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celestie0 · 8 months ago

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gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]

kickoff ch.9 words you've been wanting to hear

ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying & drinking while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot, marijuana use, sexism, sexual harassment (verbal only)

ᰔ chapter. 9/x (probably 12)

ᰔ words. 15.6k (WHY DO THEY KEEP GETTING LONGER)

a/n. HELLO MY DEAR KICKOFF READERS IVE MISSED YOU ALL SO MUCH i am soooo sorry for the wait on this one. this chapter felt very vulnerable to write for some reason lmfao, but i really hope it was worth the wait :''') see you at the bottom!! if there are typos or some things don't make sense i'm so sorry i literally gave up on proofreading this i just ended up raw-doggin it and then posting it

nav. masterlist

☾·̩͙꙳ moodboard no.1

♬.*ﾟplaylist

an additional author's note. hellooo ellie here. there are some additional warnings/tags for this chapter, i added them to the tags above, so if you know you have any sort of triggers, please refer to them before reading! but if you don't have any and don't want to be spoiled ab anything then you can keep reading lol. thank youu <33

The restaurant address that Kai sent you was just a ten minute taxi ride away, save for the five minutes you spent trying to evasively maneuver through the hotel lobby in order to avoid running into people you’re not too keen on seeing right now, a list that stacks up to just one person at this moment.

It’s a Korean barbecue place, it’s been ages since you’ve been to one, probably since they’re way too expensive for any sort of outing you could afford these days, but the crisp sizzling sounds of the grills and the savory air has your mouth watering in a way that makes you indifferent to the cost. Anything to get this churning feeling out of your stomach.

It’s instantly brought to your attention that Hana’s tipsy off of Soju because she’s slid out of the booth the second you emerge to the tablestide, and she’s onto her feet to pull you into a hug. You hug her back.

“I’m ssssoooooooo glad you’re—hic—here,” she says, voice sounding loud near your ear, but her embrace is surprisingly calming to you.

Her face appears flushed when you pull away, and you give her a smile and a kind hold of her elbow. “I’m happy to be here, sorry for coming late, I just decided I wanted to have dinner with you all.”

Minato is pulling on Hana’s arm to get her to sit down, which she finally agrees to, and you glance to the left side of the table where Kai sat, meticulously turning over pieces of meat on the grill. His eyes are on you, and the seat next to him is empty.

“You look nice,” he says, eyes falling to your lap under the table once you’ve taken a seat next to him.

Your eyes fall to your lap as well. “Oh. Thanks. I wasn’t really trying to look any sort of way, though.” Just faded jeans with a few rips & holes you made yourself, way back in high school when that sort of thing was trendy.

“I know,” he says, smirk heard perfectly through his words, “I like that.”

You ignore him, a fleeting thought passing through your head of how annoyingly forward men are to women they’ve met within a day, just something you’ve noticed recently, and then you’re accepting the glass of Soju that Minato’s poured for you. Quick to tip it back, you feel a burn on your tongue that’s just enough to distract.

“Today’s game was pretty interesting,” Minato speaks up, picking up a few pieces off the grill with his chop sticks and placing them on Hana’s plate first before taking some for himself. You find the gesture sweet. “The first half was intense.”

Hana nods enthusiastically, elbows rested on the tabletop as she waves her hands around in the air. “Uh huh, uh huh, the boys kicked the ball like whoosh. Goes all over the place! Can’t get a—hic—can’t get a single shot. No, I mean me, I can’t get a camera shot. Not them, they can get the shots of goals. The goals of shots? Huh.”

“Alright, you’ve had enough,” Minato grumbles as he drags the glass of Soju that she was nursing away from her.

Kai lets out a laugh beside you, his knee bumping against yours under the table. “I’ve watched so many of these soccer games for this job, and I’ve still got no damn clue what the rules are.”

You blink down at your empty plate for a second before grabbing the silver chopsticks laid neatly on your napkin, and taking some food from the center of the table. “Really? I’ve only been to a couple, and I feel like I get the gist of it.” Maybe it’s because you had a personal interest, though.

Kai lets out a low whistle next to you. “Okay, you’re a smartass then.”

You give him a sidewards glance. “Maybe you’re just dumb?”

Your own words startle you a bit. Minato lets a laugh out, but under his breath, while Hana does absolutely nothing to conceal hers. Kai’s eyes just widen. You bite down on a carrot stick.

“Hey, hey, hey, y/n,” Hana chirps, tapping at your wrist, “do you know any of the soccer players? Utahime said you doooo.”

You swallow slowly to buy yourself time, but give a preliminary shake of your head before answering, “no, not really.” You catch a whiff of the cologne on your wrist when you lift your glass to your lips.

“Oh,” she sulks her shoulders and then sinks down into the booth again, her head falling onto Minato’s shoulder. The man stiffens a bit and then there’s a content smile playing at his lips. A hint of a smile develops on your face too at the sight when you put two and two together. What an adorable little crush. It makes you feel sick.

Kai pours you some more Soju the second you drink down the last of it in your glass, and you nod to him as a thanks. “Pretty sure most of my photos from the first half are fucked,” he says, dragging the opening of the bottle against the rim of your glass before pulling it away, “didn’t realize until way later that my aperture was way off.”

You bring the glass to your lips, inhaling before taking a sip. You’re about to speak up about that when Minato beats you to it.

“Are you serious?” he asks, disappointed, like they’re suddenly talking business now. “I better see some good shots. Your side was where most of the action took place. Like that through-pass, tight behind the defensive line, from Nanami Kento to Gojo Satoru before he sunk it a couple mins before the half ended.”

You choke a little on your Soju at the mention of Gojo’s name, and then all three of them are looking at you. You wave a hand in front of your face. “Sorry.”

Kai grumbles something under his breath and then stuffs a piece of pork belly into his mouth. “Yeah, whatever, man. I’m pretty sure I got some good ones. Don’t worry.”

Dinner goes on like that, where you count the number of times Kai thinks that someone saying something funny across the table is an excuse to press his thigh against yours, but at least the cute way that Hana and Minato seem to inch closer to one another all night is enough to put you at some sort of bitter ease. But that unsettling feeling in your stomach from a couple of hours ago still lingers.

The four of you stand outside the restaurant, heels rocking back and forth in the cold as you all take up the last chance to debrief the day, and then Minato’s glancing at his watch.

“Alright, it’s probably time to head back. We can all share a ride to the hotel, it’s cheaper that way,” Minato says. Hana’s clinging to his sleeve.

“Oh, uh, I was going to stay here. There’s a cool camera shop around the corner. I was gonna check it out,” Kai says, pointing over his shoulder before glancing at you. “Wanna come? I saw they’ve got used film cameras.”

You twiddle with the hotel key card in your pocket. It’s cheap plastic, could break easily with just the right amount of pressure. Like your resolve right now. “Sure.”

He smiles at you.

“Alright, well I need to get this one back to her room,” Minato says with a sigh, pointing to Hana, “so I’ll see you all at the next game?”

You and Kai nod at him and then watch as he walks away with Hana on his arm towards the curb, pulling his phone out to call for a ride.

“Where’s this camera shop at?” you ask Kai once the silence between the two of you stretches out a little too long.

“It really is just around the corner,” he says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He starts walking down the row of miscellaneous shops and establishments under dim street lighting, and you follow after him before the two of you circle to the adjacent end. A tiny shop in the distance catches your eye. The LED sign above the storefront was blinking sporadically, and read 17th St Camera & Rentals, except half the letters were extinct of any light. Next to it was a 24/7 liquor store.

It’s only when you walk right up to it that you realize the sign dangling behind the glass door that says closed.

“Oh. Bummer,” Kai comments in a flat tone. “I swear it was open before I got to the restaurant.”

You sigh, pulling your phone out to glance at the time. “Yeah, at 8pm? It’s past 10 now.”

He looks at you and taps the camera case still hung at his neck. “That’s fine. I’ve still got a camera to show you, anyways.”

You blink your eyes at him, suddenly feeling a bit exhausted and then glance over your shoulder at the curb of the street to see if Minato & Hana were still there waiting for a ride. You don’t see them anymore.

A distraction. Wasn’t that what you wanted?

“Yeah, show me.”

Kai seems to know the area better than you, since he walks down the haphazardly lain sheets of concrete across the ground with more confidence than a tourist would. The thought occurs to you that maybe the newsletter photographers have eaten here before during their time in Kyoto.

“What made you start working with the newsletter?” you ask, glancing at him as the two of you walk down further, into what seems like a neighborhood.

He shrugs. “First job I could find out of college. I had a lot of freelance experience, so I’m assuming that’s why they hired me.” He nudges your arm with his elbow. “What about you?”

“I’ve known Utahime for a while. She was impressed with my work.”

“Ahh, connections,” he muses, “smart. That’ll get you far as an artist.”

He suddenly stops walking and peers off to the right, into a darkness that you can’t really make anything out of until you’ve spent a few seconds staring too. He walks in that direction, the loud echoing stomps of his boots on concrete no longer audible once he crosses the threshold onto grass, and you follow behind to what seems like a deserted children’s park. You wish there were more trees in the city. There are a lot here in the countryside, and it makes you homesick for something you’re not even sure of.

A gust of wind brushes through, rattling the set of swings hung on rusty chains. The wood chips underneath your feet feel stale, with no snap to them at all as you follow Kai through the playhouses set up in connected fashion. There are two picnic benches, one looks like it’s been freshly painted with faux effort to improve its image in the line of sight of the street, while the other has red paint peeled back to reveal bronze underneath the moonlight, neglected and tucked behind a few trees. The latter is what he chooses.

He slides into the bench, and he shakes his head when he sees you try to take a seat on the other side before patting at the seat beside him. “It’d be easier for you to take a look at my side.”

He has a point, so you sit next to him instead. Although at this point in the night, you were feigning interest. He zips his camera bag open and you take a better look at the lens. There’s no way it was as cheap as he told you it was.

“There’s no way this was as cheap as you told me it was,” you say.

He laughs, pulling the camera out and handing it to you. “Yeah, maybe the guy cut me a deal since I’ve bought from him before.”

You’re smart enough to put the strap around your neck, even though you’re only holding it a few inches above the table, because a camera like this deserves the care and respect. The material is minimalist and sleek, and it’s heavy in your hands. You click the shutter button, screen coming to life with a few mechanic chirps. “Woah. Is it LCD or OLED?”

“LCD.”

“That’s nice,” you say, “paying for the OLED just seems silly to me.”

“I concur, Canon. Color accuracy is king.”

He shuffles to pull something out of his pocket while you continue to inspect the camera in your hands, and you see him fidget with said thing over the table in the corner of your eye. The flick of something and the light of something makes you turn your head to face him, and he’s pinching the end of a joint to his mouth, lighting the other end.

He gives you a glance when you stare for too long, inhaling from it before pulling it from his mouth. “What?” You can see the smoke leave his mouth in the chill of the air.

“Is that why you chose the secluded bench?”

“I did? Didn’t even notice.”

You blink at him, and he places his elbow on the table to lean closer to you.

“Do you mind it?” he asks.

“No, not really.”

“Wanna smoke with me?” Two fingers pinching the origin of smoke tilt towards you. “This is my good weed, though, so, I charge by the drag.”

“That’s ridiculous, and no thanks. It doesn’t suit me.”

He lets out a laugh, releasing whatever tension he was building in your space, and the smell of weed is nauseating, but at least it's a new sensation to you.

“You’ve gotta be the only film major on the planet that doesn’t smoke weed. How do you manage?” he asks, the orange flicker of his joint being the only color you can distinctly see under the similarly flickering street lights.

Your finger traces the rim of the camera lens and is careful to not smudge the glass. “I think I manage just fine.”

“Yeah. With delusion,” he says, coughing, scattering smoke into the air this time instead of a clean blow.

You turn a bit in your seat to face him more, placing the camera down. “You’re extremely blunt.”

His eyebrow raises in amusement and you close your eyes with annoyance at the pun. You brush it off.

“I mean, seriously, I get you’re probably just looking out for me, I guess. I appreciate that. But do you really think my dreams of becoming a filmmaker are that far-fetched?” you ask. There’s a crack to your voice at the end that you didn’t like.

He sighs, setting his wrist down on the table. There’s a long pause where he thinks about what to say. Probably the most you’ve seen him consider what words leave his mouth next. “I was in the same shoes as you, y/n. A couple years ago. I, too, had big dreams of making movies. I was going to apply to film grad school as well, although you’re shooting higher than I was at the time. There’s no way I would’ve gotten into UTokyo’s.” He tilts his head to the side a few times while looking straight off ahead. “I sent scripts in everywhere. To every fucking production company, creative agency, you name it. Never got a callback, not even once. While all my fellow grads were landing decent, respectable jobs.” He brings the joint to his mouth again, but he doesn’t inhale, just bitterly bites it. “I could’ve went on like that, but,” his brow furrows, “I’ve seen my peers torture themselves for years for those dreams of theirs. I swore I wouldn’t be one of them. Because they’re all delusional fucks.” He finally glances at you. “Are you one, too?”

Your shoulders drop a little and your lips purse. “I don’t know yet. It’s too early to say.”

“It’s never too early to say, if the outcome is all the same,” he tells you.

You consider his words for a moment. It’s the easy way out. You should consider yourself lucky. Everyone wants a reason, a sign, to turn away from the one thing they’re scared to think about. And here he was, giving that to you on a silver platter.

But if what you wanted was really all that fragile, then it means there’s nothing to show for any of it. For all the effort it took you to get here, and all the effort you’re still willing to give.

“I’ll keep going until I fail,” you say, “or until I succeed.” It’s not really something you say for him, but for yourself.

He juts his bottom lip out and raises his eyebrows, slowly nodding his head, like he’s impressed by you. But his posture remains lax. “I mean, you’re working this job. You’ve got some sort of plan, at least. It’s not like I’m your parent to tell you what to do and what not to do.” He finally takes another drag, eyebrows pinching together at the same time his fingers pinch close to the burn of his joint to pull it away. “What’s that one saying? You can take a horse to the water, but you can’t make it drink.”

“Wow. You don’t sound a day older than sixty-five.”

He smirks at you. “You’ve got a lot of attitude, Canon. Where does it come from?”

You sink a little in your seat, turning away from him to look down at your hands that were still messing with the features of his camera. “My annoying feelings lately.”

“Feelings about what?”

You consider telling the truth. But you don’t. “My car is in repair and I’m not sure I can afford to pay for the bill, since things keep coming up with it.” It was the thing at the top of your mind at the moment though, for some reason, so partially truthful.

He laughs. “Yeah, cars have a way of doing that when you’re finally getting caught up on bills.”

“At what point does spontaneously picking up random, obscure jobs go from omg I’m so excited to have this opportunity to I just need the money?” you ask.

“You mean you’re not already at that point yet?” he says with a scoff. “Soon, then.”

You sigh.

“Y’know I used to work at this lousy cinema a few miles away from Central,” he tells you, hand tapping the table with a rhythm that makes no sense. “Busted my ass working minimum wage on night shifts because I thought I’d catch a big break in conversation with a director, as if Martin Fucking Scorcese would choose to host his opening night at a random Edwards in Tokyo.” His tapping on the table stops. “Tell me that isn’t pathetic as hell.”

“That’s pathetic as hell.”

“The things you’ll do for money,” he says with a sigh. He sounds detached, like it’s really just a message for you.

You lick your lips, skin feeling dry from the wind that occasionally brushes by, and when you glance at Kai again, there’s a grit to his jaw.

“Should’ve been born as one of those damn college athletes,” he grumbles, sucking in fast through the joint that was close to withering away. “Those fuckers don’t pay tuition.”

The harsh colors of the soccer team’s color-coded practice schedule on your phone are visible when you blink, as well as the exhaustion under Gojo’s eyes in the warm lighting of the hotel lobby earlier tonight. “They work hard.”

He looks at you. “I work hard, too.”

Your shoulders tense. “I’m sure.”

“You work hard as well.” Just to include you.

“Yeah.”

“I mean, you can’t tell me that it’s fair.”

Your mind wanders to some of the people you’ve met on that team, who have been nice to you. You think of Gojo, and the memory of him makes you wish you were with him right now. Despite everything.

“I guess it’s not fair,” is all you say, a tactic to diffuse the conversation, one that you’ve had to use twice with him today. The sound of the swing chains clinking together from the wind in the distance runs a chill down your spine.

You feel heavy in your chest, and you glance at the joint pinched in between Kai’s fingers. He’s not keeping an eye on it, so it’s easy to steal, and you bring it to your lips before sucking in. You instantly let out a few coughs. He’s looking at you with surprise. And you’re still in desperate need of that distraction you’ve been craving.

“How long does it take for it to kick in?” you ask, coughing again and pressing a hand to your chest.

“Super long when you can barely stomach a single drag.”

You try again. He watches you. You swear you feel a buzz this time, and you hand the joint back to him. You feel like you’re having an out-of-body experience.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Good,” you tell him, “really good.”

“That’s gotta be placebo, Canon.”

“No, really,” you sigh it. Even if it was, maybe your mind was just blessing you with a single moment of reprieve. “I feel…really good,” you say with your head in a haze. “Best I’ve…” you don’t know why you have to blink back tears, “best I’ve felt this whole week.”

Kai’s silent next to you. You look over at him, and he’s got a scrutinizing expression on his face. His eyes are glazed. “You seeing anyone right now, Canon?”

It’s the savory question you know has been on the tip of his tongue. Ignorantly asked, as if you would’ve been sitting here with him right now in the dead of night if the answer was yes.

“No.”

He’s leaning towards you, and you’re dazed and also sleepy. His face is close now, there’s an urge to giggle, which means there’s no way this is all just placebo, and when his lips dip towards yours, you’re conscious enough to push him away by a weakly fisted hand pressed to his collarbone.

“Oh. I. Um,” you stutter.

“What?” he asks, eyebrow raised, still close to you.

“No. No thanks.” Because it felt wrong.

He fully pulls away from you, and runs a hand through his hair, a deep sigh leaving him. “Alright.”

You’re breathing faster now, surroundings feeling vague, like you’re in sweltering heat but the air only bites cold.

You stand up suddenly. “I…I want to go back.”

“Go back where?”

“To the hotel. To my room.” You pause. “I mean, by myself. Not with you. We can share a ride, though.”

He stands up too, hands reaching for you, gripping the straps of his camera still hung around your neck and he pulls it off to place it back into the case. You feel like you’ve lost favor with him somehow. “Okay. Sure.”

“But not with you.” You felt the need to clarify again.

“I get it, Canon. It’s fine.”

—

“Maybe you just need to fuck him aggressively without mercy.”

“I beg your finest pardon?”

You’re sitting in a booth inside this streetside KFC with Mina sitting across the table, waving a fry around in the air, and with Nobara next to you as she tries to open a packet of ketchup with her teeth. The hangout the three of you have been hyping up all week, just to be sat in the same place you always go to. You were about to take a bite out of your sandwich, but you set it back down on your tray.

Mina points the fry at you and shrugs. “I’m saying. Maybe you’re having such a hard time getting over Gojo because you got so close to fucking him in that bathroom, but you didn’t, and now you’re in, like, this constant state of edging.” She bites down on the fry. “The clit knows what the heart doesn’t.”

“Your theories never fail to amaze me,” you mumble, sinking further into the booth.

“Perhaps it’ll take the edge off.” Mina sucks through the straw of her Diet coke. Nobara finally succeeds in opening her packet of ketchup.

“I doubt it. Besides, I technically already gave him an invitation to,” you say, fingers rubbing at your eye with a swipe as you wince from the memory, “and he rejected me, so, still swimming in the self hatred from that one.”

Mina hums. “There’s no way he’s not foaming at the mouth for it, y/n. Men never let a meal they were craving go unfinished,” she states, dramatically stabbing a chicken nugget with a fork.

“What kind of pigs do you guys associate yourselves with?” Nobara asks. She’s a lesbian, by the way.

“I raise another question. Why are we talking about this in a public restaurant?” you offer.

“Listen, babes,” Mina continues, like your words fall on deaf ears because she’s got some point to make, “it’ll either poof. Make your feelings go away like the drop of a hat because you find out he’s a bad lay. Or it’ll be so good that you realize you’re never getting over him and you’ll be thinking of his dick instead of your husband’s on your wedding night.”

“We’re. In. A. Public. Restaurant.”

Mina steals a biscuit from your tray. “If it ends up being the first outcome, then the whole thing was my idea. If it’s the second…then just know that Nobara has steered you wrong.”

“Why the hell do you have to drag me into this?” Nobara asks.

You’re about to take a bite from your sandwich again when you’re interrupted by the buzzing of your phone in your purse. You pull it out and glance at the caller ID, then let out a sigh.

“Sorry, I have to take this,” you mumble, slipping out of the booth and towards the restaurant’s exit, pushing the tense door open with a gust of fresh air brushed through you.

“Hello?” It’s the car repair man. “Really? I thought you said it was fixed.” Apparently something else came up. “Okay…how much longer will it be in repair?” Much longer than you had thought. “And how much will it cost?” Much more expensive than you had thought. “I don’t know what to say. I mean, really, I feel as though every time I’m on the line with you all, I have to wait longer to get my car back, and the bill just racks up higher.” They’re trying their best. “I know. Is it necessary to fix in order to drive, though?” State laws require it. “Okay…thanks for the update.” And then you hang up without another word, and with all the frustration in the world.

You head back inside and grumble about your car woes to Mina and Nobara, who try their best to respond with interest.

“Why can’t your insurance cover it?” Mina asks.

“Apparently they can’t claim it’s because of those rocks I drove over,” you sigh, “since it looks like it’s been a problem for longer than that.”

“Can you afford it?” Nobara asks.

“Not really,” you say. “I’ll just have to postpone having my car for a bit.”

You sigh with a glance out the window of this fine dining establishment, into the blue skies just beyond, head drowning out the voices of Mina and Nobara as they continue to grill you about all sorts of questions that you don’t have the energy to answer right now. You had another student loan payment to make once you got home today, and just the thought of it makes your heart drop a little. And you realize you just can’t afford to be picky about your financial situation anymore.

—

“Thanks for helping me out with this,” you say, footsteps over familiar grassy hills as you head towards the UTokyo’s practice field, your digital Canon EOS hanging from your neck.

“Sure,” Kai says as he keeps pace next to you, “why the sudden mission, though?”

You’re gazing off straight ahead, a nervous pit in your stomach since it’s been a while since you’ve walked across this landscape towards the field.

“I just feel like I need to diversify my income somehow,” you sigh, the buzzwords leaving a bitter taste in your mouth as you say them but it was the reality of your situation, “to make ends meet. When you mentioned freelance work during our conversation last week, it made me think it’s time for me to pick that up too.”

Kai hums. “Yeah, it’s a good plan. I’ll try to show you what I know.”

Once you’ve made it to the top of that hill, the one that oversees the field, your eyes instantly scan the field for familiar silhouettes, and your breath catches in your throat when you spot Gojo passively kicking a ball back and forth between one of his teammates for warm-ups.

It’s the second time you’ve seen him since that argument the two of you had in the hotel lobby, the first being at the post-game conference in which you did everything in your power to swiftly avoid him, and you plan on keeping that up. There’s also an urge to run away, but you’re starting to realize that’s not much of an option anymore.

“Honestly, you don’t really need to worry too much about shutter speed with freelance like you do for shooting sports,” Kai is mumbling next to you as he messes with the settings on his camera, the two of you making your way down the hill towards the field, and you’re not really listening because your eyes are on Gojo, who’s yelling something across the field to his teammates with a look of concentration on his face.

“Uh huh, I see,” you say. You see Kai glance at you in his periphery.

“You again!” you hear a familiar harsh voice call out, and you turn on your heel to face Coach Yaga who’s standing a few feet away in his custom UTokyo tracksuit with his arms crossed against his chest. “Why are you on my field?”

You hold your breath for a second. “Hi, Coach Yaga, so sorry, but I’m just here to take some more photos.”

He lets out one of his hmphs, unrelenting. “You’re a distraction. Get off my field.”

“D-Distraction?”

“Coach!” Suddenly, Geto’s in your line of sight as he emerges with a light jog up to your side. “You should really be nicer to our photographers, they give us a lot of publicity for our games. And publicity means funding.”

Coach Yaga narrows his eyes. “I need all my players focused right now. Even during practice.” He gives you a disapproving glance and you’re still confused, but also weirdly angered.

“Excuse me, Coach Yaga, but last time I checked, this field is technically open for all students. And I’m a student,” you say to him, crossing your arms across your chest now. “So, I can be here if I want.”

You have no idea if that’s true at all, but sometimes you’ve just gotta fake it ‘til you make it.

Coach Yaga grumbles something and then waves his hands in the air. “Fine! I’ve no bandwidth to argue about this anymore! Just don’t distract my players.”

You’re shocked that it worked, and Geto nudges you with an elbow to correct your expression so that Coach Yaga doesn’t catch on to the bullshit you just spewed.

“Are you here to take some photos?” Geto asks, facing you. He’s got his hands on his hips, breathing slightly fast, some of his hair falling onto his forehead.

“Yeah, I am, just for practice though. I’m here with—” you glance at Kai, who’s standing with his fists shoved into his pockets, “Kai. He’s also with the newsletter.”

There’s a moment where Geto studies the two of you for a second before speaking. “I know,” he says, extending his hand out for Kai to shake, which he does, “I think I’ve seen you around. Not sure if we’ve formally met, but it’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, likewise.” Kai’s hand is then shoved back into his pocket.

You feel awkward suddenly, and then quickly say something to Geto about how he should probably get back to practice, which he agrees to, and then you’re standing at the chalk sideline with Kai as he shows you the ins and outs about digital photography.

“Have you tried shooting in burst mode?” he asks, switching the feature on your camera and then handing it back to you. You sling the strap around your neck.

“Hm…” you start, pointing your camera across the expanse of the field to multiple areas. The trees off into the distance, the goal posts, Coach Yaga’s yapping Pomeranian. “Not really…” The grass beneath your feet, the sky above your head, and then blurrily focused before settling on Gojo who stood in the distance straight ahead.

You see through your viewfinder that he’s caught sight of you too, a look of surprise on his face seen only by the level of zoom, and you glance up from the screen to make eye contact with him in reality. He’s fully staring at you, and you can barely see the way his expression relaxes from that one of athletic concentration to something wistful and strange that you’ve had a hard time reading lately.

“Canon? Are you even listening?”

“Huh?” you snap out of it and look at Kai. “Sorry. Could you repeat that?” You quickly glance toward Gojo again, and his line of sight points towards Kai now.

“I was asking if you’ve tried panning before,” he says, reaching for your camera, pulling it towards him, but the strap around your neck means you’re pulled closer to him too.

“Satoru!” Coach Yaga yells in the distance. “Eyes on the ball!”

“Just got to set your camera to manual mode first,” Kai mutters, confusion in his voice. “Where the fuck is it?” He’s turning your camera in his hands, which only has you stumbling with another small step towards him, your chest pressed flush to his arm, and he looks down at you for a brief second with a smirk on his face.

You hear the sound of a ball being kicked on the field, followed by the shout of one of the players.

“Ah, here, found it,” Kai says, handing your camera back to you, and just as you’re about to say thanks and you hold your camera up, you’re hit straight in the face by a flying object and fall backwards onto the grass with a painful thud.

What the fuck?

Where are you?

Who are you?

Okay, that’s dramatic, it wasn’t that bad.

There’s shouting in the distance as you hold your head with a groan, eyes shut tight with images of your life flashing behind your eyelids, and when you open your eyes again from where you’re sat up on the grass, you’re surrounded by soccer players.

Gojo’s suddenly in your line of sight, knelt down beside you and he’s holding your shoulders, trying to get you to look at him but you’re still blinking away the stars you’re seeing. “Fuck, y/n, are you okay?” he asks, and you register the concern on his face.

“Dude,” one of his teammates kicks the heel of his cleat, “where the fuck were you looking? It was clear as day I was tryna pass to you.”

Gojo grumbles something to him, his brow furrowed, and he’s lowering his head to try to make eye-level contact with you but you’re still holding your head with a wince.

“Oh shit,” Kai comments, “she’s bleeding.”

You pull your hand from your face to glance down at the wetness that you feel, and bright red color stains the tips of your fingers.

The next thing you register is Gojo picking you up off the hard grassy ground into his arms, and starts carrying you away down the field.

“W-What the hell are you doing?” you ask, his pacing across the grass is fast and you have to wrap your arms around his neck to keep from getting dizzy.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he says, voice strained in his throat, and you’ve never seen him look so worried before.

“The hospital?! Please don’t, I don’t have health insurance right now.” His face is so close and you’re distracted from the pain of your headache.

“You’re bleeding on the face, I’m taking you whether you like it or not,” he grumbles.

You dig your nails into his shoulder through the nylon of his shirt, and he hisses from the pain before stopping in his tracks. “I don’t need to go to the hospital, Satoru, I just need a fucking bandaid.”

“You could have a concussion.”

“A concussion?!” You kick your feet for him to let you down but his grip on you only tightens. “You’re being ridiculous. Let me go, or I’ll bite you.”

He scoffs at that and continues walking forward. “You’re gonna bite me? That’s the most threatening thing you could come up with?”

“I’m being so dead serious, Gojo Satoru. No hospital.”

He grumbles something under his breath at your use of his full government name, and then says “fine” but he’s still walking down the grass until his cleats begin to tap on concrete, and then on what sounds like tile as he carries you into a building a few yards from the field.

He seats you on a cold counter, your hand gripping the faucet of a sink, and you finally take a comprehensive look at your surroundings. light blue, faint scent of chlorine in the air

“Is this…a locker room? The men's locker room?”

He sighs, bending his knees a bit to look at your face closely. You flinch when his hand reaches out, and he pauses, but you relax slightly and then he rubs his thumb over your cheek. You feel the smear of a droplet of blood. “Yes. I need running water.” He turns the faucet of the sink on to run his thumb under.

“For what?” you ask. His thumb is running over your cheek again.

“To take care of this cut.” He disappears behind a tile wall for a moment. You can hear metal clanking, probably of a locker opening and closing, and he re-emerges with a first-aid kit.

You slide your butt across the counter to the edge, about to hop off and make a run for it when he grabs your hips and puts you back into place. “Don’t even think about it,” he grumbles. He leans forward, grips you strongly, and you see that he’s still breathing heavily from practice, strands of hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and you can practically taste the salt on his neck.

You press your shin to the front of his thigh, desperate to put some space between the two of you. “I don’t wanna be in here. Men are scary.”

“Well I can’t take you into the women’s locker room,” he says, ripping the packet of an antiseptic wipe open with his teeth, “I’d get registered as a sex offender.”

You attempt at an escape again, and he’s quick to get his hands on you to stop it.

“Quit manhandling me, or I’ll scream,” you threaten through gritted teeth, because you’re still mad at him. For everything.

“Go ahead,” he says, using his knee to spread your legs apart, then finds a place to stand between your thighs to get closer to you. “I’ve got a lot of ways I could shut you up.”

You blink at him, breath catching in your throat, and the expression on his face tells you he’s not interested in dealing with your stubbornness anymore.

“Just hold still,” he grumbles, placing the packet down on your thigh and then stepping off to the side to wash his hands under the sink.

“What exactly happened?” you ask, watching him dry his hands off with a few paper towels. One moment, Kai was trying to explain good digital photography to you, and the next you were dizzy from being knocked back onto the ground.

“You got hit by a soccer ball.”

“I know, but how?” You remember your camera hit your face from the impact too, and now you’re worried about it.

“I…wasn’t paying attention when my teammate passed it,” he admits with a sigh, finding his place in front of you again, the knuckles of his clean hand brushing across your cheek, caressing. Your expression softens slightly. He uses a hand spread across the small of your back to push you forward to him, then he gently passes the wipe over your wound.

“Oh okay so, you failed to protect me from a flying soccer ball.”

He pulls his hand from you to read the lettering on the back of the packet. “I’m patching you up now, aren’t I?” he says, annoyed. “…oh fuck, I was supposed to go in with water first.”

“So glad to be in such good hands right now.”

He gives you a pointed look, but you ignore it and turn your torso to see your reflection in the mirror for the first time. You had a small wound on your cheek, right over the bone, with some bleeding and it’s wider than it is deep. But when you look at Gojo again, who’s putting some ointment onto a Q-tip now, the look of guilt and worry on his face makes you feel satisfied for some reason, and you wanted to make it worse.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, brow furrowed, applying the cold gel to your cheek.

“Mhm. A lot.” Not really, no.

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” he sighs, head dipping towards you slightly to get a better look, “can you feel this?”

“Ahh, yeah. Ouch. So much.” Barely.

His other hand is placed flat on the counter next to where you’re sitting, and you allow it when his thumb starts to run soothing circles over your hip.

“Hmm…” you start, wide eyes looking up at him as he seems to lean closer and closer to you with every word that leaves your lips, “I really wonder if it’ll leave a scar.”

He looks tortured. His hand that was maneuvering the Q-tip in his hands drops to the counter now, and he brings his other one to your face, cupping your cheek. His eyes dart from the wound, thumb pressing at the plush of your cheek, and this time, it hurts a little so you wince. His expression is tense, some sort of inner turmoil you could read across his forehead, and then his jaw hardens.

“Who was that guy you were talking to earlier?”

You blink a few, then tilt your head slightly. You feel like you’re on a game show, where there’s four options and only one right answer. New boytoy, gay best friend, fuck buddy, or— “He’s my coworker.”

“That’s it?”

“Mhm.”

“Has he tried anything funny with you?”

You almost roll your eyes. “No, dad, he hasn’t.”

“Woah. Say that again but make it daddy.”

“Hey just a quick question for you. Where do you get the audacity?”

His bent index finger finds a place under your chin, tilting your head up so you’re forced to look at him. “It’s your fault, really. I can’t help it sometimes,” he says, voice lower now. You’re squirming a little, wanting to push him away but his lips get close to your cheek, brushing near your wound, like he wants to make it all better somehow. “I really am sorry,” he whispers, near your ear. There’s a whimper you have to stifle in your throat. He pulls aways just enough to where he can look into your eyes. “A cut…” he starts, thumb now passing over your bottom lip, “on your pretty face.” He sighs. You shouldn’t, but when he prods, you tuck his thumb under your front teeth and your tongue presses slightly against the padded skin of it. He looks like he’s being driven to insanity, and his other hand has no shame at all in pulling you towards him, to seat you at the edge of the counter, and you miss the texture of his thumb on your tongue when he pulls it from your mouth. But it’s so he can dip his head down to kiss you instead.

Of course the sensation of his lips on yours only lasts for a second, because the universe really fucking hates (or loves?) you, so the loud clanking of a metal water bottle against tile interrupts with harsh reverberation throughout the locker room walls, and he pulls away from you when you jump at the sound.

You both turn your heads towards the origin, located at the curved end of the entryway hall, and one of Gojo’s teammates is standing there with his duffle bag slung around his neck and hanging heavily to his thigh, his water bottle clutched in his hand. He blinks at the two of you.

Oh. It’s the one you kissed at that party a few weeks ago.

“What—…Why is there a—” his teammate starts, panicked, turning his head to double check the sign on the locker room wall as if he’s hallucinating, and when his eyes land on you again, they widen with recognition. His gaze shifts, and his chin tips down at the sight of Gojo’s irritated side eye from where he was still all up in your personal space. “…you know what. Nevermind.”

His teammate’s eyes are on you again, and you give him a shy little wave, just a fluttering of your fingers in the air paired with a small smile, legs swinging back and forth under the counter. He lets out an amused scoff from the entryway, lifting his hand to return the gesture, some cheeky grin on his face as he then scratches the back of his head before turning on his heel to leave the locker room, out of sight. You let out a sigh, hand dropping to your lap, and you don’t need to look at Gojo to tell that he’s staring at you with disbelief.

“What the fuck was that—”

“You,” you interrupt him, finger jabbing at the center of his chest, “have seriously got a lot of fucking nerve,” you hop off the counter, “to not only allow a soccer ball to sock me in the face,” he’s taking a step back with every harsh jab of your finger, “but to also hold me hostage in a mens’ locker room,” his back is pressed up against cold tile wall now while he just looks down at you with wide eyes and something akin to fear, “and then, oh my god, the audacity to kiss me?”

“I—”

“I don’t wanna hear it!” you yell, which shuts him up. “You really are just a fucking player.”

He’s stiff, not wanting to catch a punishment from you right now.

“But it doesn’t matter,” you grumble, still drilling your finger into his ribcage with the intent to cause pain. You didn’t need to be this close, but his body is warm, probably due to the blood pumping from practice, and it feels nice to be pressed up against. “Because I don’t have feelings for you anymore, so just fucking get over yourself.” It was a lie if you’ve ever told one, but you wanted to believe it so much that it could come off as the truth.

His eyes narrow down at you, eyebrows flattening. “You don’t have feelings for me anymore?”

“No, I don’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

You roll your eyes. “Why? Because you want me to keep suffering?”

He grabs your hips, then makes a motion that is evident of his desire to pull you flush to him, but he stops himself. There’s a moment where he just takes a few deep breaths and looks at you with a hardened expression, then a split second where his eyes fall to that little cut on your cheek, and every single feature of his face softens, and then he lets you go.

You take a small step back, breathing heavily of your own, and you feel the ghost sensation of his fingertips wrapped around your hips. It makes you feel dizzy, and your thoughts are a mess.

He sighs. “Sorry. For the soccer ball, and this locker room. But I’m not really sorry for kissing you, and if that makes me a jerk, then so be it.”

Your heart is beating fast. “You are a jerk, Satoru,” you say. He doesn’t like you, he doesn’t want you. A mantra played over and over in your head that you’ve started to hear it at night. “A real fucking jerk.” And you leave him standing there in a way that feels like the hundredth time.

—

2:34pm kaito (work): yo

2:34pm kaito (work): i had my guy look at your camera

2:35pm kaito (work): it’s pretty fucked up

2:37pm you: :( oh okay isee. does he have an estimate for the fix? the lens is okay though right?

2:39pm kaito (work): yeah lens is fine, you should really count your blessings on that.

2:40pm kaito (work): but nah, fix would be around the same as the cost of it, so you’re better off getting a new one

2:42pm you: i don’t have thousands of yen laying around unfortunately. my car bill has sucked me dry

2:44pm kaito (work): well let me check with him. maybe he can hook you up with a good deal on a used one

2:45pm kaito (work): i got a 50% off on one of my canon cameras i bought from him a few years back. maybe he’s still got some like that

2:46pm you: yes could you check with him please? thanks so much, really

2:48pm kaito (work): sure. although i think the guy that kicked the ball to your face should be paying for your camera replacement

2:51pm you: they were just practicing. it’s their field

2:56pm kaito (work): alright. btw, you free tonight?

You blink at your phone screen from where you were sprawled across your bed. Before you have a chance to type out a response, your phone lights up with a phone call from kaito (work). You accept the call.

“Oh, hi,” you say.

“Hey, are you free tonight?”

“Oh uhh, I was just about to check my schedule.” You shake your head at your inability to come up with an excuse on the spot.

“Okay,” he says on the other line. You hear the sounds of cars honking in the distance. “Well let me know. I just left my camera guy’s shop, and he was telling me about how one of his friends does visuals for a short-film director, and that the director is looking for an assistant.” Kai grumbles something about someone he walked past being rude. “I think the director’s agency is Verve Films, so.”

You sit up in bed, eyes wide at the mention of the name. “Oh, oh wow. That’s insane.”

“Yup,” he says, “anyways, apparently the director is busy as fuck, so he left the hiring process up to my camera guy’s friend. I told him I knew someone that might be interested. Are you?”

You take a deep breath in and out. “Yeah, I am. Most of my experience on my resume lines up with short-film, so I’d be able to—”

“Alright great,” he interrupts, “so we can hold the interview tonight.”

“We?” you ask.

“Well yeah, me, my camera guy, the hiring guy. Maybe go for drinks or something.”

Your brow furrows. “That hardly sounds like an interview.”

Kai sighs. “Well, it’s not an interview for a desk job or something. It’s more of like—well, like building connections. I know you know all about that, since Utahime got you the newsletter job.”

Well, yes. She put a word in for you, which helped get the interview, but you still went against qualified applicants. “I guess.”

“It’ll be like that. Most opportunities you’ll get if you still want to pursue filmmaking are going to be like that,” he tells you, “if it feels informal, it means you’re doing it right. You might not think so now because you’re still in school, where they practically serve opportunities to students on platters, but it’s going to be different in the real world.”

You lay your head back onto the pillow, feeling like you’re receiving a lecture you didn’t ask for, and your first instinct is to pretend that you know better than he does. But when you think about all the stress recently, all of the not knowing, and the unsure, you question if you should start leaning into the advice of the people around you, and start to accept this career path for what it’s known to be. Unruly, unconventional, and a lot of times, unfair.

“I see. Well, can I think about it? Tonight is too soon, I’d need time to research the director, put a portfolio together, and also do some interview prep,” you say, pulling your phone from your ear to glance at the time.

“Well, tonight’s the only night that works since their team’s shooting abroad for the weekend and they leave tomorrow morning,” he says.

You purse your lips together.

“But also,” Kai says, “it’s the nice thing to do, y’know, since my camera guy is taking the time to look at your camera for free, you could at least help his friend out. By the way, he just texted me, he does have some used Canons available at discount.”

You close your eyes for a second, just trying to process this conversation right now. Kai was speaking too fast, hardly enough time for you to even think.

“So do you want to do the interview tonight?”

“Yes, sure. Okay. Just— just send me the details. I’ll be there,” you say.

“Alright cool, will do.”

You say bye, and then he hangs up.

A few hours pass by, where you spend some time putting together a flash drive of a couple of your best short films you’ve worked on in the past with other directors, as well as a portfolio of some recently developed film photography. The last thing to do was grab your emergency stash of print outs of your resume, and then you stuff it all into a folder before glancing at the mirror to take in your reflection. It felt extremely weird to show up to a job interview in something as casual as what you were wearing right now, but Kai insisted to not wear anything business. But at least you opted for jeans that don’t have any DIY holes in them.

Your face is glued to the navigation on your phone screen the second you get out of the taxi, and you walk down the bustling nightlife streets of Tokyo to get to this bar that Kai sent you the address of. But just as you’re about to turn the corner to your destination down the bar strip, you bump into someone’s chest due to lack of paying any proper attention.

“Ah— I’m so sorry,” you say, your grip on your phone tightening when you realize it was about to get knocked out of your hand, and then you look up to see a familiar face.

“Oh!” Geto exclaims from where he’s standing right in front of you, “You’re everywhere, y/n. What are you doing here?”

You open your mouth to speak, hesitate for a second, and then continue. “I’m here to…get drinks with some of my friends.”

He gives you a smile. “That’s nice. I am too.” He points over his shoulder to behind him. “Nanami got into his MBA program earlier this week, so, Satoru, Choso and I are buying him a few rounds. Or possibly a million. The plan is to incapacitate him as punishment for giving up on playing in the national league with us.”

You humor him with a laugh. “That’s sweet. Or not? Well anyway, tell him I said congrats.” Your heart starts to beat a little faster, because from the direction Geto came from, it meant Gojo was likely just around the corner somewhere. “Where are you heading to now?”

“We’re bar hopping, and I think I forgot my phone at the last one we went to over there,” he says, pointing across the street. “So I’m going to go look for it.”

“Oh alright,” you say. “Good luck with that. I’m going to go find my, uh, my friends.”

Geto tilts his head at you and had a slightly more serious expression on his face, glancing at the folder in your hands. “Thanks. And stay safe.”

You nod at him and then walk past him to round the corner onto the street that had groups of people loitering in front of restaurants, bars and all sorts of establishments as they wait in the cold to get inside or be seated. You recognize the name on one of the signs hanging as the one Kai sent you in his message, and when you’re a few feet away from it, you spot Kai. He’s wearing his typical street photographer wear, with a red flannel over a gray shirt and pants that are possibly a size too big for him, but that’s likely the style he was going for. He’s standing with two other people.

“Hey,” you greet Kai first, who has a pleasant look on his expression before he greets you back and gestures to the two people he was with.

“Yo, this is Junichi, my camera guy,” he says. “Don’t bother shaking his hand, he’s a germaphobe. Gotta keep ‘em clean for the electronics.”

“Oh,” you say. Junichi is a big man, broad shoulders and thick muscles. His neck is almost as thick as his bicep, and he has no hair on his head. His arms are crossed. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for taking a look at my camera.”

He nods at you in acknowledgment. “Sure thing. Pretty Boy here says you want to buy one of my used Canons. I don’t refurbish them, so you’d better know how.”

Kai sighs, nudging Junichi a little with a fist. “Relax, dude, we can talk about that later. Also, stop calling me that.”

Your eyes flicker to the right, where another man stood, who you assume was Junichi’s friend and this Verve Films director’s visual effects specialist. He’s similar in stature to Kai, with that casual artist look, and he has a scuffle of facial hair littering his jaw in less of an intentional fashion but rather a five-o-clock shadow fashion. You vaguely register the scent of weed, familiar to the one that lingers in the photo lab on campus after class hours. He reaches his hand out to you first.

“Hi, I’m Ren. I work in visual effects for director Akira Ko at Verve.”

Your eyes widen as you shake his hand. “That’s amazing. I’ve studied a lot of his contemporary works, I’d love to learn more about his process.”

Ren lets a fast exhale out through his nose. “Yeah, you’ll learn a lot under him.” He pauses to shove his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Most of his assistants always do.”

“We’ve been waiting for too damn long,” Kai interjects before you could ask any questions about the assistant position, and he glances at his watch, “and there’s still a lot of people ahead of us.”

You glance around to the small groups of people gathered in front of this bar on a lively Friday night, eyes jumping from one area to the next, until a familiar silhouette catches your eye.

You see Gojo standing with Nanami and Choso a few strides away, near the lamppost. He’s mostly turned away from you, Nanami nudging his arm annoyed at something he said, and the sound of his laughter in the air makes your heart feel like it’s at stray. Like that was where you were supposed to be right now, not here.

You watch him from the distance as he sighs, shrugging his shoulders up and down slightly before crossing his arms when Choso gestures towards the entrance of the bar, and so he looks in that direction too. He’s frowning slightly and he brushes some of the hair fallen over his forehead away from his eyes, in that boyish way that makes your heart skip a beat, and you know he’s just doing it to see a little bit better, but it makes you want to cry.

Geto walks up to them and rejoins their little circle, and holds his phone up in the air, and then there’s the melody of their voices bouncing off one another’s again. Geto rests his elbow up onto Gojo’s shoulder, leaning in a bit closer to tell him something, and when Gojo hears it, you see his entire body tense before his wide eyes are searching his surroundings, until those eyes land on you.

Your breath catches, and you hold his eye contact for only a moment before you look away, because it almost felt like too much to bear.

“What’s that folder in your hand?” Ren asks you, and you turn completely to face him so you can’t see Gojo in your periphery at all anymore.

“I just brought some of my work, for your—er, I guess Mr. Ko’s—reference if he’d like to see it after today’s…interview,” you say. “There’s a flashdrive, too.”

Ren has an amused look on his face and he shoves Kai’s shoulder with his palm. “Dude, you didn’t tell her?”

Kai shakes his head. “Tell her what?”

“Ohh, I see how it is,” Ren muses.

“What?” Kai asks, starting to sound annoyed.

Ren tips his chin up slightly to study Kai’s face, and then his look of amusement dissipates into one of understanding. “Nothing.”

“Tell me what?” you prod.

“Just that you didn’t really need to bring all of that with you,” he says. “Sorry for the trouble.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine, but if you could still give it to him—”

“I’m surprised Kai suggested someone when I asked if he knew anyone,” Junichi jumps in, “I’m used to him grumbling on and on about how shit the work is in filmmaking. Would’ve thought he’d convinced you to look the other way by now.”

You blink at the gruff man, then look at Kai, and he’s just staring down at the dirt of his shoes. “Well, we had a conversation about it. But I’m pretty set on what I want to do,” you say.

Kai lets out a scoff. “Yeah, I don’t really know how else to warn you about the shit show you’re in for, but if you want to be in debt to grad school for the next couple decades of your life, then it’s up to you.”

“Hey, jackass, try to be a bit nicer,” Ren speaks up. “She’s got some goals. Big fuckin’ deal.” He turns to you. “Although, he’s got a point sweetheart, school’s not going to get you anywhere in this industry.”

You frown. “A lot of directors I look up to went through graduate schooling. Most, I would say. I don’t understand where this rhetoric is coming from.”

“It’s coming from real people with real experience,” Ren says, and you dislike the way he takes a step closer to you to reiterate his point, “honestly, you should save yourself some time and give up on applying. It’s not worth it.”

“I’ve already put my application together,” you say, brow furrowing slightly, “I’ve asked professors for my references, spent the past four years working on my profile—”

“But working under a director, I mean really getting to work under one, beats all of that. Which is why you’re here, right?” Ren asks, but it’s not curious, it’s testing.

You feel a sheen of sweat build at your forehead, even in this cold, and you clench your hand into a fist once, twice, thrice. You’re breathing fast, and the three sets of eyes that are staring so scrutinizingly into your soul right now have you faltering, like if they took another step forward, tried to intrude what you thought you knew one more time, you’d fall backwards over the cliff.

Suddenly, a hand wraps around your upper arm, and when you turn your head to the left, you see Gojo standing there.

“Hey,” he says to you, sparing one single sidewards glare towards Kai, who immediately averts the eye contact, before Gojo’s eyes are on you again, “can I talk to you for a second?”

You look at the three men in your circle, who suddenly adopt skittish body postures, and Gojo doesn’t really wait longer than a few seconds before he’s pulling you away from them over towards the edge of the curb towards the street.

“What?” you ask once he lets go of your arm.

“What are you doing here with those guys?” he asks.

“I’m—…why does it matter to you?” you ask.

“It matters to me because of the fucking absurd conversation I just overheard,” he says, “now answer me.”

His tone annoys you, and you cross your arms. “Are you eavesdropping?”

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he says, taking a step forward to you, “who are those guys, and why are you here with them?”

You blink at him, furrowed brows relaxing slightly as you drop your crossed arms to your side, and you stare straight ahead at the blankness of the white t-shirt he’s wearing, as your mind runs blank to his question. Why were you here with them? Was it because you had no other plans? Was it because the opportunity sounded too good to be true, and you just had to see for yourself? Was it because you’ve been unable to sleep at night from all the stress, the financial worries, the rejection, and you just want to finally feel like you’ve done one good thing for yourself? To feel like you’re at least making one step in the right direction, no matter the cost?

“I’m here for a job interview,” you say to him. Your tone is flat, and you feel numb.

“A job interview?” he asks, with just about as much incredulity you would’ve expected to hear from him at that answer, “At a bar? How does that make any sense?”

“It…” you start, “sounded fine.”

“It sounds shady as fuck.”

“This doesn’t concern you, okay? I’m—…I’m just trying to make my goals work for me, Satoru, and I really don’t expect you to understand.”

“Why wouldn’t I understand?” he asks. There’s confusion in his voice, and maybe even a little bit of hurt.

“Because you can’t even understand how unfair and painful it is for me that you keep—” you have to purse your lips together briefly to fight back the knot in your throat, “…that you keep interfering with my life everywhere I go.”

His expression softens, and he silently stands in front of you for a moment. His eyes dart across your face, and then he reaches out to grab your hand. “Listen, if you still want to get drinks tonight, then just get drinks with us. But don’t hang out with those guys. They’re bad news, especially the dude with the flannel, and I don’t think you’re in a good place right now to see that.”

Your eyes see white fury at that, and you all but snap. Because the irony of this whole situation, is that you’re not in a good place right now because of him. Because of all the pain that he’s put you through, for promising to stay away but then always being near, for saying he doesn’t want you but then acting like he does.

“You know what I think, Satoru?” you ask through gritted teeth, yanking your hand from his grasp.

He’s looking at you, studying. “What?”

You take a step forward, threateningly, and he takes a step back so that he steps off the curb and onto the road, and you’re at eye-level with him now. “I think that you’re jealous,” you say, eyes glaring daggers into his.

He blinks at you, almost dumbfounded for a moment before he says “what?”

“You’re just fucking jealous that I seem to be moving on after you rejected me, because for some weird reason, you think it’s okay to not want me, and yet not want me to be with anyone else,” you say, practically hissing the words. “You don’t like seeing me with any guys other than you? You don’t want to believe me when I say that I’m over you? You’re not sorry for kissing me? Even after knowing,” you take a pause to breathe, because you feel like you can’t, “even after knowing that I like you,” eyes blinking fast because you don’t want him to see you cry right now, “you know that I like you so fucking much, and that it’s hurtful, and that it’s wrong— and even after all of that, you act the same, and still won’t promise me any commitment of your own.”

He’s looking at you with an expression you can’t read, but you’ve lost all interest in trying to understand it anymore.

“You don’t want me hanging out with them?” you repeat after him, “I’m not listening to that. Because it’s possessive. And it’s wrong.”

At the mention of them, Gojo clenches his jaw. “That has nothing to do with you and me, right now. What they’re trying to convince you of doesn’t make any sense, and it won’t help you achieve your dreams either, y/n.”

“You don’t know anything about my dreams, Satoru,” you say, just to hurt him. But you think about the sincere expression on his face the first time you met him when you told him that you wanted his help with your assignment. You think about the playful nudge of his elbow that night he stayed with you on the curb, and told you that you just had to try to put yourself out there, because you couldn’t accomplish anything without facing your fears. You think about how he’s always the first to like every single one of the slideshows you post of your pictures on Instagram. You think about the adoration in his eyes, reflected off the moonlight through the hotel window, when you told him about a little cottage on the countryside, one you’ve always wanted, and those eyes told you that he was really rooting for you. “You don’t know. Because you—” there’s an echo of words in your head. Someone else’s words, not yours, “Because you’re a college athlete. And—” you let out an exhale, “and you don’t pay tuition.”

His brow furrows. There’s a beat of silence as his confusion settles in. “What?”

“You were born blessed with talent, and you’re popular, and people adore you, and you don’t have to worry about internships, or jumping from job to job just to make something of yourself,” you say, picturing your life in your head along with all the strife, “or about all of the sinking debt, and the worry, and the— and the car repair bills,” you say, almost with a scoff, eyes sheening with tears, like you’re losing your mind, “all of the fucking car repair bills.” Your chest is heaving as you shake your head. “Because you’re set for life as long as you kick a fucking ball.”

His lips purse together, like he can tell there’s more on your tongue to say, more hurtful words, and he wants to hear you say them. And so you do.

“You’ve never had to suffer or worry about a single thing in your life. So don’t pretend like you understand what I’m trying to do here tonight,” you say, inflection signing off on the end, to tell him that you’re done.

He stands in front of you, practically motionless except for the slow movement of his chest as he breathes. His expression, tense and hurt, softens slowly, and you see him digging his nails into the skin of his palms through fidgeting clenched fists at his sides. And then he relaxes them, too.

“Does that make you feel better?” he asks.

His question confuses you, and for some reason, regret washes over you. “What?”

“Does thinking of me that way—…does it make you feel better about all of this? Between us?”

You’re breathing fast, eyebrows pinching upwards to look at him, and the defeated expression on his face makes your heart ache. He’s waiting for an answer, and so you give him one. “Yes.”

He glances down at the ground for a moment, then at your collarbone, before meeting your gaze again. “I’m sorry. For everything. And I—” the words catch in his throat briefly, “I’ll try to leave you alone tonight.”

His use of the word try doesn’t escape you, but you give him a furtive nod, and he studies your face for a few moments before he steps back up onto the curb and walks past you. You watch him walk all the way, no longer with that confidence or conviction you’re so used to seeing in him, as he steps back into his circle, to Geto’s side. Geto gives a small glance over his shoulder to look at you with discerning eyes before looking at Gojo again, and then he’s turned away from you.

Heavy feet drag you back to Kai, Ren, and Junichi, and you feel feverish. They mention something about the table being ready, and you nod. The bar is rustic, with more tables than barspace, and the four of you are seated and then presented with a small food menu. You’re seated next to Kai, Ren is right across from you, and Junichi is to his right. You watch a waitress usher Nanami, Choso, Geto and Gojo to one of the tables as well, two away from yours, and you forcefully blur your vision so you don’t have to catch sight of the expression on Gojo’s face.

“So,” Ren speaks up as his eyes peruse the food menu and Junichi waves the waitress over to order a round of sake, “tell me more about your experience, sweetheart.”

You blink at him, eyes feeling heavy, heart feeling heavy. “I’d prefer it if you called me by my name.”

Ren lets out a coo, and you briefly glance at Kai who’s shaking his head with a sigh. “My bad, y/n. Your experience?”

Your hands play with the folder sitting in your lap. “I started writing screenplays for small-scale directors when I was a freshman, and was greenlit on a couple into my sophomore year. One of the films I worked on, I had directing credits for, and it was nominated for best screenplay at Etoile Film Festival the year following.”

Ren swallows slightly, shifting in his chair and pushing his shoulders back, like he’s trying to establish himself now. Kai is clenching a fist on the surface of the table.

Ren clears his throat before speaking again. “Wow, okay, so you’ve actually got some serious shit going on.” His voice is a faux octave deeper. “What do you know about being a good assistant? Ever worked in customer service? Secretary?”

“Oh, I mean I have worked in customer service, but I wasn’t done sharing about my experience—” you try to say but Junichi cuts you off.

“First round’s on me,” he declares, “for bringing her out here.” He tips his chin to you and then sends Kai a glance.

A waitress brings by a bottle of sake, and Junichi begins pouring drinks into the glasses, then slides them across the table. Kai gives Ren a pointed look.

“Don’t get too wasted,” Kai says to him as he brings his glass to his lips, “you start running that mouth of yours a little too much when you do.”

Ren grins at him and immediately knocks down the glass Junichi barely finished pouring from him in one go, and the gruff man beside him is grumbling. “Whatever you say.”

Something had been bothering you since you came here. “Wait,” you say, pointing between Kai and Ren, “do you two know each other already? Because,” you turn to look at Kai, “on the phone earlier, you sounded like you didn’t.”

Kai’s eyebrows raise in surprise, as though he’s discovered you have some skill for foresight. You glance at Ren, and he gives Kai a puzzled look.

“Uh, yeah. I’ve known Kai for years,” he says, “we go way back. We went to highschool together.”

Kai shifts a little in his chair. “Sorry. Probably forgot to mention it.”

You glance down at the glass of sake in front of you, and the way it twinkles under the lighting of the bar. You slowly bring it to your mouth, taking a small sip, and the way it coats your tongue is less than pleasing.

“Can you tell me more about the assistant position?” you ask Ren, who’s emptied out the bottle of sake and waving someone over to order more. He already has a slightly flush to his face.

“Yeah, yeah, will do,” he says, “but first, let me tell you about what I do in visuals.”

Another round of sake is dropped by, and then another, followed by another, as Ren continues to ramble on and on about what he does for work, and how it’s entirely integral to the final piece of the film, although you’ve never really had a terrible level of appreciation for visual effects in short-film craft, since it’s hardly much work. But you wouldn’t say that, you just continue to nurse your one glass of sake as the three men surrounding you knock back more and more, and there’s slurs to their speeches now.

“Sooo, I’m so sorry, sweetheart—I mean y/n, for cuttin’ you off earlier,” he says, “but what was that experience you wanted to talk to me about?” Ren asks from across the table, and his eyes are all traveling over you.

“I…” you start, “well, I started to work with one of my professors last year, she’s a two-time Cannes Film Festival winner, and she let me under her wing for one of her projects last year.”

“Who is she? Oh wait, nevermind, probably wouldn’t have heard of her anyways,” Ren says, but when you fail to laugh, he waves his hand in the air. “Joking, joking. What’s her name?”

“Naoko. Naoko Ogigami.”

“Oh shit. I have heard of her,” Ren says, followed by a shallow hiccup. Junichi shrugs his shoulders, and when you look at Kai, he’s nodding slowly and toying with the rim of his glass with a finger.

“Yes. Well, anyways—” you start up again, before Kai sets his glass of sake down particularly loud.

“This is all bullshit. Really. I told you, filmmaking is a waste of time. Just focus on your photography, and your freelance or whatnot,” Kai says, grit to his jaw, face looking red with possibly something other than just a tipsiness.

Ren lets out a laugh. “Fuckin’ Kai. What a pessimist. Don’t listen to him, sweetheart,” he says, slurred, and you furrow your brow at him with a glare, “sorry. Don’t listen to him. Trust me, you’ll learn a lot under Mr. Ko. He’s a suuuper nice guy.”

“What’s the compensation?” you ask. It’s a brazen question, one you’d never ask so soon in a formal interview process, but this table was hardly anything formal.

“Real good. Mmm I think like…5200 yen an hour, and then also, you get your foot in the door.”

“Oh,” you sit up a little in your chair. It was higher than most entry-level anything for undergraduates or even new grads.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he drawls when he sees you’re more interested. “Good stuff. Kai used to pick these kinds of jobs up, too, back in his college days. I remember. Although, he’s hardly Mr. Ko’s type, so I doubt he’d be any good for this one.”

Your head snaps to Ren again at his words, face tensing.

“Tell her about what a job like this—hic—entails,” Ren says as he extends his glass out for Junichi to pour him another.

Kai glances at Ren once, and you watch him grind his teeth for a moment, and then there’s a hint of a smirk on his face.

“Oh. Y’know, clerical work. Stuff like printing scripts out,” Kai starts, Junichi filling up his glass and then he raises it into the air to watch the liquid swish around, “grabbing him coffee. Making sure his trailer is stocked.”

“Blowing him in said trailer,” Ren says. It’s something quiet, under his breath with a small laugh, where you could barely hear it across the table. But you heard it nonetheless. And your heart sinks to the core of the earth.

“Excuse me?” you say. The benefit of doubt sitting on your shoulder, watching in disbelief as well.

“He’s joking,” Kai says, quickly, “runnin’ his mouth.”

“Oh fuck off, Kai,” Ren says, throwing his hands up in the air, “don’t act like that’s not why you brought her here.”

Your head slowly turns to Kai, who can’t meet your gaze. Your eyes flicker to Junichi, who looks amused.

Ren leans over the table, elbows resting on top, to look you straight in the eyes. He’s got a sleazy smile, and you can smell the alcohol on his breath, and he dips his tone down low enough to where you can hardly hear it over the sounds surrounding you in the bar. “That’s how you’ll make it in this industry, sweetheart. Whether you like it or not, you’ll be working under those directors until you make it.”

You stand up so fast that your chair falls behind you, hand raised in the air, and you swiftly slap the man across from you so hard across the cheek that it leaves his skin even more red than the flush from before, and your palm is stinging.

There’s gasps all around the bar, hushed voices, eyes on you, but you don’t care. There’s not a single thing in the world you care more about right now than the anger swelled in your chest.

Ren holds his cheek, surprised, blinking like a pathetic animal. He almost looks like he’s about to cry, and you let out a scoff at the sight.

You turn to face Kai, whose eyes are wide and he’s staring up at you. Your fists are clenched at your side.

“Is this why you brought me here tonight?” you ask. Your voice is trembling, anxiety at the wake, the white anger spotting your vision. But there’s also pain. So much pain, and you’re just so fed up with all of it. “Because your belittling, condescending words weren’t enough to tear my hopes apart, so you had to humiliate me in front of your friends instead?”

Kai holds his hand up. “Woah, Canon, relax. He was just joking—…” Kai glances at Ren, who’s still holding his cheek and biting down on his lip, and then his gaze hardens. “Y’know what? It’s about fucking time you get this wake-up call, y/n. I’ve been trying to do the nice thing to steer you in the right direction, and the least you could—”

“Steer me in the right fucking direction?!” you’re yelling now, registering the way your voice echoes in the bar. “You know what I think this is all about, Kai?” You grit your teeth, “You’re a sick, stupid, sexist fuck who didn’t have the balls to go after what he wanted. So miserably pathetic that you’ve got no other fucking business than to pull people down to your level.”

Kai pinches his eyebrows together, hand on the table clenching into a fist.

You lean down closer, an exasperated scoff leaving your lips. “Why don’t you go be his assistant instead? Since I’m sure you’re good at taking it up the ass.”

Kai’s eyes twitch, “you fucking—”

You grab his glass off the table and throw the alcohol into his face, eliciting another round of noises around the bar, and his mouth falls agape in shock before he gets up out of his chair, hand reaching out to grab for you. You close your eyes shut with a flinch to expect pain. Any sort of pain. But you don’t feel anything at all.

When you open your eyes, you see Gojo standing to your left, veins of his arm tense with the tight grip he has on Kai’s forearm, and you can see he’s practically shaking with rage. He steps in front of you, guarding, and you can’t see the expression on his face, but the fear in Kai’s eyes is enough to say it all.

“That’s enough,” he says, the clench of his jaw evident through the strain in his voice, “try to put your hands on her again, and I’ll split your fucking face in half.”

You can see Kai’s breathing pick up from where you’re peering over Gojo’s shoulder, and then Gojo shoves him backwards right as Choso kicks the fallen chair to his feet so he trips over it backwards then hits the ground with a loud and indignant thud.

Gojo’s hovering over Kai, his hands shoved in his pockets as he glares down at him, while Geto and Nanami put space between you and the other two men at your table. You feel a searing flush to your cheeks. You’re breathing fast, the peering eyes all around you are scrutinizing, looking at you with surprise, confusion, shock, and pity. Your mind is racing, and you wonder what your parents would think of all this. What your friends would think of all of this. What the people who support you would think of the fucked up situation you’ve found yourself in, and the humiliation courses so deep through your veins that you just want to run away and hide. The ground could swallow you whole right now, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

You take one step back, then another, before you turn on your heel to rush out the door into the night, and you barely register that it’s raining. You can feel your heart thumping fast in your chest and in your head, that familiar knot in your throat twisting tight as you walk fast down the street and ignore Gojo’s call of your name from behind you.

You don’t want to see anyone right now. You don’t want to be seen by anyone right now. Especially Gojo, of all people, because he was right about everything, and the fact that you had shut him down about it, and the way that you had shut him down about it makes your head numb and your breathing pick up fast.

“y/n,” you hear him call out from behind you, his pace is getting faster and so you’re resorting to longer strides as well, puddles of water splashing under your feet with every step, “just wait—”

“I’m seriously,” you start, and the tears begin to fall, “I’m seriously so, so, so, so, so fucking embarassed right now,” you gasp out the words with no air left in your lungs to breathe as you continue to run away from him, “so please, just leave me alone.”

You can picture it all in your head. Something like I told you so from his lips, because after what you’ve been put through tonight, you just want to assume the worst in people.

But just as you round the corner into an alley, feeling lost with the sight of a dead end, you feel a hand wrap around your arm and then you’re being pulled into an embrace.

Your eyes are blinking with tears streaming, your face buried in a chest that is warm, with a heart beating so fast that it’s keeping time with your own, and the fragrance that surrounds you is so painfully him that it makes you sob even more.

Strong arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, and Gojo rests his chin at the top of your head. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, and you can feel the rumble of his voice, “I just needed to stop you from running.”

Your arms are weakly raised, an outline over his torso but not yet grabbing on, until you hesitantly do. And when you hold onto him, it’s so tight and strong, and you realize that after everything between the two of you, it’s the first time you’ve been wrapped in his arms.

“I feel so stupid,” you start, already hating the words because you want to be stronger right now, but you can’t.

“You’re not stupid,” he quickly corrects you, “those guys are fucking insecure losers. You’re just trying your best. You always have, for as long as I’ve known you, and it’s something you should be proud of yourself for.”

You don’t know what to say to him, you just cling to the damp fabric of his shirt in the rain.

“Things are going to work out for you, no matter what, because I know you’ve got what it takes and you’re willing to work hard for it,” he says, his chin nuzzling so you’re tucked into him even further, “and if things don’t work out, that’s okay, you’re strong and you’ll always get back up. And I want to be there to help you through everything.”

You pull your face from his chest to stare up at him, droplets of rain falling to your face and making you flinch occasionally. “I’m confused.”

His hand comes up to cup your face, swiping at a tear on your cheek, or maybe it was rain. “I thought that—” he starts, his thumb briefly running over the small cut still healing on your cheek, his brow furrowing, “I thought that I’d be okay with watching your life from afar, through cropped pictures on a screen,” he says, a chill running through you, “but I can’t. It’s killing me. And I’m really sorry that it took me this long to tell you this, but I like you so much and I really want to be with you.”

Your eyes widen at his words, and you don’t know how to feel. You push your face into his chest again. His thumb runs circles at your side through the dampness of your shirt.

“There are a lot of reasons I didn’t feel like I could date you, or show up for you,” he says, “but the pain of not getting to be with you, of not getting to hold you, and just share my life with you is way worse than whatever reasons I kept trying to convince myself of.”

You nod slowly, because there was a part of you deep inside that knew that all along.

His grip on you relaxes slightly and you take that as a request from him for you to look up at him, so you do. “I know I’ve put you through a lot of pain, and I’m really not a perfect person, but if there’s room in your heart to forgive me, I promise you that I’ll do everything I can to make you feel happy and cared for.”

Your eyes study his face for sincerity. They’re words you’ve been wanting to hear, words you could’ve pictured in your head, but the adoration in his eyes makes you realize you never could’ve imagined the true sweetness of those words when they’re said from him.

You press your cheek to his chest again. You’re not crying anymore. “I’m sorry for what I said to you earlier. About kicking a soccer ball, and having it easy,” you bite down on your lip, because now there’s tears in your eyes again, “I didn’t mean it.” You sniffle a little, “I know you work hard. And it was a really mean thing to say.”

He sighs, holding you flush to himself. His cheek presses against the top of your head. “That’s okay, you don’t have to apologize for that.”

“But I do.”

There was no grudge at all. There was nothing withdrawn from you, nothing taken away as punishment. He just held onto you, exactly as you are, and you felt so safe in every second you spent in his arms.

You look up at him again. His hair is damp, strands clinging to his face in all the places they usually fall over, droplets of rain falling from his fringe onto your face and he does everything he can to wipe them away. “It’s too late,” you tell him, and he immediately knows what you’re referring to.

He just holds you closer. “I know.”

“I don’t have feelings for you anymore,” you say through a sniffle.

He knows you’re lying, and that you say it just out of spite, but he holds your head to his chest. “I know.”

“You’ll have to beg and grovel, and even then, I might not like you ever again,” you say, gripping so tightly onto his shirt for purchase, your voice sounding muffled as you breathe in the scent of him. “That’s your punishment.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. A firm press of his lips, lasting as he takes a few deep breaths. And then he kisses the same spot again, staying still in that position as he repeats himself.

“I know.”

a/n. phewww thank you for reading, i swear, this chapter felt like a goddamn war to write. my emotions were all over the damn place, i think cause i wrote from a place of bitter experience lol. i dedicate this chap to my lovely friend she’s a film major (she inspired me to create this story) and i srs wouldn’t be able to write kickoff without her 😭💕 dear M♥︎, i thought of you sm while writing this chapter, i can only hope i’ve captured even the slightest bit of the understanding i will always aim to have of you, and that you feel seen. i’m incredibly proud of you, always rooting for you, so often thinking of you, and terribly missing you so much rn (plsssssss visit meee😩💔 ) dedicated w sm love 💕 -bitchasshoe this chapter is also dedicated to anyone who’s going through a hard times n maybe just trying to figure themselves out :”) i am so proud of you, you should be so proud of yourself, there’s still so much to live and learn, and i hope the universe blesses you w everything you’ve ever wanted!! big thank u to my lovely m00t @quinnyundertow she pulled me out of my writers block for this chapter and also beta read a lot of it for me there’s only three chapters left for kickoff (i’m gonna cry just thinking ab it :”)) which doesnt sound like a lot but there’s still a lot i’ve got planned 😭 i’m just noticing that i very poorly planned the second half of this series. chapters 1-6 combined have less words than chapters 7-9 combined 😅✨ sooooo i may increase the chapters from 12 to 14 by splitting them up to make it easier on me, or just stick to the plan and come out with long chapters like the last two. idk. i’ll figure it out. thank u to everyone for reading i love you all dearly 😭💕 i’ll see you in the next one!!

➸ take me to chapter ten!

➸ wrote some kickoff headcanons here

taglist: @who-can-touch-my-boob @therealestpussyeater @lost-resonance @hojoslutoru @foulprincesscycle @luniunia @alekssashka7 @bsdicinindirdim @tsukikourito @getitsatoru @slut-4-gojo @cactisjuice @kissofife @tiredflame132 @cliosunshine @ethereally-lyann @btszn @prince-wyiilder @semra4 @gojosimp26 @drthymby @ninitoru @bbyxxm @fvsm4x @sadmonke @zoinks1010 @bakuhoethotski @horisdope @sykostyles @aquaberrydolphin @colouringfrogssittinginleaves @ri-sa20 @purplehallow11 @mwtsxri @ritsatoru @bxddiebloss @chwesuh-imnida @mo0nforme @viware @still-fking-single @megumisthirdog @gintokhi @karvokr @cierocanteat @imjustaweirdnerd @ronniebird @bloopsstuff @mwtsxri @witchbybirth @tetsuski @fffinskye @gh0ulkz @beabadobeee @mandysfanfics @erencvlt @laviefantasie @sukunamylovexoxo @girlkissersco @itzjuliana @yell0wdreams @1dimas7 @strayedjeno @mo0nforme @yungbloode @sullybrothersmate @oaooaoaoaoa @swagangelllamawolf @banenemilk @inniesblog

(hope i didn't miss anyone thank u all sm!!)

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darqx · 7 months ago

Text

Snakes on a post

Another particularly long answer dump since i, once again, have a backlog of things to potentially answer |D

❗️For commonly asked qs please see my BTD FAQ

Got jumpscared with my own old art for a hot minute there LAUGHS.

(For those wondering, the naga doodle from here was attached to the ask)

That is every other Royal that exists in the Nether and also at least some of the demons that challenged him for his Royal title lol.

Believe me, no one was or is more surprised then me XD;

So, the thing about where Rire's ichor manifests is that it kinda exists and doesn't exist at the same time. Meaning that his upper back is where the manifestation point is anchored, BUT it can still manifest with a bit of space in between it and his back hence why it will manifest over his clothes and not through them.

So if you touch where the manifestation point is sans the ichor, than you are just straight up touching his back. With the ichor, he still gets sensory input from the tentacles to his back but it's a lot more soft and muted esp the further away it gets from him. As you've seen implied though, he would feel a very sharp pain if a great deal of damage was done to the ichor where it clusters at the manifestation point, since he'd DEF be feeling that straight in his back lol.

He is definitely a top and the only way he would bottom for anybody is if they somehow forced him to.

Ah i knew i'd answered this a long time ago [finally found it]! Holy crosses (those that have been blessed) can also burn him but they would need to be in contact with him the entire time. Being a Royal he also has more of a tolerance to these than normal demons.

Well, unless said person actually has the undeniable ability to make good on their words, Rire would just stand there rather genially with that little smile he sometimes has and let them finish.

And then he might use them as reverse suggestions for dealing with said person (why would you give him any ideas!!?)

both

In BTD canon it is quite possible that they actually haven't in person. But we are using creative license here haha.

Rire heals a lot faster than a human. Cain is not my character so I don't know how his stacks up.

I've grouped these asks cos they kind of have similar answers - 360° (jk sorry sorry to the second q that is just a very common spelling mistake and I couldn't resist XD; )

Now, even though we mashed all the characs together in BTD, they all actually come from different storylines and so their canons outside the "BTD canon" may differ. This tends to bleed in. With this in mind:

The rules of Rire's canon (eg the concept of Battle Royales and how to become a Royal) don't apply to Cain. Anyway, they don't live in the same place either.

Cain is canonically the oldest and most OP character in BTD lol so yes he is stronger than Rire - you might've noticed, but Rire is never in the same drawing as Cain voluntarily. I play with this along with the "natural weakness" aspect - which I've also referred to as scissors-paper-rock rules XD Basically; demons beat humans, angels beat demons (purely because demons have weakness against holiness).

It would (be insane) but I hope you are not looking at me to fulfil this :d

Not really

His coronation day is a public holiday in his sector so yes XD

Aww thank you very much for your interest! ≧(´▽｀)≦ It's really cool that some of you guys want to actually fund such a thing - I'd have thought you'd have enough of him killing you in BTD1 XD Unfortunately, I have no plans for a Rire game at the moment as I'm working on a webcomic which looks like it will take up all my free time (that being said, he will be in the webcomic at some point).

Nope! Although i can kinda see why you might think that lol.

Whatever that one is where he doesn't particularly care what someone else identifies as. It really makes no difference to him or how he will act.

There are viruses in the Nether that if contracted could potentially kill you, yes. Part of being a Royal is becoming a lot more robust than normal Demons though. As for if/when Rire dies, I dunno maybe either in a Battle Royale somewhere thousands of years down the line or by old age (which is rare for a Royal but not impossible if you play your cards right).

If you are asking if he has a heat/rut of some sort, he does not |D

#boyfriend to death #art #rire answer dump #answer dump #doodle #long post #decided to actually redesign what a naga rire would viably look like since the old design was bad XD

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squinch-depraved · 2 months ago

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I was watching a chuckle sammy episode today and there was a part where Schlatt said he would hire a hot secretary just to keep him company. I'd love a story about that if you're willing.

The episode is the zodiac one the part I'm referring to is exactly 1 hour in.

this is reallllly yummy i hope i did it justice for you

it was supposed to be just a joke. just a bit for the podcast, a few sentences about hiring an attractive secretary and nothing more. but they stuck in schlatt's mind and hung heavy over him for the rest of that night. he really was lonely. and ted had a point, hiring someone to just be around (and look pretty) was looking like a better and better idea every second. so he finished off his bottle of benedictine, not that there was much left, and tossed it to the side, stretching out further on the couch while he pulled out his phone and set to work searching for an assistant.

it wasn't long before ted heard about his search, and the two men bantered in a call for a few minutes about it before the older of the two stopped his jokes to suggest, "no, but for real though, i have a friend who just moved back to new york, you might remember her, she was on the set for this past chuckle week helping in the background. y/n?"

schlatt's pupils dilated and he took in a breath. "yeah, i remember her," he replied coolly. "thought she was in school though?" he played with something on his desk.

ted lit up. "yeah, she's studying, but i'm sure she'd be willing to work something out with you." his voice was laced with knowing. he had seen the way schlatt sized you up the first time he laid eyes on you, the way he could never meet your gaze and how he always looked to you first when he made a joke. "i'll send you her info, you should reach out, man. she'll be happy to hear from you."

that last line was the only reason schlatt did it. he cursed himself for letting ted convince him now that you were here in front of him. you had been invited to a coffee shop to discuss the job details, and when you finally showed up, he looked incredibly uncomfortable sitting at a small table. but you sat down in front of him, smiling up at him and pushing your glasses up on your nose.

"hi schlatt!" you greeted him, reaching out to shake his hand. he gripped you a bit too hard and grimaced when you made a small noise, shaking your hand out when he let go. "thank you so much for the opportunity, i was really worried i wouldn't be able to find a good job for a while with my school going on and everything."

he nodded hastily and pushed a pastry he ordered for you towards you on the table. you smiled and yanked it towards you, beginning to eat as he spoke. "basically, i just need you to get any random tasks i need done, done. just, paperwork, if there ever is any, usually it's all digital, uhh, anything that slips through the cracks. i just need someone to be there and make sure my shit is taken care of."

you raised a brow. "sounds like you need more than an assistant," you responded with a smirk. his face reddened and he looked away, trying to shove down the thoughts of why you were really here. you were making a joke, but it wasn't funny to him. not when you didn't know you were right.

"shit, i'm sorry schlatt, i didn't mean to insult you-"

"'s fine. not insulted. i need you in the office whenever i'm there, sometimes i get work done at my apartment, so here's a key to both. feel free to get your own shit done whenever you're working unless i need you doing something. pay's fifty an hour. can you start today?" he slaps two keys down onto the table as well as two addresses written down on a half-crumpled napkin. you stare up at him in shock before snatching the keys and paper.

"fifty bucks an hour???" you whisper-screamed at him before the startled look on his face pulled you back into reality. "what about this job is worth paying me that much? i'm accepting it, no takesies backsies, but why so much, schlatt?" you tilted your head at him as you asked.

he scrambled for an answer to your question that wasn't "i want to spoil you until you can't think of anything else in the world you want," but when he opened his mouth to talk, nothing came out. you sighed and answered his previous question instead.

"yeah, i can start today. let's go ahead and get to work, boss," you said, standing up and collecting all your school stuff you brought in with you. "take me somewhere i can dump my stuff!"

weeks passed, you fell into rhythm with his fucked up schedule easily, quickly learning when to fetch him more caffeine and when to take away his alcohol. you kept him organized, boosting his productivity and helping him with almost anything he needed. you learned a few days in the fifty an hour was for no good reason other than maybe ted had told him you were struggling to pay for school (he hadn't) because most of your job was sitting at another desk, sometimes in the same room, sometimes separated by walls, parallel playing with schlatt as he filmed or streamed or edited or did whatever he needed to do while you worked on schoolwork or a fun hobby you were into. you were being paid to do minimal office work, study and relax, and best of all, care for your hot boss. he loved when you called him that, boss, it always made his cock twitch and his brain flood with thoughts of you under him.

the worst part of the job was how attracted you were to him. it made doting on him inevitable when your whole source of income was reliant on you making sure he was "taken care of." he noticed you acting more lovingly for the first time when you brought a water bottle to his desk while he was editing and massaged the back of his shoulders before mumbling, "you need to take a break and stretch soon," and leaving the room. he was stunned, skin burning under his sweater where you touched him. secretaries don't do that. he quickly opened up his messages with ted and began typing.

"dude. i fucked up. shouldn't have hired y/n. help." every sentence was a different message. moment later, ted eased the pounding of schlatt's heart a bit by replying.

"what happened??"

schlatt typed quickly. "she massaged my shoulders idk man i can't think around her"

"oh dear heavens, the damn harlot massaged you?"

schlatt didn't dignify that with a response. a few moment later, ted typed again.

"she's really into you dude, you should go for it. i promise she's not the type to sue you if it doesn't work out"

his main fear erased, he closed the chat and got off the computer, heading to find you in his apartment kitchen, going over the schedule for the days to come. music played from a speaker on the counter, and you paused it when you saw him come out.

"sorry, was it too loud?" you asked, looking up at him.

"nah," he shook his head. "you've been workin' for me for a few months now, y/n," he began.

you started shaking your head, backing up into his fridge. "schlatt, please, no, i need this job," you started to babble.

"shhh, nonono, not that at all, doll," he assured you, gliding across the floor to caress your cheek. the pet name made your stomach turn as you let him cup your face. "was gonna say somethin' else."

"what is it, then, boss?" you batted your lashes at him. he inhaled sharply and kissed you, absorbing the high pitched moan you let out. when he pulled away, you flicked your eyes down from his to his mouth and back up to meet his gaze before pulling him back in.

he tasted like whiskey, and he growled against your neck when you slid your hands under his shirt. "hired you just to keep me company but i can't keep my hands off you, doll." the nickname made you nervous for the second time that night.

"then don't keep 'em off me," you panted, puling your shirt off over your head and adjusting your skewed glasses. he drinks you in, inhaling the scent of your perfume (that you recently had to buy another of because he stole your first bottle to smell while he pumped his thick cock in his hand whenever you were gone). after a moment, he peeled your leggings off and picked you up, setting you down on the counter before he kneeled between your legs and looked up at you for permission to begin tasting you. you nodded, running your fingers through his brown curls while he started to lick and kiss at your cunt. much to his enjoyment, you didn't hold back your noises, letting your moans and cries bounce off the echoey walls of his apartment.

he slid a finger in you as he sang praises about how good you tasted for him, working his way up to two, and eventually three. you were crooning about how amazing he felt, knotting your fingers deeper into his hair and pulling it when you felt your high getting close, which made him moan directly onto your clit. you clenched your thighs around his head and ground down onto his face as he drew an orgasm from you.

once his face was thoroughly soaked with your juices, he pulled away and came up to kiss you for a bit before pulling you off the counter and spinning you around.

"i promise i'll fuck you properly, in a bed, next time, i just gotta have you now, toots." he bent you over the counter and slid his pants down, stroking his length a few times before slowly pushing into you. you both moaned, adjusting to each other, and he started thrusting, gripping your hips fiercely as you shrieked and adjusted your glasses again, to no avail because you were being shaken and throttled like a toy.

"god, you're so good!!" you screeched, moaning further when he smacked your ass in response.

"fuck, you look so cute, bent over on my counter like that, lettin' me use you like the good little assistant you are," he snarled. you let out a guttural whine at how hot he sounded. "you're so good at assisting me, baby."

your knees began to buckle and he grabbed you tighter to help hold you up.

"almost there, toots, c'mon. doin' so good."

you cried out one more time and his pace quickened, growing unsteady as he got closer to finishing. he thrust forcefully a few more times before pulling out to come all over your back and ass.

quiet settled over the kitchen as you both panted, and you heard him quietly snap a picture of you with his seed all over you before he grabbed a paper towel and began to clean you up.

"sorry," he mumbled.

you shook you head and turned around to kiss him. "can i stay the night?" you asked him.

he nodded, relieved, and slipped his pants back on.

"can i get paid for it?" you looked at him with a sly expression, glasses smudged.

he laughed. "absolutely."

#chuckle sandwich #jschlatt #jschlatt x reader #schlatt #x reader #jschlatt smut #schlatt x reader #jschlatt x you #schlatt x you #ted nivison #jschlatt x y/n #schlatt x y/n

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abigail-pent · 1 month ago

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Thoughts on rereading NTN for the (idk probably 4th or 5th) time:

- John and Pal each have specific, one-on-one "nobody has the right" conversations with the perspective character. but John's version of "nobody has the right" ends with "to judge you for mass murder" and Pal's ends with "to tell you who to love"

- it's interesting that Pal says Pyrrha was "made to be immune to the blue light" because like... how *did* the Lyctors figure out that their cavs would protect their bodies and were immune to the RBs? maybe Pyrrha said something about this to Pal at some point? idk

- I feel like I somehow missed, before, that Cam and Pal showed the Oversight Body "the secret of the installation" and got the whole Sixth House to move via stele to Ur? Not just the Oversight Body, but the whole House!

- I think Nona is alternately dreaming herself into the pool scene as Harrow (day one) and dreaming herself as Alecto in the Tomb with Anastasia (day two). In the day two dream, she's ravenously hungry, there are red eyes all around (sort of like the glow worms in the Tomb), and she can't tell the difference between her hands and the other person's hands. The only reason I think she dreamed as Harrow the first time is because she said she saw the "picture face" - which is Gideon's face.

- I will never stop being fascinated by Pyrrha's description of how her trial was developed. The only people who practiced "overlapping" (winnowing/transference) in the trial were her and Gideon, and Mercy and Cris, because every time they did it they would need to replace the cavalier's brain fluid.

- I might never be okay again after reading "I don't let go. It's my one thing."

- Corona saying that she'll give Gideon's rapier back if she asks, but otherwise "finders keepers"... hmmm.... ominous

- "the Second House installation" was abandoned 3 months prior to the beginning of NTN

- Crown says her hair is naturally big and manageable

- it's really hitting me this time how happy Camilla is to be with Palamedes, to be Paul, even if it means no longer being herself. she says it to Pyrrha after she's shot and was together in her head with Palamedes for a little while - "it was good. we were happy." Crown says she knows Palamedes is sharing Camilla's body because Camilla is happy. she's a casualty of devotion. it's giving "for I cannot be mine own, nor any thing to any, if I be not thine."

- "you and I don't even own our own souls" 👀👀 (not the first time this has jumped out to me, it's just so portentous!)

- interesting that Nona appears to mispronounce Born in the Morning's name to Hot Sauce, but then when Hot Sauce says it back to her she still hears it as "Born in the Morning."

- I'm not sure I really clocked it before but Hot Sauce is so vehemently anti-BoE ("traitors! fat cats! zombie lovers!") while at the same time being so devoted to Aim. She says that one of Born in the Morning's fathers is active in the group that runs the park cages, and distinguishes that pretty clearly from Blood of Eden. So even though We Suffer says that BoE is a "house with many rooms," the faction running the park cages (which I thought was Unjust Hope and Merv Wing, but maybe not) considers itself outside the house entirely. But even so, they remain loyal to Aim. Or it sort of looks like that, anyway, but then later Hot Sauce refers to Aim as "the asset" who "doesn't have to trust you" - so Hot Sauce thinks she's cultivating Aim as an asset, either for Unjust Hope or for someone totally outside of BoE. But then again, when Nona goes to the generator room where Hot Sauce is locked in, Hot Sauce basically says she didn't realize that Aim had a bodyguard; so I think she's trying to cultivate Aim as an asset for some entity totally outside BoE, without understanding who Aim is or why they are so important to BoE.

- Locked Tomb universe You're Wrong About episode idea: the so-called "cow wall" was not just cows, it was sheep too! but we all memory-holed the sheep! do sheep have best friends? do sheep exhibit mourning behavior for other sheep??

- the person who told Nona "once you've stepped in, you're in. this isn't the hokey pokey" is almost certainly John. it just really sounds like John when he's talking to Harrow in either HTN or the NTN dream sequences.

- Alecto wonders why "anything that hurt them only ever hurt briefly, but anger took such a long time to go away."

- John says it will take him ten thousand years to figure out the math the billionaires used for the FTL. Hmmmmmmm

- Pash's eyes are a "lovely hazelly yellowy-green color". Does that confirm that Wake carries the recessive lipochrome gene? Like I know Gideon's eyes couldn't be that way without it, but Wake either had the gene when she was born or she mutated to have it somehow. I think Pash's eyes suggest the former.

- Nona is dying because Alecto's soul is foreign to Harrow.

- Cam says Corona can't lie to Ianthe. Can't, not won't.

- in the Nine Houses, "fuck marry kill" becomes "marry kill reanimate"!!!!

- First Wake and then We Suffer are both desperate to break into the Locked Tomb. I'm not totally sure why, though. We understand from HTN that Wake is sent by Mercy and Augustine to try to break the Tomb open, but this is long before anybody knows what Alecto is to John. I suppose it's common knowledge in the Houses that the Tomb houses the "death of the emperor", and BoE would know that from all the Lyctors that defect to them over the millennia, so maybe that's it? They want to break in because they know it will make John vulnerable in some sense, but they don't know exactly how, and they don't really have a plan for what comes after?

- Corona telling Pyrrha she doesn't trust her or her motives, because she hasn't thought about her family in the last thousand years... meanwhile Cam and Pal and Nona are her family now... oof ow ouch

- Corona: "Nobody should ever trust me" I'M SORRY???

- Pal says Varun is transmitting something through the light spectrum and that "absorption through the eyes is worst for the brain" and it makes Nona think of something, but we never learn what. It seems to me that whatever it is, is related to the Lyctoral eye swap; but obviously I can't confirm.

- NOT NONA THINKING OF HOT SAUCE WHEN SHE'S TRYING TO WALK LIKE HARROWHARK!!! 😭😭😭

- I hate to admit it but Cassy is dead; but didn't she give instructions to the Sixth House 6000 years ago? What does that do to the timeline of the early Lyctors?

- Nona's scream in the barracks only affected people with necromantic bodies...

- Kiriona carries a rapier (the one John tried to give Harrow?) and an offhand with rivets

- Varun says that Alecto asked for help and he came. So maybe that's it - the RBs aren't chasing John for his own sake, or because he killed them or ate Alecto; they are chasing because Alecto asked for their help to stop him.

- I kind of think John saying he has plans for G--'s arm is a thing from immediately post-Resurrection. Like - except for G--, he has the body of every other member of his inner circle at what becomes the Canaan House facility after the Resurrection. He even has the body of "M--'s nun," although it looks like a pile of wet brown clothes and has not come through the water well. I think he needs their bodies to resurrect them; for G--, he starts with the copy arm and builds him a new body, and that's why it looks so fucked up and Protesilaus-like by the time of HTN.

- I really think John saying "God must be able to touch all of creation" is his real, full motive. The actual trillionaires themselves are long dead. Augustine is right, no one else has to be punished for what happened to humanity. John says he can't forget, but what he can't forget is that his dominion is not absolute. There are places and people that his power cannot touch. That's the real crime. The whole of everywhere isn't submitting to him, and that's what the punishment is for.

- Why doesn't the River want to touch the truck? The River has touched many RBs before, so it's not just that Varun and Alecto are on board.

- "You left them too long, my salt thing" feels like confirmation, to me, that the Tower is filled with the souls of the ten billion - whoever John didn't resurrect, or kept in reserve. We already know that souls in the River are supposed to go mad after a few months; Abigail and Palamedes are each shocked to find how long they've been bubbled in there. Imagine being a soul left in the River for ten thousand years! And then John resurrects some people - so, perhaps bringing their souls back from storage in the Tower, which may be a bubble of his making ("where did all the people go?" Alecto asked, "where have you put them?") - and he sends them to the Ninth, where the tongue things appear very shortly afterwards. I don't think that's a coincidence!

- Nona says she's seen "gray things" before once, and didn't feel up to seeing them again. That has to be from her time as Alecto.

- the chain of a kiss (between Alecto and Anastasia)! the favor of the chain (owed to Ianthe by Harrow)! is this anything????

- there are many, many thesis statements for the Locked Tomb set out in NTN. but I think a really underrated moment is when Gideon yells at Crux: "did you know I was God's child?" like - all the abuse he threw at her would not have been acceptable to throw at a child of God; but aren't we all children of God. it's sort of trite as a statement, but I adore how when Muir gives Gideon this line, it doesn't feel trite at all.

- Alecto finds the River "yet dead." Ten points to Abigail Pent!

#tlt #the locked tomb #nona the ninth #ntn #ntn spoilers #tlt meta

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slutforitoshi · 1 year ago

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rin itoshi - ink *:･ﾟ✧

ft. tattoo artist!rin x f!reader, 18+ minors dni

cw: unprotected sex, fingering, oral m!receiving, head pushing, nipple play, choking

synopsis: you intend to get a tattoo on your rib cage, but your tattoo artist is eager to see more skin

wc: 2.3k

A/N: kicking screaming crying at the idea of tattoo artist rin also ty for 500 followers!

you swallow hard as you come face to face with your tattoo artist. rin itoshi was the one of the executive artists at blue lock arts and was usually booked for months in advance. your friend isagi had managed to squeeze you in since he knew him personally.

“it’s nice to finally meet you,” he extends a hand, and you shake it lightly, hoping your own palm wasn’t clammy from nerves.

you didn’t know if you wanted to thank isagi or punch him. he warned you rin might be a ‘cold prick’, but what isagi failed to mention was that he was panty-dropping hot. and you were expected to keep still while his hands traversed your body for the next 2 hours.

rin reaches for his tablet before handing it to you, “so i took a look at your ideas and this is what i came up with, let me know what you think”

it’s gorgeous. it wasn’t for no reason that he had become so well-known despite only entering the industry a few years back. the strokes were drawn with precision, and it encapsulated your vision so perfectly he might as well have read your mind.

“rin it’s perfect” you look at him in awe, and it sends a wave of heat to his face.

he turns away to hide the unfamiliar pink color on his cheeks and murmurs a “thanks, it’s my job to.” he was usually nonchalant about his work, but something about your starry gaze made him lose composure.

you’re guided to his tattoo table and ordered to lay down, lifting your shirt to reveal your right rib that you intended to ink up.

“this your first tat?” he asks, noticing the how bare your skin was. something impure crosses his mind thinking how he’d be the first one to leave a mark.

“yup first one” you laugh nervously, “unless you count the failed stick and poke i did myself back in high school”

your anecdote earns an amused scoff from rin, “don’t tell me you used pen ink?”

“yeah and an unsanitized sewing needle, too. the thing got so infected and left a nasty scar,” you replied, lifting your leg to reveal the raised skin on your ankle.

“don’t worry, i’ll make sure this one stays” he’s approaching you now with the tattoo gun, “you’re in good hands here”

his words fill you with warmth, and you wonder why you were ever nervous in the first place.

you both settle into a comfortable silence, with only the slight buzz of the gun to be heard. the lack of conversation allows you to focus your thoughts to another subject: rin.

the view of rin tapped into his artistic zone was comparable to the work he was currently imprinting on your body. his eyebrows were slightly furrowed, lips pursed in concentration. piercing teal orbs would switch their gaze between the reference work and your skin, unnerved by any other environmental stimulus.

another thing that caught your attention was the lack of tattoos he had on him considering his profession. many artists you knew of were covered and had no intention of hiding them, but you couldn’t spot a single spot of ink on rin.

“is there something on my face?” he asks, still not sparing you a glance.

“n-no. just didn’t know where else to look…” you stammer, embarrassed from being caught. you could’ve sworn his lips quirked upwards for a second, but he’s back to being expressionless within a blink.

“well we’re about 75% finished here so let’s take a 10 minute break and then come back to it” he wipes off the excess ink and discards of his gloves.

before he can retreat to his desk you ask, “so how do you and isagi know each other?”

“that bastard and i used to be rivals in high school soccer. he used to be real annoying you know, always talking about ‘devouring’ his opponents” he rolls his eyes, remembering old matches.

“honestly not surprising. i remember he threw a fit when he lost our class’s dance dance revolution tournament,” you laugh reminiscing on your own college memories, “i don’t even know why he tried so hard the prize was a fucking $5 gift card to McDonald’s and he hated that place.”

“apparently gives him debilitating shits” you two finish in unison before bursting into laughter. rin’s laughter is rich and deep, and you try to ignore the shiver it sends down your spine.

“so how are you unfortunately acquaintanced with isagi?” rin settles into a nearby seat, forgoing his intention to leave.

“we actually used to be coworkers at our college part-time job. and we were the only ones willing to do the night shifts so we got pretty close”

rin chuckles, “you must be pretty patient to be able to spend so many hours alone with him.”

“oh trust me he definitely drove me insane. he’s a good friend though, and i got an appointment with you through him so i’m definitely thankful for that” you give a warm smile.

“well, i guess i can thank isagi for introducing us too” he reciprocates your smile, which is quickly interrupted by his manager.

“my ears must be failing me because there’s no way rin is conversing with a customer for once.”

the manager then looks to you and adds, “well i guess it makes sense that he would open up to a pretty thing like you”

the new presence instantly wipes the smile from rin’s face, and he retorts “what do you want otoya?”

“just wanted to let you know that i’m heading out. make sure to lock up when you’re done” he instructs. he’s about to leave before he turns to look at you again, “hey if rin doesn’t end up asking you out i’d be more than happy to-”

“LEAVE OTOYA”

otoya’s hands go up in surrender, but he makes sure to shoot you a wink before turning the corner.

“well he is certainly um interesting” you laugh nervously, surprised at the scowl etched onto rin’s face.

“if you’re interested in him i should warn you that he’s a serial cheater” he mutters, but it only envokes laughter from you.

“trust me i can sense a sleaze from a mile away”

your response softens his gaze a little and he signals for you to lay back down on the tattoo bed to start the final session. you couldn’t help but notice that now that you two were the only ones in the building, the space felt a little more intimate.

as the needle presses into you again, you find the pain to be a hundred times more unbearable as a result of your inflamed skin.

the sensation has you forming tight fists, pressing crescent indents into your palm. and if that wasn’t enough your vocal cords started to betray you, with small whines escaping your lips. unbeknownst to you, those same noises are eating away at rin’s focus. blood is rushing to his head, and not the large one.

“you’re being so good for me, i’m almost done” he whispers in reassurance, rubbing his thumb lightly against your ribcage. his touch effectively distracts you from the pain, sending heat to your lower abdomen.

it’s not much longer before he’s sitting back, announcing that the piece is finished, and encouraging you to sit up and look in the mirror. what’s reflected back at you leaves your mouth agape.

“rin, it’s beautiful”

“yeah, it really is” he agrees, although his gaze never once shifted away from your face.

after a few photos, he’s wrapping up the new ink and getting ready to send you out. as you’re packing up however, you notice a dark trail at the edge of rin’s sleeve.

“what’s your tattoo of?” you ask, catching his attention.

he ponders for a moment before replying, “do you want to see it?”

you nod eagerly, expecting him to roll up his sleeve. however, he opts to discard of his top completely, revealing what could only be deemed as a masterpiece. between that and his incredibly toned body, you were mesmerized.

before your consciousness could stop your instincts, your hand is reaching out to trace over the ink. rin doesn’t stop you, though his skin is burning up from your light fingertips.

“i drew it myself back when i was an apprentice. my boss at the time did it for me.”

his voice snaps you back to reality and you quickly withdraw your hand, cheeks flushed. before you could issue an apology though, his own hands are wrapped around your wrist, pulling you back in towards his chest.

“the things you do drive me fucking crazy” he mutters before colliding his lips into yours. the built up tension over the past few hours is cut so suddenly it leaves both of you desperate to get a taste.

your hands wrap around rin’s neck, pressing yourself deeper into his warmth. his fingers are tugging at the underside of your shirt now, itching to feel more of your skin.

he disconnects contact only for a moment to hoist you back up onto the tattoo bed again, lifting your shirt over your head soon after.

“you’re perfection” he growls at the sight of you before diving into capture your beaded nipple between his lips. the other one isn’t neglected either, finding solace between his fingers, rolling back and forth.

“a-ah. it’s sensitive rin” you whine at the sensation, which does nothing to halt his ministrations.

“take them off.” he whispers against your skin, and you need no clarification to know what he means. you kick off your shorts, leaving only your panties stuck against your soaked core.

rin peels them back, marveling at the slick gathered between your thighs. he quickly pushes you back until you’re rested against the bed, and aligns his fingers to your entrance, eager to be intruded.

he doesn’t give you the satisfaction immediately however, circling slowly around where you needed him most.

“rin, please,” you beg, “need you inside”

and how could he deny such an earnest request? two fingers push into you at once with little resistance, but it has you rolling your eyes back, leaning further into the firm leather beneath you.

“looks like you need more” he smirked before a third finger made its entrance. a long drawn out rinnn from your lips has his cock painfully straining against his jeans, but he still remained relentless in his pace.

his digits pumped with such vigor it was impossible to slow down the coil building in your abdomen. his lips attaching to your still-sensitive nipple is what makes you come undone though, and your back is arching against the bed as he’s muttering a, “that’s right, go ahead and cum for me”

with barely a second to recover, you’re ordered to go on your knees as he unzips his jeans to reveal a length you couldn’t fathom fitting within you. the way your mouth watered overrode any fear though and you lean forward to wrap your lips around his tip.

his hand goes flying to your hair, coiling it around his fist tight. he guides you deeper, inch by inch until tears are pricking at the corner of your lashes.

“come on baby, i know you can take more” he encourages, and you relax your throat to take an additional 1-2 inches. the pain was nothing compared to the pleasure that ran through you hearing the gutteral moan that escaped rin’s lips.

you built a rhythm going in and out, making sure to circle your tongue at his tip to feel the shudder that ran through him every time. your hair was still gripped between his fingers, so tight his knuckles were turning white. he was getting dangerously close to finishing, and as tempting as that was he wasn’t quite finished with you yet.

“that’s enough,” he orders, pulling you to your feet. before you could process the new emptiness, he’s flipped you around, pushing your chest forward into the leather bed.

his guides his tip between your dripping folds, and then pushing once he felt the catch of your entrance. the stretch has you letting out a sigh, and it isn’t long before he’s pulling strings and strings of moans out of you.

one hand is firmly placed at your waist, pulling you against the snap of his own hips. the other is fondling your breasts again, addicted to the plush spilling against his fingers.

“more rin” you plead, and his fingers travel up to your throat, wrapping them tighter until you’re lightheaded. the feeling was intoxicating, clearing your mind of everything but the pleasure.

“so fucking good for me, taking it all” he groans, and his own mind is going to a haze at the squeezes your walls kept inflicting on him. he wouldn’t last much longer at this pace, and it would be such a shame not to cum to such a pretty face.

he quickly pulls out of you, turning you over to face his piercing teal eyes. barely a second passes before he’s entering you again, thrusting with intensity that threatened the bed to tip over.

“want you to fill me up” you moan, sensing that he was close. the request has him releasing any restraint he once held, painting your walls with strips of white. the sight of it leaking past your folds once he pulled out had his cock twitching in pride.

the contrast between rin’s behavior within a span of but 2 minutes was stark, as he took a towel to gently wipe up the mess he left behind.

he places a kiss on your temple, “wait for me in the front ok?”, and turns to start clearing up his work station.

once you had finished trying to make yourself look like you hadn’t just been fucked silly, you waited for rin in the lobby to pay the cost of your tattoo. he simply shut off the register though, leaving you all the more confused.

“wait i still need to pay the rest of-”

“the deposit was plenty,” he shrugs off your concern, “and if you want to tip…you can do it in the form of dinner next week.”

little did you know that he had no intention of letting you pay for that either.

#rin itoshi #rin #rin smut #rin itoshi smut #rin x reader #rin itoshi x reader #blue lock #bllk #bllk smut #blue lock smut #blue lock imagines #itoshi rin

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monzabee · 2 years ago

Text

this is a relationship, that i don’t think anyone saw coming – cl16

masterlist

Summary: The one where you and Charles think you are successfully fooling everyone on the grid, when in reality you are the ones being fooled.

Pairing: charles leclerc x merc!driver!reader

Word Count: 5.2k

Warnings: cursing, kissing, hiding a relationship (and doing it very badly), smut elements! (in one of the scenes, nothing penetrative), idiots to lovers, sexism and racism in motorsports, pop culture references (bad and many of them).

Request: “Hello! Can I request a charles leclerc imagine where the reader is a f1 driver and they try to hide their relationship from the paddock, but everyone knows and in the end they just reveal it. Thanks xx” + “this is not a request, but, can you use a dialogue from one of your favourite tv shows/series?”

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! the title comes from an episode of the kardashians, but it was very popular on tiktok for a while so here you go! the request for this one was so good, and i had so much fun writing this, so i hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i do. the dialogue i used for the second request/promt is from season 1 episode 9 of suits, which is one of my absolute favourite tv series of all time (even though it has too many legal inaccuracies), and you can watch the scene from here. ALSO, because i can never choose one, i decided to use another dialogue from season 1 episode 18 of gilmore girls, and i think it is the best piece of television ever written, and you can watch it from here. there are a bunch of pop culture references in there, so if you can spot them, you are a star! thank you anons for your requests, and i hope you guys enjoy this one! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.

Charles is not stupid, in fact, he prides himself in being smart. However, as one of his best friends are looking at him with an unamused glare, he suddenly fears that he might have been stupid when he was getting ready before arriving at the venue for the party tonight.

“You are not dressed,” Pierre drawls, “What are you wearing?”

“A suit?” Charles asks, confused as he looks at his friend’s attire. “What are you wearing?”

Pierre points to the outfit he’s wearing, which consists of brown pants with a linen shirt and a brown vest thrown over it, an annoyed look washes over his face as he explains, “I’m Indiana Jones, this is a costume party, Charles.”

“Why would you have a costume party when you’re turning 27?” Charles’ face scrunches up in even more confusion.

“Because it’s fun, and it’s my birthday.” Pierre rolls his eyes, “We have to do something about it; Kika, I need help!” He calls out to her girlfriend, who rushes into the room in a white dress and a very voluminous blonde wig.

“What’s wrong?” Kika asks, her eyes falling on Charles’ outfits as she groans disappointedly, “Who are you supposed to be?”

“I didn’t know!” Charles argues.

“Mate,” Pierre objects, “it was on the invitation; ‘Hollywood Icons’?”

“We can fix this,” Kika tries to offer Charles a supportive smile. “You could be… Patrick Bateman?”

Charles’ eyes widen with shock, “From ‘American Psycho’?”

“Morbid, Kiks,” Pierre shakes his head.

Kika shrugs, “He’s hot. What about Brad Pitt in ‘Mr. and Mrs. Smith’?”

“Does he even wear a suit in that one?” Pierre asks, still shaking his head in thought.

Kika lets out a loud groan, “James Bond!”

“That could work–” Charles start saying at the same time Pierre objects, “The suit is not sharp enough.”

“Then give him a tie, Pierre.” Kika frowns. “God, the two of you are like children, not even the girls had this much trouble, and the two of us almost matched.”

You’re shivering when you finally arrive at the venue thanks to the thin trench coat thrown over your costume. You link your arm with Lily, who is holding Alex’s hand and the two of them are dressed up as Jack and Rose. “Why are we doing this, again?”

“Because we like Pierre, he is nice.” Lily turns to Alex to let him fix her ginger wig for her as she replies to you.

“I don’t know, I think I want to go back to the hotel.” You mumble, your hands nervously playing with the belt of your coat.

“Just give it a try, Y/N,” Alex smiles at you. “We’ll take you back if you’re still feeling nervous.”

You nod your head with a sigh as you let Lily pull you in towards the entrance of the apartment building. You’re too busy admiring the Italian architecture when you hear a squeal. “You guys made it!” Alex excuses himself to go greet some of the other drivers and you smile at Kika as she pulls you and Lily in for a hug at the same time as she chants, “I’m dying to see your guys’ costumes, show me, show me!”

You laugh softly as you take of your coat, pulling gasps from both of the girls looking over your outfit. “You both knew what my costume was going to be!” You whine, holding your coat close to your body.

“I didn’t know it was going to be –” Lily starts, looking at Kika for help.

“Tight,” Kika clears her throat, “it’s very tight, and your body looks amazing!”

“You’re literally a model, Kiks,” you mumble, “can we please focus on Lily and how historically accurate her costume is? Not to mention yours, I mean, Marilyn?”

“You look amazing, Lily.” Kika agrees, giving her a warm smile. “And thank you, Y/N.”

“Thank you, Kika,” she turns to you, “thank you, Y/N. I’m going to find Alex, meet you at the bar?”

“Sure, see you.” You tell her, smiling as she starts to walk towards the crowd.

“Let me take your coat,” Kika leans over you. “You should grab a drink before more people arrive, Pierre made sure to invite half of the city, it seems like.”

You thank her before she leaves to hang your coat, taking a deep breath as you start moving between dancing people, some of whom greet you as you make your way towards the bar. You give the bar tender a tight smile as you order yourself a gin and tonic, strawberry, of course. The first thing Charles notices about you is your hair, having memorised all the different tones mixed between your locks. His eyes travels down your body, his eyes linger particularly on your dress; the white bodice is connected to the tie dye skirt by a metal circle, and it is oh so tight, accentuating all your curves in the best way possible. His legs start to move towards you in their own volition when his eyes reach the leather thigh-high boots, his voice is thick as he approach you from your right. “Y/N.”

You look at him with your lips parted in shock, your voice coming out in a low breath. “Charles, you’re here.” You let him take one of your hands into his as you lock eyes with him. “I thought you were going to be in Monaco.”

“I was already in Italy for the car testing.” He explains, his fingers gently caress your inner wrist. “I’ve missed you. Were you back at home?”

“I’ve missed you too,” a smile takes over your face, “yes, I’m trying to get used to changing cities.”

“I’ll give you a private tour when we go back.” He offers, eliciting a giggle from you as you reach for your drink and take a sip from the straw. His breath hitches for a moment when he focuses too much on the way your red-painted lips close around the plastic, but he’s quick to shake it off. “Did you see the pictures on Twitter?”

“The ones with Frédéric?” You ask him and he nods in return. The pictures he is referring to being his new team principle giving your four-year-old niece some daisies. There is a teasing smile on your lips as you say, “Don’t worry, Charles, I’m not coming for a Ferrari seat. He was just giving Cecily some flowers when we were passing by.”

“I wish you would’ve brought her into the garage, I’ve missed her.” The pout he’s sporting lets you know that he is being genuine and not putting on a show for your attention.

“You know I couldn’t, I had to get back to my own garage before the race.” The emphasis you use makes him roll his eyes as his fingers occupy themselves with the stacked bracelets on your wrist. “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?”

“James Bond.” He replies in an unattached voice, exhaling a deep breath. “I didn’t realise it was a costume party.”

“Charles,” you laugh, head tilted to the side as you keep holding his gaze, “it was on the invitation, darling.”

He groans, “I know that, now. Pierre was not impressed when I first showed up.”

“I can imagine.” You agree in a sympathetic voice. “Maybe we should’ve thought of something before you left last week.”

“Oh, yeah, like what? Vivian?” He smirks, his eyes going over your body once more, but without any shame this time. “Do you have any idea how great you look?”

“It was the last movie we watched.” You shrug, a coy smile on your lips. “Maybe you could’ve been a ballerina, like Natalie Portman, in ‘Black Swan’.”

He lets out a hearty laugh. “Oh please, you know how good my legs would look in tights compared to yours.”

“Oh, chéri,” You tut, stepping closer to him as you rake your fingers down on his tie. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

“I would crush you.” He challenges as he lifts an eyebrow.

You shake your head. “You wouldn’t touch me.”

“Why not?” He asks, amused.

You shrug in a nonchalant manner. “Because you'd be too busy staring at me in tights.”

“No I wouldn’t,” Charles argues, shaking his head slightly.

“You’re doing it right now.” You sing in a light voice.

“You’re not wearing any.” He points out, his hands moving to rest on the bare skin of your waist, curtesy of the cut-outs your dress provides.

You tug on his tie to draw him closer to you, his lips lingering near his ear as you whisper, “I’m not wearing any underwear.”

He is left speechless when you let him go, grab your drink and start walking towards your teammate, making sure to add an extra sway to your hips because you know Charles is watching you to confirm what you’ve just told him.

You have a secret, and it’s big – big, huge. And it has something to do with the Monegasque laying beneath you. Charles talks about the last few days he spent at the Ferrari factory as you listen to him, your eyes focused on the way his face moves through various expressions when he talks about the car. Your chin is placed on your hands which are placed together on his chest, giving you the perfect view of his face. His fingers are moving on the bare skin on your back, the white bed sheet pulled up only enough to cover the globe of your ass. Although you try your best to keep up with his stream of consciousness, humming where accurate and asking him questions here and there, but Charles can see the sleepy look in your eyes through your hooded eyes.

“Are you okay, mon soleil?” He asks, his chest rumbling with his voice underneath your hands.

“Sleepy,” you mumble, leaning up against him to bury your face against the side of his neck, “you’re warm, though.”

He pulls the sheet up your body; interpreting the way you shiver as you being cold, when the actual reason is the pleasure the skin to skin contact brings. “You can go back to sleep; we still have some time.” The incoherent mumbles leaving your lips makes him chuckle, which in return makes you smile against him. Your fingers trace over the edge of his five o’clock shadow, and you suddenly find yourself thanking whatever deity is up there that he forgot to shave because of all the commotion of travelling over the past few days. “What did you just say?”

“It’s just funny that you tell me I should sleep after you’ve kept me up the entire night, darling.” Your breathy chuckle hits the side of his neck as he lets out a chuckle of his own.

“I didn’t hear you complaining at any point,” he raises one of his brows, earning him a pat against his chest and you making yourself rise enough to glare at him.

You try your best to frown at him, locking your gaze with his, as you can feel the heat starting to rise up to your face at the mention of your not so innocent activities of last night. “You’re incorrigible, Charles.”

“Oh, chérie,” he coos, brushing the pad of his thumb over the swell of your cupids-bow. You’re about to give in and give him a kiss when he rises up, himself, with a frown and you in his arms.

“What’s wrong?” You ask in a worried voice, following his line of vision to your closed bedroom door.

“Does anyone else have your keys?” Charles asks, “I heard the front door open–”

Your eyes widen as you scramble to get off him, pulling the sheet up to cover your nakedness. “Charles, hide!” You hiss, while trying to force him to move.

“Y/N?” You hear your assistant, Margo, yell through the house. “I got those thermal things you wanted!”

“One second, please!” You call back to her, looking at Charles with pleading eyes. Thankfully, he manages to hide underneath the sheets just before Margo barges into the room. Even more luckily, the duvet over the sheets ends up hiding his body seamlessly. “Hi, Margo.” You give her the best smile you can muster up under the situation, your hand still clutching the bedsheet on your chest with enough force to make your hand hurt.

“Oh my god, are you naked under there?” Margo babbles, a light blush covering her cheeks. “Since when do you sleep naked?”

“Um… I heard it’s good for your circulation?” You answer her in an unsure voice, causing Charles to tighten his hands on your thighs in warning, you have no idea how he managed to squeeze between them in the first place. “Thank you for the thermals, you’re an angel.”

“N-no problem.” She smiles at you nervously, obviously stressed because of the lack of clothes on your body for the sake of professionalism. “Toto wanted me to tell you that he is meeting up with Lewis for lunch later and asked me to ask you to join them if you were free.”

“Sure, do you know wh-when?” You stutter during the last word, feeling Charles’ fingers and breath coming closer to your center.

Margo checks her watch, then looks back up at you. “Around three, at that Italian place the team went out for dinner the last time.”

You nod in acknowledgement as you try the remember the exact location of the restaurant she mentioned, gasping because Charles decides to give your clit a little lick before taking it between his lips to gently suck on it. “I’ll be there!” You rush out, hands gripping the white sheet even tighter.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Margo asks while eyeing you up with worry, “Should I take you to a doctor, or something?”

“Oh no, I’m fine, honey.” You wave her off with a nervous chuckle. “I think it’s all in your – head!”

“Um.. okay. I’ll see you later, then.” Margo mumbles as she leaves your room with red cheeks.

You throw your head back in a groan over the awkward encounter, waiting until hearing the front door open and close before pulling the sheets back and glaring at the man between your thighs, who still has his mouth on you, by the way. “You are evil, Charles, pure evil! What were you thinking?”

He draws back slightly to raise a questioning brow. “Do you want me to stop?” However, he resumes his torture when you don’t answer him, looking up at you while grinning like the devil himself as he murmurs into your skin, “That’s what I thought.”

It’s hard, being a woman in the motorsport world, and especially in F1. While some may say it’s unprecedented, and you’d agree, you also think there’s going to be misogynistic pigs in any sector you might end up working in, so why not have some fun? The article comes out the day before the race, right before the qualifying session. You’re not the one to check your phone before going on track, but an urge to do so pokes at you when you realise people are giving you worried looks in the Mercedes garage. Your jaw tightens as you read through the article, fingers tightening around your phone as you read every single sexist comment being made about the way you dress, talk, and your entire F1 career and accomplishments being discredited just because of your gender. You’re absolutely fuming as you throw your phone onto the couch in your driver’s room and grab your helmet and balaclava as you walk briskly towards the garage.

Both Toto and Lewis look at you with surprised, but worried, looks as you announce, “Make me go out first.”

“Are you sure, Y/N?” Toto asks, sharing a worried glance with Lewis. “You usually wait for a while for other people to–.”

“No, I’m sure.” You tug on your balaclava as you add, “Make sure I’m on softs, please.”

The two men watch you walk off towards your car, Lewis mumbling, “Hell hath no fury like the woman scorned.” The Austrian turns to him, eyebrows raised, which causes him to roll his eyes. “Yes, Toto, I read.”

You’re a force to be reckoned with on track during qualifying. Although having not the best start to the season, you push your Mercedes to its absolute limits, managing to outpace even the Red Bulls, and constantly asking your engineer for another lap until Toto has to ask you to retire for the day – in long story short, you are the pole sitter for the Sunday’s race. There are four people waiting for you when you get out of your car, those four people being: Toto, Susie, Lewis and Mick – though you’re pretty sure the latter was dragged into this intervention because you’re usually unable to get angry next to the reserve driver.

“You were reckless out there, Y/N.” Toto frowns, crossing his arms over his chest (Mick copies his actions, nodding, as he does his best to give you a stern look).

“I drove the best I have in over a year,” you argue, “we are starting on P1 tomorrow because of my driving today.”

“I don’t care if we start P20, you know you shouldn’t have gone out there that angry!” Susie places a pacifying hand on your team principle’s arm when his voice gets higher.

“We know you were angry about the article,” Lewis starts, but you cut him off as you grumble,

“A very astute conversation, Lewis.” You snap, not allowing him to continue as you begin ranting, “He called me a ‘Malibu Barbie’, and suggested that I should find another career, do you know how disheartening that is?”

“They called me Ken once,” Mick mumbles with a small pout on his lips, quickly mumbling “sorry,” when you give him a scathing look.

“There will always be journalists who are against you and me,” Lewis goes on to remind you, “I told that before you signed, and before your first race.”

“I know, but–” You stop to swallow down a sob, tilting your head back to delay the tears which are threatening to come out. “They implied that I’ve slept my way up to where I am today,” you inhale a deep breath as your voice wavers, “I’m so tired of my accomplishments being reduced to this.”

“Men will always be afraid of women who have the ability to be better at their jobs than they are,” Susie smiles softly at you – soft, but not pitiful, you realise. “It doesn’t mean that we should give up, it means that we do our best to make sure they are proved wrong.”

“You could’ve hurt yourself and others today,” Toto shakes his head, “you almost collided with both of the Ferraris.”

Your entire break pauses at the mention of the red cars, mind quickly drifting to the owner of the eyes you love looking into, but you’re quick to snap yourself out, “Are they okay?”

“Both Carlos and Charles are fine,” Susie assures you.

“No more reckless driving,” Toto points a finger at you and then to Lewis, who raises his arms in surrender. “I mean it.” He pats you on the back before leaving, whispering a quick, “Good job today, kiddo.”

“Why do I get in trouble because of you?” Lewis wonders aloud, his hands on his hips.

“We haven’t been teammates for that long, Lewis.” You squint your eyes.

“Are you okay, Y/N?” Mick asks with a concerned look on his face.

You nod in thought, pointed to both of them. “I will be, but I need both of your help.”

Mick gulps, voice tentative as he asks, “We’re not doing anything illegal, are we?”

After you’re done explaining your plan to your teammates, you say goodbye to both of them and make your way towards your driver’s room. Charles gets up, quickly, from the couch as you enter, shocked expressions on both of your faces. “H-how did you get in here?”

“I had to sneak in through the back,” he explains as he gets closer to you, hands quickly cup your cheek for his thumbs to swipe under your eyes. “Chérie, did you cry?”

“I- no!” You shake your head as you try to get him off. “I’m just- ugh, I’m just so angry!”

He lets you rant in his arms, eventually giving in and shedding a few tears of frustration, but he doesn’t comment until you’re done with your thoughts, and when he does comment, it is not to undermine your feelings. He takes you back to the hotel, and before the two of you leave your garage, he sneaks a soft kiss on your lips which has you melting in his arms. Unbeknown to you, Susie, Toto and Lewis watch the interaction from the other end of the corridor, with the latter murmuring, “Love is just a word until someone comes along and gives it meaning.” Lewis gives Toto a side-eye as the team principle looks at him with the same surprised look from before, “For the last time, man, I read!”

All the eyes in the car are on you, the next morning when you, Mick and Lewis arrive to the track in the same car. “You ready to leave?” Lewis asks you, looking at you from the rear-view mirror from the passenger seat; Mick drove to the track instead of you because you told them both there was no way you were driving with the heels you wore today.

“It’s now or never,” you mutter, subconsciously fixing your hair.

“Give them hell.” Mick turns back to smile at you, and you give him a nervous smile as you exit the car.

A few people around the entrance turn to give you funny looks, you reply to some of them by offering a thin-lipped smile. The real show starts when you finally enter the racing grounds, photographers turning to snap a picture of you when they realise it’s actually you. You plaster on a plastic smile, waving at them as you do your absolute best to walk in the 6-inch heels which were definitely not the brightest idea you’ve ever had.

“Hi, Barbie!” A similar voice calls out to you, and you smile genuinely for the first time as you call back. ,

“Hi, Ken!” You turn towards Pierre, pushing your sunglasses up towards your hair as you watch the Frenchman walk towards you with Carlos and Charles behind him.

“Please tell me it’s a wig,” Carlos frowns, his eyes lingering on your suddenly platinum hair.

“I’m having fun as a blonde, Carlos.” You shrug innocently, your arms crossing over your chest, and the pink dress you’ve decided to wear for the occasion.

Pierre nods in support, “Blondes do have more fun, Carlos.”

“I- Why?” Carlos asks, not getting the joke shared between you and Pierre. “I don’t understand.”

“Fine, no soup for you, then.” You mumble rolling your eyes. However, your eyes widen when you realise he genuinely doesn’t get the reference. “Seriously- Carlos, it’s from Seinfeld.”

“I’ve never watched it.” He admits, his frown still prominent on his face.

“It’s okay, mate,” Pierre assures him taking him away to explain the joke to him, which leaves you and Charles alone.

You turn to Charles with a coy smile on your face. “You like the new look?”

“I- but, when?” He asks you, more confused then ever. “You were not blonde when I left last night.”

“Mick bought the dye for me.” You explain, trying to supress a grin. “We stayed up all night trying to bleach my hair.”

“You stayed up all night?” Charles asks, more concerned now that he learns that you didn’t have a good night’s sleep. “That’s so wrong, mon soleil, why did you do it? Is it about the article? Of course, it is.”

“Charles, calm down, darling.” You place a hand on his chest, even though you’re hyperaware of the fact that both of you are out in the open. “I’m just going to prove something, alright? I feel fine.”

“You should’ve slept.” Charles frowns, taking a deep breath. “Are you sure you feel good enough to be in a car?”

You nod excitedly. “Positive, I have a race to win. And wait until you see what Lewis and I are going to wear.”

“I can’t wait, chérie.”

Just as you promised Charles, you win the race. Your pace is even better than the previous day, but instead of being fuelled by anger, you are fuelled by determination to win. Your engineers play Aqua’s Barbie Girl as a surprise, and to make things even better, Lewis and you stand on the podium in a Mercedes 1-2 in your matching pink helmets and shoes – even Toto donned pink glasses for the occasion. Charles lets out a hearty laugh alongside you on the podium when he sees your outfits. Yeah, you decide in that moment, this one is for the girls.

You and Charles’ relationship happened so unexpectedly, but that doesn’t mean that you regret a secret moment of it. It all started when you were moving to Monte Carlo at the end of last year’s season, and Charles was the only one available to help you in the process – not that you asked him of course, he offered you to help because he is a gentleman like that. It didn’t take the both of you long enough to go on dates as you spent more and more time together, and it was a natural transition to both of you dating each other exclusively. Despite what you expected, the first time Charles actually kissed you was on a cliff overlooking the entirety of Monte Carlo, the view was beautiful, but you were still apprehensive because of your location on the cliff. So, being the gentleman he is, Charles offered to hold you, and that’s when he decided to kiss you.

Lewis comes back to the table after taking a phone call as he apologises, “Sorry, I was on the phone; long distance.”

“God?” You ask him, mockingly nodding, which makes George and Carmen laugh.

“London,” Lewis clarifies as he gives you a questioning look.

You gasp as you ask. “God lives in London?”

“No, my mother in lives in London.” Lewis replies in the calmest voice he can muster.

“You mother is God?” You ask right back, without the appearance of joking. Your small discussion grabs the attention of other drivers and couples as the two of you continue bickering.

“Y/N,” Lewis tries to warn you, but you continue on with your rant.

Leaning towards Charles, Alex and Lily who are seated close together, you announce, “So, God is a woman.”

“Y/N!” Lewis groans this time.

“And my teammates mother, it’s so cool! I’m definitely going to ask for strategy points for the next season.”

The table shares a laugh as you and Lewis continue bickering back and forth, eliciting laughs from people who watch you with amusement. Eventually, Pierre clears his throat. “Okay, what is everyone’s plans for the break?” he asks, trying to look over the long table.

“Isa and I are off to Mallorca,” Carlos announces as she presses a sweet kiss to his cheek.

“I’m going back home,” Yuki shrugs.

“I’m going to see Chloe and Scotty,” Lance mumbles, “and probably Daniel, too.”

Everyone goes around to announce their plans for the break, but when it comes to you and Charles, you are nervous as you announce, “I’m just going to stay home, get to know the city, you know?”

“Yeah, same.” Charles nods, thinking he got away with his evasive answer.

“You’re going to get to know the city you were born and raised in?” Fernando asks with a knowing smirk.

“You can always find new things if you know where to look,” Charles replies in a serious tone, trying to appear stern as he nods to strengthen his point. You’re busy squeezing his hand under the table to death.

“Yeah, like what?” Max asks, which earns him a slap on the arm from Kelly. “What? I’m curious.”

“Like, umm, like-like cafés, and bookshops, and you know those little stores which sell souvenirs but not the generic kind?” He rambles, trying to think of more examples.

“Okay that’s enough,” Lewis cuts him off, shaking his head as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “We all know the two of you are dating. The entire grid, and engineers, and probably most of the team principles.”

“What?” You laugh nervously, trying to shrug him off. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Yeah, we are not dating.” Charles shakes his head, his octave going up as he receives looks from people around the table. “We are not!”

“Drop the act, it’s disgusting the way you two look at each other.” Checo complains from the other side of the table.

“Yeah, and I can see him doing stuff to your hand under the table.” Lance winces.

“He is not doing stuff to my hand under the table!” You squeal, but Charles is too busy trying to contain his laughter next to you. “Is this funny to you, Charles?”

“I mean, a little bit,” Charles confirms, finally succumbing to his laugher, “we have nothing to hide now, chérie.”

“I knew it!” Pierre exclaims, “I told you I saw them together at my birthday!” He tells his girlfriend.

“Toto and I saw them kissing after quali,” Lewis shrugs.

You gasp as you turn towards him. “You did not!”

“Yes we did,” Lewis argues, “even Susie saw.”

Charles pulls you towards himself, still laughing over people arguing whether they saw you together over the past year or not, as he wraps your arms around your shoulder, you murmur to him, “I am so crashing next to him next year, Daniel style.” You take a pause to think, “No, Mazepin style.”

“Maybe not crash into your teammate for the sake of poor Toto, mon soleil.”

You let out an unsatisfied grumble as you hear Alex complain to Lily, “Why didn’t she tell me? I thought we were best friends!” You groan and look around the table at all the people around you, who are all surprisingly supportive of your relationship, you smile as you press a soft kiss to Charles’ lips.

He grins as he asks, “What was that for?”

“Nothing,” you shrug, “I just think you’re pretty cool.”

“I think you’re pretty cool, too, my love.” He mumbles and gives you another kiss despite few groans coming from around the table.

#monzabee #requests open #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 smut #formula 1 #fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #imagine #fluff #angst #smut #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc fluff

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lamentationsofalonelypotato · 2 months ago

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Chapter 26: I Hate You, I Love You

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV, Soldier Boy POV

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy. This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter twenty-six of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 8.3K

Warnings: I'm gonna label this one 18+ because it's Soldier Boy. , Angst, Cursing, Sexual References, Family Problems- A LOT of family problems, Past Trauma, Death Mentioned, Self Deprecating Thoughts, Blood mentioned. Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, completely a little OOC. Soldier Boy is really all you need as a warning.

Note: This is told from the Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. Reader is described as "curvy" occasionally. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

A/n: I know that this isn't the final battle, but I wrote most of the battle and the chapter was so long (it was over 13K and I wasn't close to ready) that I needed to break it up. So now this is just a wonderful helping of angst in which the reader and Ben do the thing that they do best… fight with each other and then make up.

READER POV

The silence that follows Homelander's disappearance with Lou and Rosemary's pursuit after him is deafening. It feels like hours have passed, but it's only been seconds. You feel cold and hot, nothing and everything. Fear, anger, anxiety, and terror all congeal into an ice cold ball in the pit of your stomach. Rubble is covering the thick shag carpet on the bedroom floor, the air filled with flecks of dust and drywall from Homelander's departure. You weren't thinking about how Legend would react though, couldn't think of anything else except the fearful look on Lou's face when Homelander grabbed her and refused to release her.

The thought that Lou was trapped with someone like him broke you. The fear that came with the thought was almost mind-numbing, because Homelander was dangerous and now that Ben and you had told him that you didn't want anything to do with him, there were no other bargaining chips. Homelander couldn't be placated because you had crushed the glimmer of hope in his eyes by telling him that he wasn't your son and that he was monster. You knew that Homelander was smart enough that he wouldn't believe you now if you promised him family, not when he had Lou and probably had Rosemary.

Rosemary had minimal training when it came to fighting, yes you'd made sure that she knew the basics of self-defense, but she'd never fought another supe before. She was never interested in that sort of thing. And it wasn't always about using your powers when it came to fighting another supe, it was about tactics and knowing the weaknesses of your opponent. In a fight with someone like Homelander, you couldn't just rely on your abilities, you had to understand what you were up against and see the little ticks that he tried to hide. You'd watched stronger supes fall because they relied too heavily on their abilities, and you worried that Rosemary would be the same way. That she would be filled with a blind rage because Homelander had Lou and that he would use her anger and frustration to his advantage.

Tears were streaming down your face and you were still struggling in Ben's grip, where his arms were wrapped around you, holding you back from chasing after them. And the longer he holds you, as more seconds tick by, everything else goes and you're left with something else.

To say that you were angry was an understatement, you were livid. You hated that Ben had done this to you again. That once again Ben was acting like you weren't a supe, like you weren't powerful, and like you needed to be locked away from the world in a glass cabinet. You were sick of it.

Because you understood that Ben loved you, that he wished to protect you and that he feared losing you, but you refused to allow him to walk on eggshells around you and put you in a glass bubble because of his insecurities.

Yes Ben had told you that he saw your strength in the past, that he saw how powerful you were, and only wished for you to need him, but you were done with this. He didn't have any right to do it. And yes, he was the man you loved, but he was not your master. Perhaps that's what made all this worse for you, that Ben said how much he loved you and that he saw your power, but every time things went South he did shit like this.

"Ben, let me go." You growl, turning your head to look over your shoulder.

"No. Not until you promise not to go after them." Ben's eyes are narrowed. He knew that if you promised him, you wouldn't do it, that you cared too much about what a promise represented to break one.

It was true, which was why you weren't going to promise him shit.

"I won't promise that."

"Then I guess I'm not letting you go." He says it casually, but the look in his eyes is meant to convey that he is just as upset with this turn of events as you are.

"Oh I think you fucking will." Your teeth clench together and as you say it, you turn your palms face down in front of you and break his hold. Having Homelander's strength made it easier to face Ben. In the past the two of you had sparred together in training. Back then you didn't think too much about it, but now you understood that he did it to make sure you knew how to protect yourself when he wasn't there, that he worried about you more than he wanted to say and that was the only way he could prepare you without telling you how much you meant to him.

Ben stumbles back a step, his eyes flashing with anger and you’re sure that he can see the same emotions written on your face.

“What the fuck is your problem?” You snarl at him.

“My problem?” Ben sputters.

“Yes!”

“What the fuck are you talking about? If anything it’s you that’s having a problem-“

“Oh I’m sorry Benjamin. Am I being difficult?" You press a hand to your chest feigning remorse. "Forgive me for having a fucking problem when our granddaughter has just been KIDNAPPED by a psychopath. And our daughter is going to face him alone!"

"She's not alone-"

"Wrong. She is alone, because you wouldn't let me help her."

"I told you that I didn't want you to fight him alone. I told you that we would do this together-"

"I wouldn't have been alone if you'd stop being so damn overprotective!" You snap, stomping over to the chest of drawers, searching through them angrily for something to wear. It was difficult not to rip the handle off the front in your anger. You were still wearing your sweatpants and an oversized paint splattered t-shirt, and the last thing you wanted was to face Homelander looking like that.

Why can't he just understand that I am powerful too? Why can’t he let me go for once? Why does he keep doing this?

You hated that he was acting like you couldn't handle yourself, especially after he had seen you destroy Legend's backyard single handedly the other day with your mind. You were so sick of being underestimated. First Vought, then Stan, and now Ben, and you didn't want to be seen that way anymore. You were powerful and damnit you weren't going to "sit" and "stay" because some man ordered you to.

"I am not being overprotective!" Ben's voice is a low growl. "The other day I told you that I didn't want you to do this by yourself, that I didn't want you to do any of this alone. That I'm here-"

"Well congratulations Ben! Our daughter is doing exactly that right now, facing fucking Homelander alone, because you couldn't just let me go." You grab the end of your shirt and take it off, shucking it to the floor before you begin to put on the tight long sleeved black t-shirt. "You always do this."

"Do what?"

"Underestimate me!" You take off the sweatpants and quickly step into the dark jeans. By now your eyes were flashing bright purple and you could feel the thrum of your abilities under your skin, begging to be released. The energy was growing with each passing second, the lights in the room flickered and you could feel an unnatural breeze rustling the curtains that were hanging from the windows, coming from you.

"I do not fucking underestimate you. I know how powerful you are-"

"Well you have a funny way of showing it." You spit turning around to face him again.

Ben is also getting dressed. His sweatpants have been replaced with the bottom portion of his supe suit, his knife, pistol, and top half of his suit is laying on the unmade bed. "We have already talked about why I have a problem with you doing shit like that alone." His words are almost a growl, but you can hear an emotion on the edge of them that isn't anger. It was worry.

You knew what he was referring to, when he told you that he hated watching you die because it made him feel like he'd failed to protect you, that every time you were hurt, Ben struggled with that.

You knew how he felt.

The other day at Herogasm when Homelander had him by the throat all you saw was red. You didn't want to witness Ben's last moments just as he had witnessed yours multiple times. But it didn’t mean that you held Ben back from doing what he needed to do. You saw his strength and supported him. All you wanted was for him to support you.

A part of you deep down registered that he acted like this to protect you, that he didn't want to lose you as much as you didn't want to lose him. And as happy as you were that Ben was finally getting comfortable showing and talking about his emotions in front of you, you still wished that he would let you be strong for yourself. You had to be strong without him for forty years, protecting Rosemary and Lou.

Does he really think that Stan and Countess are the only people who I've killed in the past forty years? That there haven't been other people and supes that figured it out? Did Homelander really think that Stormfront's death was a suicide?

"You let me face the twins!" You shout.

"Those incestuous fucks couldn't handle you when they were full powered, let alone when they were dried out." Ben states pulling his shirt over his head.

"I don't understand why Homelander is any different." You cross the room to grab the long dark green leaver overcoat, the same one that Ben had scraped the blood and bits of flesh off when you returned to Legend's after you killed Stan. "You saw me handle him the other day-"

"Because he is different!" Ben practically stabs his knife down into it's holster on his belt.

"Oh really?" You tap your lip as if deep in thought. "Huh. Because I remember you calling him a pussy when you were thinking about killing him. When you told me that Butcher asked you to."

"He is." Ben's eyes are blazing now.

Your sarcasm always did that to him, and it did tend to rear it's ugly head in the most inopportune moments. In all the years you'd known him, Ben never really did like it when you got like that.

The room was quickly heating with the force of Ben’s anger, a slight glow radiating out from his chest, but Ben was keeping it under control. At least for now.

"Oh, so he is a pussy, but not when I have to fight him?"

"Yes." He seethes through clenched teeth.

"I hate to break this to you Benjamin, but of the two of us, I'm the one who has fought him and kicked his fucking ass." You spit back at him, sick of his attitude.

Ben crosses the room in two heavy strides so that he's standing over you, his hands on his hips. "The only reason why you fucking fought him, was because you felt the need to step in when I had him handled."

"Did you have him handled? Could have fooled me. When someone has you by the throat I find it hard to say that you have a handle on the situation!" You mirror his stance, refusing to back down.

"Don't fucking do that."

"Do what?"

"Be sarcastic! You know that I hate it."

"That's just too damn bad!" You snap. "I'm not your dog Benjamin you cannot tell me what to do."

"I do not treat you like a damn dog. I will say that you're being bitchy." His teeth are grinding together, so hard that you can audibly hear it.

"Well excuse the fuck out of me! I think I'm allowed to be bitchy," You seethe the word. "Because you're acting like a sexist dick!"

"I am not-"

"Yes you are." You poke your finger into his chest. "And I don’t want you to come with me."

"Like fucking hell I'm going to sit here and wait around for you to come back."

"I don't want you to come with me because I don't want to spend the whole fucking time worried that you're going to get in my fucking way and prevent me from doing what I have to do."

"I do not get in your way." Ben roars.

"Yes you do." Your eyes narrow. "And I don't need some "big strong man" to do things for me!" You make air quotes around 'big strong man' to emphasize the point, but Ben was not getting it.

This was one of the worst fights you'd ever had with him, you knew that. The two of you had many over the years, Legend was not lying when he told Butcher that, but this one was quickly nearing the same magnitude as the fight the two of you had the night of the premiere. This was more than just the two of you going through the motions of being frustrated with one another and more than the two of you shouting over a little problem, this was about Ben's continuous need to hold you back and keep you out of harms way like you weren't a supe and perfectly capable of doing thing by yourself.

"All I do is try to protect you." His eyes are dark now, not a trace of green in them, looking more like darkened pits. When Ben was really angry you'd seen them go that dark before, only the night of the premiere had you seen them like that when he looked at you, all the other times you'd seen that look when he felt the need to put someone in their place, to beat them into submission.

"I don't need you to protect me!" It comes out in one breath, uttered in an exasperated tone, because again Ben just didn't understand.

Ben stops. "You don't need me?" The words aren't in the same harsh tone that he used before, it's softer, and the anger in his eyes shifts to something else for just a moment.

You could feel regret swirling in your chest, because you did need Ben. You needed him more than life itself, didn't want to spend a moment away from him. You hadn't meant to say it like that. And you know that it was something Ben struggled with, the idea that you didn't need him anymore or never did need him.

"No. Ben, I do fucking need you, but I don't need you to protect me all the time." You emphasize with a sigh. "I've changed. I'm not the same person I was in Philadelphia. I'm not the same little girl. I've been taking care of myself and Rosemary and Lou for years. I needed to change and so I did."

Ben still looks like he can't fully understand what you're trying to say.

"Ben do you really think that Stan is the only person that I've killed in the past forty years?"

Ben blinks surprised.

"There have been others. People who asked too many questions. Supes that just didn't believe the lie that Stan and I made up." You sigh. You weren't ashamed of that, weren't ashamed of the things you had to do to keep your daughter and your granddaughter safe. "You think that every death leaves a scar, but not always." You murmur remembering the fight with Stormfront, the one you never talked about. When she showed up on your doorstep and threatened you and Rosemary. And the others who threatened you, tried to blackmail you because they didn't fear you the way they should have. Stormfront had expected the same woman she knew from the past, but you weren't her anymore.

"What do you mean there have been others?" Ben's expression hardens, malice swimming in his eyes when he realizes that other people have hurt you.

Flashes of the past come creeping up, years you spent with Ben and the cold ones that you'd spent without him stumbling around like someone trying to find light when they were buried underground. And you did love him, but you hated that he did this, because every time he did it made you feel small, it made you feel again like he didn't see you or comprehend who you were.

"They don't matter now." You sigh. "But I am not something to be possessed. I am not someone who’s going to hang on your arm make you look good and laugh at all your jokes. I am not something to be controlled or shielded from the world. If I wanted to just be a trophy or a doll for someone to use any way they wished I would have stayed and married Howard. But I didn’t. I came with you, but I never imagined that you would treat me that way. I never imagined that you would treat me like he did.”

Ben looks stunned. He should. In all the years you’d known him you’d never compared him to Howard like that. It was a low blow and you knew it, but you were pissed. It hurt you to say the words, hurt you to open up that wound all over again, but it was the truth. You didn't lie to Ben and you weren't going to start now.

The words ring through the air between the two of you, the space between your bodies suddenly miles apart even though you were standing in the same room. It was the first time you'd ever felt that distance with him, not since the night he came to your apartment the night that he almost killed Noir and after the two of you talked you cried in the shower frustrated and angry with yourself because you couldn't tell him how you felt and upset that he didn't love you the way you loved him. And now you were just as frustrated and angry with him.

Ben opens his mouth to answer you, the look in his eyes heartbreaking.

"What the fuck happened in here?" Butcher shouts stumbling down the stairs and into the room. He looks disheveled, like he just rolled out of bed.

"Homelander." Your gaze leaves Ben. "He took Lou, Rosemary went after him."

"He took Lou?" Hughie sputters from behind Butcher, fear flitting through his eyes.

It was the same fear that had begun to trickle back in after the fight you just had, but the things that Ben and you had yelled at one another were still there, soaking through the air like a foul odor and seeping in to your heart. You weren't sure if it meant that you could come back from it or not.

"Yeah." Ben grunts.

"Then lets go get her." Butcher says. "Come on." He gestures with his hand and begins to trek up the stairs with Hughie in tow, leaving Ben and you in the bedroom alone once more.

But this time you can't say anything, can't bring yourself to apologize because you're still so damn mad, and so instead you follow after Butcher, without giving Ben a backwards glance.

SOLDIER BOY POV

The car smoothly followed the long stretch of highway under Butcher’s hand, the trees along the road flashing by in a green blur, but it still didn’t seem like it was going fast enough.

It had taken Butcher and Hughie ten minutes to get ready after they stumbled downstairs to where Ben and you were and now the four of you were on the road and driving to New York. Hughie and Butcher were in the front seat while Ben and you sat in the back, but unlike the other day when you drove to Herogasm together, you were sitting on the other side of the car, arms crossed over your chest staring out the window, and not touching him at all.

Ben's jaw clenched when he remembered the day you drove together to Herogasm, when he held your hand and you leaned into his shoulder, reveling in the fact that you wanted him there with you.

And he wasn't sure that you still did. As much as he hated to admit it, that scared him. He didn't know where he should be if he wasn't with you. Everything else felt wrong. To be without you was like being without the sun, living in the deepest darkest cave and refusing to see the light.

That being said, Ben knew you were pissed, he was too.

Watching Homelander take Lou all but ripped him in half. He hated that the pussy had used a fucking child as a shield and hated that he had gotten away with it. Ben felt his body tense when he remembered the fear in Lou's eyes and a jolt of white hot rage burns through him at the thought that Homelander was hurting her.

Ben cared about Lou as much as he cared about you. She loved him and always made him feel welcome, and even though Rosemary never did, he was worried about her too. Maybe it was because he saw how much it hurt you for them to go, for Homelander to take Lou and for Rosemary to race after him. He knew that was your worst fear, but that didn't stop Ben from holding you back, for refusing to let you go alone to a place that Ben couldn't follow.

He'd never resented his abilities before, but he suddenly wished that he could fly. He would have soared after Homelander, after Rosemary, and after you if you had followed behind them. That was why he had held you back though, because he couldn’t and he was scared.

The word felt like a curse to think, but it was true. Ben knew that it was fear coursing through his veins in those few moments when he realized that you were going to go after Homelander and he wouldn't be able to follow. He didn’t want you to face him alone, didn’t want to watch you die again. After all these years, each time you died he feared that it would be the last, he feared that it would be the time it stuck and that he would be left all alone. He didn't want to live in a world without you, he'd done that for forty years and he was done with that.

Ben believed that it was his job to be there for you and after forty years of him being away, he wanted to be there to help you and take care of you. He was ready to make up for the lost time and he had told you how he felt the other day when you destroyed Legend's backyard, that he wanted the two of you to do this together.

That was before today.

Ben's hands are curled into fists on his lap as he forces himself to look out his own side of the car, refusing to look at you. If you could do the silent treatment he could too. Of all the fights the two of you had in the past, Ben knew this one was worse or at least it was as bad as when he fucked up, fucked Countess and then pushed you away when all he wanted was to bring you closer.

Honestly, you'd never compared him to Howard before. Ben could still remember the words you uttered to him the night of your birthday before you allowed him to take you to bed:

"Don't be jealous of Howard. He meant nothing to me. No one means as much to me as you do Ben."

Ben remembered the way you'd smiled up at him when you said it cheeks slightly flushed, lips red from when he kissed you. He remembered the way he felt like he'd swallowed pure sunshine, because that was what you always did to him. You always made him feel like he was the only person in the world that was allowed to see the real you. He knew that you loved him, knew that he loved you more than life itself, but what you'd yelled him before Butcher came downstairs made him feel like taking a two by four to the chest. It hurt him.

He hated what you said to him, that you compared him to that asshole from back home. Ben wished for nothing more than to wipe the memories of that man from your mind. When you were younger sometimes Ben would see Howard and you sitting in the park or getting lunch. He remembered the way that you never seemed to smile as wide, how small you looked, how Howard liked you better in the gowns that your mother chose for you, how Howard liked you silent, and how Howard preferred your body covered in heavy coats even though it was the middle of summer.

That particular thing always pissed Ben off, because he knew how you struggled with that, struggled with the way you looked and Ben hated that someone else who stated they loved you made you feel small and ugly, when you were the most beautiful woman that Ben had ever seen in his life.

Ben hated Howard with a passion for that exact reason, because Howard did try to control you. He chose what you wore, complained about what you ate, discouraged your art, and did other unspeakable things that you had told Ben over the years. Things that made Ben want to go back to Philadelphia and end Howard’s bloodline.

But sometimes on the nights when Ben was away at boarding school and he couldn't sleep he would think of Howard and you. Ben would never admit this to anyone, but he would compare himself to Howard, try to find the little differences that Ben thought made you like Howard, the differences that Ben thought about doing himself to make you love him the way he loved you. It always made him feel like a fucking pussy though. His father probably would have beat him within an inch of his life if his father knew that Ben was comparing himself to another man. It was something that Ben's father ingrained in him, that Ben's was from a strong, proud, family that never did that. And that a real man knew that he was better than everyone else, and if anyone tried to challenge that then it was best settled in the ring.

Ben sighed. He was trying hard to weed out the toxic things his father told him. You helped immensely with that, by letting Ben know that he didn’t have to be strong all the time and didn’t need to keep everything inside, that he didn't have to hide what he was feeling from you.

He loved that about you, that he felt like he never had to hide who he really was, that you saw all the parts of him he locked away for so long from everyone else and didn't care. And in exchange he got to see all the wonderful things about you and he didn't want to trade that for the world.

Even though he was angry with everything the two of you shouted, he still loved you.

You were just so damn stubborn all the time and never wanted to see things the way I do and-

Ben gritted his teeth together as another wave of annoyance came over him. He really did hate how stubborn you were. Probably because you were just as stubborn as he was and that meant the two of you were often at a stalemate.

Ben glanced over to where you were looking out the window. You were frowning, arms crossed tightly over your chest, leaning back against the cloth seats.

The awkward silence in the car was palpable and Ben knew that Hughie and Butcher were also trying not to notice the tension in the backseat. There was a song playing on the radio that Ben didn't recognize, but Hughie kept bobbing his head along to the music while Butcher's hands tighten on the wheel.

Ben's eyes flick back to where you are staring out the window. He wanted desperately to know what you were thinking. Honestly he'd rather the two of you be yelling at one another than you give him the silent treatment. At least then he had some semblance of what was going on in your head. Ben knew you better than anyone, which meant that he was usually good at reading you, but not now.

Even Ben could admit to himself that you'd changed some, you were a little harder than you had been when he knew you, but it didn't make him love you any less. He had been shocked at your revelation that you'd killed other people. Ben was trying to ignore what you'd said about not all deaths leaving scars.

He'd been present for most of the ones that had happened in the past, but he wondered how many others there had been, and what other powers you had maybe acquired. That was the thing about you, you weren't one to brag, never seemed to need to use as many powers to take someone down.

Your arms tighten around your body and Ben watches a single tear roll down your cheek.

Fuck. He thinks to himself. He really didn't want to be the reason why you're crying. He had been the main reason for so long and he hated that, he hated making you cry and hated when you cried in general. If you weren't so mad at him he would have unbuckled your seat belt and pulled you over onto his lap so he could hold you close and make you feel better, but he wasn't sure you wanted that, still wanted him.

The thought that you didn't made him feel like he was sinking into the sea, that the sun was slowly being sucked away while he's dragged under into the depths. Ben didn't know who he was without you, didn't know where he would go, and certainly didn't know what his purpose was if he wasn't in your life.

Before he can stop himself he reaches out to touch your arm, but you flinch away from him, still looking out the window and not turning to him.

Ben fights the urge to make you talk to him, and drops his hand back down to his thigh, curling it into a fist again. Ben felt something in his chest that was unfamiliar when you didn't let him touch you. He wasn't sure if it was fear or anger or frustration but it was there, simmering underneath the skin.

It reminded him too much of when he came back you didn't let him touch you, didn't want him anywhere near you. He didn't want to admit how much he relied on that, you touching him, not just sexually. The little touches you gave him on the back of his hand to comfort him when you knew he was anxious, or the brace of your hand against his shoulder or back when he was sitting down to reassure him that you were with him and that you weren't going anywhere or the moments you adjusted his collar when it was facing the wrong way, or smoothed a wrinkle at the front of his shirt or even just running your fingers through his hair the way you knew he liked, Ben lived for them, for all those little moments.

No one else had ever tried to touch him that way before, with comfort and love.

Even when you were children, the hugs you gave him when you saw him made everything else seem colorless in comparison. When he came back to you and you refused to let him touch you he was afraid you never would again and when you began to touch him again he felt like he’d ascended to another plane, but now your refusal for him to touch your elbow or even take your hand worried him.

He did not believe that he could survive without something as simple as that.

But all of that just solidified the one thing that Ben knew deep down, had known since the moment he realized how much you meant to him, that you were his one weakness, his fatal flaw, the one thing in his life that he couldn’t live without. He didn’t want to imagine that world existed because he couldn't survive without you.

That was why he didn't want you to fight Homelander alone. It wasn't because he didn't see how strong you were, it was that he was so afraid that he was going to lose you that he couldn't control himself.

He hated admitting that even to you, but now he knew he had to, because he knew his pride wasn't worth losing you.

READER POV

After the most awkward car ride in history, you were ready to get out and kick some ass. Despite Butcher's accelerated driving it had taken five hours to get back to the city from Legend's due to traffic and the whole time you were especially aware of Ben's presence. His brooding was practically audible from the other side of the car where he sulked and refused to look at you. You figured that just as he did the silent treatment you could too, but it didn't make it any easier.

Frankly nothing made any of this easy.

You were frustrated by this turn of events, that Homelander had done the one thing that you feared more than anything else in the world, the one thing that you had tried to prevent from happening your entire life, but he had.

But as upset as you were and worried about Lou and Rosemary, you were upset with yourself over what you had said to Ben. You hadn't meant to mention Howard, it was a low blow and you knew how much he hated the time you spent with Howard. You knew that Ben struggled with the thought that you possibly loved Howard more than you loved him and the possibility that you regretted spending your life with Ben rather than him. And you knew that it hurt him as much as the moments you watched him with other women over the years.

You didn't want Howard, never wanted Howard, never felt anything for him, and for Ben you felt everything. Sometimes you were afraid to show Ben just how much you felt for him, feared that it would make him push you away when he realized just how much you needed him. In the forty years you spent away from him you tried to convince yourself that you didn't, but having him back was like everything coming back in color from black and white. But at the same time you were still a little angry, angry with him for holding you back when you knew you could have taken Homelander down yourself.

Because in your heart you knew that was what Howard did to you. Not that he held you back from fighting a psychopathic supe, but that Howard never saw you more as a possession, a jewel in a crown adorned on his lofty head, nothing more than something to parade around Philadelphia. That's why it was so different for you when you were with Ben, because Ben saw you, he never covered you up with heavy cloaks, he never discouraged your love of art, he never bored you or made you feel like your opinion wasn't important. Ben made you feel alive, and Howard? Howard made you feel like the empty husk of what you used to be.

You press your lips together in a tight line as Butcher pulls up the seat so you can get out of the backseat and set foot on solid ground. Hughie had been left behind at a gas station, and yes you hated that Butcher had done that, but at the same time you were relieved. You didn't want him to get hurt. You still believed that Hughie was different than you, not that he was innocent, but he wasn't jaded or hardened the way you had to be to survive.

Your gaze lifts to look up at the towering skyscraper that rises from the earth like a proud oak tree on a hill. Vought tower looks the same way it always has, bold and haughty like the men who founded the company all those years ago. The setting sun glints off the glass windows like the last glimmer of summer, something to be grasped before the cold of winter comes to take it all away.

You'd stood here looking up at the building before, watched the lights turn off and on, watched the people go in and out of the building, and had crossed the threshold a handful of times. The final time was to deliver last rights to your good friend Liberty.

She, like a few others, hadn't believed your story and had shown up to speak with you. But unlike the others, her methods of finding out if you were still you was to try to kill you. She had succeeded and then left stating that she would "be back to catch up." When you'd gone to Vought to find her, you hadn't been expecting her to look the way she did, half burned and laying in a hospital bed. You didn't know why she looked that way. It had been odd to stand there over her, odd to remember the person she used to be, proud and powerful and then look at the broken body that laid there. Her death had been a necessary evil, the only time you ever stepped foot in Vought Tower in the last forty years, but if it was to protect your family it was worth it to you.

Your frown grows the longer you stand there underneath the ominous glow that emanates from inside, anxiety prickling along your skin like the spines of a cactus. You couldn't remember the last time you felt this way, just that you didn't want to feel this way ever again. The building was a symbol of everything you hated, and you vowed deep down to destroy Vought and send it to hell where it belonged and make those who were responsible for Vought's success pay.

You think about the other day in Legend's backyard, when Ben pulled you back from the darkened pit and back into the light, when Ben told you that he didn't want you to do it alone, that he wanted to be there for you, and when he promised you again that he wasn't leaving and that he wanted you to give him all your burdens.

Yes he wants to be there for me, I get it, I GET IT. You sigh in frustration. I understand that he loves me and that he wants to protect me, but I wish he would just-

"Y/n?" Ben says from behind you. His voice is quiet, reserved, but you know that he's probably just as upset as you are.

You turn and glance up at him. Ben hadn't tried to touch you since you shifted away from him in the car. It hurt you to do that to him, to pull away from his touch when all you wanted was for him to comfort you. The night he came back to you, you hadn't lied when you said that he might have been the one who hurt you, but he was the only person you wanted to comfort you. That was the hard thing about loving him and him being your best friend. It was difficult to draw the line in the sand, to separate the two.

The feeling was normal. It was the same one you had when he broke your heart. You had hated him then too, but he was still the only person you had and the longer you stayed in bed running over the years you spent with him, the more you wished that he was with you. The only person that you wanted to comfort you and care for you even after everything that he had done and yelled at you at the premiere, was Ben.

Sometimes it scared you how much you relied on his touch, how much you needed just a comforting hand on your arm, or for him to tuck your hair behind your ear or for him to kiss you or for him to hold you while you slept. You didn't realize how much you needed it, how much you craved it until he came back and you allowed him to touch you again.

In the car you had been trying not to cry, but everything was building, your frustration with Ben over the conversation the two of you had, fear over what would happen to Lou and Rosemary, and red hot anger directed at Homelander. A single tear had slipped and when Ben had tried to comfort you, you pulled away from him.

Fuck.

You hadn't wanted to. You'd wanted to curl up against him and let him make you feel better, but you were still angry with him for holding you back.

The words you yelled at him momentarily ring in your ears. It wasn't just that you compared him to Howard, it was you told him you didn't need him to protect you. But you knew Ben better than anyone and you knew that he was probably circling the drain and thinking that you basically told him that you "didn't need him" when you did.

"Yeah?" You clear your throat. It was difficult to look at him, not when you were so close to just breaking down and telling him that you were sorry. You knew that you needed to be focused on what was about to happen, but you couldn't, not when things were like this between the two of you. You hated fighting with him.

Ben's gaze drifts to where Butcher is staring expectantly at you.

"Give us a minute." Ben says to him.

"Why?"

"Just give us a fucking minute." Ben snaps, obviously annoyed, but you knew that he was probably upset about the fight the two of you had and he was projecting that anger onto Butcher.

"Fine. I’ll clear the lobby. Don’t take too long." Butcher frowns, but turns and stalks up the front steps of the building.

You turn back to look at him, unable to stop the sarcastic comment from building. Because yes, you wanted to forgive him, but at the same time you were still frustrated with him. "What? Are you gonna lock me in the car? Or are you going to tell me again how you don’t want me to fight him?"

"No." Ben growls.

"Then why-"

"Because I don’t want it to be like this." Anger lurks on the edge of his words, but at the same time you can hear something else in his voice, something that sounds a little broken. And it makes your heart clench in you chest.

"You don’t want what to be like this?" You ask confused.

"I don’t want us to go in there angry at each other." He continues.

"Why not?"

"Because I-" Ben stops, his jaw tightening for a moment, before he sighs. "I hate it when you’re mad at me. When you don't let me-" He swallows and you watch his eyes drop to your hand for a moment and you understand what he's saying.

That he hates it when you don't let him touch you. You hated it too.

"You think I like being mad at you?" You whisper, fingers itching to touch his cheek, to push back the dark hair that has fallen forward into his eyes.

"No." He breathes.

You stand there for a moment, letting the silence fill the space between you. The sounds of the city rising around you, the sound of traffic, vendors downtown, and the smell of the pretzel stand around the corner are everywhere. There aren't as many people on the streets now, but you know that it's only a matter of time before someone recognizes Ben in his uniform.

You sigh as you look up at him. Despite the uniform there's a vulnerability in his eyes that you can't shake and you understand how much it must have hurt him too.

“I don’t like it when you’re mad at me either.” You reply.

"I don’t like being mad at you." Ben exhales heavily. "And I don't want it to be like this before we go in. If something happens I-" He stops talking. "I don't want our last conversation to be like that."

"What do you mean you don't want our last conversation to be like that?" This time you can't help, but take his hand and Ben physically relaxes as you do, squeezing your hand back just as tightly.

"If this doesn't work out, if-" His jaw locks and he drops his eyes from yours. "I can't lose you."

"Ben." You whisper and this time you can't help but hug him, pull him close to comfort him. Your arms go up around the back of his neck, burying your face into the hollow of his throat. "You're not going to lose me. Everything is going to be fine." Ben's body immediately curves around you, arms holding you against him so tight it's almost painful, like he thinks you'll never allow him to do this ever again.

"I'm not strong enough for that y/n-" He whispers it so low that you're not sure he meant for you to hear it. "I can't-"

"Shh." You breathe, moving your hands into his hair, smoothing down the unruly strands at the back of his head. "I promise you're not going to lose me." You pull back to look him in the eye. "But I want you to treat me like an equal, like you see my power-“

“I do.”

“No you don’t, because if you did you wouldn’t hold me back all the time.”

“I’m trying not to, but-“ Ben sighs leaning forward into you. “You said it’s your job to take care of me, well it’s my job to protect you.” His expression hardens. “And I failed before.”

“What happened to me was not your fault.”

“I should have been there. I shouldn't have left you for a second-"

“Just like I should have been there in Nicaragua." You whisper back, with a sorrowful sigh. "Just like I should have asked more questions, should have made sure that you were really gone. Then you wouldn’t have had to be in that lab, you wouldn't have been alone-"

“That’s not your fault.” Ben's forehead is against yours now. "Please don't feel bad about that."

“It doesn’t matter if it was my fault or not. I should have been there for you. I will forever feel guilty that I didn’t come for you sooner and that you had to endure that for forty years.” You drop your eyes to his chest.

“Then I’ll forever feel guilty for the way I treated you.” Ben replies.

"I don't want you to." Your gaze rises to his once more, locking with his deep green eyes.

It was true. You could still remember what he said to you, remember what he did, but he was here now and he was doing everything right to make you forget. He was being so different and working so hard to make up for the past that you didn't feel the prick of pain with the memories that you used to.

"And I don't want you to feel guilty about what happened to me." Ben murmurs, raising his hand to cup your cheek. "Those years don't matter to me. The only thing that matters to me is being here with you. And I don't want to miss another second because I did something stupid again."

"And I don't want you to feel guilty about what you did to me anymore. Because you're making me forget, you're doing everything you can to be different, and you're making me fall in love with you all over again." You whisper, leaning in to his hand where his thumb traces gently over your cheekbone. "And I don't care what the past held as long as I have a future with you, as long as you're here with me I don't care about anything else."

Ben smiles when he kisses you, the shape of his lips imprinting against yours, and making you lose yourself in loving him the same way that you had all those years ago. "I love you sweetheart."

"I love you too." You smile just as wide, fingers tangling in his dark hair. "And I'm sorry. I shouldn't have compared you to Howard. You're not like him Ben. You are my everything and Howard was nothing."

He nods. "I'm sorry too. I didn't mean to hold you back I just wanted to make sure you were safe."

"I know. I want to keep you safe too." You nudge your nose against his, breathing in the same air for a few moments.

He is still smiling softly. "Why are we like this?"

"Like what?"

"We always find something to fight about and I-"

“I kinda like it.” You shrug.

“What?”

“Not that I like that you’re mad at me or being mad at you, I just think that we like to keep it interesting." You snort. "I think that if we didn't have a healthy amount of fighting we would just be so boring and-"

Ben kisses you again to shut you up, but it doesn't work.

"Plus, I like to think that the make-up is worth it after." You whisper against his lips with a smirk.

You watch Ben's eyes darken, with your comment. "Well, sweetheart, I'd say that we've got about forty years to make-up for." His hand on your waist tightens, moving his lips to your ear. "And I look forward to every single second." Ben's voice is rough and he bites your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine that for a moment clears your worry about Homelander.

"I love you." You smile, kissing him like it's the last thing you'll ever do, like it's the greatest good you'll ever amount to.

"I love you too." Ben replies kissing you like it's the last time he'll be able to and trying not to think that it could be.

A/N: A lot of delicious angst before the final fight! I have written most of the fight already, but I am hoping to finish out the next chapter by the end of the week... if the writer's block isn't blocking. 😂😭 I hope y'all liked this one. I see only maybe 2 chapters left officially in the series, but we will see how everything wraps up.

As always thank you so much for reading! I am so happy that so many people love this fic as much as I do. Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! :)

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sunlightmurdock · 1 year ago

Text

My Future in You | 2.5 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

synopsis: Bradley’s twenty-two years old and not where he’s supposed to be. He’s supposed to be out of the academy by now. Instead, he’s retaking his senior year of college and praying to god that he gets into flight school. Mav’s gone, his mom’s gone. He’s mad at the world. Then, a hook up at a Halloween party changes his future even more than he could have imagined.

warnings: accidental pregnancy, references to abortion in a few chapters, angst, will be fluff eventually, will be smut so 18+, enemies to lovers kinda thing, extreme inaccuracies on hospitals and the entire birthing process but this is fiction so we move. WC: 4.7k

…

Bradley spins the padlock, humming as he does, twisting the lock and pulling open his locker. That run was awful, his instructor has been breathing down his back and Bradley had fucked up two consecutive manoeuvres. He’s sweaty, and tired.

It’s nice out, though, and you’ve been so couped up recently that it’s driving you crazy. If he’s done early enough he could take you out. It’s the middle of summer, there are tons of properties not far that host drive-ins.

You’d probably like that.

He reaches for his bag first. Towel, clothes, soap — the necessities. Under that, is his phone, which he picks up absentmindedly, without checking. Immediately, it starts to buzz in his hand. He turns it over as he walks towards the showers, seeing an unknown number flash up on the screen.

Instinct tells him to answer. He taps the button and cautiously brings the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“There you are, you son of a bitch!”

Bradley blinks, frowning slightly. His stomach drops.

“Jake?”

“No, no! Don’t you dare fucking speak, where the hell are you?” Jake rants on the other end of the line. Bradley’s brows furrow as he plugs a finger into his ear to try to hear. He knows for a fact that Jake gets one call a week, and he hasn’t ever wasted that call on speaking to Bradley.

“What? — I’m at work, what’s going on?” About fifteen other pilots just piled into this room behind him, it’s hard to hear, even with the way your brother is screaming.

“My baby sister’s about to have your kid in your dumbass uncle’s car is what’s going on! — I’m so serious about this, Bradley, if you fucking let her down today, I will kill you — I promise you that I will actually—“

“Uncle? Jake, slow down, I’m grabbing my keys. Where the fuck is she?” Bradley turns on his heel and shoves his way back through the steam-filled locker room, pressing the phone closer to try to hear. It has been hours since he was able to check his phone and the thought makes his throat tight. He can’t think of how many times you would have tried to reach him, how scared you must be.

It’s the entire reason you’re here, away from everything you have ever known; so that he could be there for you. And he isn’t. He might have missed it. He could have let you down all over again.

“She’s on her way to Sacred Heart Hospital! Do you know how many fucking times she tried to call you?” Before Jake even gets to finish his second sentence, Bradley has started running, hoping that he doesn’t turn a corner and knock hot coffee into someone important.

Jake continues to rant on the other end of the line but Bradley’s far from even listening. All he can think of now is when he woke up the night after halloween and saw you laying in his bed, wrapped in his jersey. You had looked so comfortable that he hadn’t wanted to wake you.

On his run that morning, he had thought about it. If he had woken you. Asked you for your number, asked you on a date. He had thought about the way you had joked the night before and the instant connection. But then he came home and realized who you were. It was all downhill from there with the way he had treated you.

He should have just woken you that morning, asked you if you would go to dinner with him. There are so many things he would do differently now. He swallows as he climbs into the driver’s side of his truck and wraps a hand around the wheel just to notice how much he’s trembling now.

“Are you fucking listening to me?”

Bradley swallows, fumbling to get the key into the ignition and balance his phone between his ear and his cheek. “Look, Jake… I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you when I can.”

Jake starts to protest, but Bradley hangs up anyway. His heartbeat thuds in his ears as he backs out of the parking spot. August third. It hasn’t ever been important before, it will be every day for the rest of his life. It’s his son’s birthday.

Maverick winces at your bedside. He has been told by nurses six times now to just sit, that it could be a while before a doctor can see you. But, he won’t. He has been standing to the right side of your bed for over an hour now. He has been acting on autopilot, he barely even knows how he got you here. It’s the one thing that has kept him alive in his career so far, probably. Instinct.

He watches as you double forwards, gritting your teeth, whimpering in pain.

Bradley doesn’t have anybody, Maverick never had anybody. You’ve got two parents out there somewhere who are willing to let you go through this alone. He swallows softly at the thought and lifts his hand, brushing it tenderly over your head as he leans closer.

“It’s alright, you’re going to be just fine.” He says quietly. Your hand darts out and your fingers link between his, squeezing hard at his shaking hand. As much as he’s certain that your grip is going to bruise, he just exhales slowly and smooths his thumb over the back of your hand.

He didn’t even know your name this morning.

“Alright, Miss Seresin,” The snap of a surgical glove alerts the both of you, looking up quickly to see the smiling woman in the colourful scrubs entering the room. “My name is Lucy, I’m just here to do a quick check on how things are progressing. How does that sound?”

Still gritting your teeth, you’re too busy holding your breath and waiting for the pain to subside to answer her. Maverick makes a pained sound at your side, exhaling deeply as you finally let go of his hand.

“Mhm.” You manage out.

Lucy offers you a sympathetic smile as she pulls up a stool at the end of the bed. Maverick turns his attention towards the ceiling as she settles between your legs. You make a soft sound, closing your eyes. You wish that your mom was here holding your hand, rather than Bradley’s last standing family member.

“Okay, you’re still at six centimeters,” Lucy hums. You drop your head back against the pillow and groan in frustration. You’ve been at six centimeters for an hour and a half. Maverick squeezes your hand softly as Lucy grabs your chart from the end of the bed. “How would you rate your pain at the moment?”

“I don’t know. Does it get worse than this?” Your voice trembles as you speak. After sobbing hysterically into both Bradley’s voicemail and to Jake’s commander, begging him to put Jake on the phone, you’ve been doing your best not to cry again. It seems to make Maverick uncomfortable.

“Can you give her anything? — An epidural, or whatever?” Maverick presses.

Lucy presses her lips into a line as she pushes herself to her feet and sets the chart back into its place. She gives a small shake of her head. If she knew anything about Pete Mitchell, she would know that ‘no’ isn’t a word he often agrees with.

“Why not?” He urges, brows knitting together as he drops your hand and straightens up. You glance between him and her.

She sighs softly. “With pregnancies that have complications, we tend to advise against epidural. It could put more strain on his heart, we would have to monitor very closely.”

“So monitor it closely. If you’re so worried, why has she been sitting here for an hour on her own?” Maverick challenges her. Lucy looks towards you and wrings her hands together.

“Pete, stop.” You breathe out.

“I can get the doctor to discuss it with you. It’s still an option at this point, but—“

“I don’t want it.” Your answer is instant. It’s the most confident you’ve sounded all day. Maverick’s head whips around and for the first time, you catch sight of Bradley in his eyes. It’s not a genetic thing, just more of a temperament. All of those hours spent together, Bradley’s quizzical, developing mind. He’s been copying those mannerisms subconsciously since he was in the first grade.

“But—“

“I don’t want it. We’ll be just fine without it.” You decide calmly, smoothing your palms over your swollen stomach for one of the last times. Pete opens his mouth at your side, he almost argues with you, but he stops himself. This isn’t his kid, or even his family — Bradley has made that clear. So, pressing his lips together, he just nods.

Bradley can feel all of the eyes on him. Maybe it’s because he’s in uniform, maybe it’s because he is walking so fast that when he collided with a doctor two minutes ago, he knocked the poor guy straight on his ass and just kept walking. His eyes widen as he spots the reception desk finally.

“Seresin. My, uh — my girlfriend is having a baby. Her last name is Seresin, she should be here.” Bradley breathes out. The nurse looks up at him and smiles. She sees a lot of stressed out, first time dads. This isn’t unusual.

“Alright. What’s your name, honey?” She smiles.

“Bradley Bradshaw.”

“I’ll tell her you’re here, I’ll come get you as soon as she says it’s okay. Why don’t you get some water, just take a breath?” She reaches out and pats the hand that he has resting on top of the counter. Bradley swallows, managing to give her a stiff nod.

She’s gone for less than two minutes, but Bradley’s pounding heart just makes it feel like it’s an eternity. She can see it on his face when she walks back towards him that he’s terrified. So, she just offers him a smile and nods for him to follow her.

At first, Bradley doesn’t even notice that there’s anyone else in the room. All he sees is you, sitting up in the bed, your hair pulled back and tears in your eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He rushes towards you. You whimper as he wraps you in his arms, grabbing onto him tightly. He leans down and kisses the top of your head. “Jake got through to me, I got here as soon as I could.”

“I was scared you wouldn’t make it in time.” You whisper into his chest. Bradley turns his head and kisses your temple, nodding. He opens his mouth to agree, and then takes notice of who is standing at the other side of your bed. His uncle. He hadn’t taken much notice of what Jake had said on the phone.

He stands up straight and stares, silent for a second. Maverick has learned by now to just keep his mouth shut.

“I thought I told you to stay the fuck away from my family.”

“Bradley, don’t. He got me here, he stayed with me.” You frown up at him. Bradley just stares over you, looking at the man who has let him down again and again for as long as they have known each other.

Maverick takes a slow step back, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I’ll go. I’m sorry. I’ll leave.”

“No, Mav—“

“I don’t want him here. He doesn’t need to be anywhere near—“

“I want him here.” You answer back, scowling up at your boyfriend. Of all the stupid arguments that the two of you have had, Bradley knows better than to pick a fight with someone who is in active labour.

Even so, Maverick has spent more than two decades going against Bradley’s wishes. Making him eat his vegetables, refusing to let him drop out of little league, almost ruining his career. He needs to give his nephew some leeway here, if this is going to work.

“I could go to your place. Get you some things, give you two a minute. I’ll come back, sit in the waiting room. If you want me, I’ll be right outside.”

“No.” Bradley deadpans. You shoot him a look, then turn to offer Pete a small smile.

“Can I text you a list? I have it all written on my phone.”

Maverick nods. He still has your keys from earlier, and honestly, he’s grateful to be out from Bradley’s glare once he leaves the room. You’re grateful that you aren’t going to have the two of them fighting while you’re trying to do this.

Bradley’s scowl fades once he’s certain that Maverick is far enough away. He turns around and perches on the side of your bed, draping his arm around your shoulders and kissing the top of your head.

“How are you feeling? — Did they give you anything for the pain, yet?” He asks softly, smoothing his free hand tenderly over your stomach. You scrunch your nose slightly and turn to frown at him.

“No — Bradley, you smell disgusting.”

He stares back at you, blinking slowly. “Honey, I ran a red light to get here. Showering wasn’t my top priority.”

“No, I know, but — could you maybe put your arm down?”

His mouth twitches, giving an amused shake of his head as he unwraps his arm from around you. He entwines his fingers with yours instead, giving your hand a soft squeeze. “What do you mean they haven’t given you anything? — Do you want me to talk to someone?”

“No, no. I can’t have an epidural, it would put him at risk. I’m going to do it without.” You’re quiet as you explain it, just waiting for Bradley to freak out like Maverick had wanted to. He’s quiet for a minute. You brace yourself.

He strokes his thumb softly along the fabric of the hospital gown. It takes him a minute to finally lift his head and look you in the eye. He exhales slowly.

“You’re sure?”

“You couldn’t change my mind if you tr— ah.” You wince, sitting bolt upright and holding your breath. Bradley barely even notices you squeezing his hand. He feels sick, watching the way your entire body goes rigid with the pain. He has read that this can take like eight hours the first time, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to sit through eight hours of watching you suffer like this.

That being said, there’s nothing he can do but be here. An hour later, he’s already on the verge of tearing his hair out as silent tears roll down your cheeks while you sip on water. He has suggested the epidural twice more since your first conversation, you’ve refused it twice.

The contractions are more regular now. You’re trying to keep him calm, knowing that he’s freaking out even more than you are, but they’re close enough together now that you haven’t spoken in a while. You knew this was going to hurt, but the last ten minutes have been agony.

“Okay, Miss Seresin, just here for another quick check.” Lucy strolls back into the room smiling again, shooting a quick look to the new man standing at your bedside. Bradley glances between you and her, fighting to ask her where the hell she has been. She sits between your legs once more. You sigh in discomfort. The thing about not having an epidural — you can feel everything. “Oh.”

Bradley looks at her. “Oh?”

“She, uh — We’re just about there. That was fast, you’re sure this is your first?” Her smile has faded for the first time. You stare at her face. She looks scared. You feel like you’re going to throw up.

“She’d notice if it wasn’t, wouldn’t she?” Bradley bites. You swing your arm out and smack him in the stomach. Lucy stands up quickly.

“I’m going to grab the doctor.”

You’re quiet as she hurries off, turning your head and looking up at Bradley. He watches your lip tremble and reaches out instinctively, stroking gently at your cheek. He wipes a salty tear from your skin.

“She looked worried.” You whisper to him.

He leans down, pressing a slow, soft kiss to your mouth as he squeezes your hand. “You’ve got this. You’re going to be just fine. This whole time, you’ve been so strong. Just a little longer.”

Squeezing his hand, you lean closer and rest your face against his arm.

“I’m so fucking scared.”

“Nothing’s going to happen, to either one of you.” Bradley kisses the top of your head, his eyes sting. He closes them and inhales the familiar scent of your hair. There’s no way in hell he’s going to cry in front of you. “Just a little longer and he’s going to be here, this is all going to be worth it.”

He doesn’t know that for sure, there’s no way that he can, but it’s enough for you to believe it. Besides, there isn’t a lot of time to be caught up in the fear. Once pushing starts, there’s only one thing on your mind and that’s getting this over and done with.

Bradley isn’t sure what he was expecting labour to be like, but he wasn’t expecting so many people. There are six people in this room and Bradley isn’t sure exactly what any of them are here for specifically. His main focus is you.

Each time you push, your body goes tense, you grit your teeth and you hold your breath. He’s sure that you’re going to pass out any minute now.

“Okay, another big one. You’re doing great.” The doctor instructs. Bradley shoots him a furious look. A nurse at your side is quick to rub your shoulder and tell you to breathe. He leans in close and kisses the top of your head. Once again, you grit your teeth and push hard. Bradley feels like he can’t breathe himself.

This time, you don’t hold your breath. Instead, it’s all forced out of your lungs at once as you scream out, digging your nails into Bradley’s palm, hot tears spilling onto your cheeks. The second that you’re done screaming, there’s no getting your breath back. You inhale too fast and sob back out an exhale. Again and again as the nurse at your side tells you to slow down.

“Alright, and again.” The doctor sighs.

Your eyes flicker to him, and Bradley snaps. He can’t stand the pain in your expression, and he can’t stand that doctor’s fucking tone. “Again? — She needs a break. She can’t go again.”

The abundantly calm older lady between your legs simply lifts her head and looks up at him through her glasses. She has been delivering babies longer than either one of you has been alive. “Son, there’s no time for a break right now. This baby’s coming. Rather than yelling at me, focus on her.”

Bradley’s jaw ticks as he settles in closer and brings your knuckles up to rest against his lips. He winces, blinking back tears as you have to go through another tough push. Your head falls back against the pillows in a moment of brief respite.

He studies your face for a second. Up until this exact moment in time, as he’s wiping tears from your cheeks with his free hand, Bradley had seen the two of you maybe having another kid. Right now, he’s certain that he’ll never put you through any of this again.

“You must hate me right now.” He whispers, giving a soft shake of his head. Honestly, he doesn’t really expect you to answer. He barely expects you to hear him. He definitely doesn’t expect you to laugh.

Your face is hot, and blotchy with tears. Your entire body is exhausted and trembling, and you’re laughing at him. Sniffling, you blink through the tears, “I’ve hated you more than I do right now, it’s okay.”

He can’t help but smile, brushing a few strands of hair back off of your face, then leaning in to kiss your forehead. “I’ve been thinking a lot, about the future, and about our family—“

“Don’t you dare fucking propose to me right now, Bradley. Don’t.” You growl. The nurse at your side just can’t hold it in. Bradley frowns at her as she giggles and rubs soothingly at your back. He kisses your knuckles and closes his mouth.

You’re right. He’ll finish that speech another time.

“Here’s his head.”

Bradley looks swiftly away and stares at the ceiling. The death-grip that you’ve got on his hand is the least of his worries. The thought alone is enough to make him dizzy. Jake’s going to kill him if he passes out. He inhales slowly through his nose and leans in again, resting his forehead against your temple as you cry out.

“There we go, that’s perfect. Keep going, he’s almost here.” The doctor’s tone never lifts above a breezy cadence. She’s beyond cool, finally glancing up to offer you a small smile.

He sticks to your side, kissing your temple. Your chest heaves. There’s not long to go, you’re almost done. But, the end is the worst. It really does feel like you’re going to black out. You don’t know how people have been doing this for so long, or why some of them choose to have so many kids after this pain.

You half expect to give up, to break down crying and begging for your mother before it’s all done. You’re right on the verge, whimpering into the sleeve of Bradley’s flight suit. And then, it’s over. The doctor exhales deeply and hums.

He takes his first big inhale and promptly wails into the air.

The doctor has him in her hands when she looks up and catches sight of the two of you before her. You’re clinging onto his hand and he’s pressing as close to you as he can without crawling into the bed. There’s a fearful, awestruck look plastered across both of your faces as you stare in the direction of the scream.

She smiles at the two of you. You’re going to be just fine.

“Would you like to cut the cord?” The doctor asks Bradley calmly. He regrets yelling at her now, but she doesn’t seem to be holding a grudge.

Bradley blinks, then shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to hurt him.

She chuckles, then shakes her head. “You won’t.”

He does as instructed, rolling his sleeves up, and quickly cleaning his hands and arms. He’s the first one that gets a look. As he sets the scissors back down, he turns his head towards you with a look on his face that you haven’t seen before.

Blinking back tears, Bradley smiles softly at you. And then he’s all yours. They set the baby down on your chest, starting to clean and dry him off right away. Bradley moves to your side once again, brushing your hair back off of your forehead.

Still wailing, you whimper quietly as you stare down at the infant. Ten fingers, ten toes, a good set of lungs on him. Bradley’s lips press softly to your forehead as you reach out, hands trembling, and trail your fingers featherlight along the length of his spine.

His plush, pink lips tremble as the wailing starts to subside. Bradley strokes tenderly at the nape of your neck with his thumb, rendered silent as he watches you with him.

“Hi,” You breathe out, hugging the towel closer to him. You inhale deeply, then exhale through your nose. A nurse smiles as she reaches around you to place the soft knit hat on top of his head. He’s warm enough now, you want to keep it that way. “Hi, baby boy.”

Bradley swallows the lump in his throat. Four and a half hours of labour without any tears. Twelve seconds of watching you with your baby and hot tears are stinging his eyes.

You get five minutes with him before they have to check his vitals, his weight, his height. As much as your arms feel empty without him there, you want those results. You want him to be fine. You want to see him in that bassinet beside your bed tomorrow night.

Blinking, you look up at Bradley. He scoffs as your mouth falls open.

“Allergies.” He mumbles, crouching down to kiss your mouth as tears dampen his cheeks. You reach up and wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, turning your face into his neck. You feel him relax into your touch. He kisses your shoulder, sniffling.

Both of you let it be quiet for a moment. You won’t be getting a lot of that once you’re at home, not with that boy’s vocal chords.

“Thank you,” Bradley mumbles into the crook of your neck. He pulls back from the hug just slightly, brushing the backs of his fingers along your cheek. He sighs, then nods seriously. “Thank you.”

“Just don’t ask me to do it again.” You joke, watching his tearful face shift into a grin. He sits forwards and kisses you. You close your eyes as he trails his fingertips along your arms.

“I’m serious,” He tells you softly, watching you blink tiredly. “I’d have nothing if it wasn’t for you. I was bitter and mean, and you were way too nice to me. It’s because of you that we have him. I’m so, so grateful.”

Your lips quirk up into a soft smile. If Jake could hear some of this, he would probably start to like Bradley again.

Exhaustion starts to set in, but there’s no time to sleep when there are doctors and nurses fussing over you, and then he’s being bundled back into you again.

Your eyelids are heavy as you turn your head and look over at Bradley, sitting in the chair beside your bed. His flight suit is tied around his waist and his t-shirt is draped over the back of the chair. Your baby looks tiny nestled into his arms.

You fight to keep awake as your always calm doctor walks into the room once again and sits down between the two of you.

“Seventeen inches, four pounds and ten ounces. Congratulations.” She tells the two of you with a small smile. Bradley doesn’t look up at her, smoothing his fingertips through the soft, dark hair on your son’s head. She looks at you, then at Bradley. “He’s strong. He’s doing well. We’re going to move you to the neonatal intensive care unit so that we can keep an eye on his feedings. We need to get that weight up, keep him warm. But, I’m not concerned.”

You swallow softly. “The tests and everything… he looked okay?”

She stands up and takes two small steps towards you. She rests her hand softly on your forearm, giving you a sincere nod. “Aside from his weight, he’s perfect. Does he have a name?”

Bradley finally lifts his head and looks, offering you a small smile. You wipe the tears from your cheeks and nod at her. “His name’s Thomas.”

It breaks your heart when it’s time for him to go. The thought of him being without you on that ward. Bradley holds you while you cry, and truthfully, he feels like crying too. It’s been a long day. You’re all emotional.

He stays with you until you fall asleep. Then, half-awake himself, he heads off to see your son. It’s the first night that he gets to say goodnight to the both of you.

Bradley stops as he closes the door to your room behind him. He stares at the man asleep in the waiting area, drooling on his hand as it props his chin up. He knew Mav had gotten here a while ago, someone had brought the bag in. Bradley just figured he would have gone home by now. Exhaling slowly, he clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides.

“Mav?”

The older pilot startles awake, blue eyes wide and blinking quickly as he tries to figure out where he is. It takes him a moment to figure out who is in front of him. Tall, flight-suit, mustache. Maverick feels the lump in his throat grow as he realises that it isn’t his best friend.

He looks Bradley up and down. He looks older now than he did a few hours ago, not just because he’s tired. Because Maverick isn’t looking at a little boy anymore.

“There’s someone you probably want to meet, huh?”

…

tags: @chaoticweirdogeek @alanadetigy @itsmytimetoodream @oldnatgwenaccount @khaylin27 @bioodforbiood @luckyladycreator2 @mizzzpink @cherrycola27 @unordinare @shanimallina87 @heli991113 @ghxst-heart @momc95 @asteria33 @lilyevanswhore @diamond-3 @galaxy-moon @jostyriggslover96 @forgiveliv @shawnsblue @little-wiseone @lovemesomevesey @alm33 @averyhotchner @diorrfairy @thedroneranger @batdanceq @wkndwlff @cassiemitchell @himbos-on-ice @damrlova @fudge13 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @slutford

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #jake seresin #rooster x you #rooster bradshaw imagine #top gun smut #my future in you #bradley bradshaw x reader

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himimosa · 1 year ago

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when they are sick

taking care of bsd men when they are sick...

fyodor, kunikida, dazai

Fyodor Dostoevsky

He is the person who walks around sick for almost half of a year, with a lot of sniffs and sneezes. Somehow he can manage to catch a cold even in summer. You say it is because he has an awful immune system

He already has anemia that makes his body weak. And if a bad cold is added too, he becomes almost pathetic...

If you ask him, he says he is used to being sick most of the time, but that is not true. He tried to take pills a few times for his anemia but they were useless (no, i am not self-projecting here, nope)

Most of the time, he can pull to do his work even if that means carrying tissues with him everywhere.

He hates the times when he got extra bad cold, it causes delays in his work. He is not someone who will accept to see a doctor even though his fever runs high. So if you're going to accompany him, you have to use more conventional ways...

You know hot soup, warm shower, herbal teas... He will act like you are being too "histrionic" and he is doing fine, but he will appreciate it secretly...

You put a mix of mint and linden leaves into the french press, added a tiny piece of ginger, and then poured hot water. After you waited for a while you poured out the liquid through a strainer. You had chosen your fav “I like mugs because they’re very comfortable in your hand” mug for it.

You entered the room where Fyodor was laying, he was trying to read a book but he was coughing constantly. You pulled the book from his hands: "Please drink this and rest a little. I am sure your book can wait for you." you scolded him lightly. He didn't argue with you, which was a sign that he was really feeling bad.

He took the mug, and looked at the writing on it "I don't understand why this is written on a mug" You chuckled "Because either you don't have a sense of humor or you have never heard Demi Lovato before dear.."

"Is it really an inadequacy of me that I don't get the references from the pop culture that was brought to people by no one but-"

"Darling darling..." you interrupted him "You can talk for hours about fatuity of popularism later, but I am begging you, drink this tea. now..."

He was annoyed by your interruption but he complied with your request. He sniffed before taking a sip. Then his face turned into a disgusted expression.

"Did you put ginger in this tea?.."

Kunikida Doppo

This poor man will go through the 5 stages of grief in order...

Denial: "I am not sick, I just got shivers for a second! This doesn't mean anything!" "No, I don't look awful or tired, I am fine!"

Anger: "This is because of that Dazai asshole! That nasty bastard sneezed right into my face and contaminated me with his viruses!"

Bargaining: "...Okay some inconveniences might happen but it's not that bad", "I will drink this tea and get better in an instant. No, I don't need a break, I will be fine"

Depression: "... What will happen to the agency if I use two days off?" "...my program... I will be left behind on it.."

Acceptance: "..President, may I use two days off to recover?"

He knew it is natural to get sick for people... But it wasn't written in his ideals book... He must add some notes about this too...

All he wants is quickly recover and get back to his responsibilities. So he will see a doctor, he will take his medicines, will drink all the herbal tea he needs to drink...You don't have to do much indeed, he is someone who takes care of himself well. But this doesn't mean he won't appreciate it if you do some thoughtful things for him...

"I'm home" you called to him when you entered the house with your keys. You dropped the bags that you got from the grocery store to the kitchen. You could organize them later, you went right ahead to the room where Kunikida was resting. He tried to get up to greet you but you acted quicker and hugged him while he was still sitting. He froze for only one second, then slowly wrapped his arms around you

"Y/N... You shouldn't be this close to me, you will get sick too..." He murmured but didn't push you away too. You shrugged your shoulders while still hugging him "Then I will use a day off with my sick boyfriend, that doesn't seem so bad to me" Kunikida chuckled lightly "If we both use a day off at the same time, I can't imagine what sort of chaos would the agency have..." Then he slowly pulled himself back to see you eye-to-eye and started to ask you questions... How is the agency going? Were budget calculations accurate? Have you taken new cases? What kind of ruckus did Dazai cause when he wasn't around to lecture him? How many calls did you get for his suicide attempts this time?

You told him about how you took care of everything on his behalf with everyone's help (well mostly with the help of Atsushi, Kyoka, Kenji, and Tanizaki siblings... basically with minors of Ada...) But even Dazai wasn't acting so "wild". He was whining about how the agency became too quiet and no-fun without Kunikida and all the joy he got from work vanished without Kunikida...

"Everyone can't wait to get you better love they are planning to visit you tomorrow night," you told with a smile. Kunikida coughed and covered his mouth, then mumbled: "I see..." You knew he did it to hide the light blush and embarrassed smile on his face, but you didn't tease him for it. After all, he was deserving it all...

Dazai Osamu

Here comes the drama king...

First, let's be honest here... He is treating his own body like shit... We saw him in his flat, this man doesn't even cook for himself. He literally feeds with sake and canned crabs only... Despite that, he doesn't get sick easily. He has the durability of a cockroach (i swear i love him, these insults are with affection)

He is the kind of person who doesn't get sick even there is a cold season and everyone around him got ill. He catches the sickness not more once than a year, but when he gets ill, it is always the most unexpected time.

Once, while he was still in the port mafia he got a very bad cold right before an important mission. When Mori saw his situation, he had to cancel the mission.

Because this man acts like he is on the deathbed when he is sick...

"So I made some research on the internet... With all these symptoms on me; either I have some kind of chronic illness, or brain tumor.. which leads us to the conclusion that I have only 2 weeks to live..." "Or, you have a cold, you shithead.." "Do not act like you are a doctor now Chuuya, or I will throw up to your precious hat..."

He didn't change much... The only difference is now he is being your boyfriend, you have to take care of this man like you are taking care of a child. He will act like he is much worse than he is to get all your affection and care... You will need a lot of patience, to be honest...

"Ew, there is no way I would drink that crap!" You thought for a millisecond to throw the bowl of soup to his face but you didn't have the heart for it. Even though he was acting like a spoiled brat, he was miserable right now. You knew he hadn't eaten anything since yesterday morning, you had to convince him to put something in his stomach no matter what...

"Why don't you want to drink this babe?" you asked with your sweetest tone. Dazai shrugged his shoulders "It smells bad, makes me want to puke..." You tried again "What if you push yourself? Just a little? I know it doesn't look appetizing but this soup is too good for cold, you will feel better after your drink I promise..."

Dazai looked at you with defeated eyes, he couldn't resist any longer "..fine then"

With excitement, you took one spoon from the bowl and carefully held it towards his mouth, you were cupping the other hand under the spoon to keep it from spilling. Dazai slowly opened his mouth, only to make a sour face "It is too hot!"

"Sorry baby, my bad" you apologized and started to cool it down by stirring it with the spoon. You took another spoon from the bowl, this time you blew a little air before giving it to Dazai. When he started to make some teasing comments on you would be a great nanny, you decided he was already getting better. You tried to get up after he finished his soup, but Dazai held you weakly by his wrist. "You won't leave me alone on my deathbed, right?" You rolled your eyes: "You're an idiot, you know that right?" He smirked lightly "But I am your idiot, and you still love me..." You couldn't control your smile this time. You gently removed the hair on his forehead and gave him a little peck "Yeap... Only mine to love..."

well, i couldn't still get over from this week's episode and couldnt't write anything new. this was on the drafts and not proof readed, but i will still share it. fyodor stans can use it as a denial of ep 11 :')

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bimobuddy · 8 months ago

Text

Wings

I'm back :]

SFW Hazbin tk fic

Lee!Lucifer, lers: basically everyone else

CW: God is a character in this, however I'll try not to refer to him by name, in case that makes anyone uncomfortable. Also Swearing.

The God I have in mind is similar to (but not exactly) that fan-design with the four floating eyes, look it up, it's great. I am making my own design of him though that I might post if y'all want me to. He's a total dad in this btw, I wanted something fluffy and comforting.

Summary: it's just various moments throughout Lucifer's life when he's had his wings tickled

"Lucifer, darling- Hold still! .. Shi- Darn."

He sighed, watching his youngest son half-fly-half-scramble away. Sure he was -The- Father, but he was still -A- father. And right now he was trying to catch one of his most difficult children to preen his wings. Luckily, Lucifer couldn't get very far with his wings still being small and mostly soft downy feathers. And being a very predictable child, his father knew exactly where he was going.

The deity left the palace and headed out toward the garden. It was still a work in progress, not quite ready for earth yet, so while he worked on it, he kept it in Heaven for his children to play in. Lucifer loved it, especially for a certain animal he had recently been allowed to create.

And sure enough, the youngest angel was by the pond, laying on his tummy, gleefully watching the ducks. His father shook his head in amusement. "Lucifer-" He started, but before he could finish, the child squeaked and jumped up, trying to run again. However his father was quicker, easily approaching him in just two steps and scooping him up.

"I believe we were in the middle of something, son?" He said, shifting his hold on Lucifer to carry him in one arm. The young angel pouted. "No thank you." He said, earning a laugh from his father. "I know it tickles, but it needs to be done. You're growing out of your baby-feathers, and soon you'll have big-kid feathers growing in, and you want them growing in neatly right?"

Lucifer frowned, as if really thinking about it. Finally he nodded. "Yes." His father nodded in return, "Good. Let's get started then." He took a moment to sit down in the grass, knowing his son would just run off again when they were done.

As he started to gently run his fingers through his son's wings, he winced a little when a shrill squeal rang out. How can something so small and sweet make such an aggressively loud noise? He couldn't help but chuckle as Lucifer frantically flapped all six of his little wings, trying to get away, giggling his heart out.

Soon enough, they were done. The second the deity pulled his hands up and released his son, Lucifer was off, running back to the pond, where a couple of his brothers were. The father thought it was sweet until Lucifer tackled one of them for getting to close to 'his' ducks.

He sighed and went to separate them. "Kids will be kids, I suppose."

- - -

Lucifer flew through the clouds as if his life depended on it. "Come back here, Luci-Loo!" Came the voice of his older brother, Michael.

The teenager took a sudden, sharp dive toward the lake, hoping to lose his brothers. Yet again, it was preening season. Their father had since given up on Lucifer the moment he really learned how to fly, and left that job to his older brothers, who were better at keeping up with him.

As he approached the ground, he angled his wings to pull up at the last second. By the sound of a loud splash, followed by the voice of Uriel yelling after him, he knew his trick had worked, even if just on one brother. He glanced behind him to see both Michael and Gabriel still hot on his trail.

What he was not expecting, however, was to almost crash into his eldest brother, Raphael. He flapped his right wings to turn, but due to his speed, he just narrowly avoided his brother and crashed into the ground.

Raphael sighed, "Seriously, Lucifer? You're 116 and still running from preening? Honestly, you're acting like a fledgling, just sit still for it."

Lucifer was about to argue, only to be very violently tackled at high speed by his immediate older brother, Gabriel, so hard it left a dent in the grass from where they skidded. Michael landed next to them. "Nice going, Gabe, now his wings are even dirtier." He said, though his face clearly showed amusement.

The two youngest brothers wrestled on the ground for a bit, Lucifer desperately trying to get away while grinning in anticipation, and Gabriel trying to pin him face-down so his wings were accessible.

Raphael crossed his arms, though a slight hint of amusement played on his own face. "Lucifer, is it really that bad?" "YES! MICHAEL'S MEAN ABOUT IT!" The eldest turned to Michael, grinning a little. "Are you mean about it?" "Maybe just a little. I learned from Azrael after all." He said, elbowing Raphael before sitting on the back of Lucifer's legs.

Gabriel had Lucifer face-down, sitting in front of him while he held his arms down, knowing the youngest was a fighter. Producing a comb, Michael got started, using his left hand to hold a single wing down while his right ran the comb through Lucifer's feathers.

Immediately, his other five wings started to flap rapidly, a couple even hitting Michael square in the face by accident. The poor angel was squeaking in a poor effort to not laugh.

Raphael rolled his eyes and decided to help. He sat down and pushed all sets of wings down, holding them in place. "Alright, Michael, hurry up, you know the longer this goes on, the harder he's going to come after us, when this is over."

Knowing this was true, Michael got started, running the comb through his feathers once again. Lucifer snorted and practically exploded with loud, bubbly laughter. "NAHAHAHA! NOHOHO! FFF-" "Don't curse," Raphael warned. "I WAHASN'T GOHOING TO!"

"Liar." Gabriel grinned, holding his wrists down with one hand, using the other to gently scritch at his ribs, causing Lucifer to screech and bury his face into the ground. Raphael gave his brother a look. "Don't overwhelm him, Gabriel, his wings are bad enough already. You know he's had trouble breathing in the past with you two taking it too far."

Gabriel stopped, looking back at Michael. "I would have stayed in my room if I knew Raph was going to take us on a guilt-trip." He grumbled, earning a laugh from Michael.

Once they had gotten his wings fully preened and combed out, all three sat back and let him up. Lucifer lay there panting, still giggling occasionally. Raphael reached out to pat him on the head, as he usually did with his brothers after a preening, only to be stopped when Lucifer suddenly sat up.

"You all have five minutes to run and hide."

Alarmed, all three took off.

- - -

Lucifer lay there, in the arms of his wife, solemnly looking up at the pentagram sky that separated him from all he had ever known. Lilith could only imagine how hard it was for him to be cast out and separated from his family and childhood home. She hadn't had a family or a childhood to miss. But as far as she was concerned, Lucifer was her family now, and she hated seeing him in so much emotional pain.

She ran a comforting hand down his back, between his wings, only to be startled as he sharply inhaled and flinched. She pulled her hand away quickly, "I'm sorry, are you hurt?" She asked, easily lifting him under the arms to look at him (which really flustered the short angel.)

"No, no, darling, I'm not hurt, it just.. it tickled." He said. As Lilith set him back down in her lap, he blushed and looked down. "You can...." He looked back up at her, "You can keep going... If you want to, that is.. My brothers used to do it.. I guess it's comforting in a way."

Lilith smiled softly, running her hand through his hair, loving the way he leaned into it. "Alright, my love." She whispered, gentle hands returning to his wings. Lucifer laid back down in her lap, arms around her waist, as his wings twitched and lightly fluttered, giggles flowing from him like music.

Maybe eternity like this wouldn't be so bad after all.

- - -

That morning in the Hotel had been complete chaos. It started with Charlie chasing Vaggie around, having discovered her wings were ticklish. The girls continued to play for nearly an hour before Charlie finally got her girlfriend tapping out.

The princess easily scooped up her angel and kissed her cheek, while said angel was practically pouting. "It's not fair, I'm a soldier, I'm not supposed to have such a weakness. Imagine if someone outside the hotel found out-" Vaggie didn't get very far before Charlie set her down. "Oh come on, it's okay that you have tickwy wittle wings~" She teased, causing her girlfriend to blush.

"Besides, the Devil himself is way worse, watch." She grinned, looking over at a very startled Lucifer who had apparently overheard everything. As Charlie ran at him, he spread his wings and flew upward to jump over her. The more his daughter chased after him, the more he turned it into a game, because of course he would.

Everytime Charlie got close, Lucifer would laugh and leap out of the way, even jumping off the walls to keep out of reach. "You're gonna have to try harder than thAAT!?" He yelped, feeling something wrap around his ankle and yank him to the floor. When he got a good look at it, he saw it was one of Alastor's shadows.

"Oh come on, you fucking-" "Oh, I do apologize, your highness, but I can't have you getting your disgusting shoe prints on my walls." Alastor grinned, clearly enjoying the scene before him.

Lucifer was about to snap back, but was cut off by Charlie sitting on top of him, immediately burying her fingers into his wings, causing the devil to shriek, a couple of his wings beating the floor. He had forgotten how ruthless his daughter was.

"C-CHAHAHAHARILIE!"

"See, Vaggie, even the king of Hell has ticklish wings, it's completely fine that you do too." Charlie said casually, as if she weren't absolutely wrecking said king.

Lucifer's laughter shot up an octive as he felt those damned shadow tendrils burying themselves under his feathers under all six wings. He started kicking his feet against the floor and trying to push Charlie's evil hands away.

"FAHAHAHAHACK! FUHUCK OFF, BAMB- NOHOHOHO WAITWAITWAHAIT!" Lucifer squealed like a child as he felt another shadow emerge underneath him, swiping at his spine. right between his shoulder blades. All six wings furiously beat at the floor in an attempt to get those tendrils away from him, but it didn't work.

Charlie grinned, gently scritching right into the 'wing pits' of his middle set of wings, having been told by her mother that it kills him. And sure enough, the king practically screamed. His legs stopped kicking and his wings stopped beating as he could only lay there and take it, laughing loudly.

It wasn't until his face got red that she stopped. And it wasn't until Charlie stopped that Alastor did as well. He personally would have kept going, but he figured Charlie would have his head if he pushed her father any further.

Lucifer panted heavily, unable to stop himself from giggling, a little loopy from it all. He looked up at Charlie. "G-Grohounded." Charlie grinned, "You can't ground me, I'm an adult." Lucifer shook his head, "Nuh-uh."

She got off of him and helped him up. Alastor came over and 'innocently' placed a hand on Lucifer's back as a 'friendly gesture,' resulting in the angel snapping his wings shut and de-summoning them.

And being one for revenge, Lucifer lunged at the radio demon, starting the cat-and-mouse game all over again.

#sfw tickling community #tickle community #tickle fic #tickling #hazbin hotel tickle #hazbin tickles #lee!lucifer

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myownwholewildworld · 2 months ago

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chapter 9 | main masterlist | ao3 | series masterlist | chapter 11

pairing: outbreak!2003!joel x f!reader. (it's actually 2004 now) summary: recovery, if at all possible, is hard work ― but you're not alone. joel is there to hold your hand, through thick and thin. until death do you part. a/n: hello there! c: i hope this chapter puts some of you out of your misery, because it did me lol i'm sorry for the emotional damage you have endured so far, i'm giving you all a hug and forehead kisses 🫶 hope you enjoy this one! as always, all interactions welcome. thank you all so much for the warm welcome this series has gotten so far! love y'all 💖 p.s. there's a second a/n at the end of the chapter 👀 warnings: 18+, mdni. angst. being sick. references to suicide and navigating grief. mentions of blood and murder. description of wounds. joel takes care of you. a bit of fluff. reader talks briefly about her past with her family. reader is female, no other description given. reader is mid-late 20s, joel is 37. no use of y/n. joel’s and reader’s pov. dividers by @saradika-graphics w/c: ~5.8k. taglist aka the drama wagon at the end of the chapter (let me know if you want to be added/removed from the list pls!)

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t do this to me, not yet, please―”, Joel’s voice faltered as the lump in his throat threatened to suffocate him.

Panic was running so high, he couldn’t even hear his own racing thoughts. His shaking hands hovered over your cheek before cupping your chin. Your eyes were shut, your lips slightly parted, your hand still resting across his chest. To unknowing eyes, you just looked asleep, but your skin was burning so hot that Joel could only touch your forehead for a few seconds at a time.

“No, c’mon, wake up”, he whispered as he sat back up on the bed, holding your frame between his arms.

Fear froze him in place, his muscles cramped. Joel knew what was about to happen, but he had had no time to digest it yet, to wrap his head around the fact that you were going to die. He couldn’t lose you ― not you too. His heart shrunk painfully in his chest, oppressing his lungs to the point where it was difficult to breathe. The panic he had managed to keep at bay was overtaking his senses, setting in quickly.

Joel forced himself to breathe. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale ― until his heartrate dropped to somewhat normal levels. He could still feel his blood rushing through his veins in waves, but at least his chest had stopped hurting a little.

He looked down at you, burning in his arms. A fleeting thought crossed his mind ― why were you having a fever so severe? He had not seen anyone come down with a temperature when bitten, although he never stayed around for long enough to find out, so what did he know?

But it didn’t really matter how it was happening, but that it was happening. Joel was not ready to let you go, even though he promised he would murder you when the end was near. You had taken it back, but once he accepted, there was no turning back.

Joel Miller was many things, but he was not a quitter nor a liar. He would be true to his word.

He caressed your cheek as you shivered so hard that your teeth chattered together, brushing his mouth against your forehead. “It’s okay, sweetheart, I’m here”, he mumbled, although he was not sure if you were listening.

His heart flipped again at the realisation that he needed to make a decision about the when. Letting you suffer like this, when the end was inalterable, was cruel of him. Extremely cruel, especially because you were not able to stop your own suffering as you had wanted.

One hour, one hour and then I’ll let you go, he pledged to himself as he enveloped you in his arms.

This time you trembled so hard, you ran your elbow into his ribs. Joel mouthed an exclamation as he held you in place. He might be cruel, but not so insensitive to let you hurt like this. So he laid you down on bed and got up to run to the en-suite bathroom.

He almost sighed with relief when he saw a big bathtub. Praying for running water, he opened the tap and almost thanked God for the miracle. Joel let the water run for a few minutes until it came out clear. He tested the temperature, and it was so cold that the hairs on his forearm stood up.

Joel returned to the bedroom and sank a knee on the mattress to pick you up. You whimpered something, but your words were so slurred he couldn’t understand what you had said.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, I got you”, he reassured you, his lips gently pressing against your temple.

Lifting you off the bed, Joel walked towards the bathroom with you curled up in his arms. Your bottom lip was quivering because of the effort your body was making to generate heat. But you didn’t need your core temperature to rise up but to come down and Joel knew that.

Sucking in his breath, he stepped in the bathtub, the cold water a shock to his body. But he was not going to leave you alone, not when you needed him the most. He would crawl through living hell on a path full of broken glass for you, so a bit of cold was not going to kill him. He slowly sat down, keeping the balance, and set you down between his legs, your back resting against his torso.

“Fuck”, he whispered while his body acclimatised to the cold water.

You suddenly groaned and Joel’s alertness went through the roof. He held you in his arms as you stirred, trying to get away in your haziness.

“Cold, so cold”, you mumbled, your eyes fluttering open for a brief second, your trembling hands looking for something to hold on to.

Joel captured both of your hands in one of his so you wouldn’t hurt yourself.

“I know, I know, baby, but I need to cool you off. You have a fever”, he reasoned with you, but your neurons were firing up so much with pain that your brain could not really register his words.

“Joel, it― it hurts, please make it stop”, you begged, more unconscious than awake.

The lump in his throat grew bigger at your plea. He knew he had to do it but couldn’t find the strength. Was he a coward? Was he so afraid of solitude that he would put you through such hellish torment?

“I will, darlin’, I will. Just gimme a minute, please”, Joel murmured against your temple, holding you tight, his breath shaking with anticipated sorrow.

He did not want to say goodbye. Joel was fucking scared of bidding you farewell ― his heart racing so fast, the pain in his chest returned worse than before.

Joel remained still in that bathtub with you in his arms for half an hour, until his skin was desensitised. Your shivering calmed down to the point it was almost non-existent now and you had stayed quiet for the last five minutes, your chest rising and falling in a steady pace.

His movements were slow and smooth, not wanting to wake you up as he stood up still holding you. Stepping out of the bathtub, Joel grabbed a towel nearby, walked you to the bed again and carefully laid you down on the bedsheets. With light touches, he dried off your damp skin, ensuring he did not wake you up at any moment. You looked so peaceful, so painless now, he didn’t want to disrupt you too much.

With pursed lips, Joel gently removed the wet bandage protecting the bite and concernedly inspected the gnarly wound on your forearm. The teeth marks were so clear, he could count a full set of adult teeth. The lesion was still festering, blood and pus oozing out from time to time. But, weirdly enough, it seemed to be better than a few hours ago. It was less reddened, less swollen and, overall, less hideous looking.

You had to be a trooper if your body was really trying to heal that, because, from what he knew, there was no coming back from being bit by a clicker. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration as Joel feebly patted the wound with the clean towel and replaced the bandage with a fresh one.

He then clothed you and as he was putting on your foot the last sock, your eyes opened for one second, full consciousness still evading you. You were in and out, catching brief moments of lucidity.

“Joel? I love you”, you managed to whisper before dosing off again.

“Me too, darlin’”, but you were too far gone again to hear him say it.

One hour turned into fifteen. Joel had gone through all five stages of grief in that time, and now was back to square one.

Denial.

This could not be happening to you ― you did not deserve to die like this. You were a very bright light on the shore, the lighthouse who guided him home when he thought everything was senseless, pointless. You had managed to teach him how to weather the worst tempests, how to keep the boat afloat even though the waves were bigger than him. Joel had been able to touch the sand for the first time in what felt like a lifetime of loss, all thanks to you. You were a beacon of hope, of positivity, and you deserved so much better than this.

Why you? Of the thousands of people walking this damn earth, why you? Destiny was laughing at him, snatching you away when he had just let himself feel the love you had so sweetly offered.

Anger.

He pinched the bridge of his hooked nose while the fingers of his free hand nervously played a melody on the arm of the chair he was sat on. Joel was pissed off at himself, for allowing himself to feel, to doom you the way he always did the people he loved.

One look at you, curled up on bed, was enough to make him hate himself for what he did to you. He might not have been the one who bit you, but he was the one who put you in harm’s way first. Had he been more attentive, less in his head, he could have prevented it from happening.

A shimmering but fading rage consumed what remained of his broken soul. Like a city burnt down to its foundations, only a barren wasteland prevailed inside his empty carcass.

Bargaining.

He got up from his resting to aimlessly walk around the bedroom, his sight never leaving you, worry distorting his features.

If he could, he would trade places with you in a heartbeat. Damn him, he would sacrifice countless people in your name if that meant you could remain by his side. You were worth more than a thousand lives in his eyes. Joel would kill for you, would commit atrocities for you if that meant you could be with him.

He probably was a selfish motherfucker for thinking that way, but his pain was blinding his judgement. And you would hate him for it ― he could hear your voice in his head saying, “I’m not worth that much, Joel.” But you were, yes, you fucking were.

The thought of not having you by his side brought overwhelming anxiety upon him, one he thought long forgotten.

Depression.

His demons caught up with him in the end.

With a heavy, trembling sigh, he sat down on the bed. Tucking a stray hair strand behind your ear, his gentle touch lingered on your neck. Your heartbeat was strong, and Joel wondered how long it would take for it to slowly die out. And at that moment, his would wither away too.

He just didn’t have it in him anymore ― Joel felt defeated, purposeless. Life would eventually become meaningless, and he would destroy himself, just like Tommy had predicted. His brother would be better off without him too, so there was no point in looking for him and his new-found group. It still pained him how quickly Tommy had ditched them, as if he could not wait to get rid of them, of him.

When he lost his precious Sarah, Joel deemed the world an inhabitable place. Darkness became his most trusted companion at the most dreadful hours of his existence. Until you shone a light which scattered the gloom away.

Acceptance.

It is what it is, Joel thought, conquered by the dreary circumstances.

He was no god, so couldn’t change the past. Your fate had been attached to his the moment you two met. And like a moth attracted to light, Joel could not stop but fall for you. You had showed him what true romantic love was and he should be grateful for the time he had with you. And he was but was greedy too ― he had wanted more. So much more, even in this post-apocalyptic world.

Joel bent down to kiss your forehead, realising your fever had subsided when his lips didn’t burn like before. At least he had done one good thing for you. Joel laid down beside you, wrapping you in his arms one last time before he would become, once again, the ghoul. Your ghoul.

Just one more minute to pretend, he told himself. Joel had finally come to terms with what was expected of him.

And then, as promised, he stood up and stilled in front of the nightside table where the gun had been resting for hours now. Two bullets were all he had left, but it was more than enough for what he intended. This time round, you would not be there to stop him ― it was almost poetic that his goodbye to you was a mirror image of how you two met.

Surprisingly, when Joel reached for it, his hand was steady, his finger wrapping around the trigger with a determination he did not really feel. His mind had gone blank the moment his palm caressed the grip.

The faster, the better, he coaxed himself as he checked the magazine one last time.

As if his soul had left his body, Joel watched himself from afar turn around to face you. The barrel of the gun delicately kissed your forehead. He wouldn’t look away ― if he was strong enough to kill you, he should be too to watch you die at his own mercy.

A blur of memories impregnated your brain, so vague you could not differentiate them. Or were they just a product of your imagination? You were not sure. You were a baby, but you were also a teen at the same time ― the chronology was so mixed up you could not tell the different versions of you apart.

You felt like your brain had melted inside your skull and were not able to produce logical thoughts. It really felt like mush after all the hurt you had endured. You barely remembered anything except for the searing pain that had consumed you, overwhelming all the nerve endings in your body to a maddening point. But after being surrounded by a blanket of coldness, you felt substantially better.

As time went on, your thoughts had become clearer, but a crushing sense of tiredness rendered you bedbound. Your limbs felt like jelly, your eyelids were glued to your globes, and your throat felt so dry that if you tried to pronounce a word, the effort would tear at your vocal cords. So you let yourself be swayed by the gentle waves of your imagination, drifting away into a realm of soothing possibilities. A place where nothing bad could ever happen ― a place where you had your happily ever after with Joel.

The passing of time escaped you ― for all you knew, it could have been days when you started to feel better. Your body had almost fought off the ailment that plotted your demise, although it still had a few battles ahead. Even if you had begun to come back to your senses, you were lucid enough to understand you could not push yourself into normalcy just yet.

Suddenly you felt a cold touch on your forehead and slowly wrinkled your eyebrows. Joel’s lips were usually warm when they brushed your skin, not icicles numbing your feeling. It took you a few attempts, but you were finally able to flutter your eyelashes enough to see.

And what you first saw once you regained consciousness was the barrel of a gun pointing at your forehead. Holding the firearm was Joel’s hand, gripping it so hard his knuckles were white. You had to blink again to clear your sight, cloudiness still fogging the edges.

“Joel?”, you called out, focusing your eyes on his for the first time in what it felt like ages.

He did not respond. The silence was so dense, so filling, you could listen to both of your hearts pounding hard against your chests, as if they were trying to escape and reunite, soothe one another until they calmed down.

“Joel”, you repeated, your voice raspy and hoarse.

You saw the doubt, the fear, dancing freely in his pupils. They were so dilated you could barely see the beautiful brown of his irises. Joel’s eyes were slightly widened, his breathing so agitated his chest moved up and down quickly. But the gun never left your forehead, his hand balanced.

“Fuck me, now I’m seeing things too”, he whispered so low you almost didn’t catch his words.

As the hefty mist dissipated in your brain, you understood what was happening.

You had asked, he had committed. Joel was about to put an end to your suffering, just as you requested. But there was no more suffering within you, not to the point where you wished yourself dead. Now it was… manageable.

He really was going to do it, even if it meant killing the last remnant of humanity within himself. Such act of selfless love brought tears to your eyes. You truly had to love someone to be able to let them go. To be the executioner’s hand ― the sacrifice was even bigger. Joel willing to forego his own being for you meant so many things, it was difficult to put them into words.

“Joel, look at me. Look at me”, you mumbled controlling your wavering tone as you gently pushed down the barrel by caressing his hand, your thumb gently rubbing his skin.

Even though he had been watching you, he was not really seeing you. But your request seemed to finally pervade, because you saw the change in his eyes ― a spark lightened, the brown gaining ground to the black. They broadened while focusing on you for the first time.

“Baby?”, his voice broke on the second syllable, the gun falling on top of the mattress.

You nodded, teary-eyed, as you tried to sit back up on bed. But you were still weak, dizziness overtaking your sense of balance, making the room go round you in a dangerous spiral.

Joel felt your light-headedness as his own, because he quickly sat down beside you, his strong arm wrapping around your shoulders to keep you close to his torso.

“What― How― How are you feeling?”, Joel stammered for a second, not letting his hope win against dooming reality.

“I― I feel better.” You looked up at him, his gorgeous eyes pulling you in so fast. Your surprise was reflected on his pupils, none of you really understanding how it was even possible. “I don’t know, but I do?”

“Promise me.” He requested, not demanded, while his fingers traced the outline of your jaw, subtly caressing the skin behind your ear.

You turned your head to kiss the palm of his hand before glancing up at him again.

“I promise, Joel.”

He sighed so hard, you felt his relief pouring out. And so did yours, although you didn’t want to get your hopes up, in case this was the crash before the falling. You had not had an experience close to death before, but it surely wouldn’t feel like this. The agony your body had gone through, although still lingering, was not even half of what it had been some time ago.

The pain had receded, but the overall ill feeling still remained. Your immune system was up in arms, and you could literally feel it fighting off the infection. Your forearm, where you had been bitten, itched like hell. Unaware, your fingers tugged at the bandage, looking for some relief to the uncomfortable feeling.

Joel’s fingers laced with yours to prevent you from scratching yourself.

“You’re gonna make it worse, sweetheart”, he mumbled before a big, heavy pause. “I don’t know if this is supposed to happen, if this the calm before the storm or― I don’t know, but I’m honestly grateful that you’re awake.”

You felt the uncertainty smearing his words. But you did know this wasn’t normal.

“It’s not like this. People start fading away, becoming unresponsive, twitching, you can see their souls leaving their bodies. And you try to talk to them, reason with them as they get closer to you, you ask them to keep their distance and… and they just can’t control themselves, even if you beg them. Sometimes it takes hours, sometimes days, but they only get worse, never better…” You explained, memories of a far-away life flooding back. You kept the tears at bay.

Joel cupped your chin, forcing your head up so he could examine your expression. His lips formed a flat line, his jaw clenched, because he felt the affliction in your explanation.

“Who?”, he simply asked.

“My brother. He… he got infected first. Mom and dad, they… had to snatch him off me. They both got bit in their trying to save me.” You choked on your own words, that moment was too painful.

But it was the pain what reminded you of your love for them.

It was the pain what, for now, kept their memory alive.

“My dad had to… you know, shoot him so he would stop coming for me.” Not being able to contain it anymore, your eyes welled up with thick tears. And Joel wiped away each one of them with his thumb as they ran down your cheeks. “Then mom went first. It took her like ten hours to completely lose herself. And then dad… he endured it for a day and a half. Towards the end, the agony was so great, he just couldn’t take it anymore.” Your voice became a whisper as you buried your nose in Joel’s chest, his hand gently running up and down your spine.

As you closed your eyes to keep the tears away, the loud noise of your father’s rifle ricocheted in your imagination. You couldn’t save him. He had asked you to go outside, to leave your family’s home, but you couldn’t just quit on him, on the man who shaped you into who you were today. So as the bullet fired and a thudding noise broke you, your knees gave way as your fingers tightly wrapped around the doorknob.

Joel kissed your temple, a comfort you had learnt to crave. “I’m sorry I asked.”

You shook your head no, not wanting him to apologise. And as you tried to reply, the back and forth of your head brought upon you a sudden feeling of vertigo.

The room spun around, the walls closing in, crumbling on top of you. And then you felt it ― acid rushing up your throat, the bile burning as it went up. Bending over yourself, you missed the mattress by an inch and threw up on the floor.

“Shit”, you heard Joel mutter as he held your hair back in a ponytail, his free hand rubbing the small of your back. “It’s okay, darlin’, it’s fine”, he reassured you, keeping close to you, his mere presence comforting you.

Luckily you had not had much to eat, so you emptied your stomach rather quickly. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you straightened your back and Joel immediately hugged you tight.

“I’m sorry”, you apologised, mildly embarrassed although there wasn’t much you could have done to prevent it.

“Nothing to be sorry about.” He dismissed your apology while wiping the pearly sweet off your forehead. “The fever has not returned, but you should rest, you’re still weak.” Joel scooted over to the edge of the bed so you would have plenty of room to lie down.

You smirked at his concern but happily obliged. You were indeed very tired, albeit you had perked up since this morning. This morning. You had just realised it was dusking again, the twilight colours pouring in and painting the walls in its beautiful warm hues.

“I’ll go see if I can find a bucket and something to clean up.” He kissed your forehead before exiting the room.

The quiet peace in the room were so calming, you involuntarily shut your eyes. All your muscles ached, product of fending off a very high fever, as if you had spent a full day working out. You might not have lifted a finger in hours, but it truly felt like you just had had a marathon session in the gym.

Suddenly you heard a noise and startled awake. Joel had left a glass of water on the nightstand, and was down on his knees cleaning the sick off the floor.

“I was just resting my eyelids, I swear I wasn’t sleeping”, you said jokingly, a soft smile on your lips, as you reached for the glass and downed it to quench your sudden thirst and rinse your mouth.

Joel chuckled ― the first sign of laughter you had heard from him in what it felt like forever. Your heart made a little backflip in your chest.

“Sure thing. I think you should keep on resting your eyelids, you do need it.”

“But I just woke up”, you pouted, not wanting to fall asleep again. Not wanting to leave him alone.

He put the bucket with water and the cloth aside, his hands resting on his knees, and gifted you with one of his perfectly raised eyebrows.

“I ain’t going nowhere and I need you rested, so go to sleep now. Don’t drive me mad already, you just woke up”, his tone was somewhat serious, only softened by the grin transforming his mouth.

“I like you a little mad”, you confessed a universally known truth.

“I bet you do.”

Joel leaned over and tenderly kissed your lips. The faint, loving caress of his mouth was all medicine you needed, you longed for. So you scrunched the neck of his shirt in your fist, holding him in place, as you deepened in his mouth. Just a tiny taste, you thought to yourself.

The dancing that ensued was soft, undemanding. But then it gradually changed, the stroking of your tongue against his growing in intensity, your quick breaths becoming one as if you were sharing lungs.

Joel groaned and broke contact.

“No, sleep. You won’t distract me”, he rasped, clearing his throat.

Pursing your lips, you huffed, almost rolling your eyes at him.

“Sleep, I said.” This time it did sound like an order.

Was he afraid you wouldn’t wake up? Fucking yes, he was. From time to time, Joel would check on your pulse ― his lips subtly ghosting your artery to ensure it was still rushing under your cool, velvety skin. The fever had completely subsided too, which was a fucking relief. With light fingertips, he lifted your bandage just one inch ― the wound had stopped festering and, in fact, seemed to be healing.

He still couldn’t understand how you were recovering instead of succumbing to the bite. Were you immune? Because if so, a whole new world of danger would be lying in wait if someone discovered your secret. Most people would fear the unknown, would label you a freak ― a monster. Joel had gotten to understand human nature far too well in the last year, so he was already anticipating the worst-case scenario.

He could be mistaken though. Albeit the possibility was slim, very slim.

An uncomfortable groan slipped out of his mouth, trying to adjust his posture. With his arm under you, your nose nudging the center of his chest, Joel felt a tingling sensation running up his forearm. In his attempt to awaken his dead limb, you perked up at him, all sleepy and groggy.

“Sorry, can’t feel my arm anymore”, he apologised as you stirred against him, giving him the opportunity to free his arm from your weight. “Should go have a look outside, see how the bridges are holding up.”

You squeaked and pulled a face in your languor. “Mhmm, okay. But come back soon, I rest better knowing you’re here.” Your sincerity caressed the rough edges of his healing heart.

“You won’t even notice that I’m gone”, he vowed in a sough.

The silken linen draped around your waist, so satiny you thought you were surrounded by the soft pillows of a cloud. You felt rested, although still achy.

Pins and needles in all your muscles, every time you moved your flesh would protest. But despite the exertion every inch of your body had sustained, you felt infinitely better than a few hours ago.

With your train of thought coherent again, questions invaded your mind. So many, a cacophony of inner voices echoed in your brain. You grunted heavily, just wanting another moment of peace.

“Just shup up”, you told yourself, in the hopes that your internal narrator would heed the warning.

The heel of your hands buried in your eye sockets, forcing yourself awake. With care to not feel dizzy again, you sat back up on bed, your back against the cushy headboard. The room was silent ― so well isolated from the outside world you couldn’t hear how the city of Chicago was roaring.

What a rollercoaster the last two days had been. So much had happened you barely had time to take everything in. Your own calamity had eclipsed the tragedy of losing the people you allowed yourself to love.

But maybe it was better this way ― less emotionally draining. Maybe your heart couldn’t assimilate any more misfortune. Maybe you just should be grateful for being alive, even if it pained you ― even if survivor’s guilt chipped at you.

Feeling a knot in your throat, nothing to do with being sick this time, you slowly got up, testing your equilibrium. Once you felt safe standing, you walked towards the dresser in the room. You had sweated so much battling the fever, your clothes were patchy with perspiration. After rummaging through the belongings of the kind donor of the flat, you found a pair of jeans, a tee shirt. Your heart stopped at the sight of a measly Christmas jumper.

Then it hit you. You had spent Christmas Eve curled up in a bathtub with Joel, fighting for your life, and there were only a couple of hours remaining until Christmas Day was over.

Tears sprouting, the jumper wrinkled between your shaking fingers. If life was to be as expected, you would now be in Joyce’s living room, exchanging presents. You had traded some food stamps to get Joel an acoustic guitar.

Upon your arrival to Chicago, which now seemed to be an eternity away, he had told you how much he liked music, how soothing he found it to be, how his old man taught him when he was just a kid. You had asked him what his favourite song to play was, snuggled in his arms, and he had undoubtedly replied: Helplessly Hoping by Crosby, Stills and Nash. Joel had said, ghosting your lips with his, how much that song reminded him of you, but specially of himself.

That had tickled your curiosity. You had never heard it before so did some research into it ― but couldn’t find the lyrics nor the melody. By gifting him the guitar, you were hoping to listen to it from his fingers for the first time.

Now it would never happen, not unless you found another guitar, which was an almost impossible task. You had spent weeks looking for someone with a guitar they were willing to part with.

With a heavy sigh, you changed clothes and shuffled around the room, looking for bits and bobs that might be useful.

The sound of someone bursting in woke you up ― you had nodded off unintentionally on the couch. Your heart jumped out of your chest, racing so fast you almost threw up again. Joel turned the corner of the corridor, and you gasped.

His white tee shirt was soaked in thick red, green and black. It was obvious he had run into trouble and had to fight his way out. You got up, heart on your tongue, and closed the distance to reach him as he lunged himself forward towards you.

“What’s happened?”, you asked breathlessly. “Are you hurt?”

“Shit is coming down real fast. We need to leave the city. Now”, Joel whispered as he approached, but stopped before hugging you, realising all the dirt, blood and guts on his tee shirt.

You didn’t care. You wrapped your arms around his waist, your ear flat against his chest. The rhythmic pumping of his heart appeased you. Just a bit.

“Joel, are you hurt?”, you insisted, worried sick, as you looked up at him.

He shook his head no, cradling your face.

“I’m okay, but we gotta go, sweetheart. We can’t stay. The bridges have been overrun; the clickers are this side of the river now. If we stay, we die.” His words were infused with a sense of urgency.

“I’ve packed some bits while you were gone, in case we had to leave”, you remembered, pointing at the two backpacks on the sofa.

“What would I do without you?”, Joel praised you, pressing a faint kiss on your mouth. “I know you’re still not feeling great, but we don’t really have any other options.”

“I’m fine enough, let’s go.” No, you didn’t feel one hundred percent, but you would have to.

In less than a minute, you both were out the door and running down the stairs.

“I’ve got a car in the garage in the basement, running won’t get us far”, he said, tugging at your wrist to guide you down another flight of stairs.

“A car? How?”

“Don’t worry about it”, he answered quickly. Too quickly.

You all had to do what you must to survive. How he had obtained that car ― it didn’t matter.

Running towards the Jeep, you jumped in and so did Joel. The wheels screeched as Joel reversed and then pressed on the gas pedal. The doors to the garage burst open as the front of the car hit them. You held on to the handle as well as Joel’s forearm as he focused on dodging any obstacle in the way ― living or dead.

Looking through the window, you saw herds of people running. The screams filled the air, impregnating it with death and mayhem. It was dark, but if you had paid enough attention, you would have seen the devastation, the destruction.

Buy you didn’t want to see. You had already been witness to the end of the world. You didn’t need the reminder.

So you looked away, Joel’s rugged face being your focal point. You scrutinised his expression, the lines forming between his eyebrows and on his cheeks. How his lips pursed with worry, how he clenched his jaw. He hadn’t said it, but you read his body language too well. He was doing a great job managing his anxiety, but you knew it was there, flaring under the calm surface.

You glanced at the road ahead. A sign reading “Rockford” told you Joel was taking you west.

Whatever cardinal point he chose, it would be alright. As long as you had Joel by your side, you both would be just fine.

a/n (again): AHHHHH 🚨 the cat is out of the bag 😫 soo yea, reader is immune, been dying to tell you for ages now, THE RELIEF lmao but there's a reason to it (and it's hiding somewhere in the chapters!)! is anyone of you able to guess why? 🧐

@yesjazzywazzylove-blog @pedrospurplerain @missladym1981

@fancyyoouu @smolbeanzzz @guelyury @bishtrouille

@harriedandharassed @thepalaceofmelanie @eternallyvenus

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profoundbondfanfic · 3 months ago

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Hey so i was wondering if you had any Kid!Fics that weren’t Mpreg or omega verse more like there is a child and now Dean and Cas are taking care of the child together and fall in love in the process. I love your page thank you

Hey! Glad you're enjoying our blog🩵 Here are a few we could remember:

A Fine Romance by DragonSgotenks (Explicit, 54k words)

Castiel was one of those Parents the other teachers referred to as a "hot mess" but Dean just thought he was hot, even if he did come off as kind of a dick sometimes. When an accident lands him in the ER Dean comes face to face with his biggest crush when he discovers Cas is his nurse. It seems like fate that he manages to strike up a friendship with the father of some of his favorite students. But with Castiel still bitter over the way his ex used him up and then left him with nothing but 3 young kids to raise on his own he may be guarding his heart with too much caution to let someone new in. Dean will have to find a way to thaw the ice around Cas' heart or risk letting his chance at happiness slip through his fingers.

Baby Whispering by EllenOfOz (Mature, 9k words)

When Castiel's babysitter falls through, he has no choice but to take Claire to class with him. But as it turns out, Dr. Winchester isn't so upset about a disruption to his class.

life as we know it by yolock (Explicit, 92k words)

The first time Dean and Castiel ever agree on something happens when when their shared best friend Kelly asks them to be the godparents for her baby. Being a godparent is mostly babysitting occasionally and buying gifts on birthdays, but then Kelly dies on a car accident, leaving her three year old son Jack with no one but his godparents to take care of him. Despite not liking each other at all, the two men take the responsibility left for them on paper, and find themselves on a situation neither of them had prepared for, co-parenting a three year old. As they learn to take care of a toddler together, they learn a lot about themselves and about each other. It's definitely not an easy ride, but it eventually leads to something neither of them saw coming: a family.

let's take a drive by sobsicles (Explicit, 121k words)

Dean takes a really, really long drive to kick fear in the ass. It might just be the best thing he ever decides to do. ~~~ The seat squeaks, and Dean follows the sound, his gaze trailing down. There—where Jack sat moments ago—is a much tinier version of him. He looks mostly the same, just...smaller and more dimply and cuter, if that's possible. His clothes have shrunk to fit him, so he's casually sitting in a t-shirt, jeans, and scuffed tennis shoes. He swings his feet from side-to-side over the edge of Baby's seat the same way Sam used to in the back, and he stares up at Dean with clear eyes. "Oh," Dean blurts out, eyes bulging, "Cas is going to fucking kill me."

Light Me Up by tricia_16 (Explicit, 195k words)

Five years after participating in a life-changing threesome with his then-girlfriend and her friend Cas, Dean's single, comfortably bisexual, and has everything he's ever wanted except for that special someone to share his life with. When tragedy strikes, he and Cas are reunited in an unexpected way, and a split-second decision entangles their lives in ways neither of them could have predicted…

Surprises by TessAlyn (Explicit, 32k words)

Castiel and Dean don't have much in common. Dean plays football; Cas watches nature films. Dean wears jeans and flannel; Cas prefers button-ups and waistcoats. Yet somehow, they become friends. And when Cas' brother suddenly leaves an unexpected surprise on their doorstep, the strength of their friendship, and what they mean to each other, is tested like never before.

Swan Upon Leda by kelsstiel (Explicit, 174k words)

Pediatric Surgery Fellow Dean Winchester meets baby Jack Kline and neuropsychologist Castiel Novak his first week on the job. Dean’s been accused a time or two of caring a little too much in the past and it’s hard not to care about the neurotic adoptive father and his medically needy preemie. After a series of run-ins between the pair, Dean and Cas develop a friendship that everyone else around them suspect more from immediately, though it takes them a little longer to get the memo. When Dean struggles with a particularly devastating patient loss, their mutual understanding of loss and love bring them closer in a way that neither of them could have expected.

The guy next door by Castielific (Explicit, 61k words)

When Dean Smith quit his job at Sandover, he had no idea what he was going to do with his life. He definitely didn't plan for his hippie neighbor and his four years old kid to make him question everything he thought he knew about himself. The neighbors to friends to lovers fic you never asked for, along with some cute baby!Jack

The Shawnee Trail by emmbrancsxx0 (Explicit, 166k words)

In 1887, Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak lead a peaceful life in Lawrence, Kansas. Dean and Sam are stagecoach messengers for Wells, Fargo and Castiel is the town doctor. When Castiel's patient, Kelly Kline, knocks on their door one night about to give birth, she asks for the Winchesters and Castiel's help in protecting her son against one of the west's most notorious outlaws. To fulfill that promise, the men set out on a journey full of shootouts, trouble with the law, gambling, and an important discovery: Dean and Castiel really need to define the nature of their relationship.

We Are by lotrspnfangirl (Explicit, 50k words)

When Dean broke things off with Castiel, right after graduation, he hadn’t anticipated the long term effect it would have. He’d done this, he ruined things, and he deserved to be punished. Despite trying to move on, he found himself at the bottom of a bottle more often than not. When Lisa took their son, Ben, away - well, he had nothing to keep him going. Castiel packed his broken heart across the country, swept up with a woman who only loved him for what he could give and another who treated his friendship as gold. When Kelly left him, leaving him broken once more, he threw himself into raising his son, Jack, and letting him know how loved he was. When a broken teenager came into his life, he absorbed Claire into his family and took a chance, moving back home to the small town life, for a better chance for them all.

Also, the Dadstiel Bang starts posting on August 26th, so you might find more fics there. And we also have a "as parents" tag that might interest you.

#asks #group rec #as parents

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hummingbird-games · 11 months ago

Text

2023 In Review (Indie Games)

Last year's! | 2021

I apologize in advance for how long this might be. As a reminder, I don't bash games here so even if I hated something with every fiber of my being...I ain't sharing. As a second reminder, my more in depth reviews and live blogging has moved to Gem's Game Gems so I don't clutter the HBG's main blog. Okay. ON WITH THE REVIEW!!

DEMOS

Diffraction (Demo)- A rainy day otome indeed. I love the quiet gentleness of this game, the two romance options, and the fact that our MC is a photographer and struggling with her art and stack of life "failures" (because...SAME!!)

Alaris - I was asleep and now I am awake: I came late for the advertised fae and dragon lore, stayed seated and waiting for Fenir zjgjdf. Oh, and I guess the mystery surrounding our MC's abilities LOL.

The Summit Library - When I say I was maaaaaad when I realized I blew through chapter 1 and would have to go back to waiting for more content??? LOL, I was very miffed. Anyhoo, check out this title for the gorgeous art, another intriguing mystery (like what is *up* with the magic in the poor library?? who or what is to blame?? 👀) and of course the lovely characters we've been introduced to thus far.

Of Sense and Soul - I'm a regency romance girl. Like after you strip away the other stuff, I am but a poor woman with simple needs: a good ass love story 🤧💛 It's about the yearning and the slow burn and the will they/won't they/PLEASEEE they...I've never been so charmed by a demo, and the full game is going to be amazing I just know it!

Made Marion - This project is a game I've been keeping tabs on for a hot minute but hadn't taken the time to sit and properly enjoy the demo. I'M SO GLAD I DID!!! It's in early access now, so I'm hoping eventually I'll be able to carve out some time to play, but guysss Velvet Cupcake is doing the Thing?!? No idea which love interest I'll go for first, but I had a fun time meeting the Nottingham peeps in the demo.

Herotome (Super Demo) - Oh gosh. Oh gosh oh gosh oh my GOSHHH. Where do I even began?? (Really the question is where the hell do I end because this is one of those projects I talk about a lot/think about a lot and surprisingly haven't run out of things to say zkjfksjd). Another game I've been following for a while, it 100% lives up to the superhero genre in its aesthetic, the characters you interact with, the music and sound design, and of course the slowly unfurling story. Jade and Mia had come out as my top faves, Warden is still there, like hovering in the backgroud, shhhh but I have a special place in my heart for Griffin too (that conversation we have with her?? I have so many screenshots just so I can go back and reread and sear the words in my brain. Like a weirdo. Yup.)

Celestial Crowns - Stats building, celestial royalty, dating sim where you fuck around and find out your choices directly affect your MC's personality?? I'm sat. I supported the Kickstarter and now I try to practice patience for the full game's release siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiighh.

OTOME/JOSEI JAM

Please note this is a SUPER abridged list for my sanity and I fell a little more in love with these 2 jams with each entry I played...

Intertwine - As embarrassing as it sounds, I've never given much thought to the "red string" thing, and I consume more than enough romance media LOL!! But Van is suuuuuch a beautiful man, the UI for this game is so interactive and lovely, the music is ALSO lovely, just lovely-love all the way around teehee. (Also this game encourages replayabillity so like, do with that info what you will.)

Spring Boy [Demo] - I believe this game is going through a complete rehaul, so my thoughts and feelings refer to the original jam entry I played. The art is bright and cute and it's a super super short demo, but I was intrigued by the other student we meet on our mission to plead with our professor about our bombed exam lol!

Assignment Due: Project Blue - IRl group projects??? Suck absolute ass. Group projects with a guy name Asher?? Suddenly it's my new favorite thing in the world 😁

Cryptid Campaign Manager [DEMO] - Remember the last time I looked over a cryptid dating sim??? Remember how I was SUCH a fool?? Good thing I didn't make that mistake again!! The prologue is such a tease but you get an idea of what the full game is gonna be like, and I'm excited to see where my career involving love (and politics) goes!

Heart Cage [Demo] - Yoooooo I stay my ass far far far away from yanderes (could never get into the trope or the character type). WELP. Guess I just needed to keep searching because I really downloaded this off a whim--well, the whim being one of my fellow dev peers playing and rating-- and proceeded to get sucked in 🤧I thought being a detective would be the highlight, but I guuuueeesssss I was more into the romance options than I thought. Oops.

Evernight - I tried to explain what this game meant to me on the side blog, but words failed me. I still don't know what to say other than I loved it?? Which is like ummm I say I love everything, and yeah I'm easy to please BUT Y'ALLLLLL if you play no other game, play this one. Please. Date a werewolf. Or a vampire. Or a fae. Plz. Also figuring out the mystery of your MC's abilities and past is just delightful, ugh.

Bright Oak (demo) - Anotha one I wrote about on the side blog!!! Play this one!!! The writing is lush and atmospheric and the characters are all delightful and it's another game with a mystery to untangle!

The Faithfulness of the Universe- This one gets the award for most unique all around entry that I played. Theeeeee prettiest pixel art to bless my eyeballs, and this tasty mystery concerning Fate and witch Faustina's future (or lack thereof 👀) and what it all means. As a player I very much want to know what it all means!

A Cup For All Seasons - Another game that needs its flowers y'all. It's short but super healing and super cozy and the voice acting and music really tie the gaming experience together???

The Working Woman's Guide to Burning Bridges - DEMO - It's the way I played the demo twice and I've been thinking about it ever since 😭😭😭🙃 obviously life happens and things come up, plus this was a demo. But. BUT!!! I am on my hands and knees prayinnggg the team gets together again to finish the game. I love playing as a stressed, lowkey bitter hot mess who doesn't have her life together 😂somehow the fictional version is soooo much more entertaining!!!

Keyframes (Spring Demo) - After the game College Craze, this is legit THE college, slice of life visual novel of my dreams. I cannot wait for the updated demo next year, and the Kickstarter whenever that rolls around. And now that the developer is on Tumblr, I've definitely been stalking the account and reading each new post like it's my day/night/weekend job 🤧

Hello Counsel 💋 - Okay I take it back, Evernight is like a 20/10 but Hello Counsel is like an 100/10 👁️👄👁️ This game is necessary for my mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual health, alright? The banter ✅ the character designs ✅ the music ✅ the sizzling chemistry between Poise and Salem ✅ I wish this game had more buzz because IT'S SO GOOD!!! (also the dev, Miseri, is who I wanna be when I grow up. I've made it through almost their whole backlog of games and there are no misses and EVERY game is different from the rest and it makes it hard for a toodler dev--ME--to cope LOL)

Candied Hearts - Isekaied into a candy themed game?? Sign me TF UP!!! (Peppermint I love you dearly, you must understand.)

Fully Released & Played (at least 1 playthrough)

The Knight's Dilemma - I don't even know how I originally stumbled upon this??? I just know it had been in my backlog for a hot minute and I was intrigued enough to save it way back when. Y'ALL WHY DIDN'T I PLAY SOONER SKJFHFJFH! There's a couple different endings, I loved the voice direction, AND it's such a simple concept of a game that was just executed beautifully.

Trouble Comes Twice - If I had to make a top 5 list of romance VNs, guess who makes the list?? Guess. Guess guess guess. Have you guessed yet??? LOL! I have been in love with TCT since it's development days and with each passing month, waiting in anticipation, playing the Pateron beta builds, screaming on the main blog about every single thought I had about Jace and Hazel (shoutout to Jace for helping me figure out *me*) Lol if you're curious about said thoughts, those posts are on this blog and not the side blog.

Aelfric the Wondrous - 10/10 would love to forget my first play through JUST to have that experience fresh again 😭😭💛Cute and funny and a wonderful parody type game all around.

A Summer's End - Hong Kong 1986 - Goodness, there's no excuse for why this took me years to finish but anyhoo, I finished, I loved it, I recommend it! It's romantic and achingly authentic and the art is soooo gorgeous I literally can't stand it 😭

The Things You Do For Love - Unhinged yandere manages to entertain and garner sympathy and laughter from Gemini. And that poly ending is chef's kiss too????

Band Camp Boyfriend - There are a handful of games I found and loved before I began my game development journey, and this is one of them. BCB is so dear to me, because of the story and characters but also because of the Dynamic Duo creators and their team behind the scenes. I was never a band kid I was a chorus kid but just as the band geeks loved this game to pieces, us normal folks do too!! Even the boys who I didn't like I STILL managed to find joy in playing their routes (still have a few more to finish at the time of this posting lol, GOTTA GET THE FINAL ROUTE YO). Anyway, this game more than delivered for me and I hope more people keep discovering it!!

Belle Automata: Chronicle I [RELEASED] - While only Chronicle 1 is out at the time of this posting, I already know that the 2nd and 3rd parts are going to be just as amazing???? I wrote about this one on the side blog, so here's my copypaste that still rings true:

I love TNP (The Nightmare Prince) but Victor’s route hit the sweet spot for me. Maybe it’s the slow(er) burn nature of this route, maybe it’s the reserved nature of Victor and watching him slowly start to care (AND NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THOSE FEELINGS TEEHEE) for me.

A Date with Death - I wrote about this on the side blog--again--. The demo. And then right after finishing a route. And then again where I was fully awake and still managed to sound deranged. No copypaste for that, I shall be nice. But yeah!! Another game where I was screaming at the sky about how much I love it and how I'll never know peace as long as I live.

Our Life: Baxter DLC - I need to offer an official apology to both Cove and Derek because falling head over heels, down the stairs, crashing into the parking lot, falling again but down a manhole for Baxter's infuriating ass was NOT on my 2023 bingo board??? HELLO???? I bought his DLC just to complete my OL collection. Was not expecting to love it this much. Was not expecting to be called to write fanfic and abandon all responsibilities to do this. WHILE DOWN WITH COVID TOO. Allow me to play the song of my people. *Send in the Clowns plays*

Our Cinderella - (this is so funny I'm taking about a side game before the main game LOLOLOLOL) Guys. Guysss. You guyyyysss 🥹if you're looking for a cozy, hilarious, equally oddly and wonderfully sweet short game, this is the one!! You may have your personal favorite Iggy ship (like me) but all the pairings are so amazing and just make sense lol!

Wylde Flowers - This is the only non visual novel game on here but it gets the spotlight because I did NOT spend 90+ hours on this game to gatekeep this beauty. No. It the coziest, the funniest, the funnest, the most addictive Switch game (after Teacup) I've ever played.

Fully Released (& still on 1st playthrough)

Garden of Seif: Chronicles of an Assassin - Life kicked my butt and then sat on me SO while I finally got my grubby hands on the full copy, I still have only played the entirety of the demo. But. We will return to this in 2024 and hopefully I'll have a full review for the next wrap up!

Our Wonderland - I looked back at the side blog and I can't believe it was only THIS year that I started OW??? Because I'd known of the game and the dev for longer than that??? So basically what I'm saying is that I was chicken shit for longer than I've been in love with this world that Developer Carrot has created kjzhhshggj. But OMG to get me, who is scared oh so easily to get hella invested in this clearly labeled horror game??????????????? And even with shit gets super absurd and hella disturbing, I cannot stop playing. At the time of this post, I'm only in Act 4, hence the category above, but it's only because I play each act in a sitting and lose track of space and time and myself. That's a compliment btw.

...

Okie!! That's 2023 in a nutshell! I played a looooot of really good games this year and while I would have liked to talk about them all, I think this list provides a nice overview.

Let me know if we share any favorites!

- Gemini 💛

#gaming year in review #gamedev rambles #yeah no I cannot keep creating more work for me #2024 I am GOING to make a shorter list 😭🤧#hmmmm fun drinking game:#take a shot every time the word 'mystery' is used ☠️

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vidavalor · 3 months ago

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Hello! 👋 Just dropping in for a visit to my favourite online pub: your blog *chews on all your posts and slurps down your analyses*

I love the way you spell out the Ineffable Husband SpeakTM for us, and I was wondering what you think about Crowley’s “You don’t dance.” in 2.06, when Aziraphale asked to dance with him?

Crowley is mumbling a bit here & I wasn’t sure at first if he said “you” or “we” or something else, so I checked the subtitles as well. That aside, we know by this point that Aziraphale has done at least 3 I-Was-Wrong dances, so I wonder if Crowley is referring to something else?

Hi, @procrastiel! How's it going, love? Wouldn't say I spell anything out-- I just give my opinion-- but I appreciate the compliment! 💕Crowley's line is definitely "you don't dance" and ohh, yeah, I can deep dive on my opinion on what it means to dance. Deepest of dives-- this went everywhere. 😂 Mother of all metas for the mother of all Good Omens questions... We're having sandwiches-the-food tonight in honor of where your question crosses into God's tongue-in-cheek monologue on how many angels can get down on the heads of those Mrs. Sandwich seamstressing tools-- pins.

This is going to take a route through some heavy analysis of the argument over Gabriel and The Apology Dance and a few other things to get the root of your question, so, grab a beverage of choice before diving in. TW: Brief mentions of Satan's attacks on Crowley.

*rubs hands together and cues up the disco music* 😂

What does it mean to dance?

When we talk about dancing, there are roughly four different meanings of the word to look at with relation to Good Omens' story.

One meaning is the first one that comes to mind for most people, which is a physical dance-- as in, moving your body, usually to music.

The music, if it exists, can be in your head, a song you're singing aloud, or one that is playing in the room-- it doesn't matter. If you're moving, any and all of it would qualify as dancing. By this measure? Crowley canonically had seen Aziraphale dance before Aziraphale asked him to dance during The Meeting Ball because, well...

...here is Aziraphale dancing in front of Crowley in the bookshop in 1941:

Crowley's shock in 2.06 cannot be coming from never having seen Aziraphale dance at all, right? They've known each other for thousands of years and if Aziraphale was doing this fucking adorable little shuffle of excitement in the bookshop in 1941 then it's not really a stretch to assume that these two-- who canonically listen to records together in the evenings sometimes-- have danced together before.

In 1941, we see that Aziraphale liking to dance is not something he's actually hiding from Crowley because he's doing this cute little dance in front of him without a second thought. This is also interesting because one theory was that Crowley has no idea about Aziraphale liking to dance at all because he didn't appear to know about Aziraphale learning the gavotte. S2 turns that on its head a bit by saying that Crowley might not yet know about the gavotte-- we don't really know yet either way-- but he definitely does know that Aziraphale likes to dance and he was unsurprised to see him doing so in 1941.

The key thing here is that when they have danced together or in front of one another before? It was likely only in the privacy of the bookshop or another place like it. It was just the two of them.

When Crowley says "you don't dance" to Aziraphale, he's not meaning that Aziraphale doesn't dance at all. He's meaning something more expansive, as we'll look at with the other meanings of dancing below.

The second meaning is a verbal dance. These are interactions between more than one person in which the back-and-forth of what is being spoken has the give-and-take quality of a dance.

There can be different types of verbal dancing. Crowley and Aziraphale's word-nerdy flirting is a kind of verbal dance. It's a birdsong mating dance, especially since they are so hot for words. Being able to verbally entice and keep up with a partner makes flirting-- especially their kind of it-- a kind of dance and it's one they've been doing for thousands of years and both enjoy.

Another type of verbal dance between long-time partners is one that could be dubbed, as Crowley and Aziraphale call it, an "I Was Wrong" dance. This is an apology between partners who had an argument but want to get beyond it. No matter what you think the nature of Crowley & Aziraphale's relationship is, they've known each other for thousands of years and are de facto partnership married at this point so they have An Apology Routine TM. People who have been together a long time and who have the occasional spat often tend to fall into a rhythm with their apologies, knowing what needs to be said to just get to the other side of it, which they'd like to do as soon as possible because they miss each other and don't like being in conflict with one another.

When Aziraphale says he wants "a proper apology... with the little dance" as Crowley tries to get away with not doing the verbal dance that he knows he's going to end up doing lol, what Aziraphale means is that he wants the back-and-forth verbal dance they do as an apology. He doesn't want to just ignore what happened because he was really pissed and he's telling Crowley that he'd appreciate an actual apology and a bit of groveling before he's willing to let it go and move on.

The "little dance" in question isn't a physical dance-- it's basically the same apology dance we saw Crowley do back in S1 here:

When Crowley claimed he doesn't "do the dance" in S2, they both knew that wasn't true and so did we, really, because *points to the above gif* there's Crowley doing the dance in the middle of the street in S1. Claiming he doesn't "do the dance" is sometimes part of the dance if Crowley is the one apologizing as, unless Hell is actively, in that moment, trying to kill him-- like they were in S1-- he gets squirmy about apologies, even if he always eventually says them.

The reason why Crowley does the physical dance that he does during The Apology Dance is actually off of Aziraphale being just as dryly self-deprecating about the two of them and their relationship as Crowley winds up showing he is with The Apology Dance. It's rooted in Aziraphale's use of the word proper.

That word falls into the category in their speak of words like wily, thwart, smitten, demon, fiend, etc.. that have wildly contrasting meanings where they can be said on one level to mean one thing that is acceptable to an audience of angels, demons, or humans, but that also, on another level and within Crowley and Aziraphale's speak, has a funnier, more sexualized meaning.

Proper has an understood meaning of being something that is correct, acceptable, and appropriate. It means decent and respectable. It has a connotation that suggests that something deemed proper falls within the generally-accepted social rules of a society.

Within that word, though? Is the word prop.

I probably do not need to further define that but one sense of the word prop is that it is a theatrical term to describe an object being used in a play. From this, it also come to mean an object being used in sexual play. The humor for Crowley and Aziraphale comes from the fact that proper is a word related to what is considered acceptable in society while bedroom activities involving props have historically been considered "deviant" by those same societies.

The word exists in the sexual meaning in several other scenes in Good Omens. Such as:

Aziraphale in 1941 flirting with Crowley in the magic shop by using the silver rings magic trick as an innuendo-laden stand-in for handcuffs and going on about having a "gift for prop"... and in 2019, when Crowley joked that Aziraphale did not need to do his literal magic act because: "You can do proper magic. You can make things disappear."

Words containing the word thin relate to Crowley and disappear/appear are words with a root meaning of to come into view-- heavy emphasis on the to come part. Crowley sounds like he's talking about Aziraphale's supernatural magic abilities (and he likely also is lol) but he's wording it in such a way as to be really referring to Aziraphale's other skills as a true magician in bed.

Aziraphale, hilariously, teasing Crowley back by joking that making him come is not as fun as pulling a coin out of his ear 😂:

This is also the joke around Aziraphale doing things like popping into view from around corners or doorways or, in my favorite, from the other side of The Bentley in S2, as well as things like Crowley apparating into a space to see Aziraphale. They're magical so they can apparate-- literally appear and disappear from view-- and would do so to meet up with one another at times, as we've seen. It's a visual joke on appear/disappear and the verb to come.

There is also the hilarious "only I can properly thwart the wiles of the demon Crowley" from the deleted 1800 bookshop opening scene-- a sentence made up basically entirely of words with double meaning that make them sound like Aziraphale is saying to Gabriel and Sandalphon that he's the only one who can correctly stop Crowley's evil demonicness when he's also, with the same words, trying to alert Crowley, who has just arrived in the doorway, to the fact that the angels are here to recall him by saying a sentence that is like: but you can't take me back to Heaven! I'm the only one who has the first clue how to shag Crowley right.

So, in S2, Aziraphale is being a bit arch when he says he wants "a proper apology." They both know that he means it in terms of saying he wants a genuine, decent apology and nothing more than that. His dryness in choice and delivery of the word proper is Aziraphale being tongue-in-cheek with Crowley and aligning their history of well-balanced, healthy, sexual power dynamics with the fact that their argument was, at the core, a lot about aspects of trust and control that they *both* struggle with outside of their proper bedroom, where things are very different.

The argument was really a perfect storm of triggering both of their traumas and they both, technically, were right and wrong about things. Aziraphale's apology dance is, essentially, the whole 'our car/our bookshop' that becomes the rest of the season. The reason why it's Crowley doing The Apology Dance, though, is actually less about the subject matter of their argument and more about which one of them fucked up when it came to the stuff the argument shows us that they're working on together.

The argument over Gabriel actually shows us the extent to which they're a couple, in that they've clearly talked about working on things they do which trigger each other's trauma and are trying to be better at it. They're proactively working at trying to get better at arguing, which is the most married thing in creation. This is also indicative of both of them trying to manage different traumas and PTSD that they have and doing the best they can do while still not yet able to fully escape the root causes of those difficulties. That is something which any therapist will tell you is nearly impossible to do but they are both trying anyway and doing a pretty good job of it actually, all things considered. Where can we see this in the argument over Gabriel?

It is in that they each both do something when upset that is a trigger for the other's trauma and has, in the past, caused their discussions to implode, and how they both handle that with one another during this argument. When Aziraphale gets upset and anxious, his anger can take the form of saying words he doesn't mean-- words that are often completely and utterly absurd from an objective standpoint. Think of the bandstand argument, for instance, and Aziraphale's ludicrous attempt to say that he and Crowley aren't friends and-- the best one lol-- that he doesn't even like Crowley.

The audience and Crowley alike know this is bullshit and so does Aziraphale but it's the product of Heaven being a place of emotional repression and Aziraphale's perfectionism, which makes him feel like he's not supposed to ever actually feel the depression and anxiety and anger that he does. When upset, this bubbles up in him and explodes and the results are words he doesn't mean that make him feel terrible, further contribute to his pattern of negative self-thoughts, and hurt Crowley.

In S2, we might also notice, Aziraphale phrases his go-to of telling Crowley it's over as a defense mechanism as saying that Crowley is "at liberty to go", which has an implication that a certain amount of staying was occurring. While Crowley isn't living in the shop to the extent that he's there in the mornings because they're still trying not to get caught, this plus things like "we both get plenty of use out of it [the bookshop], don't we?" indicate that Aziraphale never really notices that Crowley no longer has his flat because Crowley just kind of lives in the bookshop now. He's there every day, to a point that Aziraphale defaulting to his usual anger response of breaking up with Crowley when upset is now phrased in such a way as to try to kick him out of the house. Crowley, though, knows better-- just like how Aziraphale knows better where Crowley's own issues are concerned.

Even though Crowley knows Aziraphale doesn't mean what he says when he's upset and is patient about it (the not even batting an eyelash "you doooo" in response to "I don't even like you" in the bandstand argument), it still hurts. So, that's what Aziraphale is trying to work on and we see that Crowley is working on it with him, an example of that being when Aziraphale is starting to lose it during the Gabriel argument and Crowley's response to it:

Crowley is basically saying honey, you're doing the thing-- and it works. This is what they've agreed upon as a way that Crowley can help Aziraphale when he's upset. He points out that Aziraphale is doing the thing he does, which seems to be something they've agreed on as a strategy for communicating better. He gives Aziraphale room to take a breath and say what he really means. Expressing how he really feels when the emotions are not positive ones is hard for Aziraphale because it involves admitting that he has these emotions in the first place.

So, Aziraphale does his part in their agreement and he rephrases what he was saying into what he actually means: that he would love for Crowley to help him with Gabriel but that if he won't, he won't. He is open about how he feels, which is Aziraphale doing what they agreed to do, and is a world of difference from how they were fighting before. He also expresses it in an especially positive way, as he uses words like 'love' and 'help' to say how he feels and what he needs.

This is why it's Crowley who winds up doing The Apology Dance.

What Crowley does in an argument that triggers Aziraphale is to leave. While, technically, sometimes leaving for a breath is not a terrible strategy in an argument, Crowley's tendency to leave is a flight-or-fight PTSD response that stems from a lack of trust in anyone but himself (and, honestly, often not even himself) to keep him safe. It's honestly not how he really feels about Aziraphale, whom he actually does trust with himself, but he sometimes lets fear and anxiety overwhelm him when triggered by situations in a way that relates to his past traumatic experiences.

Just as Aziraphale's struggle with his more volatile emotions is understandable considering what he's been through, so is Crowley's tendency to panic and bolt. The problem is that, just as Aziraphale's angry words can hurt Crowley, even if he understands where they come from and knows Aziraphale doesn't mean them, Crowley's tendency to leave hurts Aziraphale because it feels to him that Crowley doesn't trust him to make decisions that would keep Crowley safe.

They both are aware that their knee-jerk reactions of running away or sniping in anger are trauma responses and not terribly logical but they're both working on trying to heal enough to not have those responses with one another. In S2, they're stuck trying to manage all of that while still living in an environment that is dangerous for them and in which Armageddon could be around the corner again at any moment-- making it obviously harder to deal with things and also making the fact that they are both doing reasonably well with it all the more impressive and an indicator of how good they are for one another.

(It also makes the end of S2-- a series of miscommunications, some of which are not even their fault, that led to epic fucking disaster-- even more devastating because it doesn't actually reflect the healthy relationship that the beginning of the season emphasizes exists.)

Compounding these issues and part of why they're trying to work on them is that both of them trigger each other's PTSD when they react like this.

Aziraphale's words in anger and his tendency to push Crowley away leave Crowley feeling less secure around the one person who otherwise is the safest person he's ever met while Crowley's tendency to bolt in a panic, instead of staying and working through things, triggers Aziraphale's fear of abandonment (both in general and with Crowley) and, even more so, his terror over losing Crowley.

He's never sure when Crowley goes out the door if he's ever coming back because it's not really safe for him out there and S2 illustrates that Aziraphale has real trauma dating back to the time Crowley was taken in front of him in 1827, shown in him going to the spot in Edinburgh in the present where he lost Crowley and needing to call him from it to hear his voice. And, well, also to get a bonus praise kinky little boost from his partner for a job well done on working on his trauma stuff:

So, long story short, the argument they have over what to do about Gabriel's arrival really illustrates the extent to which they're both trying to manage a great deal of trauma together and, to help one another to do so, they have put some strategies into place for trying to do that more effectively. Aziraphale kept to his end of the bargain in this argument. He used more productive and open words to express how he was feeling. Crowley, though, did not hold up his end of the bargain here. He did when it came to helping Aziraphale with Aziraphale's part of it but he didn't when it came to managing his own trauma.

To be fair to Crowley? This situation was basically the exact perfect storm of a trigger for his PTSD and neither he nor Aziraphale are really going to be able to get much of anywhere significant with healing until all of this Heaven & Hell stuff is over in S3. So, that he fucked this up here is both sympathetic and not terribly surprising. It's also the root of him then spending the season reassuring Aziraphale that he's coming back and part of why he goes out the door in the end of 2.06 but he stays by the car. But, when it comes to just this argument over Gabriel in 2.01, it was Crowley who didn't try and that made Aziraphale upset.

This is where, though, that The Apology Dance shows that they're actually pretty healthy about arguing overall. Just the mention of this having existing for ages is establishing that trying to be better at disagreeing and having this little routine for getting back to a good place and starting to talk more after they've argued is not just something that has existed post-S1 but has been going on for, at minimum, hundreds of years, if not a whole lot longer. In essence, The Apology Dance exists as a bridge back to a place where they are less reactive and can talk through what's upsetting them-- which a lot of evidence suggests they are actually very good at doing with one another.

So, when Aziraphale tells Crowley that he wants "a proper apology", he's already injecting some humor into the moment, even if he is serious about not letting Crowley just skip over genuinely saying he is sorry. He is upset but he also loves Crowley and he's aware that the situation was pretty much the ultimate trigger for Crowley. It's just difficult for Aziraphale to watch because he wants Crowley to feel safe enough to heal more from a lot of this and feels like that he can't fully provide that, even if he is doing everything in his power to help Crowley with it. In a way, it's a foreshadowing how Aziraphale is going to fall in the end of S2 over the temptation of power that he thinks might help Crowley be safe.

The reason why Aziraphale chooses to use the word proper in saying he wants an apology-- and in that particularly dry tone-- is because he is very, very pissed that Crowley walked out the door rather than trusted him to have not put him into danger with Gabriel and to help him manage the situation. He's pointing out that Crowley trusts him implicitly in so many other ways, with the use of the wordplay there being a reference to the fact that he and Crowley have a healthy balance of power and an enormous amount of trust in their relationship overall, for which Aziraphale is using their positive sexual power dynamics as an example.

As different scenes have illustrated, when they mess around with those dynamics, they switch off allowing one another a sense of control over the other, even if the overall dynamics of such situations are never as cut-and-dry as that. The point is that Aziraphale's use of proper here is a direct reference to the fact that Crowley went out the door in a panic-stricken fit earlier but they both know that Crowley does trust Aziraphale to a great degree, and a great example of that to Aziraphale is the fact that Crowley-- as eleven hundred scenes in the show suggest lol-- is very into letting Aziraphale restrain him in bed. The reason why we even know this is because of how the show uses aspects of their sexuality to illustrate the level of trust and intimacy in their relationship.

Just as the wall slam scene in S1 exists to make it abundantly clear how much Aziraphale trusts Crowley and how he has nothing to fear from him by contrasting that with Aziraphale's response to being jumped by the angels in the street, the scenes that are referring to them using restraints, while illustrating that they both do, are centered around Crowley's thing for it, in particular, to help illustrate that he has the same kind of trust in and feeling of safety with Aziraphale that Aziraphale does with him.

The reason why Crowley liking to be tied up or handcuffed is given weight enough that it's a recurring thing mentioned in the story is because of how it's a different level of trust for him than it might be for someone else. While the wall slam scene contrasts Aziraphale's safety with Crowley versus the abuse of the angels, the handcuff thing is showing that Crowley, who is a survivor of attacks that render him unable to move or otherwise assert any control over himself and who has demonstrable PTSD from it, trusts Aziraphale enough and feels safe with him enough to explore with him the complexities of being a survivor of attacks involving a loss of control who also finds sometimes being restrained and giving up some control in bed arousing.

So, Aziraphale's "proper apology" is dryly mocking both of their control and trust issues by use of an example of a place in their relationship where they handle those issues without conflict, and that's in the great communication and ease of care for one another in bed. With use of proper, Aziraphale is subtly pointing out that Crowley is an assault survivor who trusts Aziraphale to him tie him up but he runs out of other situations in a panic, which is an example of the lack of logic that can occur in the face of trauma sometimes. It helps to prove how ridiculous they both are really being in general.

Which Crowley agrees with. Because he knows he was. Trauma isn't logical, it's knee-jerk emotional, and he felt bad about storming out and even worse when he found out from Beez what the repercussions of not helping might be so he's come back, heard the 'proper' comment, and is like fine, yes, you're right. We're ridiculous. I was ridiculous.

This is healthy as all fuck:

It matches the humor Aziraphale put in around his genuine anger with additional humor. It's self-deprecating and ego-free, just an admittance of having messed up and showing he's sorry by being a little ridiculous because how he reacted earlier, he knows, was also a little ridiculous. There's the hearing of proper and responding to that with a mock-submissive, self-deprecating, little dance and a bow and scrape. There's a dry, affectionate mocking of the two of them and their long history of apology conversations that all boil down to the lyrics of the little song Crowley makes up here: "You were right, you were right, I was wrong, and you were right."

The tongue-in-cheek vibe of Yes, you're correct. Are you satisfied now, my king? that pokes gentle fun at both of them and that actually winds up illustrating just how much trust and love there is between them as a result.

Aziraphale finding it hilarious to a point that he's working hard not to laugh long enough to respond with equal humor with the little soft dom-ish "very nice" and then miming a kiss at Crowley showing that they are actually good at this. They allow each other to be imperfect, know how to talk openly about how that makes them feel, and can recover from an argument with humor and affection.

This is also a good example of Crowley being supportive of Aziraphale expressing emotions and of Aziraphale trusting Crowley as someone safe to do that around. Aziraphale told Crowley exactly how he felt and what he needed here in a clear way that expressed his anger and frustration without descension into anything harmful and Crowley listened, acknowledged those emotions, and responded in a way that was supportive and positive.

The argument over Gabriel and The Apology Dance is what their relationship is really like when they can speak openly and directly to one another because they have the safety and privacy to do so. They actually do know how to talk to one another and they do it very well. Their present situation as of the end of S2 is more of a nightmare of unfortunate events and misunderstandings and it actually took a lot to get it to go that wrong because, normally, as we can see? It's relatively easy for them to get it right.

So, Crowley's Apology Dance was both verbal and a literal dance, yes, but Aziraphale's bemused response to it indicates he wasn't expecting the literal dance and the fact that Crowley made up and did the literal dance off of Aziraphale's use of proper, as we looked at, indicates that it was something he did for the first time in that moment, rather than how The Apology Dance usually goes.

The usual nature of Crowley and Aziraphale's "I Was Wrong" Dance is strictly verbal.

We can tell this by one of the years in which Aziraphale mentions that he did an "I Was Wrong" dance in the past: 1793.

When Aziraphale shows that he's really hurt by Crowley leaving and needs him to apologize, he lists three, prior times when it was Aziraphale who had fucked something up between them and was the one doing The Apology Dance as a result. The three years he uses as shorthand are 1650, 1793 and 1941. While we don't know anything about 1650 right now... and while we know about 1941 but not how it ends so maybe not yet quite enough to say we know why Aziraphale was doing an apology dance (though I would argue that maybe 1941 itself is a bit of a joint apology dance)... the one year here we do know enough about to use to inform our opinion about what their apology dances usually are is 1793.

What Aziraphale is apologizing for in 1793 is the rescue scenario winding up a bit of a disaster because of Aziraphale neglecting to take into account that if Jean-Claude The Executioner was having that much fun cutting people's heads off, he probably was disturbing in other ways as well. While Crowley covers up his reaction to apparating into the room just as Aziraphale is saying "no" and Jean-Claude is trying to get his clothes off, by the end of the scene, we see that Crowley is more bothered than he was letting on.

Jean-Claude becomes the only human in the entire series to date that we ever see Crowley intentionally push straight towards Hell and, in doing so, he renders Jean-Claude unable to form more than muted sounds of protest-- not at all projecting his own experiences of assault onto him or anything. Crowley makes the very dark joke that's in the above gif, savagely mocking a so-common-it's-cliche victim-blaming response to rape, making it clear in doing so what's been brought up for him as a result of what he saw when he first came into the room. Crowley is half out of it for the last moments of the scene and, at one point, sniffs like he's trying not to cry. Aziraphale had meant for it to be a fun, dashing-hero-to-the-rescue type of thing but the torture-happy prison cell atop the trauma trigger is what would make Aziraphale feel the need to apologize afterwards, even though Crowley knew he didn't intend any harm.

So, ask yourself this: did Aziraphale apologize for that by doing a silly dance?

I really don't think he did...

It wouldn't have been appropriate. The last thing Aziraphale would have done then is make light of how they both were feeling about something relating to this kind of trauma. It's not to say there wasn't any humor involved-- particularly, their form of really dark gallows humor-- but not in the midst of the genuine, actual apology. Aziraphale's "I Was Wrong" dance in 1793 was a back-and-forth of him verbally apologizing and Crowley insisting that it was fine and then Aziraphale, more or less, you were right and I was wrong-ing with other words until they both were okay to talk more and move forward.

Both of them were alright as a result and clearly had a memorable time in Paris afterwards, as Aziraphale is referencing it as a good example of the two of them working through things together in a positive way when he tells Crowley that Paris, 1793 is what he "wants for lunch" in 2008.

It's really why Aziraphale says he wants 1793 in the first place, when they have a zillion other times he could have referenced. The scene in 2008 is taking place after Crowley went missing the night before on assignment for Hell. Aziraphale doesn't need to be told by this point that Crowley was hurt but they've been in public the entire time since they've met up so there has not yet been a moment to try to really acknowledge it. By bringing up Paris 1793 in response to Crowley saying he wants to lunch, Aziraphale is using it as a shorthand to convey both that he's aware and that they'll handle it, like they always do, and it will all be alright. Paris 1793 seems like it is a particularly memorable example of them managing that to them, so it's the one that Aziraphale brings up.

This also accounts for the discrepancy in Aziraphale's expressions in 2008 when he talks about this particular time. When he first mentions Paris 1793, his response is layered. There's regret mixed in there. Pain. Complicated emotions. His smile to Crowley is kind of flat, like he's trying to remain more upbeat than he actually feels.

It's very different from the cheer of we had crepes! that emerges after Crowley's response to the suggestion is positive. It speaks to Paris 1793 being more complex than only the fun, memorable romp in France that it also was.

So, this would mean that The Apology Dance is usually a verbal thing, even though Crowley did a literal dance along with it in S2. This actually is not terribly surprising because Crowley and Aziraphale's language is an exercise in the literal and the figurative.

Everything in it physically exists as well as figuratively exists and that's part of the fun of it for them. It all has to work on the surface level as well as on other levels. There are literal crepes and figurative crepes, for example, while we're on the 1793 topic. Literal fish-- sushi, gravlax in dill sauce, etc..-- and figurative fish, like the two of them. When Aziraphale asked for "the little dance" of light grovel with the apology, Crowley did that by also giving him a literal dance to go along with their traditionally verbal dance. Why? Because Aziraphale called their apology routine a figurative "little dance", so Crowley gave him a literal one to go with it. Eventually, all the figurative has to be at least a little literal in some way. It's why God made sure that an actual nightingale-the-bird was actually singing in Berkeley Square at the end of S1 as her last language lesson to us. There were then now literal angels dining at The Ritz so a literal nightingale sang in literal Berkeley Square.

The S2 Apology Dance is likely then the first Apology Dance that involved a physical dance. I'm not sure that there were others in the past but I think there definitely will be more going forward and that's a good thing since a bit of silliness is very healthy. 😊

Ok, so, back to the "you don't dance" moment... remember ten years ago when I said there were roughly four meanings of dance?

We've defined two of them already: a literal, physical dance and a verbal dance. The other two are the dance of society and dance as sexual euphemism. Historically, these weren't always mutually exclusive things and Good Omens overlaps them in some ways a bit as well.

The dance of society is being an open, active participant in your society. Even though Aziraphale basically built the society around him through being the founder of the street, we've seen how he tends to keep himself one step removed from life on Whickber Street.

It's best summed up by his relationship to The Whickber Street Shopkeepers & Traders Association: he is a member of it but, until S2, he's never hosted the monthly meeting. He doesn't fully see himself as one of them because, as an angel, he's not supposed to want any of this human living stuff, even if he desperately does. He has imposter syndrome for days, feeling like he's always about to be exposed as not really one of them.

Aziraphale does enjoy himself at times. He does engage with the world around him. He just doesn't allow himself to belong to it and his reasons for doing so are not only about his angel feelings.

The human world hasn't always been a place where he fit, either.

It's only been very recently in history-- and Aziraphale has seen literally *all* of history-- when it has been comparatively safe enough for people like him and Crowley to live more openly. It's still not completely safe, obviously and unfortunately, but there is more general acceptance now, more acknowledged human rights and more laws to help secure those rights.

The things that Crowley was hoping were around the corner in 1967-- when England decriminalized homosexual sex between men over the age of 21 and he suggested that maybe he and Aziraphale could go for broke and try being less of a secret-- actually are here by the present of the story in both S1 and S2.

A lot of that is at the root of the humor in S2 as Gabriel's presence in the shop forces Crowley and Aziraphale out onto Whickber Street in the daylight for the first time and creates scenarios in which the shopkeepers-- chiefly, Nina-- are throwing them off by being more comfortable with having their relationship be acknowledged publicly than they are. Part of the joke is that they're still closeted in London Soho in the year 2023 and the humans cannot understand why because Crowley and Aziraphale can't tell them that it's their supernatural world causing them to remain a secret.

It is only relatively recently in human history that people at formal social gatherings like the ones in England that Aziraphale has been to for years danced with anybody they felt like, regardless of relationship or lack thereof to that person. For many years, while someone might stand up with the occasional maiden aunt out of politeness or whatever, most of the time, a request for a slot on a dance card was a declaration of romantic intent. It was done within the public eye and, while matchmaking was often economical more than romantic, it was at the heart of how society functioned.

To dance, in that sense, was to be a part of society.

Aziraphale was never a part of society in that way. Not just because he's an angel who is supposed to remain above the human fray but because he is queer and society, for a long time, was not built to openly accept him. He was on the fringes of it for both supernatural and human reasons. From what we've seen, literal, physical dancing has always been something of a metaphor for this struggle for Aziraphale.

When Crowley says that Aziraphale doesn't dance-- and it's really more, as we've seen, that Aziraphale doesn't dance in public-- what he means it that Aziraphale keeps himself back from being a fully engaged part of the group, out of a fear that it's not for him because both the supernatural and the human worlds have been teaching him for a long time that it is not.

To host a meeting of the local business association and have everyone to his house for a party... to have Gabriel and Maggie under the same roof... to have everyone knowing that Crowley is his partner... to be able to openly dance with Crowley in front of others like the couple that they are, in the same way that the Chengs and Mutt and his spouse are?

That is to dance.

That is Aziraphale trying for a life he's never had before.

It is this form of dancing-- the dance of society-- that Crowley has never seen Aziraphale do before and why he is so in shock when Aziraphale asks him to dance.

This is where we have to talk about what this has to do with the gavotte, the photo from 1941, Mrs. Sandwich, Duns Scotus, and disco... 🪩Yes, I know. Lots to chat about. 😊

Back in S1, as Crowley traps Hastur in his answering machine, we are treated to one of the best parts of God's narration: Her cheeky take on the human philosophical debate around the question:

"How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?"

The phrase comes from Protestant theologians in the 17th century who were mocking Catholic scholastics like Thomas Aquinas and Duns Scotus-- whose name is quite literally the origin of the word dunce, so overt was the mocking of these dudes' ideas. The show via Crowley also is referring to Duns Scotus in Demon's Guide to Angelic Beings when Crowley mocks the demons by spelling 'residence' as 'residunce' in Aziraphale's entry, joking with him about the fact that the demons will not be able to understand what the entries really contain. So, why the mocking of Duns Scotus and pals?

While it's not totally know if they ever did debate this question exactly, questions very much like it were debated in their circle and others in different parts of the world and these philosophers would get a bit in the weeds in the wrong direction with things. This isn't to say there is a right or a wrong way to think so much as to say the way they chose to approach questions like this was full of absurd focus on the least consequential things someone could look at and failing to really think about how considering these questions at all could impact their understanding of the world around them and contribute to making that world better.

They were not asking questions like: do angels exist in the first place? If they do, do they dance? If so, what makes them want to dance? What would it say about angels and living-- and us and living-- if angels did dance? Why the fuck would they want to dance on the head of a pin when they could dance anywhere? 😂 What does it say about us and our views on angels and ourselves that we're spending a great deal of time and resources debating questions about beings that we cannot even prove fucking exist in the first place?

Instead of considering anything like that, Duns Scotus and pals would spend time just working on the most arcane details of angelic and demonic existences-- on things like trying to figure out if angels could exist in more than one place at once or how small they could get and how they would get that small and how many of them could fit on the proverbial head of a pin and still dance on there?

You know... real, relevant, thought-provoking, big picture questions that we've all asked ourselves at one time or another. 😂

Those mocking questions like this made the question "how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?" a kind of catch-all for pointless debate and it has since become a shorthand phrase meaning basically a bullshit question of no relevance, the debate over which is a colossal fucking waste of time.

Some scholars went so far as to blame those engaging in this type of debate as being responsible for the fall of Constantinople, saying that basically these scholars were sitting around listening to themselves talk on absurd things of no importance to such an extent that it caused mass death and collapsed an empire.

It might be of note then that this question is so notoriously tied to the fall of Constantinople that Good Omens might be winking at the fact that angels dancing around a seamstress might be a prelude to Aziraphale's fall, which some of us think is what's happening at the end of S2.

So, when Hastur and Crowley go into Crowley's answering machine, God jumps in with a little wink to this question in an effort to prevent anyone from focusing on the single most non-important question in all of Good Omens:

How did they get into the answering machine?

The answer to that is that it doesn't matter. They're magical-- that's the answer.

It's not to say that there is not a ton of small detail in Good Omens worth exploring-- and other scenes encourage doing just that, like Shakespeare's "in your role as the audience, could you give us something more to work with?-- but the details worth looking at are ones that will underscore what the story is saying in a bigger picture, thematic sort of way.

God's point here is that if you're hung up on the Magical Technical Whateverness that is stuff like how the angels and demons travel, you're being a bit of a Duns Scotus and trying to solve a mystery that the show has zero intention of ever making be relevant to anything and doesn't really consider much of a mystery in the first place. You can sit there until you're blue in the face doing calculations and looking up scientific explanations and it just simply does not matter. You're barking up the wrong tree because the thing you're talking about has no significant relevance to the story.

"How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?" is basically the olden days, scholarly equivalent of rolling your eyes at half the comments in an online discussion for any sci-fi show that has ever existed. My friend and I call this kind of debate 'Photon Torpedo Jerk-Off' and what I mean by that is this: if you watch an episode of, say, Star Trek, and you think the most important thing to talk about that happened in the episode you just watched is whether or not these writers were accurate about the range of the photon torpedoes when they had the Enterprise blow up that Klingon warship, then you have missed the point of the episode entirely. If you're sitting around arguing about the sci-fi magical Whatever Tech and not talking about the story you've watched, you don't understand the point of what you've watched.

In Good Omens, the reason why God's monologue about how many angels can dance on the head a pin begins when it does is because it is a very sly joke on Duns Scotus-like debate, using the fact that the questions that were absurd to consider in real life are actually-- hilariously-- among the most pertinent to consider where Good Omens is concerned.

God brings up the pin-dancing question as a way to answer the question of what's happening with Crowley and Hastur going through the answering machine. She amusingly doesn't really answer the question and, instead, starts going on about the parts of "how many angel can dance on the head of a pin?" that should have been the bits being debated-- like whether or not angels dance at all and what if means that they do. Basically, Good Omens' response to how the answering machine bit works is "something something electrons" and they're proud of it and they should be because it doesn't fucking matter, which is why God's monologue in the answering machine sequence is really all about the bigger questions of the show and not the Duns Scotus-y question of "but how are they traveling through the telephone system exactly?" God simply just says that they are and moves onto more relevant things.

Even though the original debate over questions like "how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?" was theological and philosophical, the thoughts behind the absurdity of it very much apply to interpreting works of art. Because of its ties to religion and to angels, it makes for a very humorous way of telling the Good Omens audience that they will not really be explaining much of anything regarding to the technical whatzits of how angels and demons travel through electricity and things like that because that could not be less relevant to understanding the story.

The question "how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?", at one point, also had several variants. One was the same question but wondering how many demons could dance on the head of a pin, while others involved whether or not angels were "sexless"-- a question that was so confusing at the time that several sub-variants emerged as a result because people weren't entirely sure what that question meant...

Was the question asking if angels had a biological sex-- and, if so, was it asking if they had sex organs? Was it asking if the angels had a form of gender which, at the time and with these theologians, was mostly a question of whether or not angels could be what humans would have called male or female, with gender binary ideas of what that would mean intact? Many others thought a question of whether or not angels were sexless might be more directly about whether or not angels had sex.

(Amusingly, that question didn't really ever get asked about demons, as the sexuality around demonic lore has always been pretty notorious.)

The problem with these questions being asked by theologians is that they never took the opportunity to reflect on what it might say about humans and our societies that we thought these the most pertinent questions to answer about angels and demons. They never stopped and thought about the fact that to ask these questions meant they were not sure that this supernatural world that they believed in had the same sort of structure when it came to things like gender, sex and sexuality that humans do and how that is where the more interesting thoughts exist. Just by asking those questions, you could start to follow a path that maybe suggested that they were different from humans and it might be better if humans emulated some of those ideas, right?

But that's definitely not where these guys took this...

When scholastics would approach questions like this, they'd do so to make the concepts of angels and demons fit more securely into the worldview they were promoting. The very conservative would usually say that angels were genderless and also usually "above" sex and things like this reinforced their holiness. The demons could usually fuck because they were evil and nephilim and the like made for the usual brand of good, scary, weirdly sexual Bible stuff. The ones that did think that angels did gender thought angels thought about it in the same very rigidly binary and traditional ways of most societies.

In other words? Theologians took the mythical creatures of angels and demons and made their theories about them fit human societies to further their own, human goals, instead of using angels and demons to reflect upon those human societies and consider how different viewpoints might improve them.

Good Omens is completely sending up this mindset.

In Good Omens, the supernatural characters are a way of poking fun at these kind of humans who approach ideas about what angels and demons might be like with such rigidity and treat their fellow humans in the same way. The angels and demons are basically all queer in human terms by default because, in Heaven/Hell, gender is a constellation, biological sex is a 'do whatever you want with that, if anything at all', and, just like with the humans, asexuality and sexuality and everything along every possible spectrum related to it all exist. For the most part, human prejudice does not exist-- though prejudice itself does, in the form of the "other"-izing of the demons. Some of that human prejudice has slipped through-- see: Sandalphon-- but it's not as ubiquitous as it is on Earth.

The angels and demons in Good Omens come from a world where everyone is sort of assumed straight-out-of-the-box non-binary by default and queerness is more normalized because when your concept of gender begins without rigid ideas about what that is, damn near everyone winds up being what humans would refer to as queer because that umbrella is then basically anyone other than a cisgendered, heterosexual person... and what is a cisgendered, heterosexual person when gender is design-your-own-concept-of-this from the get-go? How would anyone be heterosexual, when the definition of that is rooted in binary views on gender that do not exist in the supernatural world of Good Omens?

The point of all of it is that if humans thought this way about one another more, the world would be a better place. Good Omens is a story about angels and demons that is using them to ask questions about humanity of a lot more value than "how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?" but, ironically? Some questions that come about as a result of considering that question in a different way-- as God helps us to do with her monologue-- like the question of whether or not angels dance and consideration of what that might mean-- are examples of some of best questions to ask to get to the heart of what Good Omens is saying and what it's story is all about.

In Good Omens, neither the supernatural world nor the human world are perfect. The supernatural characters seek to learn how to really live from the humans but the humans have a thing or two to learn about themselves that the supernatural beings-- with their choose-your-own-adventure ideas relating to gender, in particular-- could show them when it comes to true freedom.

If we made like the supernatural world of Good Omens and placed less focus on defining and labeling gender and sexuality in such strict terms and just looked at everyone else as fellow people and let people present themselves as they like and identify as they like and be attracted to who they're attracted to and love who they love, we'd just be seeing each other all as people-- which is what we all are.

It's also the point of the intentional vagueness of Gabriel's whole situation during his naked arrival in 2.01.

There is a fuckton happening in this scene but one of the biggest is the decision to make it unclear as to what was behind the box-- and that's the point. Are there a couple of hints here and there? Sure. You can make arguments in different directions and, for sure, the decision to make it vague, instead of including a suggestion that Gabriel's for sure Don Drapering it in that moment is a whole decision in and of itself. The point, though, is not to fixate on determining what, if any, situation Gabriel was rocking during his rather challenging Monday morning in S2 but to just ask yourself why it would matter to know?

There's nothing wrong with some idle curiosity, I don't think, but the ambiguity is the point. What would it matter if Gabriel was running in angelic neutral or sporting, as I think the scene is suggesting, some lady parts for the morning? It doesn't change anything about Gabriel because only humans would look at Gabriel and assume that he has a penis and find it shocking if he didn't because many of us are that limited in thought. Only humans would box (bad, unintentional pun lol) him into pronouns as a result and try to tell him that he can't use he/him if he sometimes doesn't have that penis.

All these humans are looking at his body and judging it-- who gives them the right?

Whatever you feel about Gabriel, you do feel for him in that moment because no one deserves to have their body judged by a zillion critical strangers... and isn't that what many of us are doing online? Isn't that what a lot of humans do about everything from gender to sexuality to weight and looks? We categorize and label and put all of these parameters on meeting the standards of those categories when none of it matters and everyone is unique and beautiful in their own ways.

The genius of the supernatural characters in Good Omens is that, in so many ways, they are not free and a lot of their issues overlap with those of the humans but in real, fundamental ways, they have default mindsets that humanity could really benefit from adopting. The Gabriel arrival scene underlines it by turning the camera back around on us by showing us an example of a very masculine person by traditional human standards, implying that his genitalia might differ from what we've been conditioned to expect from a person with his looks, and then making us consider how we feel about that and if maybe the whole idea of these kind of expectations isn't bullshit in the first place.

So... while Good Omens is sending up the limited mindset of the Duns Scotuses of the world, the joke with God's monologue is that, in the context of Good Omens itself?

From the standpoint of this story?

The related questions about angels and dancing and gender and sex that arise from asking the question: "How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?" are excellent questions.

They happen to be questions that, if you're asking them, you're getting into many of the themes of the story and you're looking at how the story is using angels and demons to talk about the experience of human living. What does matter in understanding the story of Good Omens is, ironically, the dumbass questions that these humans were asking back in the day about dancing angels and demons and their relationships to human ideas about gender, sex and sexuality at which Good Omens is poking more than a little fun.

To add to this, we also have the very funny way in which God presents the answers to these questions to us and that involves a wink towards the last type of dancing-- dancing as sexual euphemism.

In the original question of "how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?", the reason why it's a pin is obviously that pins are very, very small but it was sometimes referred to as well as a question of how many angels could dance on the head of a needle? This was because the detractors of this school of thought were creating puns, so they could call the debate of the question things like a "needless point" in their writings-- very Good Omens-y humorous of them. 😊 We're also now bringing into to conversation via needles and pins language related to the make and repair of clothes-- seamstress work-- as being tied to questions of sex and dancing as sexually euphemistic.

The visuals shown to us during God's monologue include Crowley and Aziraphale dancing separately, in different eras, with other beings-- Aziraphale with some humans and Crowley with some demons-- but with an undertone of sex in both scenes that gets at dancing as sexual euphemism. In Crowley's scene in the 1970s/very early 1980s, he and Hastur and Ligur are in some trippy disco sequence in which they are dancing with a pin but the pin is being used as different kinds of sexual dance-related poles.

This is a visual parallel of the innuendo around seamstress-related language in the series, with a pin-- a tool used by those who make and mend clothes-- being used as a pole, highlighting a (hilariously-presented) aspect of sexuality in dance. Mrs. Sandwich runs a bordello but the coded 19th century-era speech of Aziraphale's magic during The Meeting Ball results in her attempting to describe the sex work menu of her girls as being coded in the language of those who make and mend clothes. This comes from sex workers writing on government forms the 19th century that they were seamstresses to evade authorities (why Mrs. Sandwich says her girls stand on their own two feet "like the government said") and a use of seamstress language as euphemistic for sex that overlapped into coded slang of, in particular, homosexual men.

In one part of the disco sequence, Hastur, Ligur and Crowley are going around the pin like it's a maypole, which were involved in courtship rituals and fertility dances. In another moment, the three of them then turn the pin into a stripper pole and bust out some exotic dancing moves, all less using the pin/pole as prop in a seduction of someone else but more seemingly in place of that someone else, with exactly zero awareness of one another.

What the living fuck is this scene, really? 😂 Is the pin really large? Are they very small? Why can I still not stop laughing at the fact that they aren't dancing on the *head* of a pin but with it? Is Hastur trying to make out with the pole? Did Ligur really invent part of The Macarena decades ahead of its time? What perspective is this scene supposed to be shot from? lol Are we all just assumed high at this point from the disco lights and general trippiness of the sequence? Are any of these the most important questions of this sequence? Not by a long shot lol...

*tilts head* hiiiii Crowley...

What's that? Oh, sorry, right, finishing up the epic journey that is this meta... Yes, yes, sorry. Got distracted by the dancing snake... Which reminds me!

We can't talk about dancing as sexual euphemism without mentioning that the little glimpse into Crowley's bedroom in S1 that we see shows us that he has a wooden figurine of a dancing snake on a table in the corner, which seems like a wink towards Crowley and Aziraphale joking about being like the magician or musician who would play music to "charm" snakes into dancing for them. Crowley kept the dancing snake figurine in his bedroom so that is probably the ultimate in dancing as a sexual euphemism possible and it's another indicator that it's hardly the idea of dancing together being a form of sexual overture that has Crowley so confused when he says "you don't dance" in S2. Dancing, in that sense, is not new to them.

So, God's monologue is winking pretty heavily at dance-as-sexual-euphemism. In showing the dancing this way, God is using dancing to mean both literal dancing (as in, when she describes that Aziraphale is the only angel who dances-as-in-moves-to-music because he learned the gavotte) and also as an answer to the question of whether or not some of the angels and demons have sex. While not all of them do or have interest in doing so-- just like with the humans-- having Crowley and Aziraphale both exhibit a sense of sexuality in the dancing scenes here is more than a little suggestive of the fact that they both do.

So, how does that fit into our whole idea of dancing as it relates to a being a part of society?

Both Crowley and Aziraphale are shown dancing in different situations in different eras in which queer people existing on the fringes of society found a place in which they could express themselves-- but they are very different ways of expression.

Aziraphale learns to dance in a private club for wealthy, gay gentlemen and that is the only place in which he dances because he can do so freely there without too much concern that it will have repercussions for him in both his supernatural and his human worlds. Everyone there in the club is someone who also has a sense of secrecy and a need for discretion in common and they're all well-connected enough to ensure that their privacy remains intact. It's through basically finding a safe space in this club that Aziraphale can have a microcosm of what it would be like to exist more openly in the larger society as a whole.

Crowley, on the other hand?

While Crowley also lived through all of these eras alongside Aziraphale and had the same types of social limitations, we see him dancing openly in the liberation of the disco era. Disco changed everything. It was full of people who had never fit into society and gave voice to, in particular, more female, Black and queer people than ever before. The eventual backlash to disco had nothing to do with the music and everything to do with the changing attitudes about race, gender, sexual orientation, and sex itself at the heart of it.

The difference here is that disco was free to a point that you could dance with anybody. You and your friends could dance, you could dance with someone you wanted to hook up with, you could dance around to it in your house with your family. It didn't matter. While people had long since abandoned the formal rules of dance in mainstream society that existed in the eras of Jane Austen, by the time disco turned up, popular dance had freed itself to being just about self-expression and having fun. It was still sexy but it was no longer playing a formal role in the matchmaking process of people in society. It's about having fun and doing so in the open and much more free.

This is where we're going to look at what your question has to do with the gavotte and Aziraphale's cotillion ball in S2...

The gavotte scene in S1 is one of the most fascinating scenes in the series because nothing else like it exists in terms of how it is filmed. The scene of Aziraphale dancing the gavotte is filmed in such a way as to suggest we are actually watching a video of him doing so. Part of this comes from the lighting, the slightly jumpy 'old time movie' feel of the scene. But, it also comes from the fact that Aziraphale looks directly into the camera at several moments during the scene, in such a way that it makes it feel like he's not looking at *us* in a fourth-wall-breaking sort of way but that he's looking at a camera that exists within The Hundred Guineas Club and is filming them dancing.

This was likely possible at the time, especially in a club patronized by wealthy men. The Lumiere brothers patented the first movie-making cameras in 1895 so it could be argued that Aziraphale and friends are being filmed using a prototype of that technology. (A bit of film-related technology being a bit too early for the time by our human history standards is also shown on Good Omens in S2, when Furfur has a Polaroid camera just under a decade or so too soon, though some prototypes were in development not long after the time Furfur was shown with one.)

The point is that Aziraphale looks like he's letting himself be recorded dancing. Actually, the point is that Aziraphale looks like he is loving letting himself be recorded dancing and that's an enormous thing...

Think back to 1941 for a moment. Crowley and Aziraphale were nearly killed over the picture Furfur took of the two of them together. No audio/visual evidence of the two of them together exists. If they kept the picture, they've hidden it really, really well because they've been terrified of anyone finding them out. Does this recording of Aziraphale still exist, though? Does he have it? Was he going to show Crowley, maybe after everyone left The Meeting Ball?

Living-- existing-- can mean having a record of that existence. That's actually at the heart of the meta I wrote recently about Aziraphale's excitement over getting the Shostakovich record being about having a recording of a performance with history to him and Crowley.

Being a part of the world can mean letting yourself be a documented part of it.

We are shown that, in the late 1880s, Aziraphale let himself be recorded on video dancing with some human friends... which is to say that Aziraphale let himself live.

He let himself find some kindred spirits, learn something new, be an active participant in a group, and enjoy himself. He let all of that be documented and his kind of manic, unbridled joy over all of it is the mark of how rare a thing this level of engagement is for him.

So, why did he?

Why this dance? What does this have to do with The Meeting Ball?

Notice the backdrop of this scene. Other than Aziraphale and the other gentleman and the walls, there is really only one thing of note in the scene and it is in focus for much of the scene: the chandelier.

The gavotte is both a specific kind of dance and a kind of umbrella term for French folk dances from the 16th-18th centuries and a separate, different dance in the 19th century. It was apparently popular in the court of King Louis XIV, whose reign is referred to several times in Good Omens. (Crowley's gauche imitation Louis XIV furniture in his flat in S1; he was king in the time mentioned by Aziraphale in the French scene in S2; his mistress being Madame du Pompadour, historically credited with originating the hairstyle worn by Crowley since prior to Earth's existence, etc....)

Gavotte comes from gavoto, which meant mountaineer's dance or the dance of the mountain people and which, in turn, came from gavot, which meant a boor and a glutton. A boor is a country person or a farmer but it comes from the Latin bovis, meaning a cow or an ox. Etymologically-speaking? Of course this is the dance Aziraphale learned because the gavotte is a French dance of the ox glutton who enjoys a good "mountain" climb.

(The theory that they wrote The Sound of Music lives on. 😂)

Aziraphale learned the gavotte, of all dances, because he knew that Crowley would find the two of them dancing together to this dance in particular very amusing. He learned this dance in the late 1880s, likely with the intent of maybe, someday, being able to dance it with Crowley, which is likely why he was he was annoyed when it went out of style.

Still, we could theorize that one of the reasons why he allowed himself to be filmed dancing it is to have a record of his efforts to learn it-- not just for Crowley but in general-- and that maybe the chandelier in the bookshop is the one from his long-since-closed gentleman's club. It all shows that Aziraphale has wanted to dance, openly and publicly, both in general and with Crowley, for a very long time.

One of the reasons why he likely miracled everyone into 19th century speak during The Meeting Ball and brought down the chandelier and old style dancing was so that he could finally do just that. It isn't so much that Aziraphale needs to stick to old-fashioned dancing in general as it is that he just wanted to have an experience like those of other humans during that time that he wasn't allowed then to have-- by the rules of the human world, not just because of the dangers from his supernatural world.

But it's 2023 in S2 now. Queer people have been able to get married in England for a decade and partnership rights have been around for even longer. Mutt and his spouse's relationship would have been illegal in nine different ways barely a breath ago but they can live openly now. Gabriel has left Heaven and moved into the guest room. Things feel like there's a chance of change everywhere and Aziraphale has just had it and can't take one more night of Crowley slipping out before dawn so this whole "Maggie and Nina" party?

Do you remember how Aziraphale phrased the idea to Crowley?

Cotillion balls aren't just any ball. While cotillion was a style of country dance kind of like the gavotte, a cotillion ball was a coming out ball for young ladies in society. In parts of the world, they still exist, sometimes called now debutante balls.

What's so endearing about Aziraphale fixating on this idea is that a) Maggie and Nina are both women, which is not a match that would have been sanctioned by a cotillion ball in Jane Austen's day, which makes it sweet that Aziraphale is, in a way, trying to give this traditionally romantic idea of love at a dance to a pair of women who would not have had it be an option for them, historically, which is something to which he can relate but also b) Aziraphale is just really semi-consciously using the idea of a party styled after a coming out ball for women in society as his thinly-veiled excuse to have a coming out party of a different kind, of sorts, for himself and Crowley.

Aziraphale isn't closeted in the sense that he's not actively trying to convince anyone that he's straight (good Frances, what a waste of effort that would be lol) but he'd like to be just like everyone else and not have to hide his partner. In the scene where Mrs. Cheng tells him that she and her husband will be at the party, for example, Aziraphale has this kind of wistful look for a moment. He wants that. He'd like to just be chatting with the neighbors and tell them that yes, definitely, he and his husband will be by later on. It's a season of things like Muriel literally opening the door to them hiding in a closet to talk privately and Crowley insisting in the street to Nina that Aziraphale is not his partner but then saying nothing to correct her when she refers to Aziraphale that way when they're in the bookshop. It's Mrs. Sandwich knowing Crowley in part because she sees him slip out the bookshop side door every night but Nina not knowing him in 2.01 because they're hiding the fact that they're a couple so morning coffee is never a thing until it is in S2. The Meeting Ball is Aziraphale taking steps towards them no longer hiding it by having people over when Crowley is there and letting everyone know or assume that Crowley is his partner.

The party is really for Crowley. Having everyone speak outside of time, the theatre curtains, Gabriel circling with trays of food (which was honestly so funny-- The Supreme Archangel walking around all "try an ox rib" to everyone), the vol-au-vents (etymologically linked to nightingales and some of them seemed like they might have been oyster vol-au-vents), etc.. He did it all to dance with Crowley and ask him to stay.

These two are fucking adorable. Look at this angel, I mean, seriously:

Aziraphale has been hitting that since ancient Rome and he's over here, nervous and giddy like he's at his first middle school dance, so fucking excited to ask that dashing ginger currently having an anxiety attack to dance. They have been basically married for millennia and Aziraphale is standing there like I'm going to ask him, I'm going to really do it, I'm going to hold his hand and dance with him in front of everybody and they're all going to know he's mine. We're going to be like everybody else-- just people on Earth.

It's so damn cute.

So, lastly, there's one thing we have to talk about when it comes to dancing and that's the fact that it is a form of self-expression. This is where Aziraphale and his perfectionism come into play a little.

God, in S1, said that not dancing is one of "the distinguishing" features of angels and that Aziraphale, through learning the gavotte, is the only angel who dances (at least, in terms of literally dancing.) This contrasts with the demons, who all dance, though many of them are not particularly good at it. This is the fundamental difference between angels and demons.

The demons are all demons because they were all willing to express themselves as individuals, which is what dancing fundamentally is. The reason why Aziraphale is the only angel who dances in S1 is because the other angels who know how to dance are all now demons.

Dancing means putting yourself out there a bit. You have to be willing to make some mistakes. You have to be willing to look potentially silly in front of other people and learn to not care as much about it. You have to take some chances. You have to engage with others if you want to dance with other people-- so, you have to participate in the world around you a bit. You have to try new things, like hearing new music and learning new ways to move. You have to be your own person, in the sense that you have to have music you like to move to and decide what you'll look like doing that. You have to let yourself take up some space and work hard at shutting off your damn brain enough to enjoy it.

In the 1941, Part 2 scene that we started this meta out with, we saw Aziraphale openly dancing a bit in front of Crowley, a sign of how comfortable he was and is with him. He doesn't have to be perfect around Crowley. Just as Crowley doesn't have to be perfect around him and is willing to look ridiculous to around him, as in the case of The Apology Dance. Being able to be silly and vulnerable is a sign of trust. When you can lean on people you trust and have that kind of intimacy with them, it can make you feel braver to take some risks in the world as a whole. If you let one person in enough and learn how to dance in one or more ways with just them, you'll eventually feel like you can dance free, no matter who is watching.

In the same scene, Aziraphale admits to his conflicts over going to Goldstone's and how he worries that maybe the things in life that he enjoys are "for professional conjurers only"-- for humans only-- with Crowley helping to quiet that imposter syndrome noise in Aziraphale's mind. Crowley's gentleness and the care in his response are examples of why he is who Aziraphale chooses as a partner and why it's with him that he's long-dreamed of having be his dancing partner when he finally is able to publicly dance alongside others at a ball.

Aziraphale is equally considerate in how he treats Crowley and is not put off by spending their first dance in public together essentially trying to calm what he thinks at first is just Crowley's usual level of anxiety talking, knowing Crowley well enough to know that, for all his talk about wanting to live a more open life together, he's as afraid as Aziraphale is. Crowley is dancing anyway. Aziraphale wants to so that's enough for Crowley to do so.

Aziraphale doesn't need some perfectly smooth first dance out together-- though they dance easily and very well together. It doesn't matter how long he's waited. He cares more about trying to reassure Crowley and ease his stress. They actually aren't as safe as Aziraphale believes them to be at this moment but it's the intent that's sweet. He knows this dance is as scary as it is lovely and, as always, it's important to him that Crowley feel safe.

You have to admit that you're a person to dance.

That's what the dancing is all about.

You have to admit that you have a life and to start to accept that you are allowed one. You have to accept yourself as part of a community to publicly dance with a group. You have to feel ready to host the monthly meeting of The Whickber Street Shopkeepers and Traders Association because to do so is to be a participating member in a community and to be a participating member in a community is to be a person living a life on Earth.

It's not surprising, then, that when Aziraphale gets to a point-- a very delicate point but a point, nonetheless-- of feeling like it might be time for him to claim that life for himself, doing so begins with the first night that he's ever been able to be at a party and, just like a zillion other people before him, ask his partner to dance.

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