and held on it for dear life as he tried to rise from the chair.

Ghost caught him no more than 2 seconds later, when Soap’s face was about to have a very personal meeting with the dirty floor.

“Of course you can, huh?” Ghost goads.

Soap drops heavily back down, “wheesht.”

“Speak English.” he can fucking hear the smirk on Ghost’s lips.

Soap drops his head, finally giving in to the need to just crumple, “means shut yer puss…”

A hand on his hair surprises him, but Soap doesn’t dare move as fingers card through the tangles. It feels really nice… almost putting him to sleep.

Ghost’s voice is soft when he orders him, “c’mon, I’m sure we can find you a better spot for a nap than on a stool.”

He doesn’t really answer, far too knackered to be coherent. Soap feels the hand recede, and footsteps echo farther and farther away from him. A few minutes later, Ghost returns to urge him up, “set up some blankets and pillows behind the counter.”

Soap appreciates the attempt to keep him in the know, but at this point he’d let Ghost lead him over a cliff, and he won’t complain one bit.

The makeshift bed reminds Soap of the shitty pillow forts he would build with his sister back when they were kids, and the blurry memories make him suppress a laugh. With the way Ghost is staring at him, Soap thinks the giggles make him all the more concerned.

And what a concept that is. Ghost, concerned over his well-being.

Ghost lets him down carefully, wrapping him with moth-eaten blankets. Compared to the last “bed” Soap slept in, this is as good as a five-star hotel.

He can barely keep his eyes open, but Soap, as aware as he is in his compromised status, can’t let his guard down when Ghost turns to walk away. He manages to catch the sleeve of the giant man, and dark eyes turn to stare at him.

“Yer… yer not gonna leave me, right?” he mumbles.

Ghost stops, “just gonna go keep watch by the window. Not leaving.”

Sleep claws on Soap’s eyelids, and it takes far too much willpower to keep them open, “stay ‘here Ah can see ye… Don’ run off now…..”

The last thing he hears before he goes unconscious is, “never, Johnny.”

Gentle fingers card through his hair.

“Johnny.”

John groans, unwilling to open his eyes and start the day.

“Wake up, love.”

“‘S too early for that shite, let me sleep.” he burrows deeper into his pillow, enveloped in warmth and safety.

His pillow starts, very rudely, shaking with laughter, “fine, you lazy bastard.”

That voice… sounds familiar. Familiar in the way a knife’s weight is in John’s hand, in the way blood spills over his wounds, like the buzz of adrenaline in a fire fight.

Yet John feels… safe.

Gentle fingers card through his tangled hair. Why would it be tangled? Isn’t he at home?

“Can’t sleep yet, Sergeant. Gonna clean your face.”

John frowns, “my face is clean.”

Hands tilt his face up. There’s some sort of tackiness to his skin, he notices. A metallic taste bursts on his tongue.

John opens his eyes.

Dirty blond hair, messy from a mask pulled off non too kindly, rich brown eyes wide in surprise, dark like a grave’s fresh dirt. Scars leave valleys and hills on pale skin.

The features are there, but John can’t make sense of them. A stranger’s face, yet it feels so familiar.

Perhaps it is only the emotion carved into it, fear and shock twisting the man’s eyes.

Soap wakes up with a start, grasping tightly at the thin blankets wrapped around him. It takes him a few seconds to shake off the dream’s warmth, to feel again how cold the coffee shop really is. He takes a cursory look around - Ghost must have left for overwatch while he was sleeping.

He eventually forces himself to get up, encouraged by the fact that his legs stay somewhat steady under his weight.

“Ghost?” 

Soap walks over to the wider area of the coffee shop, where once there were floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed patrons to bask in the sun while drinking, but now are shattered.

In a dark, hidden corner, that Soap almost dismissed immediately, a huddled shape rested against the wall. Ghost’s dark gear blends near perfectly into the shadows. Soap is sure, if he wasn’t looking for the damn man, he’d never find him.

He has to step closer to actually see his eyes through the mask and darkness. Ghost is completely out, so still, he might as well be dead.

Soap huffs. In the entire time they’ve been fighting together, he’s never seen him asleep. The nearest thing to it was the rest in the shed, but even then Soap knew Ghost was constantly ready to strike, if it were needed.

Here, curled into a small ball, hands wrapped around himself, Ghost looks so unnaturally small and harmless. 

Soap doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Ghost shifts, murmuring something under his breath and curling further into himself. 

He scoffs internally and turns to find something to eat. The fuck is he doing, thinking this giant international criminal is cute. He blames that weird fucking dream he had, as well as a million different other excuses.

Soap repeats the mantra in his head ‘He’s not fuckin’ cute, he’s not goddamn endearing’, as he finds a couple of sandwiches that seem to be edible enough. He collects enough for Ghost as well, for when the bastard wakes up.

Whining from the dark corner makes him freeze.

Soap turns to look at Ghost, his shoulders now taut and shuddering, “...Ghost?”

“N-no… I wouldn’t… I’m sorry…” Ghost whispers, eyes scrunched shut.

Nightmare. Soap wonders if that’s what Ghost saw back in the shed. “Ghost”, he calls again, louder, the previous calmness he felt washed away.

Ghost’s hands crease his black jacket, leather gloves cricking in his tight grip, “I’m sorry… P-Price…”

He knows he shouldn’t get closer, that night terrors can make the friendliest of soldiers hostile, when shrouded by conjured nightmares and warped memories. But the sight of Ghost in that state makes Soap feel the need to do something, anything to help him.

He chances a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, “...Simon? Wake up, yer safe-”

Muscles bulge as they shoot up at him, Ghost wraps his hand around Soap’s, and in a blink, they’re on the floor. He pins him down by the neck, heavy breathing and shaking.

It hurts tenfold, to be choked for the second time in a few hours. Soap claws at the massive arms, attempts to lessen their heavy weight on his windpipe. Even in his sleep, Ghost is a force to be reckoned with.

When Soap sees those dark eyes open, searching wildly for hostiles, he thinks that perhaps, in his sleep, Ghost is even more terrifying. Fighting against the worst his mind can think of.

“S-Simon-” Soap manages to whisper.

The hands retreat instantly, and Soap turns to his side, coughing and massaging his wounded neck.

Ghost has crawled backwards until he hit the wall, eyes still wide open, their whites standing out over black painted skin. Soap heaves himself to his knees, moving closer to the shivering man. But Ghost shakes his head.

“Don’t-” Ghost says between breaths, “stay back.”

Soap, as he often does, refuses to listen, “why?”

Brown eyes flicker down to his neck before returning to his, “I’ll hurt you.”

“Ye won’t.” Soap stops in front of him, sitting back on his haunches.

Soap can see the tension still wrecking though Ghost, muscles trembling with fatigue and soreness. He chances a hand again, laying it on Ghost’s shoulder. The body under his palm freezes.

He leans in closer, tries to see inside Ghost’s eyes to his thoughts. 

This close, he can see just how pale his eyelashes are, how there are flecks of black shoot through the rich brown umber of his eyes. Something about them draws Soap in, in a way an oil painting would. How dark Ghost’s eyes are, how his pupils blend with the sclera.

“Johnny-” Ghost whispers, “the mask…”

Soap’s brows crease, “ye want me to take it off?”

“Please.” 

At his begging tone, Soap doesn’t hesitate, and slowly slides a hand over the skull, pulling it up and off.

Simon stares up at him, his eye black running down his cheeks, from tears or rain, he's not so sure anymore. At that moment, Soap realizes what emotion lingers in Simon’s eyes wherever he looks at him.

Faith.

Simon… has faith in him. More wholly than Soap remembers ever seeing.

Not just in life and death, but with this as well. With his most vulnerable moments. It shines through so clearly now, the serenity over Simon’s features the longer he looks at Soap.

He looks…

“Beautiful…”

Simon frowns in confusion, “what?”

Soap presses a thumb to the dark tear tracks, swiping under Simon’s eyes. “Yer bonnie. Never… noticed before.”

Simon opens his mouth to answer, and it breaks Soap from the trance he was stuck in. He pulls his hand away, as if it was burned, and wrecks his mind for a way to veer the conversation away from his stupid, weird behaviour.

Stupid steamin’ dream, stupid Simon with his stupidly pretty eyes, stupid-

“Ye said Price’s name. When ye were…”

Simon looks away, lips curving downwards minutely, “don’t remember.”

Soap sighs. Should’ve expected the deflection-

“He was… my captain. Before.” Simon murmurs, eyes on the broken shards of glass scattered on the floor. “I haven’t seen ‘im in years, not since I became legally dead.”

Soap can imagine. He remembers, even in his brief interactions with the Captain, just how much it was obvious that Simon meant a lot to him. If he knew Simon was Ghost, surely Price would-

“That’s it.” Simon murmurs, eyes alight with a new fire. Soap raises an eyebrow, and Simon turns to face him fully.

Gone is the softness in his tone when he says, “I know how we can get to the Hunter.” 

Ghost stands up, offering a hand for Soap, “we need to get our hands on a radio.” Ghost leaves him behind as he starts collecting their equipment.

Soap follows him, shoving a still wrapped sandwich in his hands, “what are ye planning, Simon?”

Those dark eyes stare at him with newfound conviction, as Ghost pulls the mask back over his head.

“There’s only one other person who would be able to locate the Hunter in this city.”

Soap’s brows shoot up when he understands.

“Captain Price…”

[liketolaugh-writes]

I know I've talked about this before, but God, I'm never going to stop resenting the hold that Harry Potter has on me.

As an autistic person, special interests never really leave you, and that's more true for longer-standing ones. I really can't explain how all-consuming they are, how much time and energy and love you pour into them, how much joy and comfort you get from them. I'm kind of between special interests right now, after finishing both Constellations and Blue Food Project, and it's unsettling. Makes me restless, leaves a lot of time in my day. (Time I can use to look for jobs! Positives.)

Anyway. Harry Potter was definitely my longest-standing special interest to date. It was my SI through most of elementary school, and given the choice, I would do nothing except reread them, over and over and over and over again. My parents had to institute a rule where every time I finished the series, I had to wait a certain amount of time before I read it again, and I always did as soon as the time was up. There are parts of it, useless stupid lines, that I can still recite from memory. ("And he was even brave enough to nibble the end off a funny gray one that turned out to be pepper" has always been my favorite example.) I don't engage much with the Harry Potter fandom, because it's a mutant factioned thing that kind of scares me, but the story stays with me nonetheless.

Like many other fans, this letter broke my heart; I'm sure you know the one even without clicking the link. She's only gotten worse since then (every so often I still look at her Twitter account and mourn) but this was the beginning of the end. Most authors, I can forgive their transgressions; I can trust that they've grown, I can accept that their work is flawed, and I can enjoy what I read despite that.

Every since that letter, and plenty of the subsequent scandals besides, I've been unable to do that. I read any part of Harry Potter and I can see nothing but flaws. I see sexism, and ableism, and cultural appropriation and colonialism and hypocrisy. I think, why are there so many crowds of tittering girls? and why does everyone hate Fleur seemingly just for being French and pretty? and why did she design the Slug Club without any acknowledgement of 'this is literally how to break into a career field?' There is nothing there for me but frustration and hurt.

I've seen people in the trans community complain about cis folk asking if they can 'still enjoy' Harry Potter, which I understand. (I consider myself nonbinary, but my gender identity is so unimportant to me that I still consider my place in that community tenuous.) But this isn't that. This is frustration. Harry Potter was carved into me years ago, and I can't seem to dig it out, and I have yet to decide what to do with that.

But the story stays with me. The memory of it is inescapable. I don't even really need to reread the books to write fanfics, most of the time; I know every plot point by heart. How could I not? And every unanswered question, every point of shoddy worldbuilding that drives me nuts about that world - I can fix those. I do it all the time in other fandoms. It's really not that hard to create the answers to the plot holes that bother you.

Most of the Harry Potter fics I write are crossovers - Harry Potter goes well with just about any world, kind of like Avengers does. But there's one I've been playing with that bugs me in a special way.

I mentioned finishing 'Constellations,' my two part series where Percy Jackson goes to therapy for everything he goes through in the PJO and HoO books. That was a love letter to Percy Jackson, to Rick Riordan's writing. Like any writer, he has his flaws and weak points, but I love it nonetheless, every part of it. I wrote it with the intent to supplement and highlight canon for everything I love about it.

Now, I find myself writing a similar fic for Harry Potter, with Harry Potter going through therapy. It's in the beginning stages yet (such stories are obviously difficult) but it's such a fascinating topic that I can't shake it. What happens when a survivor of such vicious neglect suddenly is accused of seeking attention at every turn? How can someone so victimized by the Ministry come to trust them enough to work as an Auror? Did Dumbledore truly understand what he subjected Harry to with the Dursleys?

But with Constellations, I had respect for Riordan's writing that I don't have for Rowling's. Such a story would come from a completely different place. And that's fascinating, too. It's just complicated.

I'm not going anywhere with this, I guess. It's just- frustrating, to so thoroughly resent a story and a cast that I also love so much.

[bigdumbbambieyes]

alluring 🥀✨

Steve had been warned not to swim at night.

But, it can’t be helped. The heat of the day seeps into the evening and leaves Steve sticky with sweat in his bed, tossing and turning and hoping that sleep would come, but it couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

So, he slips out of his window and goes to the shore.

It’s the middle of the night but the moon is bright and full and round above him, reflecting off of the waves as he walks down the shore alone. It’s peaceful, but he’s still hot, so he heads to the small lagoon he goes to whenever he needs to cool off during the day.

Surely, it should be the same at night.

When he arrives, it’s quiet, and the water glows green and blue from algae. It’s gorgeous, he has to admit, and he quickly undresses as he eyes the still water.

He enters slowly, sighing in relief as the cool water soothes his hot skin, promising comfort and relief the deeper he goes, until the water laps at his chest.

Taking a deep breath and holding it, Steve dunks himself underwater.

When he surfaces, he isn’t alone.

He yelps, like a startled animal, and stares wide-eyed at the other in front of him.

A man, like him, with long blond hair that’s wet from the water. It spills down his shoulders and spreads in the water like golden ink, his face young and handsome, although the longer Steve looks, the more he realizes that the other isn’t human.

Those eyes tell him otherwise. Shimmering like the glowing algae, framed by long lashes, Steve sees the bottom of the ocean in that pupil-less stare.

“Um,” he mutters, struck with fear because he knows about mermaids, knows that they should be avoided, but a sense of calm washes over him the longer he looks. He starts to think that being dragged to the bottom of the ocean wouldn’t be so bad if this creature were the one to do it.

Full lips spread into a small, curious smile and the Mer tilts his head, eyeing Steve with interest, but he says nothing. He doesn’t move, either.

But, he does start to hum, low and soft. It’s alluring and Steve finds himself wading closer, lips parting in awe as his eyes flit across the man’s face. The closer he gets, the clearer he sees the pearlescent scales on the Mer’s skin, the necklaces made of pearls and shells and sea glass, a fishhook pierced through the lobe of a pointed ear.

And the creature speaks like a song, soft and soothing to Steve’s ear as he threatens, “Come any closer and I’ll drag you to the depths.”

Steve stops, just inches away, and the Mer smirks. He lifts a webbed hand from the water and trails his fingertips across Steve’s cheek, touching gently, like this is his first time seeing another creature, too.

Steve lifts his own hand to touch the Mer but the creature is quick to swim away with a slap of his tail at the surface, splashing Steve with saltwater, even laughing in glee as it stings his eyes.

“Jerk,” Steve huffs, wiping his eyes with both hands, and when he lowers them the creature is gone.

Fear strikes him for a moment, thinking that the Mer has gone underwater to take him, but minutes pass and nothing happens. The lagoon is still and peaceful, the sound of waves distant and soothing.

Steve can’t deny the disappointment he feels as he finally leaves the water. Not that he was wishing for a watery death, but this is the closest he’s ever been to something so magical and he wishes it hadn’t ended so soon. Does the creature have a name? Where did he come from? Is this lagoon his home? Does he go here every night?

After redressing and exhausting his mind with unanswered questions, Steve glances at the water again and spots the creature there, wading in the shallow depths with an interested expression on his face. He gives Steve a smile before slipping underwater again, out of sight, leaving Steve with an ache to know.

I’ll come back tomorrow, he decides, searching the water before looking up at the glowing moon, I promise.

[rottenpumpkin13]

Out of curiosity, since you get an insane amount of asks to answer daily. Do you go through them one by one in order or are there certain prompts that might catch your eye that you prioritize before answering other asks?

Personally, I’ve gotten asks that tend to veer off to the weird side or broach into ships or content I don’t specifically cater to and they just sit there unanswered lmaoooo 😭

I'm so grateful for the stuff people send me, and I'm eternally guilty I can't answer everything at once. I opened up the ask box to take questions for the vlog series (which I need to return to), but then people started sending me other things and it gradually became something else.

I used to try to answer them chronologically, but I have this thing where I'll only answer the ask if I have an elaborate answer or something entertaining to show for it, so the ask will sit there until I have an idea for it, meaning I scroll through the inbox every day and when something sparks my creativity, I'll answer it.

Some asks get answered faster than others, for example I'm better and quicker at making "fun" scenarios out of something. If someone sends me something that has to do with lore or an opinion about the plot, then I have to do my research first so I don't give anyone misinfo (like the apple juice ask, I spent an afternoon one day just researching about apple juice and the process of how it's made asdfghjk).

Or if it's about a piece of media I know nothing about, I'll ask friends who understand it, and they'll help me answer or give context. And then there's angsty asks that I like to answer with actual writing, so I sometimes either wait for inspiration to hit so I answer it with my best writing, or I wait for them to accumulate a bit and then answer them all on one day (I got quite a few right now that I need to sit down and write, hopefully I'll get those out by this weekend)—same process goes for the portion of nsfw asks I have to answer, romantic or s/o headcanons, etc. Sometimes if it's a headcanon-type post, it'll sit in my drafts and I'll work on it throughout the week adding more to it.

Sometimes I'll get asks where someone needs cheering up because it's their birthday, they're sick or having a hard time, so those are always priority. But all in all, the way I use this blog is as a distraction from my real life, or a way to make myself laugh, which is why my headcanons are oftentimes ridiculous.

I don't know how pathetic or self deprecating this will sound, but sometimes I find myself wondering why people even send me anything at all, especially when it's a more serious ask and not pure clownery. I typically stare at the question going "uhhh are you sure you meant to send this to ME? You trust ME to answer this?" 😂 and those fill me with anxiety because I fear sounding stupid.

But I try to answer everything. Some asks take longer than others because I try to give thorough answers, so that's that.

SORRY for the ramble 💚

[atxxzist]

broken | c.s (05)

prev // next // series m.list

pairing: choi san x reader

word count: 5.7k

warning: san is awful im sorry, depictions of anxiety & trauma, lots of insecurities, very brief smut scene, pls do lmk if i missed anything!

the irony of it to rain on such a day might just be a pure coincidence, or maybe life really is cruel and it's a sick reflection of your current situation.

you're sure it's just the weather but it does feel like the sky is laughing at you; at the conflicts running rounds in your head and all the unanswered questions that only keeps adding up.

you exit the bathroom with showered hair and slightly drenched clothes, eyes immediately landing on san's angled figure as he goes to search the fridge for something.

it's the first time he doesn't instantly kick you out or tried to leave after sex, instead having told you to get cleaned up and proceeded to hand you a set of clean clothes.

you don't know why or how he just has that laying around considering he lives alone and very much only wear men's attires. or perhaps you do, but you don't allow yourself to even think of the possibility.

you stand still in your spot, unsure of what to say. the last time you actually had a proper conversation with him was so long ago, if you're not spewing something suggestive in response or moaning his name, it's like you don't know how to talk to him anymore.

fortunately, he notices you before you're to say anything.

"hey, you're back," he says, coming off a little too enthusiastic that has your head turning towards the light once again; that small ounce of hope that he's happy to see your return.

"hey," you reply with a smile.

he closes the fridge--your attention moving to the can of sprite in his clutch as he takes a sip. he's in sweatpants and a black t-shirt, hair still a little wet and messy from having just taken a shower before you but he looks so good. he always does.

"want one?" he offers, gesturing to the drink in his hold. you shake your head.

he hums and proceeds to take another gulp. you continue standing in front of the bathroom door for a few more seconds before heading to the couch with small, awkward steps.

your palms dig into your knees and your lips are shut tight as you think of something to say; something that will make the time spent with him all more memorable in comparison to the ones before.

"hey, san..."

the weather was more leniet at first--only small sprinkles and droplets that coats your eyelashes, making your vision all more blurry. but it grows increasingly worse.

the sprinkles and droplets morphing into heavy rain that wets the pavements and has everyone rushing for any kind of cover--including you.

you find yourself under the hood of a convenience store with at most three other people, hoping the rain will die out soon or at least enough so you guys can continue on your day, though knowing it's not going to happen any sooner.

the weather doesn't magically change just because it's bringing misery to all those around.

and you would've taken a cab, but just yesterday you realized that most of your spendings went to cab fares--going and coming back from san's place, if you continue on any longer, you just might wind up penniless by the end of the month.

so you opted for traveling by foot since the distance from campus isn't too bad. you just didn't think mother nature would have other plans in mind.

you don't even notice how close you are to the entrance of the store until someone's chest hits your back, causing you to fly just a step forward.

"sorr--" both of you utter at the same time; you turning around and the word gets clogged immediately because it's not a stranger that happened to bump into you, but someone you recognize.

"oh... what are the chances." yeosang laughs; the door slamming behind him.

he has an umbrella in one hand and a bag in the other.

"right, what are the chances," you repeat after.

"waiting for someone, or?"

"no," you deny with furrowed brows. "it's raining hard."

"oh..." his eyes light up. "just as they forecasted. reason why i brought an umbrella, though it was pretty light before."

right... the weather forecast. why didn't you think of that?

"what do you like to watch?" you ask, the idea having came along because of his tv situated in front.

he doesn't answer right away, settling on a short silence first.

"just movies and the occasional dramas."

you nod slowly, deciding if you should pry any further, because ever since the first question you asked him, you've gathered up a strange amount of confidence to make up for your curiosity regarding what kind of person san is.

he didn't seem to be on board with it the first time, but he was somewhat neutral about it the second and third time, answering without the bitterness that used to grace his tone.

his answers proved to be very efficient in filling up a certain section of your notebook you've titled: facts about choi san.

birthday: july 10th

favorite color: purple

major cat lover

"any specific ones in mind?" you pry either way, but in the end, curiosity does indeed kill the cat.

he appreciates your efforts; the willingness to learn about someone like him, but he's told you... that it won't matter. because soon enough, you will see that he is someone not worth knowing; not worth all the time or efforts.

he answered your questions in hope of you understanding that--not because he somehow had a change of mind. and he really doesn't want to do it; he thinks you're too sweet and too kind, but he's gonna have to.

because if he doesn't do it now, he's going to have to do it some time in the future--tell you what all of this between you and him really is, and that you have it all wrong, even if he's the one to feed the idea into your head.

all this deeper talk and getting to know's--it won't matter and it likely never will. because choi san doesn't do relationships and he has never loved anyone ever.

"what were you even doing out and about anyways?" yeosang asks.

you want to snark back just because he's yeosang and for all you know, that might've been a jab. but you don't.

because he's allowing you to walk back to campus with him, huddling under the lone umbrella he brought.

"i just got back from the first day of my job."

"ah," he lets out like it's all coming together. "that was kind of quick."

"what is?" you turn to him.

"well, the job field has been kind of tough lately. and you found one pretty fast. that's kind of impressive."

you snicker, because a compliment from yeosang is almost too uncanny, and also because it's definitely not impressive at all. if only he knew how you came about getting the job.

you had a similar conversation with mingi and yunho not too long ago; them with equally eager ears to hear about how you went at scoring a job before them.

if you wanted to give them a heart attack, you would tell the truth. thankfully, you care for their well-being.

"i guess so..." you mumble.

he doesn't answer; the both of continuing on with light steps, kicking the wet pavement that causes the water to rise and then drop.

you feel surprisingly at peace; calm, and like you can breathe even if just for a short while. how odd of you to feel such a thing when yeosang's by your side.

you sneak a quick glance his direction, but it's enough to catch how far he has the umbrella toward your end, it's barely covering him--proven when you slouch over slightly and see that his side and shoulder are wet.

you take the initiative to grab a part of the umbrella's handle to scoot it over to his side.

"your things are going to get wet," you refer to his short snacks run. you're definitely not concerned about him.

he looks down at the bag from your comment, seeing that only the side is partly damped, he shrugs it off.

"almost there," is all he says; you trying to keep from rolling your eyes and protesting when he scoots the umbrella back to cover your entire head.

"you walked here?" he shifts the topic.

"well, yes," you answer.

"and you didn't think of taking a cab or having someone pick you up in this weather?"

"no..."

no one you know--that being mingi and yunho, owns a car and a cab is out of your budget, and that despite the standing of yours and san's 'relationship' as of currently, you hoped he would've at least offered you a ride or something.

because he was the one who got you the job, and you did told him they finally called you back; that you were scheduled for training the following day.

just wishful thinking.

the dorms is within view soon enough; yeosang walking with you to yours and stopping at the front where the rain cannot reach, fast to shrink the umbrella away.

his and yunho's room is just in the next building, only a short walk ahead.

"next time, bring an umbrella or check the forecast at least." it sounds like he's scolding you and you can't help but to crack a tiny smile.

"okay, mom," you reply playfully and he scoffs in return.

"and don't think i'm growing a soft spot for you or something. but it would truly be a shame if i left you out there. can't have yunho and mingi worrying if something was to happen to you."

you roll your eyes but let a dry chuckle escape. because though his words are harsh, something tells you he's just trying to put on a front and probably doesn't mean it. at least not all of it.

"whatever you say." there's a provoking smile on your face, but he brushes it off.

"see you," he mumbles hardly audible and already turns his back on you, but stops in track when you shout his name making his feet shuffle around.

he doesn't say anything, only raising an eyebrow.

"thank you," you utter just loud enough for him but with a softer tone you didn't even know you were capable of.

confusion strikes his expression as if he heard it wrong, but when you don't budge--only keeping a still smile on, his face relaxes.

"yeah..." he replies.

tears seem to have welled up in your eyes; a radiant glow in them that san can see even from where he's standing.

he didn't mean to snap at you like that--having came off so short and annoyed from your eagerness and nonstop questions. he knows you're delicate and fragile; he knows.

but you wouldn't stop asking; wouldn't stop prying, and he had to do it. but now that your palms are rubbing over your knees with trembly lips and tears pricking your vision, he definitely does feel a little shitty.

a heavy sigh leaves him, one hand raking over his hair but he still puts his drink down to walk to where you are, taking the empty seat beside.

your lashes flutters once and a lone tear drops down to your cheek before you wipe it away with a sniffle.

he's definitely had his name cursed before but he hasn't exactly had a crying girl who makes him retract even for a mere second.

he scoots closer, shortening the gap and his hands reaches for you to look at him; clasps on the side of your face so he can meet your eyes--dull, sad ones--different to those he's used to seeing that's overflowed with hatred and anger.

"hey, hey..." he murmurs whisper-like, thumbs soothing over your skin as if you're a wounded animal and needs only the utmost care or you'll break any moment.

"you okay?" his gaze sinks into yours and it could've convinced you he really does care. perhaps a part of you already believes it.

"i-i just don't get why you always get so short-tempered when i ask something..." you manage to get out through the quivering on your lips.

his eyes drop to his lap with a low sigh before he fixates them on yours again.

"i just don't think they're that important."

“even if i answer, it won’t matter.” his words from last time all of a sudden coming back, and they ring so similarly.

your lips distort into a pout, both your hands slowly creeping up to overtake his.

"i just want to know more about you. that's it," you say almost like a whine.

it's probably annoyance that crosses his face; him having told you more than once already and still, you're insisting.

"baby," he coos, his touch are like silk when he goes to tuck some strands of hair behind your ear. he thinks your eyes are even sadder without all the loose strands in the way.

"you're overthinking."

silence fills the room shortly before you speak again.

"then... can i just ask you one last question? only one more."

the hesitation that graces his body language doesn't go unnoticed, but he nods and ushers, "go ahead."

you have to swallow down the pit in your stomach; ignore the voice in your head that's probably internally cringing, because what you're about to say is going to make you sound pathetic as hell.

"a-are we in a relationship?"

it's the question that's been on your mind for the longest time ever since he kissed you and more. all of this... what does it mean?

the way he's unmoved in his position with a blank expression makes you want to recoil. because though you're practically an amateur when it comes to such a thing, you do want him to say yes.

"no? i don't think so?"

the deep disappointment that leaves your chest along with a rough exhale has san scrambling for a second attempt. his hands has moved to his laps by now, but his eyes stays gawking at you.

"well... define relationship. there's many kinds."

now he's trying to deflect; prolong the painful revelation for just a little longer. because when he breaks it to you, he knows it will hurt a lot.

"i mean, are we dating?" you keep your gaze trained on him, eyes not even wandering for a second--like if you keep it there, he will answer faster... though you already know what he's going to say. the first answer he gave is very telling.

you were just hoping you could defy all odds.

"no."

there's no shame or embarrassment in the way he said it. you almost wish there was; that there would be even just the smallest of guilt that slips out. but nothing. he doesn't even feel sorry enough to detach from your gaze. in fact, it has never left.

"then... what are we?"

the ease in his movements and features; lacking of any kind of tenseness that has taken over you completely tells you this is a much bigger deal to you than him.

"we're..." he drags his words before finishing it off, "friends." a smile settling on him after that makes you feel so sick--whether it's from how attractive he still looks or how the answer brings out so many other questions.

"friends?" you reiterate like you're in denial.

"yeah, friends."

"do friends sleep with each other?" kiss each other, visit one another and spew such sweet, blush-inducing words that conjures up butterflies?

"some friends do."

the aloofness and the attitude; it's all like he's rehearsed this exact conversation before. or maybe... maybe you're not the first one to ask him such a thing, but you have to mentally shut that thought out.

you're quiet and you're thinking--thinking of so many things. your hands are clasped together in your lap and your eyes has dropped to his knees as if they're the most fascinating thing at the moment.

he swallows down and is the one to break the silence.

"but, if you don't want to be friends, that's fine as well."

your head snaps up immediately at that and you look almost scared, terrified of the possibility of not being able to see or be with him again.

he takes one of your hand into his while the other one strokes over the skin of your cheek with care before placing a kiss on your forehead; his touch such a contrast to the harshness leaving his mouth.

"you don't have to give me an answer now. but, when you make up your mind, call me or something. either way, i'm not going to be mad or upset."

he smiles and finally lets go of your hand and of everything else that he has connected to you.

one minute it's like you're so close and the next, he's slipping away from your grasp and everything else around you is growing dimmer; darker.

"you should go. keep the clothes."

and like every other times, you always do. but you can't help but think if you had not asked him that question; not let the eagerness and curiosity get to you, maybe he might've let you stayed longer.

you lay awake in your bed, the room a little dark but that's the least of your worries.

granted, with yuna being your roommate and all her decorations and paintings being shoved in your face, you would think you'd be familiar with them by now. but you haven't really spent much time breaking down her choices and the stories behind them--with art not really your type of thing.

but with the former anxiety that has crawled into your system again, your body tense and racing with nothing to do, your mind latches onto any kind of distractions--even if short term.

yuna has exactly three paintings that she has hanging. she wanted more at first but opted only for those she thought showed off her skill the best; limited by space and an intense dislike for clutters.

the lotus from before is situated in the middle and the other two yields similar color stories--of soft and pastel pink with dashes of blue here and there.

you're absolutely clueless about art, but it does give you an idea of what yuna likes and how much the style fits her personality if you know her personally.

the one on the left is more abstract, the pink and blue really sticking out in the pattern she painted them in. while the one on the far right looks like an actual drawing before plastering all the strokes over it.

it's of a princess and a prince, standing in front of a blurred castle staring into each other's eyes and you can only assume they're deeply in love--at least judging by the long black curves yuna had drawn on her and his mouth that depicts them smiling.

or maybe they're not in love, that's possible, too. after all, it's yuna's art, not yours. but you do wonder what exactly yuna had in mind when she made it.

because everything and everyone has a story; san, too.

and now... you're just overthinking things.

so you close your eyes and let the exhaustion from today consume you, drifting off to sleep where the mind can relax and all the weight of the world disappears temporarily.

~

you're sitting on your knees, everything dark around you except for the only source of light being a light bulb that hangs above your head.

whether you're in a room or not, you can't tell. but it looks like the darkness stretches out beyond; like if you keep walking, it'll go on forever.

then your eyes drop to your lap--your hands palming them and you're taken aback because your fingers... they're a lot smaller; and you catch the jeans you're wearing, then the light blue cardigan that you haven't seen in so long--it was an outfit you often wore back in grade school.

suddenly, you hear a voice. a loud voice; a female voice. she's angry and her words hold so much passionate hatred in them, a switch in your brain goes off because there's only one person who you recognize in this tone: your mother.

after she speaks, a new, different one comes in just as loud as hers, but he's frustrated; defeated. it's your father.

you can't make out what they're saying anymore because their voices merge together to create a concotion that makes the hair on your skin rise, producing a vibration that is felt through your whole body at the vile nature of it all--

your eyes snap open, beads of sweat forming on your forehead as you attempt to catch your breath.

when you shoot up to read the time by the nightstand, it's the awful revelation that only an hour has gone by, still seven in the evening but yet, it felt so much longer.

the image of what you just dreamt creeps up and you have to squeeze the headache away.

it's been so long... or at least a good while that you had one of those dreams; nightmares if you can call it that.

not the kind that's usually plastered on covers with monsters crawling from under beds or having been body swapped with a bee. but the ones that serves as a reminder of how much of a burden your existence is--to your parents, to your aunt and uncle, and to all those around you.

“have you ever had intrusive thoughts that keeps you awake at night? or things that just, no matter how hard you try pushing to the back of your mind, you can’t seem to get rid of?”

was it that you really couldn't think of anything, or were you just hoping that if you put a band-aid as a solution to the problem; move to a new town and leave everything behind, it will go away on its own?

entry #5

i had one of those dreams again... at least a good portion of my senior year leading up to me moving to seoul had been okay... probably because i had some kind of hope to cling onto--that being a new beginning and all. i used to get them a lot, shortly after moving with my aunt and uncle, and even they started appearing in them, too, along with junseo after he broke up with me. i'm still not 100% what causes them, but i do notice a pattern that it usually occurs when i'm in great distress and my mind whirls into the deeper end. i think i'm overstressing myself too much regarding san...

you do everything in your power for the next couple of days to keep your mind occupied so it doesn't think of san--doesn't think of junseo's words because if you linger on it long enough, you just might believe it.

that you really are undeserving of being loved, and all the pains you've suffered were brought upon by your own lack of competence.

you have to really not think; just keep your mind running with a backlog of things to do.

mingi and yunho are suspicious at first of the sudden high volume of requests to hang out but don't think too much of it, just glad that you're going to places that aren't the cafe or library.

yuna also started staying in more, telling you the gatherings and hangouts are getting stale and causing her to have a burnout so she needed a break.

she is a ton of fun to be with and always has an idea in back up of a first idea.

"a date?" you repeat to make sure, your voice turning high.

she nods, at the same time painting over the nail on your ring finger with the chosen yellow shade.

"so, will you do it?"

when she first brought up the idea of doing your nails, you didn't think it'd come with a request as well--her having scored a double date with a cute guy at one of the gatherings with the only problem being she doesn't have anyone else to bring along.

you shift in your spot with hesitation, her silk sheet under brushing against your skin.

"i'm not sure."

she drags another stroke over your pinky before looking up to stare at you.

"his friend might be cute!" the way her eyes go wide is kind of endearing.

you release a quiet giggle, her face at first as equally amused until something seems to click in her head and her eyes go even wider.

"oh! or do you already have someone else? that guy, san, right?" she tilts her head, asking with genuine curiosity. she just didn't expect for the smile on you to falter so quick, she draws back immediately.

even if she doesn't know what you're going through, your reaction is already quite telling.

"sorry..." she mouths.

you shake your head, and throw on another smile though less sincere this time.

"no need to be," you tell her. "i was just wondering if i go on this date, am i going to have to wear something fancy?"

"nope! but if you want to, you can."

"even if it's not anything demanding like that, i don't even think i have a proper attire for the occasion."

she quirks her lips to the side and hums before it looks like she has already found a solution. it's that knowing look in her eyes you think you're starting to get good at picking up.

"you can borrow some of mine!" she says with some kind of excitement that has her flickering the tip of the brush up that you won't be surprise if you find specks of yellow on the wall.

but at her comment, you have to really take in her build and stature, eyeing her up and down. you're not sure if that's going to be possible given she's at least an entire size smaller than you.

"i'll have to think about it," you tell her with a nervous smile.

she lowly breathes out a sigh of defeat.

"okay fine, that works, too. it won't be for another week, so take the time to charge and then let me know."

you'll admit it doesn't sound too bad after some careful considerations. you need all the distractions you can get and this just might be perfect.

you'll be too busy thinking about this 'date' and getting the perfect hair and outfit and how to make a good first impression that san won't even cross your mind at all.

won't even think of what he's doing or why he didn't tell you sooner--what the relationship between you two really is, and why he dragged it out for this long.

yeosang talks to you again and he's going on about setting up a place and time to meet since the second exam is around the corner. and you're thinking it can't be more perfect.

you will have the stress of exams and your professors weighing you down, you won't even have the time to dwell on san even for a bit.

you accept every invitation from mingi and yunho to hang out, whether at the arcade across the street, the rundown movie theater in the shady parts of town, or mingi's and wooyoung's dorm.

you'll also act like the thoughts of wooyoung, being in the proximity of his belongings when in their room doesn't remind you of a friend of his.

but when the night falls and you close your eyes, junseo's words will ring in your head, and despite also hearing your friends' protests in the background where they already debunked everything he had to say about you, you can't help but to think it holds some truth.

that there is definitely something wrong with you and no one would ever take you seriously. your friends told you he's wrong, and you want to believe he is. but even san doesn't want you like that.

no amount of arcade games, dressups, or endless brainrot studying can cure your insecurities and the need to seek out something new but familiar to fill in the void.

because you do want to be loved. not out of pity or out of concerns for your well being in the friendly nature mingi, yunho, and everyone else around you is guilty of. but something more than that.

when your lips call for a kiss, when your ears yearn for whispered sweet words even if they're web of lies, and when the ache between your legs cannot be easily solved with your unskilled fingers, you find yourself at san's doorstep.

because though he may not want you like that, he doesn't treat you like complete shit. he's nice enough and even pretends to care at times.

after all, he did helped you find a job and if it wasn't for him, you would've gotten trampled at the first ever party attended.

the crisped weather has dwindled and the waves of heat are starting to pick up as the month of may settles in, the warmth pricking your skin when standing in front of san's door at eleven in the night time.

when he finally opens, it's how you immediately relax at the sight, him just standing in a t-shirt and shorts, hair damped and a couple strands falling over his eyes.

it's pathetic how safe and homey he makes you feel; how your stomach relieves at just seeing him again.

he looks surprised to see you, of course he is. who else would be knocking on his door this late? maybe only a girl so deprived of love, she will take even the crumbs he give her.

"hey?" he utters, uncertainty in his delivery with one hand still gripping on the handle. but his voice. it's so soft and you haven't heard it in so long.

"m-may i come in?" you ask, for a moment about to draw back and wonder if you're coming off too desperate. but you came crawling all the way to him at this time, so in probability, it can't get much worse.

he nods and lets you in, your eyes wandering the interior that's also familiar.

and san could act like he cares about the proper etiquette of welcoming a guest (in your case an affiliate turned stranger); maybe even get them a glass of water or usher that they can sit anywhere they like, but he isn't one to beat around the bush, especially not on this subject... well, or at least after he's made it clear what the deal between them really is.

"i'm guessing you finally made a choice?" he speaks from behind, slamming the door shut. and judging by your arrival, that can only mean the one choice you decided on.

you turn to him, a shy color on your expression that he won't admit he misses a little as well.

"when you said friends," you mumble, feet naturally striving toward him as if he's a gravitational pull. "d-did you mean we can still..." your mouth tightens itself, unable to deliver the word feeling a blush creep to your cheeks.

you already fucked him so why the hell are you still acting like a damn prude.

a melodic giggle leaves him, him taking steps to close the remaining space until he's so close, you can hear his heartbeats.

fortunately, he knows you... a little too much for your own good.

"yes," he continues where you left off, lips drawing into a smile that brings out those dimples you like so much. you missed them, too.

"whenever you need me, beautiful," he whispers, one hand caressing the side of your face as he strokes with gentle brushes. "i'll be there, to take care of your needs and to make you feel good."

but that's it. that's as much as he can do for you.

"are you fine with that?" he awaits your answer, eyes boring into yours and there's something so scary about the way you're looking at him; something so unsettling about there being no signs of hatred or anger which he might have preferred to being stared at as if he's the most illuminating thing you've ever laid your eyes on.

you nod, a building sensation creeping up that tells you're going to regret it, but you want san. you want him so bad.

so so bad that when he finally kisses you again, you'll act like there's a genuine motive behind how his flesh moves against yours, and when he throws you on the bed, inching to your ear to whisper those sweet words you want to hear, you'll act like it's not a complete lie; that he's not just saying them in the heat of the moment.

when he slides inside of you, you'll pretend it's not just pure, filthy fucking. nothing to dissect behind his movements or the way he's hitting that spot so perfectly.

you close your eyes to indulge in the feeling, and in his temporary words and actions that indicates you guys are something.

after you both cum and he's still laying on top of you trying to catch his breath, he lifts himself slightly to take in your features, suddenly bringing one thumb over to your lips.

"we can stay like this, right? just like this, me and you."

you'll also act like his words doesn't stand as a reminder of reality; of what this between you and him really is.

but when you get out of bed to look for the rest of your clothes, everything starts sinking in like a gnawing pain that runs through your entire body. regrets, sorrow, misery--you don't know which is winning right now.

san doesn't get to tell you to leave, because you're the one who offers. he'll pretend to be taken aback like you don't have to go right now, but you know he's relieved he doesn't have to be the one to say it.

when you get back to the dorm, you feel like absolute shit; like a shadow of the person you barely were, but still, you know that in a couple of days or maybe even sooner, you will go back to him.

and you will wallow in his web of lies and false affirmations just to feel wanted for that very brief moment, only to wind up in the same position you're currently in. you will.

next // series m.list

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