#this is simultaneously nothing and everything. i love an excuse to write something so shitty it can barely be considered poetry

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

YOOOOO that ghostknife poem looks really cool

THANK YOU!!!!!! I'm in the trenches 🥰

[makeste]

I like Bakuguo but his attitude is starting to really piss me off. He's talking about Daku as if he's just ~crazy~ and as if he isn't partly to blame for Deku's toxic self-worth issues. It's infuriating to watch. If Bakuguo doesn’t admit out loud and in front of his friends that his bullying of Deku played a part in Deku's current destructive state and if he doesn’t verbally apologize and reaffirm Deku's worth then I can no longer like Bakuguo's character or Hori's writing.

tbh I don't really know why this is the discourse of choice for people all of a sudden, but this is already the second ask I've gotten about it, so I might as well address it lol.

I think fandom is conflating fanon!Deku and canon!Deku here again. fanon Deku is of course much more sensitive and woobified and has much shakier self-esteem. fanon Deku is the one that turns evil in so many AUs because of Kacchan's bullying. fanon Deku is the one that actually jumps off the roof in so many fics, as opposed to fishing his notebook back out of the pond a few minutes later grumbling about how Kacchan needs to think before he speaks or else he could land himself in serious shit one day if god forbid anyone actually does take his cruel words to heart.

and just to clarify before I get any further, I am not saying this to excuse Kacchan's actions in any way, because what he did was still completely terrible and unacceptable and WAY over the line, and what's more he knew it, too. the bullying was still shitty and horrible and awful, and definitely impacted Deku and made him miserable. I fully acknowledge that, and that Kacchan has a lot of atoning to do for it. this is not a "Kacchan did nothing wrong" post.

but that being said, I don't think canon Deku's reckless self-sacrificing nature actually has anything to do with the bullying. I think they're two completely separate things. canon Deku actually has pretty decent self-esteem in spite of everything Kacchan did to him. canon Deku doesn't think he is useless. canon Deku had a wholeass fight with Kacchan less than 10 chapters into the series in which he explicitly spelled it out for Kacchan that he had a lot of worth, and was going to prove it to him. canon Deku was persistent in wanting to become a hero and hoping and believing that he could find some way in spite of being quirkless. canon Deku never let go of that dream even when no one else supported it. I don't think he would have even given up on it after being told no by All Might, tbh -- we just never got to see how it would have played out because of everything that happened with the sludge monster shortly afterward. but he's not the type to ever give up on something that easily, and we've seen that. canon Deku never thought he was useless, but rather wanted to prove to everyone else that he wasn't.

the drive that Deku has to save and protect others even at the expense of his own safety is something entirely separate from that. he doesn't break his body for others simply because he has no self-esteem and thinks that his own life isn't important. he does it because he can't stand the thought of someone else getting hurt, and knowing that he could have done something to prevent it. it's as simple as that. like, Spider-Man has the whole "with great power comes great responsibility" thing, right? and he doesn't have low self-esteem; he simply believes that if he has the ability to help someone else, then he has a responsibility to help them. it's a personal creed. and Deku is based on Spider-Man. his philosophy is based on that philosophy, which was one of Horikoshi's core influences and is one of the core creeds in superhero fiction.

Deku is self-destructive not because he doesn't value himself, but because he is literally physically incapable of standing back and doing nothing if he knows that he can do something. he's the type of person who sees a car speeding towards someone and leaps in to push them out of the way. NOT because he wants to get himself fucking pancaked by a speeding car, but simply because he can't sit back and watch the other person get hurt without taking action. his body moves before he can think. and that's where the whole "doesn't take himself into account" thing comes in -- the fact that his thought process simply stops at "get them out of the way of the car", and never extends beyond that to "hey, and maybe I should try to find a way to do this that doesn't involve me getting hit in their place." to him, that's simply less important than the first priority, which is getting the other person out of the way.

and regarding that last part, while that may seem like a self-worth issue if he's prioritizing everyone else above himself, I think what it actually is just selflessness taken to extremes. like for instance, when a parent sacrifices themselves to save their child, them placing the child's life above their own isn't necessarily because they don't see themselves as having value. rather, it's that they love the child so much that they place their well-being even above their own. and that's what Deku is like as well. except that in his case he cares about EVERYONE, and so is willing to sacrifice himself for anyone. and that selflessness is his defining character trait, and simultaneously the most admirable and the most terrifying thing about him. it's both his greatest strength and his greatest weakness, which I think is fascinating to explore.

but anyway, so that's also why we never really see anyone thoroughly chewing him out for this behavior either. because the thing is, it is admirable how selfless he is. it's just that there's also a reason why most people are at least a little bit selfish. and that's because too much selflessness will ultimately and inevitably wind up getting you killed. at some point you either have to learn when to put the oxygen mask on yourself first, or else find yourself a loyal group of friends (or classmates) to watch your back, and make sure that mask gets on you when you need it. and maybe help you land the plane too while they're at it.

anyway so that was a lot of rambling, but basically it all boils down to three things:

when Deku berates himself for being useless (for instance at the end of the War arc), he's doing it out of frustration for not being able to push the others out of the way of the metaphorical car. that's the kind of uselessness he can't stand. the sitting-back-and-doing-nothing uselessness.

Kacchan's bullying was terrible, and it might have indeed played a part in Deku's choice of the word "useless" as a way of berating himself in these instances, but he is not the one who gave Deku this mindset of taking himself out of the equation. that's something that was already inherent to Deku from day one. (but that said, Kacchan has a lot of things to apologize to Deku for anyway, so if he wants to add this to the list I certainly won't stop him. he gets mad about Deku's suicidal attitude because it worries him, but that doesn't necessarily mean that he doesn't feel responsible for it. people underestimated his feelings of atonement before 284/285, and I think they're still underestimating him now.)

and lastly, one last important note, which is that Deku's current "saving" mindset isn't wrong, just as Kacchan's "winning" mindset was not wrong either. the lesson to be learned here is NOT that being selfless and wanting to save other people is bad. rather, it's the fact that he's trying to do it alone that's got him all fucked up right now. basically when you think about it, selflessness is really just selfishness on someone else's behalf. which means that in order for Deku to be saved, it isn't necessary for him to change his outlook or his selfless attitude, even if it is pretty crazy lol. rather, all he really needs is a good group of friends who are willing to act selfishly on his behalf in return. protecting each other through mutual selflessness lol. teamwork as self-preservation. hence why the U.A. kids are here now.

anyway so yeah, I think that's everything. sorry this got so long and out of control lol. this is just a very specific nuanced thing that's hard for me to express, but which I feel is very important when it comes to Deku's character. Kacchan didn't unleash Depressed Nomad Deku on the world (or at least not in this respect). but that being said, he and the others will hopefully be the ones to nudge him back on the right course again.

[welllpthisishappening]

It all kind of happens in slow motion.

One second, Emma hears the crack of the bat and the requisite roar of the crowd, and the next her eyes have widened to a size most scientists would likely advise against. Because, standing at home plate, that same home plate multiple baseball players are sprinting toward, is her kid. More or less waiting to be run over. That is, of course, until Killian Jones.

———

Word Count: 4.1K Rating: Flufffy fluff fluff of the fluffiest variety AN: Writing has been something of a legitimate challenge for me in the last few weeks, but earlier this week @ohmightydevviepuu sent a link to this tweet, tagged me, and said what I basically took as an unspoken prompt. Like, you’re going to send me video of a bat boy getting scooped up at home by a player in the middle of the game and then think I won’t write about it? Not possible. Even with the aforementioned writing challenges. Nothing stands a chance against my love of baseball. Here’s hoping the Yankees turn it around in the second half. Neither Aaron Judge or I deserve the season we’ve had so far.

———

Biologically speaking, Emma Swan is perfectly aware that the current positioning of her heart is more or less impossible. 

Stuck somewhere between the back of her throat and the pit of her stomach, it makes her all too aware of the now-empty chasm in her chest, stretching out toward her arms and threatening the structural integrity of her lungs, neither of which appear all that intent on working properly. Oxygen is a luxury not currently afforded to her capillaries. Instead, nerves mix with anxiety and the telltale flush of adrenaline that probably also makes her look relatively crazy because her pupils are definitely dilated and she does not know nearly enough about science to be making any of these claims. 

Whatever, really. 

It feels like that ooze from that movie. FernGully, Emma thinks. With the fairies. She thinks they were fairies. She’s not entirely certain they were fairies. 

And the ooze was definitely oil, obviously. There was a message involved in that movie. Not one that she appreciated when she was seven and Tim Curry’s animated-oil voice sort of freaked her out. But, like, she gets it now. The environment, and everything. With or without fairies. With Robin Williams, though. 

She’s positive about that, at least. 

Robin Williams was definitely in that movie. 

Less positive about the ability of her heart to actually split itself in half, as it seems wont to do at the moment. So, as to make it easier when it inevitably soars out of her mouth and falls onto the scuffed-up clubhouse floor beneath her feet. Naturally, this will happen simultaneously. For maximum effect. 

Much like the fireworks currently exploding over the left-field bleachers. 

She’s not sure if fireworks do explode, actually. That seems dangerous. Likely to lead to injuries and sounds that don’t resemble the  oohs and ahhs a ballpark generally inspires. Explode probably isn’t the right word. Maybe something more like…detonate. 

No, that’s worse. Way worse. She’s got to learn more words. Find a thesaurus or a dictionary or—a fireworks expert would be ideal, honestly.

Someone who could give her a detailed description of the inner-workings of a Yankee Stadium pyrotechnics display on a Tuesday in July, enough words that Emma’s mind would still for a few moments, allowing her to catch her breath and reestablish a consistent heart rate, and both of those problems could also likely be solved by sitting down, but the chair to her left looks a little wobbly, and her legs appear to have minds of their own because science is rather quickly becoming a lie and—

“Is he alright?” She spins. Nearly falls over. Her knees are also awfully wobbly, that’s why. 

Despite all of that, and the overall circumference of her pupils, the voice doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t even flinch. Shows absolutely no signs of imminent stumbling. And that’s probably because the voice is a man, one who is in possession of world-class instinctual reactions, and his hair is still damp from his post-game shower and it absolutely makes her something of an atrocious mother to acknowledge that last thing as quickly as she does. 

His shirt sleeves are noticeably sticking to his biceps, so that helps too. 

Opening her mouth, Emma is going to say words that are both vaguely intelligent and passably accurate, absolving this Major League Baseball player of any of the guilt he so obviously feels. Which is just patently stupid, really. None of this was his fault. None of it was anyone’s fault, really. 

Except maybe the idiot who left his bat at that particular angle across home plate, but Emma’s an adrenaline expert these days and walk-offs are understandably exciting. First walk-offs more so. 

She’s happy for Scarlet, really. 

They won the game. 

Everything is fine. Great, even. She nearly jumps twenty-six feet in the air at the next boom of fireworks. 

The pinch between the Major League Baseball player’s eyebrows gets—

Pinchier. 

The little roll of skin draws Emma’s attention, effectively robbing her of the ability to respond like an almost-sane person, but she’s also still trying to rationalize why she can remember the words to several FernGully songs while also being unable to recall what flavor PopTart she had for breakfast earlier this week and she figures watching her kid nearly get run over by professional athletes approximately forty-two minutes before gives her a fairly reasonable excuse. 

For opening and closing her mouth no less than eight consecutive times. 

Like a goddamn fish. There were no fish in FernGully. Least not so far as she remembers. 

It’s entirely possible she squeaks on attempt number five. 

The Major League Baseball player’s eyebrows do not move. It’s equal parts frustrating and incredible to behold. 

“I should probably thank you, right?” Emma asks, not quite regretting the words immediately, but it’s awfully close. That gets her some movement. Of the eyebrow variety. One eyebrow, specifically. Arching up, it somehow still manages to pull her attention directly toward eyes that should be the star of their own marketing campaign. Not quite Yankee blue, but distractingly blue, and it takes everything in her not to huff as dramatically as she wants to. Once the athletic trainer is done with Henry, Emma is going to make him examine her lungs. Rationality rules the day. 

Major League Baseball player shakes his head. It’s dumb to call him that. She knows his name. Knows at least some of his history. Is still staring obnoxiously at his freakishly attractive face. 

Freakishly is kind of mean, too. As far as descriptions go. 

“Unnecessary,” he says, an undercurrent of worry still clear in the letters. Ducking his head, he takes a cautious step forward, almost as if he’s wary of what Emma will do, and she supposes that’s fair. What with the impressive vertical she’s in possession of these days. “Anyone would do that.” “I’m not sure they could, actually.”

At some point in this otherwise shitty experience of a night, Emma is vaguely confident something will go the way she wants it to. Aside from winning. She’s glad they won. Seriously. 

“No?” “No,” she echoes, and it’s not like she can feel him. A few feet of space separates them, so whatever heat appears to be wafting off the Major League Baseball player in front of her, with his damp hair, and stupid, stupid, stupid eyes is as impossible as any of the various impossibilities currently taking place within her person. 

And yet. 

He sticks his hand out. 

It’s disarmingly earnest. 

“Killian Jones,” he says, confidence replacing the nerves, and Emma begins to see why there are so many stories. And Twitter threads. Regarding his face and the potential for that face to date a variety of other attractive faces across at least four of the five boroughs. Somehow Emma doesn’t think Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman, is schlepping out to Staten Island for a date. 

Nor does she believe that Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman, has ever once let the word schlep pass through his conscious mind. 

She takes his hand. 

It is—

Surprisingly warm. And...not quite soft, that’d be impossible with the job he performs almost nightly. But the calluses on the pads of his fingers aren’t as rough as Emma expects, which also suggests she’s managed to ponder the overall texture of Killian Jones’s fingers in the last twelve point six seconds, and that’s not entirely true. What is true is that Ruby thinks Killian Jones is real good-looking and has determined that the phrase quite a catch is the pinnacle of humor, so, sure, Emma has possibly considered the possibility of paths crossing and intersecting, and her hand looks minuscule wrapped up in his. So, that’s something to think about later. 

Their arms move. Bob up and down as society dictates they should, and he’s smiling at her, and she’s trying not to look like a serial killer, straining to hear the voices behind the door, and it does not work. 

“Why do you think people are so consistently fascinated by fireworks?” If he’s surprised by her absolutely inane question, he doesn’t show it. That’s points. For what, Emma hasn’t totally decided yet, but it’s something, and it’s probably good, and they’re going to play that clip on loop for weeks. Longer, probably. 

Every goddamn day if the Yankees make the postseason. 

When the Yankees make the postseason. 

Her dad wouldn’t appreciate the buffer. Leaves room for loss, and that is not the Nolan way. Not when there are championships to win, and this was supposed to be the best possible time. Smack dab in the middle of the season, with the All-Star break looming, Henry would get to suit up as batboy for one game that didn’t mean much and wouldn’t draw too strong of a spotlight, no murmurs about nepotism by internet trolls who couldn’t possibly define the word with any sort of accuracy, but also like to shout about canceling and culture with an almost alarming sense of self-righteousness, so, of course, the whole thing was now blowing up in their face. 

Much like the goddamn fireworks. 

It wasn’t Will Scarlet’s fault. 

Wasn’t Henry’s fault, either. 

His job was to get the bats out of the field of play. Doing it while the field of play was still active was a mistake any kid could have made. Just so happens that it’s Emma’s kid, and the grandkid of the Yankees’ hitting coach, and that means something to the New York media and the New York fans, and if Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman with an arm that can make cross-field throws with ease, wasn’t also so quick-thinking and sure-footed, scooping Henry up as he crossed home plate and avoiding the ensuing swarm of players at home plate, all intent on celebrating Will Scarlet’s first-ever career walk-off, Emma can only imagine what would have happened. 

Trampled. Stepped on. Broken bones. Concussions. 

They’re checking Henry for a concussion now. He absolutely does not have a concussion. He was laughing while he was carried off the field. Like he hit the walk-off. 

Front office is absolutely petrified she’s going to sue them. 

The thought hadn’t even once crossed Emma’s mind. Plus, she’s sort of busy. Holding Killian Jones’s hand. His stupid, warm hand. 

“Bright colors,” he says, responding to a question Emma’s nearly forgotten about. Jumping is more challenging when his fingers tighten ever so slightly. “Flash, boom. Taps into baser instincts, I think.” “You think people’s base instinct is to enjoy explosions.” “Phrasing that as a statement makes me think you don’t agree with me.” “You didn’t want me to thank you,” Emma points out.

“Well, no,” he says, and the precise way his eyes drop does something specific to all of her instincts. Leaves her flush with a heat that reminds her of Fourth of July sparklers rather than any sort of massive explosion, and that’s not bad, per se, although it’s admittedly a little surprising. As is the slight uptick of precisely one side of his mouth. It takes her a moment to realize he’s smirking at her. And another for her subconscious to admit that it’s working as intended. Her shoulders drop half an inch. While Emma pulls her hand back to her side. “Thanking me suggests I did anything to warrant the thanks.” “Big words.” “For a dumb athlete, you mean.” “That wasn’t a question, either.” “No,” Killian repeats, “it wasn’t.” “I’d really like to thank you. I—Dad told him when to come out of the dugout, so he definitely knew the rules, but I think he was super worried about you tripping over the bat.”

The smirk becomes a full-blown smile. Which is no less than forty-seven thousand times more powerful. Equivalent to staring directly into a solar eclipse or gazing upon the dark side of the moon, and Emma should at least do some research before coming up with these internal examples. Basic Google searches would provide her with the necessary information. 

“That’s more or less what he told me, yeah.” Emma’s nose creases. “Talked your ear off after your daring rescue, huh?” “Keep complimenting me like this, and my ego won’t know what to do with it.”

She hopes she’s not blushing as much as it feels like she is. The state of Killian’s eyebrows and the precise curl of his lips make that seem unlikely. “Your reflexes are unparalleled.” “Something about big bucks and why I get paid them.” “Oh,” Emma laughs, unable to stop herself, and she doesn’t remember deciding to stop pacing, only that her knees appreciate it once she has, “you think you’re real funny, don’t you?” “I think I’m moderately funny, not the hero you’re suggesting I am—” “Oh, I never used the word hero.” “—And you never actually told me your name.”

“Because you don’t know who I am.” It’s not a question, either. Neither one of them mention that. 

“I do,” Killian concedes, “Henry was also fairly quick to mention exactly who he was and where his mother was sitting.” Emma’s nose is going to freeze in this position. “But I gave you my name, which makes it only fair that we’re all square and whatnot.” “Whatnot, huh?” “Yup.” He pops his lips on the letter. Which is also unfair. In, like, the grand scheme of the world. The black ooze that is not actually oil when used in this particular metaphor recedes. Leaves Emma with a chest cavity that is partially full of butterfly wings and the growing sense of anticipation that isn’t quite as nerve-wracking as it should be. Like she’s about to step into the batter’s box with two outs and runners in scoring position. She’s totally going to hit against the shift. Fluttering her fingers at her side, Emma doesn’t lift her hand. It doesn’t matter. 

Killian’s eyes drop. To the movement. And her. And part of her shies away from that because part of her has spent a lifetime tucked into a shadow that didn’t belong to her and doesn’t belong to Henry, but now there’s some joke about Peter Pan to be made because they live in an internet-age and Killian Jones has a very good face. So. Viral video, enter stage right. Starring Henry Swan, Killian Jones, and the inevitably uneven pitter-patter of Emma’s traitorous heart. 

“Emma Swan.” “I think you should sit down.”

“Why is that, exactly?” “I’m worried about your legs.”

Whatever noise she makes can’t quite be classified as a scoff. It hurts her throat too much. And it’s not a laugh, either. Even as the butterflies threaten to rise up in mutiny of Emma’s more rational feelings, and she gets the distinct impression that Killian is reading her mind. Trying very hard, at least. 

“Sounds like a line.” “Might be a line,” he admits, which draws another wholly inhuman sound out of Emma’s barely-functioning lungs. 

“Did he kick you on the lift?” Killian hums. “You’d kick too if you were just hauled off your feet, so I understand the reaction. What I’m more worried about is the inevitable bruise on my foot from the bat landing there.” “Ah shit, really?” “I’ve had worse.” “But not in 4K video that people will play on loop for the rest of the news cycle. If not longer.” Narrowing his eyes, Killian doesn’t immediately respond. Mind reading requires a modicum of focus, Emma assumes. Instead, he rests a hand on her shoulder, directing her toward the chair and ignoring the soft crack her left knee as it bends. “That’s what you’re worried about.” “Stop sounding so confident.” “I can only sound how I am, Swan.” “Oh, I’m not sure we’ve reached nickname status yet,” she mumbles, pushing down the soft rush of metaphorical insects doing their beset to soar out of her barely-parted lips. “But, yeah, I—I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was totally terrified in the moment.”

“Understandable. Grown men barrelling down the third-base line at your kid are a lot to take in.” She snorts. It’s not cute. Not dignified. Killian smirks. “Should you be concerned that the Scarlet was making such solid headway behind you? Are you exceedingly slow?” “I am league average.” “How fast can you get out of the box to first?” “I’ve never timed it.” “Liar, liar.” “Please don’t make a crack about my pants,” Killian says, “I won’t be able to cope.”

“Oh God, you think you’re charming, too.” “I’ve had no complaints.” “To your face, at least.”

Throwing his head back, the laugh that erupts out of him is not of volcano proportions. Of which there was also one in FernGully if Emma’s memory is to be trusted.  An arm circles his middle, stretching muscle and ensuring that Emma notices just how corded that same muscle is, the slight bend of his wrist leaving her off-kilter. When he meets her gaze, she swears his eyes are brighter. “Yeah, yeah, that’s true,” Killian concedes, “no one has flat out told me I was lacking charm to my face.” “This thanking you thing is going great.” “And I continue to not need thanks. Why are you worried about the video getting out there? Filmed in 4K like you suggest, at least we’ll all look great. Sharp pixels and whatnot.” “What do you know about pixels?” “You basically heard the extent just now.”

She’s getting better at laughing. The ooze has almost all but disappeared, Emma twirling a strand of hair around fingers that are intent on moving, and it’s an old habit. One Killian’s gaze catches on. Immediately. Quickly. Seriously, Emma needs a thesaurus. “Baseball’s always been my dad,” she says. “And that’s—well, we’ve lived this game, me and my mom, weekend series and West Coast swings, waiting up for him to get home because the flight got delayed, but Henry’s just a kid, getting thrown into this world because of his last name and who his family is? That sucks. Nothing was supposed to happen tonight.” “Nothing did happen.” “Because of you.” “I’d like to believe Scarlet, ridiculously fast as he might be, would not run over a small child,” Killian says. “And, uh, for the record and all that, I got a bad jump off first because I didn’t know if they were going to catch it in left. No one wants to get caught on the base paths.” “Yeah, that’d be embarrassing.”

He must hear the hitch in her voice because the next thing Emma realizes, her fingers are twisted back up in Killian’s, and she’s warm and falling and flying, and it’s good and weird, and the door swings open. 

They both jump.

So, that’s something. 

Rushing out quickly enough that he nearly trips over his own feet, Henry’s head leads the way and finds Emma’s stomach, a tangle of limbs, and overly-excited words, all of which rival the now-finished fireworks display in volume. 

It takes Henry about five and a half run-on sentences to notice Killian standing there. 

His eyes widen. His mouth drops. Killian grins. Emma tries very hard not to die. It only sort of works. 

She blames the faulty body parts she’s in possession of. 

“Killian,” Henry exclaims, clamoring back to his feet and nearly falling again in the process. Hands that belong to both Emma and Killian dart out, steadying Henry while their eyes meet over the top of his head. Killian winks. He tries. It’s more like a blink than anything. “Hi, hi! You did so good tonight! And we won, and I got to go on the field and—and, it was so,” Henry heaves a deep breath, “we were so good.”

Collective pronouns do something to Emma’s entire state of being. 

Flips it on an axis she hadn’t been aware previously existed until it almost feels as if this was the path they’d been directing themselves toward from the start. Her eyes flit toward Killian. Who is already watching her. 

“We did,” he nods, “maybe next time, though, you wait one extra second to grab Scarlet’s bat, ok?” Seeing her own nose scrunch reflected back on her kid is not the worst thing that’s ever happened to Emma. The vibrating phone in her back pocket, might be. 

It’s one-hundred percent, Ruby. 

“That’s what grandpa said too,” Henry grumbles, digging a toe of the cleats Emma’s mother bought him last week into the ground, “but I wanted to make sure you didn’t fall.”

Definitely dying, then. A systematic shut down of all necessary internal organs. It’s not as bad as Emma would have expected. 

Neither one of Killian’s knees crack when he bends. That seems heavy-handed. 

“And I don’t want you to fall either,” he says, “so we agree, right here, right now, not to let the other one fall, huh?” Emma holds her breath. Ignores the pinch in her lungs and the clearly unstable nature of both her mind and her heart, digging her nails into her palms. To ensure she isn’t tempted to haul Henry back toward her. Or push that one strand of hair away from Killian’s forehead. 

Henry nods. “Deal.”

They hook their pinkies together. 

It’s adorable and as endearingly charming as everything else Killian Jones, New York Yankees third baseman, has done since he walked into that hallway. Less so when her dad emerges from the office, the athletic trainer on his heels to not-so-quietly inform Killian that he can’t just blow off post-game like that, and the second wink is as bad as the first. 

She does her very best to memorize the movement. 

And the joy on Henry’s face the next morning when a box arrives on their doorstep, a genuine, game-worn Killian Jones jersey inside. She doesn’t notice the note at first, tucked between the cardboard and the tissue paper someone must have bought for him. He can’t have bought that tissue paper himself. He just—it’s unfathomable. 

Emma knows he bought the tissue paper himself. 

As clearly as she knows that those numbers in that particular order will lead to Killian Jones answering his phone and that her voice likely won’t shake when she replies to the question written in surprisingly loopy script. Which is why, Emma will argue, she does reply. In the affirmative. To several questions over the course of the remaining season, and they don’t star in any more viral videos, but there are a few pictures once they clinch the division. 

Drops of champagne cling to the tips of Emma’s eyelashes and the ends of Killian’s hair, hands on her waist that blaze a quick path up her back and around her middle, and she has to tilt her head up to get the right angles. Of lips. While they kiss in the middle of the clubhouse, the hat someone forced onto Emma’s head falling and it’s impossible to hear over the sound of celebratory fireworks, but she can somehow still hear Henry’s laugh ringing out from the general area near Scarlet’s locker, and his jersey collection is growing at an impressive rate. 

No one can withstand the overall cuteness of him. 

Emma included. Emma, especially. 

Sometimes she worries she’s so happy she’ll burst, unable to contain the sort of emotion her body is still acclimating itself to. But then she realizes just how dumb that is and happiness cannot possibly be quantified, and her head is buzzing enough from champagne that she nearly misses Killian when he says, “people love the bright spots, Swan.” It’s not the most romantic thing he’s told her. Doesn’t crack the top five, quite frankly. She swoons all the same. With her kid laughing and her team winning and that’s about all the sentiment she’s willing to acknowledge before her tongue is in Killian’s mouth. He groans. She grins. 

And he’d been right about the video. It wasn’t the embarrassment Emma worried it could be. Was mostly relegated to the corners of the internet set aside for formerly popular content as soon as the season ended, spoken about only in fond recollection as the other seasons went on and the wins kept coming and all three of them stand on a parade float with the World Series trophy a few dozen feet away, several Novembers after that first game. 

It’s a Thursday afternoon, then. 

And yet Emma never entirely forgets. What the video meant and what it did and she’s not remotely surprised when it finds its way back to the forefront of the sports zeitgeist on a Wednesday in July. Most mentions come with similar taglines and messages. Something about feeling our age and wanna feel old because that bot boy, David Nolan’s grandson, Killian Jones’s stepson, he’s getting drafted now. 

Got drafted, technically. 

Third round, video of the soon-to-be third baseman for the San Diego Padres makes the internet circuits and garners plenty of interest. It’s not the most exciting video, though. Henry just hugs his family. Who hug tightly back. 

What is more exciting is the box that arrives on Emma and Killian’s doorstep. With a note that eventually earns a frame next to the last one and a wholly official, game-worn jersey that has a noticeable streak of dirt across the left sleeve. From sliding head-first into home plate.  

[queen-morgana91]

Why do you dislike Boruto? Just a curiousity.

For many reasons, anon.

Boruto sucks as an MC, hes boring and Stu-ish and has no charisma whatsoever.

The side characters of the next gen are no better, and are often just "Mini Mes" of their parents which is a complete and utter lack of creativity if Ive ever seen it.

There is no attempt AT ALL to make us give a damn about any character in the series who isnt named Boruto or Kawaki...No other character has been given any focus at all on their backstory, what their motivations are, what they do when Boruto isnt around...They never even get screen time unless Boruto is there licking their goddamn face in fact.

Characters from the previous series that we love are ENTIRELY ABANDONED or BLATANTLY ASSASSINATED character wise. We have YET TO SEE KAKASHI IN THE MANGA FOR INSTANCE. KAKASHI :/ One of the 4 main characters of the previous series and easily a crowd favorite. Naruto and Sasuke are utter garbage in this series and are AT THE BEST OF TIMES functional morons. Other characters like Gai or Lee or Gaara or Temari or Bee are also just never given anything to do ever and never show up. So Kishi/Kodachi are simultaniously trying to force us to be attached to the next gen by completely shelving the old...But then...Do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING WITH THE NEXT GEN to make us give a damn about them or what they are doing...Amazing stuff.

Terrible consistency and scaling with in universe strength.

 Asspulls and retcons everywhere.

The villains. They are all just generic Saturday Cartoon villains. From the way it’s going, I sincerely doubt that Boruto’s villains will ever match the likes of Madara or the Akatsuki. On terms of personality, I’ve found that none of the Otsutsuki or the asspull cyborgs have been even nearly as enjoyable to watch. I mean, we knew that when someone came into contact with the Akatsuki that they were done (as long as they weren’t our protagonists with all their plot armor). Do you remember Pain’s Invasion with Kakashi and Jiraiya’s death? The amount of pure emotion and terror those moments held was unexplainable. When we saw Madara running to fight the entire Allied Shinobi Forces, we could see each of them trembling and praying for their lives. And by the point that Boruto is currently at, Naruto also had Orochimaru, who at one point was just about the scariest person in the show. I mean, seeing Kakashi shaking with fear in front of him, the very person who had defeated Zabuza (both he and Haku were also amazing), that just had a whole different effect. So far, none of Boruto’s antagonists have really gotten to us that much.

And to make things worse, every 2nd villain is somehow both simultaneously made into a Naruto/Sasuke level threat out of nowhere, but also able to be defeated by 12 year olds with incomplete and shitty versions of Naruto and Sasukes own abilities...Which completely and totally discredits everything Naruto and Sasuke (and other characters too) did to get as strong as they are and how they suffered to get to that point, and as I said, takes all tension out of the story.

Kurama died to nerf Naruto. A CHARACTER was killed off to nerf another character. No. Just no.

Ninja tech.  I don't know if it's just me but ninja tech has become a cheap plot coupon if not outright bad writing. Technology is becoming an excuse to put any power you want in the series and pretty much jeopardizes all established world building.  In a way, this just basically ruins the Ninja concept that we got from Naruto. I don’t think they were required to introduce this, I seriously don’t like it. The War Arc megazords are bad, but the scientific ninja tools are far worse.  It's true that ninja tech will make the tradititional Shinobi obsolete (meh) but there should be at least a decent framework on how it works instead of creating any BS power you feel like and labeling it as Ninja Tech. Chakra and Natural Energy were both largely explained and while they can do many extraordinary things they have limitations of Magic A is Magic A. Ninja tech is poorly explained and is pretty much Magic B without any known constraints which is already derrailing this series way too much. I want Kishi to give Ninja Tech limitations and a working logic but I don't have much hope for it.

I miss when Konoha would actually look like a village, and not a bad copy of New York city. I don't know, at this point i'm expecting a Ferrari or something after the time skip.

Honestly I dont understand what anyone actually enjoys about the series.  I'm beginning to wonder if Naruto fans and Boruto fans are completely different because of how easily they are accepting some of these nonsense plots.

[skullrock]

the parents - Steve x Reader

pairing - Steve x Reader

request - Hi! If possible could you write a something where the reader meets Steve parents for the first time (after being cancelled on so many times) and they’re not the greatest which results in the reader standing up for Steve!

word count - 1.7k

warnings - swearin’

a/n: this was CATHARTIC I hope you enjoy <3

===

Steve’s grip on the steering wheel is so tight that you’re worried he’s going to break his knuckles.

“Hey,” you say calmly, resting your hand on his thigh. “It’s just a dinner.”

“It’s not just a dinner.” He rakes his hand through his hair and clenches his jaw. “It’s a dinner with my… my shitty dad.”

You lean back in your seat with a sigh. Steve had cancelled, and cancelled, and cancelled on his parents. They finally tricked him into coming by with you, and he was not happy. Actually, he was really pissed off.

“Please unclench your jaw. You’re going to break it and you’re too pretty for that.”

He relaxes slightly, a faint smile on his lips. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Of course I think you’re pretty.”

He takes a hand off the steering wheel and laces his fingers through yours, squeezing tightly. “I apologize in advance for whatever they have to say. And whatever they do.”

You roll your eyes at him. “It can’t be that bad.”

===

Turns out, it can be that bad.

Steve’s dad is a literal Bond villain. He smokes a cigar around the house and never takes it out. He has a painful handshake and pointed eyes. He just looks angry, even when he is happy. You’re very nervous around him, but you understand where Steve gets his looks.

His mother is beautiful and meek, compared to her husband. She is very doting on Steve, but has some passive aggressive comments. She hugs you, and she smells like perfume that costs too much for what it is. Steve has her brown eyes.

The atmosphere is tense and hangs over the room like smoke, suffocating and thick. You clear your throat and ask questions in an attempt to stop his father from glaring and his mother from wringing her hands, decorated with diamonds and jewels.

“What was Steve like when he was a kid?” you ask, smiling. You bump into him beside you. “Probably a menace.”

“You can say that again,” his father says, his cigar still hanging from his lips. Steve stiffens beside you and you attempt to quell his anger by rubbing your thumb over his, but it doesn’t do much.

“Awe, Steve wasn’t that bad,” his mom says. Her eyes shine. “He was a little troublemaker, but he was a cutetroublemaker.”

“Mom,” Steve hisses, and you laugh genuinely.  

“He liked to get in trouble with the girls, that’s for sure,” his father mumbles. “And how many times have you gotten your ass kicked?”

Steve’s mom slaps his father’s arm, glaring, and you tense up, too, in shock. Your brows furrow and you open and close your mouth. You want to say something, but you can’t. You know it’s probably not a great idea to confront your boyfriend’s father. You can practically hear Steve’s teeth cracking as his jaw clenches again. Your heart aches – there’s nothing you can do to make him feel better except get him out of that house as soon as possible.

“Dinner ready?” you ask, looking directly at his mother, who nods eagerly and jumps up. You follow her to a dining table, decorated with porcelain that must have been imported. She goes to the kitchen to get the food, which leaves you, Steve, and his dad sitting at the table in an awkward silence. You bump your feet into Steve’s repeatedly as a way of silently telling him that you’re here and he’s okay. His mom comes out a second later with a pan, then some pots, and then a pitcher of water infused with fruit.

You feel like you’re at a five-star hotel, if it were run by a Bond villain and a mouse.

Perhaps the worst part of the visit is how everyone sits in complete silence while they eat; or, more accurately, push their food around. You cannot believe this is their actual chemistry with each other; and although Steve is moved out now, you feel horrible that he had to live like this for twenty years. Every night he had to sit at a huge table that could easily sit 8 but is set for 4, watching his father smoke a cigar and read the paper, as his mother desperately tried to get his approval and attention. The thought of it spikes irritation in you, only fueled by the sickly smell of the cigar smoke.

“Like your cigars, huh?” you ask his father, eyes narrowed.

“Imported from Cuba,” he says, as if it’s something to be proud of.

“So, do you smoke while you eat, or?”

Steve chokes on his water beside you and kicks your leg, silently begging you to shut up. You glance at him and smirk – you think it’s kind of funny. His father glares again and slowly sets it on a nearby ashtray, the sizzling of it going out the only sound in the room, aside from forks pushing meat on the china.

“Thanks,” you say sweetly, a shoulder cocking up and back down.

“I like this one,” his father says, pointing a finger at you and smiling. “Does she push you around too, Steve?”

“Sometimes,” you answer for him, forcing a smile.

Steve knows this will simply not be ending well for anyone, and he wants to scream and run out of the room, leaving a Steve-shaped hole in the wall in his wake. He’s nauseous and anxious, bouncing his knee up and down erratically. It makes the table shake, but his folks don’t seem to notice. They’re used to it.

“Steve needs someone to push him around,” his father continues. “He needs someone to give him some motivation.”

You bite your cheek, contemplating if you want to respond or bite back.

You bite back.

“That’s not true. I think Steve needs someone who doesn’t hound him at all hours of the day.”

Steve wants to die.

Steve’s mom wants to die.

“Anybody want dessert?” she asks weakly.

“Well, hounding him all day every day didn’t do much,” his father replies.

“Yeah? I wonder why.”

Steve kicks you under the table again, hissing your name under his breath. He pointedly avoids eye contact with his father.

“Steve must be different around you,” his father says, smiling bitterly. “When he lived here, we couldn’t get him to do anything. It was like he wasn’t capable. Ain’t that right, honey?”

His mother shields her face.

“Steve’s more than capable.” It comes out without thought, and you want so desperately to swallow the anger that rises and sits at the base of your throat, but it comes out in a rush. “Steve’s smart, and caring, and a hard worker.”

His father laughs and your fists clench.

“Maybe Steve didn’t thrive around you because it’s hard to have an asshole as a dad.”

“Y/N,” he hisses, clutching your forearm.

“You know, they always say it’s like father like son. So how many times did you get your ass beat, Mr. Harrington?”

“Too many to count,” Steve’s mom responds, and you stifle a laugh.

“Enough,” Steve and his father say simultaneously, and while his mother slinks back, you sit straight, chin up.

“Don’t like being hounded much yourself, huh?” you ask, and his father’s pupils flare, but he stays quiet.

“Think we better get going,” Steve says, standing up, but you pull him back down.

“I thought your mom said something about dessert. It would be rude to leave now, wouldn’t it?”

Steve is conflicted. On one hand, he hates that you’re talking back to his dad, because he knows more than anyone how it ends. On the other hand, it’s really amazing to have someone see his worth and verbalize it to his biggest critic’s face.

So he decides to sit back down, relaxing at your touch as your fingers swirl circles on his wrist.

“I’ve got a pie in the kitchen –“ his mother starts.

“Let me help you with that!” you say quickly, folding your napkin and sitting it on the table. Steve excuses himself to the bathroom – no way in hell is he going to sit at the table alone with his dad – and you follow his mother to the kitchen while his father follows with his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you start as soon as you get to the kitchen. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable –“

“My husband needs to be told off,” she says, hushed. “And Steve needs someone to tell him he’s worth it.” She grabs your hand and squeezes it, and you swear her eyes are welling with tears. “You’re perfect.”

Over pie, you talk to his mother about Steve, making a point to tell his parents about all the good things he does and everything he is good at. You tell him about how protective he is, how he defended a child from a teenage bully – leaving out the part where he almost got beat to death for it – how kind, caring, thoughtful, courageous he is. Steve blushes the entire time, but he radiates with happiness. For the first time, he feels loved for all he is.

You leave by giving his mother a hug and shaking his father’s hand again, your grip matching his, and while it hurts, it feels good. You smile at him and he frowns. You enjoy his confusion at your behavior. You also enjoy how he hasn’t said a word since you spoke up.

Steve pulls you into a long, tight hug once the front door shuts. It’s so tight that you can hardly breathe. He leans down and kisses you deeply, pulled close to him. Resting his forehead on yours, he whispers, “Thank you.”

“Wasn’t so bad,” you say cheekily. “And I even have something to celebrate with.”

Steve’s brows furrow and you smile before reaching into your jacket and pulling out a box of his father’s beloved Cuban cigars. Steve’s eyes widen and then he laughs – hearty, fully, happily.

“Let’s go home and trash them,” he suggests.

You stand on your tip toes and kiss him again. “That’s just what I was thinking.”

===

taglist (join here!) - @harrington-ofhawkins @comedy-witch @gothackedalready @wolfish-willow @sassisaluxury @willowrose99 @harringtown @m-blasterrr @whimsicalwoodlands @anerroroccurrrrred @marvels-gurl @the-almond-dinger @ssanjuniperoo @darth-el @sourapplebaby @yall-wildin-like-siriusly

[chappedandfadedvds]

Dec 13th, Sunday 13:32

oh no, guys!!

I was out all day and just got back home to realise that I didn’t set the time when to publish todays’ clip... it just sat there in my drafts... so could everyone reading just imagine to be teleported back to this very early afternoon?

I’m so so sorry!! 😰

__ __ __

Hey Jens,

I know this may be a bit out of the blue as I hadn’t contacted you for over two years. I hereby do not ask for forgivness if any shape or form. A lot had happened and for a while it was close to impossible to have contact outside of work. Obviously it doesn’t excuse my absense. I am pretty confident that I may even not have written you yet, wouldn’t it have been for Helena.

Your mother was also the person to give me this email-address, I hope you aren’t too cross with her. She meant well.

I am very positive you aren’t interested to read of anything that had happened to me since our last meeting in 2016. Already four years have passed. It doesn’t feel that long ago. But obviously you may feel different about that.

So where to begin? 

Helena wrote me a long text, detailing the main events of the last year and her diagnoses. I had to read it a couple of times for it to settle. It still feels surreal to have to accept her leaving earth that early. I am most sorry for you. I wish I could have been of more support from the very beginning. But now I have the chance to do something and I hope you will consider my offer.

She told me of Lies and that she no longer lives in Belgium, which leaves you at home with your mother and Lotte. I can barely imagine how very hard that Must be on you. I do hope you have enough people who can take care of you, when you put your energy towards your family.

There isn’t much I can do from my position here. But be assured that I already signed the documents to waive my choice of guardianship over Lotte. You mother was strictly clear that that was your preferred arrangement and I am in no position to interfere in your affairs at home. So they should be on their way and at yours rather soon, hopefully in time early next week. Just in case, I attached a pdf scan. Should you need anything else, please do not hestitate to ak.

I also hadn’t forgotten that you turned 18 and unfortunately I haden’t yet congratulated you. I would like to do that now, even if it may seem shallow. But I send you all my best wishes and do genuinly hope that you will find success and love along your way. I am proud that you have the strenght in you to get through such a difficult and exhausting time and I believe with all my heart that you will make it to the other side.

Regarding my mentioned offer:

I want you to be able to persue your goals in life. Surely you must have some dreams about the future you’d like to see come true. It isn’t much, but I am obviously sending money into your mothers, and now your, bank account, for Lotte and yourself since our separation. And if you would allow me to increase the amount by whatever the house or the corresponding insurances may cost, I’d be more than happy to do that. As well as money for university. A good education takes you far in life.

This is not the greatest help of course, I know this. And I hope that you’ll understand that I can’t just leave my work behind, but I am already areaging to go visit Helena in January. I have to see her before I nay no longer have a chance, and she as well asked me to.

If you, for some reason, want to meet me as well, it would make me quite happy to see you too. I understand though if that is out of question for you.

I hope to hear back from you, so we can discuss the reality of help I can provide and anything I may have forgotten to bring up. I didn’t wanted this to get too long.

You’ll find my mobile number in the document as well, but as I said, a signal is a rare occurance.

With kindest regards,

Hendrik

— 

Jens, who had been hunched over his laptop for the better part of the email, leaned back, resting his head against the wall behind them on the bed.

Reading the long message hadn’t helped to clear up any conflicting emotions he had felt since the notification had arrived a couple days ago. Jens had expected the worst and the best simultaneously, and what he actually had received left him uncertain about the right reaction to such a message. Was it anger or gratitude?

„So? What does it say? Is it bad news?“

No it wasn’t really, was it? If it wouldn’t have been for the sporadic contact with his father, and the suddenness of this mail, Jens perhaps would only have a more positive attitude towards it. However it wasn’t that simple unfortunately.

Jens hadn’t told Robbe about the content of the mail or why he hadn’t opened it yet. But when he had announced that it had been his father, Robbe hadn’t asked anything else. Instead he had draped an arm around his back, before putting his attention on his phone, promising not to look. Jens trusted his best friend to keep his word and had thus quickly opened the message. Before he had a chance to change his mind.

That didn’t meant that the boy snuggled to his side wasn’t curious.

„I don’t know. I honestly don’t fucking know. I’m glad to hear from him, but I am so pissed about the way he wrote it. For example: Already four years have passed. It doesn’t feel that long ago. But obviously you may feel different about it.“ Jens read out loud, ending on a heavy sigh. He probably could have just quoted everything but that would be bringing up topics that Jens wasn’t ready to share.

„Or this bullshit of three sentences: I also hadn’t forgotten that you turned 18 and unfortunately I haden’t yet congratulated you. I would like to do that now, even if it may seem shallow. But I send you all my best wishes and do genuinly hope that you will find success and love along your way.“ He continued, almost mockingly, huffing an unamused laugh when he reread parts of the mail. „Like, fuck him. What am I supposed to do with that?“

„Seriously? That’s why he wrote you?“

It was very nice to know that Robbe seemed a little pissed off by it as well. It definitely validated Jens‘s belief, that this was a shitty thing to write given their history.

„No.“ Jens sighed again, this time a little deflated. His eyes darted briefly towards his best friend, feeling rather timid as he contemplated how to formulate his next words.

„I needed a signed document from him for the thing that is stressing me out.“ As if he couldn’t be anymore vague. „And my mom was so kind to get into contact with him first. So he basically just let me know that he send it off and attatched a pdf as well. That’s something I guess.“

„I see.“

Robbe’s second arm sneaked around his stomach, thus wrapping him into a tight embrace, as he rested his head against Jens’s shoulder.

„I think I would have preferred him to just let me know about the document and leave out the whole other stuff.“ Jens replied, leaning his own head into of his best friend’s.

He felt Robbe nodding, while his fingers stroked his back gently in an attempt to comfort his best friend.

„What did Lucas think?“ He asked Jens, receiving a soft snort in return.

„Nothing yet of course. I opened this for the first time here with you, dumbass.“

„Right. Sorry, my bad!“ Robbe shrugged a faint pink on his cheeks, as he instantly realised the his mistake at the same time Jens answered him.

„I think I’m glad that he wrote me. At least I know that he supports me in some way and I‘m not simply indifferent to him. It would have been worse, had I needed to chase him down for weeks to get the documents.“ Jens quietly said and swiftly closed the laptop. He pushed it away from them. Jens would definitely talk to his mom and perhaps let Lucas read the mail later on his own.

Robbe sat silent next to him. 

„He offered to pay for stuff if I needed him to. Don’t ask me why. But it feels shitty. It is good to have, and I may take him up on it. But it is not what I really need.“ I’d rather have him around, back then and now, Jens finished his thought unspoken.

It was the truth something that felt hard to say out loud. He wasn’t unaware of the fact that he close to never spoke about his father. It wasn’t an important part of his life for years now. He wasn’t even sure what people thought about his father, his friends included. He had met them all way after he left. Did they assume he was dead? No one ever had directly asked Jens before. At least he couldn’t remember anyone had before. There were only a couple of pictures that excist in his home that showed him, and they were almost all a decade old.

“If you want my opinion despite only getting the tiniest details from you, I’d tell you to straight up take the money. My father is always a little stingy if I need more for a month. So if your father offers you something, say thank you and accept it. It is the very least he can do for you. Don’t feel bad or sorry about it, as he should do much more for you. Honestly.”

Jens sat up straighter at his best friends words, Robbe following suit as the unwrapped themselves from each other. It definitely sounded like a shitty thing to do, but then so was the offer. Perhaps Jens would just as Robbe had told him. Why not?

“And if you don’t want to spend it on yourself, use it for Lotte or take out your boyfriend or help your mom with the bills. Whatever.” Robbe added and then shuffled of the sofa, as his phone was ringing on the desk calling for his attention.

Jens watched him, not paying much attention to anything but his thoughts and feelings regarding his father. He was glad that he had come to his best friend who simply accepted Jens withholding most of the details and still helping out. He appreciated it so fucking much.

“Alright, we’ll be there in fourty minutes, I think... yea... sure... okay see you then!”

Robbe told the person on the phone, his best friend’s hand reaching for him to pull him rather clumsy off the bed. Jens laughed at the sorry attempt. Robbe just wasn’t strong enough. But he gave in the second the other boy glared at him.

“Come on. Mayo is already on his way and I’m gonna text Aaron. You can bring your laptop and everything, or you can come back here later to get it.”

“Nah, I have to pick up Lotte at seven from her best friend’s place.” Jens replied, getting up while he packed everything as fast as he could around an impatient Robbe, searching for his missing board. As if a whole fucking skateboard could just vanish?

Seriously how did Sander managed to endure this daily?

Jens must have said that last question out loud, because he was hit in the chest, luckily not by the found skateboard, but by one of Robbe’s loose scattered sneakers.

__ __ __ tagged: @odi-et-amo85, @tayspots

[samwrights]

Bricks - Punk!AU [Terushima]

Here is the first chapter of Terushima’s route in Elixir! If you haven’t read the prologue, I’ll leave a link here as well as at the bottom of the chapter’s navigation. Artwork is not mine so if we find the artist, can someone please let me know so I can properly credit them?

Ya know, this is probably least popular post/series on here but I’m in it and I write what I want 🤙🏻

Lyrics are italicized and sang entirely in your voice.

WARNINGS: this kinda fluffy chapter involves cheating, vulgar language, indirect use of marijuana, and cocaine use. There is a brief mention of you getting drugged a party and mild sexual themes as well, but nothing super heavy. Just making out. Please please please do not read if any of these themes make you uncomfortable.

Word count: ~4K

Song used: Brick by Boring Brick - Paramore

A complementary playlist can be found  »  here

“Can we run Brick By Boring Brick one more time? My vocals were kinda meh.” Was your response to Kuroo’s question. The rest of your bandmates look to you in surprise, which you feared that they might since there was nearly no flaws in the song at all. After all, it was a pretty straightforward song with simple beat and melody. “I-I think my notes were just a little flat and my timing’s off, that cool with you guys?” Both of the guitarists looked to each other before turning to face the drummer, who gave a reassuring grin to you.

“If that’s what you wanna work on, baby, then we’ll do it.” You had half a mind to reprimand Terushima about using pet names with you while his girlfriend was present. Not that it necessarily should have raised anybody’s suspicions—more often than not, Teru called everybody by some form of a nickname, whether it be out of affection or because he didn’t know a person’s name was entirely dependent on the situation. In truth, you loved the lyrics to this song more than anything, even more so that the same man you wanted to reprimand was the one who helped inspire you to write it.

It started off with easy power chords and a steady drum beat, until Makki took his place as the steadfast rhythm. The intro takes a few bars of space before you begin your first verse nearly twenty-five seconds in.

She lives in a fairytale

There were many reasons that this song was special to you. For starters, it was one of the few pieces that Elixir had in their repertoire that emphasized and valued the distinct differences between yours and Makki’s vocals. Naturally, you tended to have a higher yet shorter range, whereas Makki was capable of complimenting you in more ways than one.

Another was that, since this was a second song in the set after a taxing song like Besitos, Brick By Boring Brick was much more tame, yet still held an easy feel to it that the audience could weave and bob along at a leisurely pace. It was a crowd pleaser while simultaneously having bits and pieces in which the crowd could engage by clapping along with the beat, which always gave you an additional burst of energy.

Finally, this song truly highlighted the things that Terushima did for the band. This blondie was in charge of setting that pace to fire up the crowd; he was in charge in holding the steady rhythm to keep the four of you in time.

He was the reason you wrote the song.

Not that anyone else in the band knew that the words comprised in the verses were strings of feelings you’d had towards the man in a non-obvious way.

She’s ripping off wings of butterflies.

You smiled as you drawled the line out, staring at the three girlfriends sitting on a couch together not ten feet from you. They were staring back at you as well, not that you could be bothered in the moment. Right now, your focus was on making sure you were hitting the high notes in the right key when you entered the chorus. Considering you wrote the song, it shouldn’t have been hard for you to hit. Then again, you’d been smoking nearly a pack a day for seven years—there were bound to be raspy inconsistencies. After the first chorus, you were granted a moment’s reprieve as Makki scatted a simple line, his soprano contrasting your tenor in all the right ways. And while you loved hearing your bassist sing, you were entranced in the way Teru focused on emphasizing the drum beat, considering you and Kuroo were essentially mute for the brief moment.

Terushima hated the second verse of the song with every fiber of his being, but he loved seeing how joyous you looked when you sang it. He hates it because he knows why you wrote it and he hates because he knows you feel the same way he does.

The first time he cheated on his girlfriend was with you. Or rather, you were the only person he cheated on her with, and the first time it had happened, you were so overrun with guilt that you laid naked in his bed, curled into a ball and sobbed. Yet the two of you couldn’t stop, refused to stop, no matter how much guilt flooded your bodies.

More importantly, he hated the song implied that he was some sort of prince when he lacked the grace of one and the implication that he saved you. He did no such thing—if anything, he destroyed you.

But it was a trick and the clock struck twelve

How Terushima was able to focus on drumming when every time he heard his song, all he could think of were the secret trysts between the two of you, was beyond him. But hearing that line constantly reminded him that your relationship was illusion made of paper thin glass that could be shattered in an instant. Hence the line,

Build your home brick by boring brick or the wolf’s gonna blow it down.

Yūji was thankful that Elixir was home for you because it was home for him too. The bricks that built your guys’ foundation was the many years of friendship and memories together. A lot of them were firsts—the first time you all met; the first time you all hung out outside of work; the first time you all drank together despite being underage; the first time Yūji offered to smoke everyone up and the way you hesitated, never having smoked weed before. He distinctly remembers having to work a bong for you because you couldn’t grasp the concept of the mechanics.

Terushima remembers the first and only time you got drugged at a party in college and he how he had never felt the fear swelling in his body so bad. The same night the four of you vowed that you were done with the party life and how the only people you trusted was the four people holding instruments right now. Sometimes he would use these type of thoughts to ease yours and his guilt for his infidelity when, in reality, Terushima really just didn’t know how to tell her he didn’t want to be with her. Minami meant well, that much he knew. She wanted to see him succeed in life, as opposed to the way he was wasting away in his mom’s basement while playing in a band with his high school best friends. According to her, Terushima was destined for something greater than the way his life was going, but he also was too pathetic to do anything about it. She’d told him once he would never go anywhere if he didn’t try to push himself.

You built up a world of magic, because your real life is tragic.

The only way that Terushima felt that he was destined for something greater was when he was with you buried and twisted up in the sheets of your apartment. Naked or not, there was no better feeling for him than when he got to lay beside you, reassuring you that he was going to leave Minami one day. But you weren’t stupid, and you swore that it was better for the group if you two remained incognito. Your delusions convinced you that Kuroo and Makki would be more upset to know that the two of you were fucking behind each other’s back, as opposed to respecting the “homeostasis of the group”, as Kuroo called it. Deep down, you knew and Teru knew that the others would be so happy to finally see you both stop embarrassingly trying to bottle your feelings because man you guys flooded rooms with sexual tension.

If it’s not real, you can’t hold it in your hand.

Yūji Terushima loved many things about you. He loved your passion for life, the vivacious nature you brought to everything you did, how you made dirty words sound like praise and compliments and not just when you sang. However, he could live without you singing songs that had constant digs at him and you and your guys’ shitty situation, but even then, he could listen to you forever. Even if there were times he could see the veins in your neck begin to protrude in efforts to try to raise your pitch, Teru swore you were an angel. Even if you would lean your head on Makki while the two of you closed out the song in harmony, he knew the feelings you had for Makki were different than what you felt for him. You were special to him and he was special to you.

“Satisfied, princess?” The drummer asks you, not even remotely out of breath after the track. You gave a roll of your eyes before grabbing another beer from the mini-fridge just to the side of the stairs, making sure to hand one to each of your mates. By the second turn around, you noticed that the couch was now vacant and Terushima was excusing himself, plucking the tall can from your hands. “Just gonna walk ‘em out real quick, be right back.” It takes everything in him in that moment not to reach over and peck your lips, like he’s not saying his goodbye to his actual girlfriend for the evening.

“So, did that sound better or—“ while your question was technically finished, the remaining bandmates stared at you knowingly. You were thankful all the girlfriends left. “What?”

“Don’t think we didn’t see that.” Kuroo muses. Everyone in the band knew, to some degree, that you liked Terushima. It was so painstakingly obvious, yet you chose to live in denial that you would ever have him. Even though the mutual pining between the two of you had gone on for years, you were adamant on remaining neutral and keeping the friend group together until Terushima had finally given up on you.

Well, he did give up on you, until the first time he had laid victim to the verbal assault, for lack of better term, to Minami’s insults. She knew how to play him better than he did his drums, knew that to keep him hooked she just had to sit there and stroke his fragile ego and tell him he was the most amazing person in the world. That Terushima was worthy of all the love and praise she showered him in, before she would follow it with knocking him back down to size. The first time he heard it three months ago, he had spiraled so hard that nobody was even in contact with him for a week. Every day for seven days, Terushima was so far gone, blowing through his monthly supply of weed and tapping into his emergency stash of edibles. So far gone with nothing to numb him except for dabbling with blow, hoping the high of cocaine would soothe his need for constant reaffirmation.

Spoiler alert—it didn’t.

“You saw nothing.” You bit back, glaring at the two men before you before taking a gracious glug of your ale to quell your embarrassment.

“We aren’t stupid, babe.” Makki chimes, setting down his guitar and leaning on his amp to stare at you. “Why are you guys even putting yourselves through this? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Let me humor you, Makki,” your voice is dry, and contrarily humorless as you sit on top of a spare stool that Kuroo kept nearby for when he had to switch to acoustic guitar. “Say we date and everything’s all happy and shit, hooray! But then it’s like we leave you guys behind. I would never forgive myself for that.”

“[name], we would never let you leave us behind.” Kuroo blanches in rebuttal.

“Okay, but what if we have to end things and it gets messy? You’ve seen how I can get.” The latter leaves your lips bitterly, knowing full well that when you were mad, there was no object off limits to you and they would inevitably be broken and thrown. “It’s just not worth throwing away our ten plus years of friendship.”

“I’m not worth it, huh?” Teru announces as he walks back down the basement stairs, face sullen as he heard every word of the conversation. Seeing his own grave expression cracks your heart like concrete in an earthquake.

“T-Teru, no...”

“Everyone get the fuck out.” Sensing the volatility of the situation, Hanamaki and Kuroo remove their instruments cautiously, fearing that the slightest upset would unleash the kraken of Terushima’s bitter rage. Gathering their belongings, the two men began to trickle out, stopping when they realized you’d yet to move. They glanced at each other in worry, unsure of whether or not they needed to drag you out of the basement or stay to back you up for an inevitable argument. Their decision was made for them when Terushima repeated, “get the fuck out!”

“No.” Sometimes, everyone hated how stubborn you were, especially Kuroo and Makki. Everyone hated how stubborn you both were.

“[name], please try to get this shit together. We have a show tomorrow for fuck’s sake.” The raven haired guitarist mumbled in defeat before thudding up the steps with Makki in tow, leaving you in the basement and Terushima halfway down the steps.

“I meant you too.” The blonde bites out, contradicting his movements as he descended down the stairs further. You don’t move, watching him cautiously as he pulls off a small panel of the wooden walls of the basement. “I mean it, [name],” all humor and sunshine has dried from his vocal chords as he says your name, something he does not do enough of. “Go. I-I can’t look at you right now.” Still, you remain, watching in wonder as begins cutting up a small rock on a silver tray near his drum kit, pulling out a bill and rolling it tightly.

“I thought you quit.” You say quietly, unsure of whether or not you should approach him.

“How can I?” Terushima’s voice is bitter and sharp, his statement accentuated with the sound of him snorting the line he had out on the tray. You could tell from his movements alone that he needed to adjust his nose ring after doing so. “Takes me to the only place where everything’s okay.”

“How is any of this okay, Yūji?”

“Don’t fucking call me that!” The blonde snaps, whipping his body around with a feral look in his eye. Out of context, it would have been stupid to say that considering all you said was his name. But you knew what it did to him to hear you say it, to not call him by his last name as you have for ten plus years; for you to not call him by the nickname that only you used. “You lost the right when you said I wasn’t worth it.”

“Yūji, I didn’t say that.” By now, your voice is pleading, begging for him to hear you out. As he stomps towards you, you expect him to grab you, either out of anger or love didn’t matter, you welcomed both. But instead he breezes right by you to sit on the couch where Minami once sat and buried his face in his hands. Hesitantly, you sat beside him, his silent cries coaxing you to approach. Terushima was shaking, the clothes on his back trembling as he mutely wracked sobs. “All I said is that I’m fucking terrified of throwing away everything we built for the last ten years.”

“Why can’t we just keep building?”

“Teru, you made that choice and I don’t blame you for it.” You shifted slightly beside him to face him despite his face still being covered. He meant it when he said he couldn’t look at you right now—he couldn’t stand to stare at you knowing he wouldn’t find judgment or anger like when he faced Minami. Every time he looked at you, he saw nothing but love and trust and he couldn’t help but be overrun with guilt over making the stupid decision to date Minami in the first place. “I made that choice, too.”

“I thought having her around would help me get over you.” A small, sympathetic hum vibrated between your tightly pursed lips. “I’m still hoping she does.” You know there’s truth to his words—there is. But even with that portion of honesty didn’t change the fact that he routinely cheated on his girlfriend with you and you can’t help but wonder how all of this happened in the first place and why you kept going along with it. There was no use in wondering, not when you had all the answers. Not when you knew the first time it had happened, he was so overrun with insecurities than Minami created and that you loved him so much that you couldn’t stand to see him talk about how much he hated himself. If infidelity was what was needed for him to see himself the way you see him, then so be it.

You needed him to see himself as the light that brought and kept the four of you together—kept you together. As the person that protected you at university after someone drugged your drink when nobody was looking. As the person who valued your safety more than he loved his freedom and proved it by getting everyone to put their party phase to rest. As the beautiful man that he was, even with scars that littered his face from old, retired piercings he had taken out because he thought they made him look stupid. You missed his lip rings.

You loved him so much that you couldn’t risk a sour relationship ruining your friendship with him forever. “Yūji, you know that I return your feelings...” With extreme carefulness, you pry Terushima’s hands away from his face and cradle them in your own. “You also know what I’m afraid of.”

“You can’t keep hiding behind that fucking excuse.” He snarls, his blown out pupils finally turning to face you. The harrowing of his eyes was daunting, taunting you with guilt that you were some how responsible for his dependency on cocaine. “Our friendship was ruined a long time ago.”

“You can’t keep a back up plan,” you countered, “either we face this together or we call it off.” As the words left your mouth, tears began to quietly roll down your cheeks, speaking your ultimatum into existence. You’d had enough. No more seeing your sunshine bury who he used to be under bumps; no more covering up his stupid amateur basement tattoos with hoodies and jeans because Minami didn’t like them; no more pretending that he was over you just to crawl into your lap after a bad high and kiss you. You couldn’t take it anymore, but neither could he.

With urgency and fire, Terushima’s trembling hands cup your cheeks, holding you in place like you would disappear if he hadn’t. Surely, had your lips not softened the blow, your teeth would have clacked with his from sheer force. Needing no further assurances, your eyes squeezed shut, basking in the warmth that radiated off of him. The stud in his tongue ran along your lower lip, asking for permission he knew he didn’t need before the muscle and metal traced along every surface in your mouth. Your fingers twisted and tangled at the base of his grown out undercut, trying to pull him impossibly close to you, trying to fuse his body with yours. “We face this together.” The blonde pants out, only taking a moment to recollect his oxygen before he’s on you once again. Clumsy, tattooed hands are tugging at the hem of your shirt while yours are unceremoniously clawing at his zip up hoodie to get it off of him. When both of you are faced with the need to pull cloth off of your torso, your hands press delicately to his inked chest, stopping him from professing.

“I love you.” You remind him softly, wondering how many times someone else had been underneath him, saying the same thing. Terushima doesn’t say anything in reply, instead latching his lips on the thin, sensitive skin on your neck. “Yūji, listen to me for a second.”

“No.” There was a fearful twinge to his voice that he could no longer mask. Fear that if the two of you stopped what you were doing, it would never happen again; fear that this wasn’t happening and he was too high and that he was imagining it all. It happened to him enough times. Knowing that he liked to be treated rough, your fingers thread through his matted locks once again, though this stop not out of pleasure.

“Listen to me,” you repeated, now scooting up a bit to rest on your elbows to keep you suspended. “I love you. And no matter what happens, I will always love you.”

His voice trembles, along with every bone in his body, as Terushima responds. “Please, you’re making this sound like this is the last time...” It broke your heart in more ways than one. Because, in a sense, it would be the last time. Only if the two of you couldn’t dive in together, only if he couldn’t end the relationship that was slowly tearing him apart from the inside out. “I promise, it’s you and me.” He’s far from calm, but he stills has your fingers trace down his sweaty brow, following down to the single dermal stud below his eye before dancing along his nose hoop. Knowing your path, Teru sticks his tongue out, allowing the tips of your fingers to trace the barbell that typically rested in his mouth. It’s an oddly intimate act, one that was only ever done by you, but it’s an act he loves nonetheless because it’s done by you. But while you love touching him, you know what he needs more than anything.

He needs to hear it.

“I’ve always loved the way you looked.” Your words of praise start off slow and your fingers gingerly graze over where the studs in his lips once resided. “I waited those two extra years for because I didn’t wanna move on to a new chapter in my life without you.” Terushima groans at the admission, unsure if he wanted to cry or kiss you in response. “It breaks my heart to see Minami treat you like you’re less than you are, because you are my sunshine. You bring light into everything you do and I can’t help but wonder if it’s my fault that she’s in the picture at all.”

Cry, he decides finally, because your words hurt him in the most sensual way.

“It’s my fault. I ran away, thinking if I just fucked someone else I would get over you.” Shit, now he’s blaming himself and the two of you are back at square one.

“No, Teru. It’s my fault for being chickenshit.” He doesn’t wanna hear it anymore, he decides, bringing his bruised and swollen lips back to yours. It doesn’t matter who’s fault it was or is, all that matters is that you stick true to your word. That after Minami’s out of the picture, the two of you hang on to each other tightly and dive headfirst into this new territory. “I love you so much and I’m so fucking sorry for ever holding back.”

“So don’t hold back anymore.”

[ Elixir « Bricks » Love Bites ]

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[madleeindifferent]

Have Mercy On Me

Title : Mercy (Part One)

Pairing : Dean X Reader, slow burn

Word Count : 3632

Prompt : You have always had an unusual gift of foresight that has helped you become one of the best hunters in the region. When you started working with the Winchester’s everything was smooth sailing. Until you started catching a few feelings for the oldest brother and now, as new nightmares are haunting you day and night, you wonder if this is a sign or a warning of what is to come.

AN: sorry I’ve been inactive for a while, I’ve been writing for other things and this blog took a backseat. Anyway, here’s something to celebrate Halloween and spoopy season and *sobs* the end of supernatural. It’s inspired by the conjuring 2 so check out this scary scene to see where I pulled from if you dareeeee😈 lots of love to y’all! Hopefully this will be a pretty long, slow burn kind of series. Carry on my wayward sons and daughters!

You ran through the rain, your hair plastered to your face, your gun in your hand, as the wind tore at your skin. Your boots slipped in the mud and you caught yourself on one knee, scuffing it up and stumbling back to your feet without missing a beat.

“Help!” You heard the little girl scream again and it made you run faster.

I am coming! You wanted to shout it, but you were so close that you didn’t have the energy to waste on a word. You squinted through the rain and saw the dark shape disappear in the rain in front of you, hurrying down the muddy path that led toward the towering dark mansion on the hill.

“Help me!”

“No!” You took off down the path, your heart hammering and your lungs screaming for air as you ran as hard as you could.

“Y/N! Wait!” You heard the voices behind you but you didn’t slow down.

You burst through the front door with a grunt and the instant you were out of the rain you could hardly see. You raised your gun, the dark surrounding you.

“I know you are here!” You shouted, your voice echoing in the mansions dark halls. The creature was here, you knew it, you could feel it, dark and heavy in the silence. And all you could think was that you had to save the little girl.

You pushed your wet hair out of your face and took a step deeper into the dark.

“Y/N…”

You whipped to the side as the dark, raspy voice echoed in the dark beside you. “I see you...I know what you are afraid of…”

You whipped around the corner just as a black, clawed hand reached out and snatched you by the throat. You let out the start of a scream, but the sound was cut off when the hand closed your windpipe. You let out a grunt as the shadowy figure lifted you feet off the ground, your boots dangling uselessly. Your hands flew up to grab the wrists, clawing frantically but the skin was hot as coals against your fingertips. You whimpered in panic as the figure leaned close, too dark for you to see anything except for those two silver orbs of eyes inches in front of your own, unearthly and focused on your soul.

“I know what you fear the most…Y/N.”

You struggled in the grip of the monster as it turned your head to the side. For a moment, you had no idea what you were looking at, and then you saw a tall figure step out of the shadows. It took you a moment to recognise the broad shoulders and bow-legs in the dark. “D-Dean?” You ground out, your voice nothing more than a whisper.

Dean looked up, and the tiniest glow of light touched his face, lighting his green eyes. They were locked on you, teary and sincere. “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“Dean!” You clawed at the hand around your throat, kicking and coughing in desperation, struggling to get away.

“Y/N...”You felt the hot rancid breath of the creature on your face as you could only watch helplessly as Dean was thrown backwards into the dark with a soft thud. “Dean!” THe next moment you heard the rip of flesh and fabric as his entire body was torn down the middle by a huge, unseen spire.

“No!”

“Y/N!”

You woke up with a jolt, swinging a fist upward as hard as you could until it connected with something solid above you.

“Ow! Son of a BITCH!”

You felt a huge weight leave your body and you looked up in the dark to see a huge shape fall off the end of your bed. You lurched for the light at the side of your bed and flipped it on with a gasp. Dean let out a hiss of pain, holding his nose with one hand as he blinked up at you against the light.

“Dean? What the hell?!”

“What?!” He shot back just as loudly, jumping to his feet beside your bed, still touching his nose delicately. “You punched me in the face!”

Instantly you felt a wave of guilt and relief simultaneously wash over you. “Whoops.” You grabbed your hand and felt the throb in your knuckles. “Sorry.”

“Damn, Y/N…” Dean stood next to you and checked to see if his nose was bleeding.

“Maybe you shouldn’t shake me awake next time.” You snapped, climbing out of bed.

Dean let out a grumble, sitting next to you on the bed. “What was I supposed to do, let you lay there and cry in your sleep?”

You flushed and grabbed a drink from the faucet in the bathroom of the shitty motel you were staying in, trying to calm yourself. You glanced up at your reflection in the dirty mirror. You had to admit, you normally weren’t a huge fan of your appearance, but after the week and a half you and the boys had gone through with that Wendigo hunt, you looked even worse than usual, dark rings under your eyes, a line of healing scratches on your forehead and cheek and two long bruises on your throat where the monster had grabbed you.

“Hey…” You blinked up at Dean’s soft voice, as he stepped behind you out of the dark, his green eyes intent on yours in the mirror. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah…” You let out a sorry excuse for a laugh, your smile tired. “It was just a dream.”

Dean kept looking at you, coming up behind you until he was close enough for you to feel the heat of his body behind you. You swallowed hard and looked away splashing water onto your face to move your attention away from how tall he loomed over you in the bathroom, his breathing soft and steady behind you.

“Want to talk about it?”

You let out a soft breath, ready to shake off his compassion. He always was so quick to be at your side when you faced even the smallest inconvenience, and if you were honest, nightmares were not a stranger to either of you. He was your best friend after all, so it was not out of the ordinary for the two of you to sit awake on some nights with the lights on just to keep each other company and forget about the terrors of the night.

“Where’s Sam?” You asked, changing the topic.

You and the boys had a deal that you would switch off whoever had to share the bed every night out on a hunt. You and Dean had been the unlucky ones this time, but you did notice that the other bed was completely empty. Well, if you would call it unlucky. In fact, a part of you loved sleeping next to Dean. God knows it was the closest you ever would get to him.

The number of nights you would lie awake next to him, staring at the ceiling until you heard his soft snores fill the room next to you were too numerous to count. But you always loved how warm and safe you felt with him just inches away from you. Some nights you’d even turn in the middle of the night and just stare at him. He always looked so tense and angry when he was awake, but when he slept, all those angry thin lines carved into his brow would disappear and he’d even smile a tiny bit, completely relaxed in his sleep. It was a side of Dean that most people would never see.

“He went out for a jog. I guess he’s still a little on edge from that hunt.”

“We all are…” You sighed, running a hand through your sleep-battered hair. “What time is it?”

“Almost 8.”

“Jeez it’s late.” You turned to him with a tired smile. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Because, you have a tendency to punch people in the face when they try.” Dean scoffed coming a few steps closer to stand next to you and examine himself in the mirror beside you. His hip bumped yours and you flushed, looking up at the two figures in your mirror.

Damn, how could one person be so attractive at all times? His hair was standing up at every angle from sleep and he had a long gash across his forehead and a bruise on his jaw but he still looked like he belonged on a JamesBond movie set. Your eyes flickered between the two of you and you felt yourself deflate at how the pair of you didn’t look like you belonged together. Different leagues.

You sighed and turned to him with a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry, okay? Let me see.”

Dean smirked as you turned and took his face in your hands and examined his nose delicately. He let out a tiny puff of a breath as your fingers ran lightly over the bruise on his jaw. “Sorry.”

You mumbled, and he stilled under your touch, his breathing slowing. You tsked softly and let him go. “You’re fine.”

“You aren’t too bad yourself.” Dean grinned widely at you and you rolled your eyes.

“Funny.” You hummed turning back to the sink to pull your hair up into a messy bun.

Dean chuckled and then you saw his eyes flicker up to yours in the mirror. “Are you alright?”

You looked down at your hand. “I mean my knuckles hurt a bit but--”

“I mean about your dream.”

You hesitated and took a deep breath. Dean was quick to take your dreams seriously. Both of the brothers were to be honest, too many of your dreams had been premonitions of the future for them to ignore any. You used to believe you were a bit of a prophet, but now you just thought that your dreams were a way of discerning spirits. It was one of the gifts you had that made hunting with the boys easier.

“I…” You turned and looked at Dean for a moment, and the vision you had of him, run through by a huge spike ran through your mind, sending chills down your spine. “I think we need to take a break.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What did you see?”

You almost said it, “I saw you die,” but at the last moment you shook your head. There was no need to scare him, especially since you had just wrapped up an entire week-long hunt. “I just think we need to stop hunting, just for a little bit. I can’t sleep anymore.”

Dean’s face changed, his features softening. “Okay. I think I can talk Sam into a mini vacation.”

You cast him a tired smile. “Really?”

Dean narrowed his eyes for a moment. “Well, actually, you should tell him, he’s more likely to listen to you.”

You let out a soft laugh and you felt your heart tug at how your voice still shook a little too much. Damn nightmares…

“Hey, come here.”

You looked up to see Dean opening his arms to you, his green eyes soft. You let out a soft breath and stepped into his chest, holding him tight. As you buried your nose against his chest, he wrapped his arms around you,breathing into your hair. You listened to the sound of his heart beating in his chest.

“It’s alright.” Was all he said, and it was enough. You closed your eyes and just stood there, holding each other in the dark of the room..

“I don’t know why…” You murmured softly, “But I am scared.”

“Of what?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know. I just have a bad feeling that something is going to happen and…” You shook your head. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll lose you and Sam.” Your voice came out more strangled than you anticipated and you had to swallow hard to just keep yourself from crying.

“Hey now, come on…” Dean’s fingers moved and you felt them under your jaw tilting your head up so you had to look up at him. He gave you a sweet smile, an expression that he reserved only for you. “Sam and I can take care of ourselves.”

You blinked up at him, unable to speak. “You’re my best friend, Dean.”

“You’re mine too, sweetheart.” Dean’s smile softened and his eyes flickered over your face. “We’ve got each other. Nothing’s ever gonna change that.”

You didn’t mean to, but your lips fell open in a soft sigh of relief. He was right. You had each other. Always, and no force of heaven or hell could take that away.

You looked up into his eyes, green pools of warmth that you could float inside of for all of eternity if he let you.

Suddenly you felt how close you were, where his hand was resting on the curve of your hip and your heartbeat jumped into your throat. He was so close that you could smell the scent of his aftershave mixing with the mint of his toothpaste. You hoped he couldn’t see you blush.

Dean’s gaze flickered, and for a moment you thought rested on your lips. Your heart was beating so loud you were sure he could hear it. He was so close but you couldn’t help it...you wanted him closer still. You felt yourself leaning forward just a tiny bit, his fingertips tracing the skin of your jawline, coming up close to your lips. Your heart was beating so fast that you could barely breathe as you felt pulled closer and closer into his warm chest, his fingers spreading across your back, pulling you towards him as your eyes flickered closed.

“Hey guys!” The sound of the door swinging open made you jump in surprise, almost helping out loud.

Dean pulled back, rolling his eyes so hard that his head literally whipped around at his younger brother as he stood in the doorway. “Come on, Sammy. You gotta be kidding me!” Dean grunted, scooting a few inches away from you on the bed. You chuckled to yourself, struggling to calm your thundering heart as the blush slowly worked its way off your face.

Thank God for Sammy, always bursting in at just the right time before you could say or do anything you might regret. You tucked a strand of hair back behind your ear as you looked back up at Sam, who just quirked his eyebrows at the two of you.

“Am I interrupting something?” Sam shot at his brother. He didn’t even flinch as Dean crumpled up his paper cup from the side table and tossed it at Sam’s head, missing by a few inches before it bounced off the back wall. “Mature.”

You almost laughed too loud at Sam’s question. You and Dean had always only been just friends. Now, there was a certain level of sexual tension, you had to admit, but that was because he was Dean Winchester. The man just oozed sex. The fact that you flirted every once in a while had nothing to do with the fact that you secretly adored him; it was just because you were a woman and he was Dean. Everyone had that same spark with him. The only difference was that you had been traveling together for almost a year now, hunting with the boys had become a regular part of your life. You may just be one of the billions of women attracted to Dean, but you were the only one who could say that he was your best friend.

“What’s up, Sam?” You asked, sitting up and pulling your hair into a messy bun,

“Well…” Sam sat on the end of your bed between you and Dean with his laptop open and you heard Dean grumble out loud as his brother bumped his shoulder.

“Sammy, I swear to god, if you are about to send us on another hunt I am gonna punch you in the eye.”

Sam let out a sigh and cast you a quick glance. You attempted a small smile but you had to admit you were glad Dean had jumped the gun on this one. He did take your concern to heart you had to give him credit.

“Look, I know we’re all tired…”

“Good, end of discussion.” Dean got up and sauntered to the duffle bag he had tossed to the corner of the hotel room and dug out your shared bottle of Tennessee Honey.

You and Sam watched him sulk away before you cast a quick look at Sam’s laptop. “What did you find?”

Sam gave you a sympathetic smile and you snuggled closer to him, reading over his shoulder. “It may be nothing, but I wanted to run this by you.” He turned the laptop toward you and you narrowed your eyes at the flashing headline.

“Woah…”

“Yeah. The media is all over this case.”

You looked at the report. “Ghost Terrorizes Family in Old Farmhouse.”

“Pfft.” Beside you, Dean flopped down with a groan of annoyance on the other bed, taking a quick swig of the whiskey. “Look, if they’re writing newspaper articles about it, then its not a real ghost.”

“But, get this.” You read the bold words on the laptop before Sam scrolled down and clicked a link.

At first it was a silent recording. Then an adult man spoke. “Is anybody there who wishes to communicate?”

You sat quietly next to Sam as the recording bussed quietly for a moment. Dean took another drink, uninterested. Suddenly the voice spoke again, “Jane, are you alright?”

There was a soft growl, like an animal growing agitated and then a soft voice, the voice of an old man came out of the silence, raspy and cold. “Jane’s not here right now. She’s asleep and I am talking.”

The voice sounded like a creature that had crawled out of a grave and still had gravel stuck in his throat.

You heard the reporter clear his throat uncomfortably. “What is your name then?”

“You…” The sickly old man voice spat out soft and slow, “don’t belong here.”

“What is your name?” The reporter asked, his own voice quaking a bit. You narrowed your eyes at the sound of discomfort in the man’s voice. “My name is Edward Bla--”

“Eddie Blake.” The old voice rasped out, cutting the reporter off with a savage chuckle. “I know who you are.”

“Well, then what do we call you?” Edward Blake asked, his voice quiet.

“Get out of my house!” The old man’s voice suddenly shouted.

It made you flinch and Dean turned on his own bed, shooting you both a confused look. He squinted up his lips and shook his head, “Touchy old shit, am I right?” He shot you a dorky smile, waiting for you to laugh but you just rolled your eyes.

“What is your name?” The reporter asked.

There was silence for a moment, and then, “Knock knock.”

“Very well, who’s there?”

“Bill...Bill...BILL.”

“Bill who?”

You and the boys sat very quiet, the recording was still except for static air. “My name is Bill Wilkens. And I am seventy-two years old.”

The recording cut off after that and Sam sat back.

“He sounds so confused.” You mumbled. “Is he senile?”

“Who do you think was speaking in that recording?” Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know, a delirious old man? Gollum maybe.”

“That voice was coming out of an eleven year old girl...”

You looked up instantly, your heart stuttering in your chest. Something about that sent chills down your spine. You glanced over to Dean but he was staring at the floor, thinking.

“Apparently, they tried to get the church involved and a priest was sent to urgent care. After that the case became a media frenzy. ”

You raised a hand to your lips in shock.

Dean let out a soft sigh. “What do you want us to do, Sam?”

Sam let out a soft sigh before he cast his brother a sympathetic glance. “Look, I don’t think it's anything. I think it’s just a publicity stunt, the local papers are all over it, the house is basically a tourist trap. But, I think we should just check it out, just to be safe.”

“Sam, it really doesn’t sound like anything but a good ventriloquist act.” You mumbled softly.

“I thought so at first. But the thing is, this mother...she called Jody.”

That made all of you stop. Dean sat up a little straighter. Sam shrugged, “Apparently they are looking for help and she did some digging and heard of us.”

“That’s impossible.” Dean snorted. “No one’s ever heard of us.” He said, pointing between the three of you.

“Jody said we better check this case out. Despite what the papers are writing about, this family is really scared.”

You shot Dean a quick look. He was already staring at you. Part of you already knew that your argument from the morning didn’t stand a chance. You and the boys were never ones to shy away from a family in need, despite how scared you were deep down.

You let out a soft breath. “When should we head out?”

You saw Dean stare at you but you didn’t look at him.

Sam shrugged and handed his laptop to Dean so that the older brother could scroll through the article. “Look, it’s probably nothing, but I just think we should give it a quick sweep through. Just to be sure. If it’s nothing we’ll turn around and go straight back to the bunker. But if it’s not...then there is a family out there who desperately needs our help.”

End of part one

[bigskydreaming]

kai06leaf replied to your post:

Ended up all night, with sleep derailed by a RUDE...

Um I had asked for a link for your batman related works?:)

Oh score, this is actually weirdly timely then! FlashinthePan is my Batfam pseudonym (https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashInThePan/works), its just it hasn’t been useful for much other than to use my bookmarks page there as a fics rec list. Since the only other things still up on it are the YJ WIP I haven’t updated in a couple years and an elephant’s graveyard collection for the random ficlets I often write on here while forgetting they’re usually long enough to be actual one-shots...and that I then forget to actually add to that one, that I created for the specific purpose of putting all those in one place. My mind. Its just....*staggers at the Legend of it all*

I’ve been on a pretty committed “No more posting unfinished WIPs kick” for the past couple years but am finally at a point where I have stuff to post without cheating, so that streak officially ends today, when I finish my read-through of the first fic* in question and hit publish. “The Requiem Rites of Robins,” the ten chapter first story in an AU Battle For the Cowl fix-it series, “A Legacy of Robins,” with TRRoR being roughly 40K, focuses on Dick and Jason and their issues with each other and Bruce’s believed death, picking up and going AU at an indeterminate time not long after the end of BFTC. 

Specific goals of focus with this particular fic were addressing Bruce’s bullshit last will and testament to Jason (ugh), the eternally unremarked upon moment that was Dick watching his brother refuse to take his hand and instead fall to what at the time must have seemed very likely to be Jason’s second death, in a pretty fucked up parallel to his parents’ death (ugh), various other unaddressed issues between the brothers that kept them making like they were Cain and Abel instead of two people who loved each other and very much could use each other while grieving for their father or even just pretending they weren’t....and also steadfastly jumping their combined train of events well off the tracks before Morrison’s whole...”Jason” thing ever happened at all (ugh).

Just a headsup for readers for whom certain characterizations of Bruce are a dealbreaker - full disclosure, this fic and its sequels do consider various less pleasant moments between Bruce and his two eldest to be in character and canon, with NTT #55 and the ending to UTRH the most touched upon and relevant. For what its worth, my intention there (and hopefully my execution of things) was not to vilify or bash Bruce, or to make it at all a question of whether or not both really loved Bruce and he them. 

To be clear...I do categorize Bruce’s actions towards Dick and Jason at those times/specific others as abusive, but a huge part of my reason for even writing this particular fic was to explore and examine the reality of loving a parent even despite a history of actually abusive behavior on their parts. Of how to mourn for someone you loved at some times and hated at others, who was both the person who made you feel whole again and the one who made you at other times feel the most broken. 

Especially when you’re two people who pride themselves on being heroes, who are ‘supposed to know’ that there’s no defense, no excuse for some of the things their father did, but that doesn’t always change or erase how much they want to. And who are both looking for an answer in the other, as to how they’re supposed to live with the fact that deep down, there’s a part of them that will always still be those ten and twelve year old orphan boys who came to believe their father was a man who could literally do the impossible...even mend what was broken, make things right with them and the world as they knew it just like he’d managed once before, when he’d first come into their lives and they’d been just as certain then that there were no more happy moments in their futures at all. 

And with the both of them still, even after everything, having held onto that secret hope that someday he was going to find the secret loophole, the magic words that let them forgive him, that let them let the past all just be in the past and the future all that really mattered, that their best days as a family weren’t all behind them yet and there was still time for things to be different, for him to be different....because their dad wasn’t like other ordinary dads, their dad was the Batman, he was a superhero.....

....who was also still just a man, and sometimes men die with their most important deeds still left incomplete.

This first story is centered firmly on just Dick and Jason, because I have a tendency to let things get too widespread and expansive plot-wise the more characters I focus on, and because this first story, about mourning Bruce and finding a way to move on, needed to be just Dick and Jason, although Cass and Tim and Damian, as well as Steph and Babs and Alfred all have things in the wake of his believed death that IMO they needed explored, and that were never explored in canon. But Dick and Jason had to be the first two and a solo act except for each other, especially as this series is still geared towards Bruce’s eventual return, and just to a much different status quo....because the thing about Dick and Jason at this specific point in time, is that they were quite possibly the only two people in the world who would ever have the relationship with Bruce that they did, to see him the way they both at times did, and nobody else ever fully grasped. 

They knew him at his highest and his lowest points, the best parts of him and the worst, the center of their whole universes and the destroyer of them....and for them, at this place and time, its about being forced to realize that for as much as come between them over the years, they each are the only ones who will ever fully be able to speak to the entirety of their father as not just Bruce Wayne, the Batman, the myth and the legend, but Bruce the man, the flawed father who was supposed to be better than his worst mistakes with them, because he was supposed to be a hero. 

Even as close as others were to Bruce, there were specific slants to the light they saw him in....for Alfred, even when making his worst mistakes, he was still his son, for Cass he was still the father who fought her personal demon not because of what he wanted her to be but so that she could be who she wanted to be, for Tim, he was imperfect but still larger than life, the hero he’d still first only come to know through the lens of a camera from a great distance, a perspective he’d yet to entirely shake, and for Damian he was still largely a figure of make believe, a bed time story he’d been told all his life. 

There’s an inherent goodness, a nobleness around the idea of Bruce for most others in his life, that defies coming face to face with the realities his failings could be.....which only Dick and Jason could ultimately attest to, as losing the ability to keep sight of that innate shine was why they’d found themselves so disillusioned by their father at the lowest points between them. And so in a lot of ways, the ultimate goal of writing this fic was trying to get Dick and Jason to a point where they could share their full, messy, complicated as hell feelings about their father with each other, but simultaneously feel a need to preserve the way each of their siblings still saw him, because the truth is that if there’d been someone who could have preserved that shine for their own eyes, to keep their memories of him clear and unobstructed by complication....they would have been glad to have been left just missing Bruce their father, and not the mess of feelings forever tied up in a Gordian knot upon by his death.

So yeah. LOL. That’s the link to my Batfam works, though there hasn’t been much on their for ages, but stay tuned for Chapter One of The Requiem Rites of Robins, later today.

“In the wild, a group of robins is called a round. But Gotham’s birds have always been of a different sort, something entirely unique. And the only proper plural for them, I’ve found, is a legacy.”

An investigation leads the newly minted Batman to London, alone and without Robin’s back-up for the trip. In the past couple months, Dick Grayson has barely found time to breathe, let alone to grieve for his father and come to terms with his new role as the Dark Knight’s successor. But his distracted state leaves him vulnerable, and when a new villain’s one-man war threatens to make a casualty of him too, he’s left with no alternative but to work side by side with his rescuer - at other times better known as his brother, his successor, and a couple times his would-be killer.

(Their family always has been one of over-achievers. And if you’re going to pick a pair of brothers to play compare and contrast against with that in mind, its hard to go wrong with something biblical.)

But Dick seeming no more happy about it than he is, doesn’t do much to pick up Jason’s mood. He’s come to London for his own reasons, and no, he’s still not inclined to share. Curiosity killed the cat, but he’s sure Selina wouldn’t mind if innate nosiness knocked off a few birds here and there as well. Well-earned paranoia aside, however, secrets and cynicism can only carry them so far when the two are forced to rely on each other to fight their way free of a city turned death-trap. Both are keenly aware that the last time they’d fought side by side like this, they’d been all the way back on the other side of Jason’s first untimely death. And as far as potential omens go, that one’s about as shitty as they come.

But a mixed curse and blessing are nothing new for them, and so that’s not just a painful reminder, but also proof that things were different once. That the brothers they’ve become were not always the brothers they were supposed to be. It was time and pain and bloody loss that weighed them both down so much further than the altitudes that came most naturally....not fate, or destiny, or even them. And as their new enemy forces them deeper and deeper below ground, it becomes all the more clear there’s only one skill in either of the brothers’ arsenals that will see them through to the other side of all this: 

And only if they can not just remember, but rediscover, how to shed all of that and finally fly free again.

[lilacmuffins]

I just slept for hours (since like, 7ish?), didn't eat and now I feel super sick from all the candy I ate. No one decided to wake me up, but I guess it's because I hate what we were having anyways.

In other news, I'm so concerned about someone that it's literally affecting my mental health now. I say now but it's been a bit. Because of course we need that in quarantine. I've known her for years and watching this happen is just like. Every time I see something from her I get either so fucking sad or super angry (at myself and everyone else but not her-). I just can't do it anymore, man.

I cried last night because my parents couldn't find eggs to dye, which was the one thing I was looking forward to. I sat curled up in the bathroom for 10 minutes crying, and then I went downstairs talked to my parents for a bit. When I came to bed I felt better but I started listening to music and every song reminded me of everything bad and how awful I felt about everything. I've cried a lot during this stay-at-home period. This is the most I've cried in a single month for a really long time.

I feel productive one minute and lazy the next. I just want to do things, but I guess that isn't happening. Haha got a 3.5 on my science test though that made me smile while I was sobbing because of Two Birds again. I literally can't even force myself to sing and practice for chorus, and I really wanted to be in chorus. But it started at the wrong time and every day has been a struggle. I feel so fucking awful and I want to do things but I can't. And I can't tell my teachers that because it's probably just a lazy excuse.

I can't talk to the people I love about this either because I literally can't see them. Of course I love my family, but none of them understand. Alex is a bit too young and my parents/grandpa are a bit too old. I can't see my cousins (one of them is too young to understand anyways), and I know that I'd be able to tell Tiana. But the part that I'm really sad about is the fact that I can't see my other family. The people I've met at school who annoy me all the time but I love them anyways. And this is super fucking sappy and gross and bleh but I really do love my friends and it sucks to not see them as much as I used to. I don't want to bother them so I don't ask.

I feel like everyone hates me and there's a voice in the back of my head every time I go to text them that tells me that they don't like me as much as I like them and that I should just leave them alone. I almost texted someone last night while I was sobbing but I didn't want to bother anyone. I never want to bother anyone. I just want people who love and care about me just as much as I love and care about them... but I can't help but feel like everything they all say to me is artificial. Like they'll drop me out of the group when they find someone better.

Sometimes I feel like they've already found someone better. When I see my friends with other people it makes me so happy for them. Like, I'm so glad we can all find other friends and have friends outside of the group we have. But sometimes I feel like I'm being replaced. And that's such a clingy thing to say but because of the past friends I had, I know it's going to happen eventually.

Your weird best friend who loves wolves and was with you through thick and thin suddenly got attached to the popular, preppy girl's hip. And your best friend is still your friend, and for a while she was the only one you had, other than your childhood best friend who you never saw anymore. The popular girl was your friend too, but eventually you drifted apart and suddenly you're alone. You find a new friend group and a kid you haven't talked to much for a long time. You hang out with him again and realise that you have a lot of the same interests. You join his friend group, but the friend group is toxic and you don't know when it happened but they split up. But you're still friends with the kid you haven't seen in a long time. Suddenly you're seeing him every day, and you don't really have a problem with it. And now it's 8th grade and you're still friends with him. You're friends with his best friend too, and another person you met along the way. They've been through a lot, and you care about them. More and more people join your friend group from different places (in the school anyways). Even your childhood best friend is there with you. And suddenly you have a really close group. Almost family. Hell, at this point you are family. Your closest friends, the kid you see every day and his best friend (now also one of your best friends) let you call them late at night when you're having an anxiety attack. Even the original best friend comes back sometimes to see you, but of course it isn't the same. But in the back of your mind, you can't help but think about the time the only person you had left you for someone better. And now you feel like you're watching it happen with the people you feel like you can consider family, which you probably can't even call them that. They probably don't want that. No one wants to be a part of your family. Why would they? There's someone better and they're just fucking waiting to find them.

I feel like I constantly need to take care of everyone. Listen to their problems, let them vent, try to help, make things worse, make things better, and then repeat. I'm an empathetic person. It hurts to see people hurting. I want to help everyone. But I know I can't. I can't even help myself. And I can't focus on myself because if I completely focus on myself then I'm going to make them upset and feel like they can't talk to me. I don't want to bother everyone else when they already have problems.

I miss when I was a kid. I don't want to grow up. Because I'm going to grow up and hate life more than I do now. I want to be a kid again. I want to pretend the world around me and my family and my friends doesn't exist. I want to go back. I just don't want to be here. I don't want responsibilities. I don't want to be afraid I'm going to pass my classes every day. I don't want to have to suck it up if I'm crying or throwing up or upset about something just because I'm older now. I want someone to hug me and tell me that it's alright. To tell me that everything is going to be okay. But now I can deal with my crying myself. I want hugs when I'm sad. I want people to care about me. And this is selfish because I know my parents care... but sometimes I feel like they don't. "Stop crying over someone else's problems. Worry about yourself." It's hard when your best friend is practicing dying extremely slowly right in front of you. It's so hard to watch it happen. I want them to give me a hug like they did when I was little and tell me that everything's alright. That I'm going to be okay. That the world isn't that bad. That it's okay for me to cry. Because now it isn't okay for me to cry unless I'm physically hurt. Like, if I break my leg or something. What if I'm mentally hurt? Ew this sounds so fucking "I'm not like other girls" or some shit but I just want to be able to tell them that I feel shitty without them being like, "yOu dOn't hAVe dePreSSiON" (which i don't and never said i did). I'm simultaneously too old and too young to be sad about anything and no one can make up their mind. Am I too young to have problems or am I too old to be crying over nothing?

I feel so bad. I started crying during the last paragraph and I just want to make my emotions go the fuck away. Stop. I want to pretend I'm not hurting anymore. I don't want to fucking do it this. I can't do this. I don't want to do online school tomorrow. I don't want to fucking do anything. I want to lay in bed and cry or write or do anything other than work. I can't do this. I don't want to do anything. I'm done. If I keep going on this post will be too long. Does it matter? Probably not.

[archer3-13]

FEH Villains Ranked

from best to worst, excluding book 4 cause its still ongoing

lif: genuinely surprised me by being an alfonse with pathos. well he started book 3 as a kinda generic number 2 type, the revelation of his identity as alfonse (though rather obvious at that point) as well as his goal of essentially destroying other worlds as a penance to restore his own is both suitably threatening and tragic. Creating that sense of pathos i mentioned that works so well for him, especially when hes shown to still be a kind person at heart thats been pushed into such horrific actions because of the devastation he had to endure. Especially when you consider that hes carrying the weapon that could kill hel with him which, although kinda lazy that he just has it, is a) a hel of a lot less contrived then anything book 2 pulled off and b) further deepens that sense of pathos when we consider that not only is it a memento of ‘player san’ and presumably everyone else hes lost but that it can also represent, in a way, a symbol of his own failure of will and bowing the knee to hel. Him prioritizing his own happiness and fulfillment in the form of hel resurrecting his world over the good of the ‘fe multiverse’. Point being, its a complexity of character that I honestly wish we got to see more of, and one I really wasn’t expecting from fe heroes given its track record. you’ll see what i mean down the road.

hel: well not terribly complex in motivation, she basically just wants to kill everything to increase her own power, she gets points for a strong presentation and utilization within the story book 3 creates. The limitations on her insta death power being kinda silly aside, though gustavs gambit to circumvent that i honestly really like more so then alfonses rules lawyering, the overhanging presence she has in the lives of book 3′s characters works really well and the pressure to defeat her because of her effectively endless legions works better as an overhanging threat anyways. When I say presentation though I mean more so in how her words, actions, and motivation intersect because well her words on the face of it have the usual villain posturing, her motivation and actions (such as her relation to eir and her generals, and the world she rules over and created) creates an interesting intersection where one can argue that her posturing words are empty of any true feeling. Shes cold and lifeless like the dead she rules and the world she creates, those around her are simply tools to an end but hardly in a cackling manner and more so in the unthinking manner one treats a toothpick. she gets angry or shocked but even then its in a muted manner, almost performing the emotions rather then truly feeling them. Hel lives in an unchanging world, a stillness brought on by the finality of death, and in a way one can argue that its her unspoken desire to spread that stillness, that perfect unchanging world she controls, to every world. Like lif, its a degree of complexity that I wish we got to see more of, especially in her case, and its something i honestly wasnt expecting from heroes.

helbindi: solely because the man goes through a lot of shit, and is an effective portrayal of a sympathetic villain. Hes effectively a camus if a camus was foul mouthed and more thuggish and that works for him, and is rather endearing in its own way when he acts concerned for his little sister and does the ‘im a thug who hugs kittens when no ones looking’ routine which i like when its done well. point being, he could have been a generic thug but hes a lot more interesting for not being one. However, his general pointlessness to the story, aside from giving us an indication that shock of shocks surtrs a shitty king and an excuse to escort ylgir around places who also does jack shit in the story... heroes is always going to suffer from having to compress its story telling but that fact they waste so much time with helbindi and ylgir and hrud when so much of what they do is either unnecessary to the story or themes present in book 2 or could have been given to other characters and make those characters better for it... helbindi gets to be up here for sympathy points and favoritism, but i am stretching here for ya mate.

thrasir: stronger character wise then helbindi, an interesting relation to lif of enemies turned into close friends over a shared trauma and servitude, plays into some of the same strengths of hel and lif that make them so engaging, yadda, yadda, yadda. So why is she below helbindi? because she doesnt get to do anything, and only starts to get interesting right before her death. If she had been given a bigger role comparable to lif, or just more time to stew in her own motivations she’d easily surpass helbindi. its also not helped that thrasirs own desire to resurrect her brother is similar to veronicas pre established selfishness, which isnt as strong a contrast as lifs selfishness and guilt against alfonses character. Her relation to lif does hint at a stronger sense of kidness and morality instilled within her because of that relation, which is interesting and would make a strong contrast against veronica, but again we get like five seconds of it before shes killed off and then a little more of it again at the end. Deserved more time on screen then she got, and would have probably been number 2 here if she had gotten it. 

veronica: bratty child becomes evil sorcerer emperor, more at 11. I like the concept of veronica, its something fes never really touched on much aside from maybe a little bit with julius with his more childish antics. Veronica however cranks that up a lot more, shes impatient and gets bored easily, she wants more friends but in a selfish ‘friend is someone who does everything I want right?’ way, shes emblas ruler and she has the emotional maturity of an evil 10 year old and i just kinda like it. Especially since she tempers it with an air of sophistication and intelligence, much like the classic evil sorcerers fe loves to utilize in villain roles, and it helps balance out the bratty child from being too annoying in the villain role. It helps lend a sense of her trying to present herself as a grown up for the respect and authority that brings, well simultaneously maintain all the perks of being a kid who gets everything she wants. It’s a shame then that the narrative keeps sidelining her, either by focusing on other villains, her god damn brother getting in the fucking way, or with the overhanging implications of magic dragon possession being the root cause of her behavior. I can forgive the magic dragon possession though since that is an fe staple and could works towards more interesting character aspects rather then undercutting her. Regardless, she sure is great when things are actually about her, and i really wish things would get back to being about her.

Laegjarn: solely here because she loves her sister, shes rather flat as a character otherwise. It would have been one thing if she displayed a sense of brutality instilled in her by a childhood being raised by surtr, only dropping the shell when it came to her sister and reigning herself in for the sake of that one familial bond she treasures... instead shes just kinda nice and loves her sister, and yet still works for surtr for some fucking reason. @agoddamn and @ezralahm mention an aspect of learned helplessness to xanders character in fates that people tend to gloss over (heaven knows why, cause its fairly in your face even in the english translation), and that should be something that comes across in laegjarn, but its doesnt really. not as much as it should anyways. Another victim of book 2′s pointless writing.

loki: evil sexy lady with big boobies and a one leg cutout tights pants thing. heres someone who can transform into anyone, and yet she never really does anything with it. oh she does ‘things’, just not things that have much point to them, or really feel like they fit into some larger scheme. she’d be right at home as a recurring villain in an episodic story, coming up with some inane scheme for todays episode that gets foiled and she gets sent ‘blasting off again’. I dont necessarily hate the sexy seductress character, the noire bombshells and the like, they can be fun when done well. loki just doesnt do it well, coming off as more grating and annoying then tempting honestly, and as a villain she lacks anykind of actual menace. My feelings on her are similar to my feelings on aversa honestly, heres someone who should be so cool and threatening, a real menace to the heroes using their skills and abilities behind the scenes to move threats against the heroes, never taking to the field unless they can benefit from it and have an assured chance of victory or safety... but then they never actually do anything, as any of the actions possibly attributable to them either happen offscreen or probably would have happened without them doing anything. Loki and aversa could have stayed home twiddling their thumbs and nothing would change, and thats the real shame about them. Doesn’t help they aren’t particularly fun or entertaining as villains either due to lackluster writing.

surtr: garon 2.0, but with even less complexity. Well garon may have been a blatantly evil prick, he at least had backstory that provoked some degree of complexity and even sympathy, both to him and those hurt by his evil dragon possession personality change. Surtr lacks even that, acting more like a petty thug given way to much power then an imposing ruler. He garon without the backstory complexity, and in a way hes walhart without the air of regality and charisma that helped elevate walhart from being god awful in his own right. And well it could have been interesting if the story made any attempts to comment on that or work it into a central story theme or flow of some sort, it doesnt really do that and instead treats him as if he has and indeed deserves the same credibility and impression walhart or garon or any of the other fire emblem emperor kings have left. But the game doesnt ever actually work for that with him. Hes the emeperor, so he automatically deserves respect as a villain. and thats... so typical of book 2′s writing.

laevatein: shes boring as sin, even with her relation to her sister and the tragedy of losing her. Like her sister, she would have benefited from an impression of learned helplessness but the game never really bothers with it. moving on because i can barely give a shit about her.

bruno: this mother fucker... an annoying detraction that overtakes veronicas spotlight and screentime, an excuse for alfonse wangst that never really lands, pointless and useless... the benefit of book 2 and 3 so far has been his reduced importance, but i fully expect him to come roaring back to steal veronicas position once the story shifts back to an area she should be the focus of. the only thing he has going for him is the sense of a camus struggling with dragon possession but thats more so used for alfonse wangst then it is for anything constructive. What do i mean by alfonse wangst? I mean angst that really serves no narrative purpose then for the sake of unnecessary melodrama, as opposed to informing us anything about the characters or themes of the story. he makes veronica look worse, his drama with alfonse is a waste of time, and he really provides nothing else then a recurring boss fight and get out of jail free card for the story. I’m putting him below laevatein because well i dont give much of a shit about her, she atleast doesnt actively annoy me and still had the potential for something. Bruno however? the story would be better off without him. So fuck him.

[cherries-n-rocknroll]

Bucket List || chapter 6

Pairing: Roger x Reader

Summary: Roger and Reader are good friends but for roger, it is becoming much more than a friendship. He tries to ignore his feelings but the heart wants what it wants.

chapter 1 || chapter 2 || chapter 3 || chapter 4 || chapter 5 

Warnings (per chapter): mention/experience of a mild panic attack, shitty writing? smut, and unprotected sex (So some parts are 18+), lots of cursing. Explicit or triggering scenes are marked as following: [!!!] = beginning [!] = end.

Word count (per chapter): 5k

A/N: I hope this doesn't suck. Because I kinda feel like it does. Please let me know your thoughts! (If you want me to continue with this because idk, I rather write one-shots. I’m too unstable for this sometimes?)

Chapter 6 ‘The One Where Some People Find Out’

“Oh...my...god. I WAS RIGHT!” Emily almost screamed.

You both flinched, and you almost fell onto the ground. Suddenly not having Rogers’ arms holding you.

It was awfully silent for what felt like an eternity before spoke up: “I-it’s not what you thin-” Roger stammered.

“No, uhm, Em-” you began

“Shut up! Both of you! Don’t even try to talk around this.” Emily interrupted. “I fucking witnessed you kissing! And don’t go telling me it’s just a friends thing because ‘friends’ don’t do that!” She said, making air quotes with her fingers.

You gulped as you shared a look with Roger.

“Why are you two being so secretive about this anyways? It’s not like someone’s gonna murder you. To be honest it was quite inevitable.” She said. “Well? Are you two gonna say anything or what?”

“I- Uhm. Well- “ you stammered.

“Use your words, sweetie.” She coed and you shot her an angry look.

“Just don’t tell the guys okay?” Roger suddenly said. “Not yet.”

“Why not?” She said, frowning her brows.

“Just...don’t.”

"Okay? Fine! You guys are no fun!" Emily said before, much to your relief --- and surprise, she proceeded to walk away. As she walked past you she softly whispered in your ear that she thought it was very cute.

When you were alone again (well not alone, you're in a museum so…) things felt very awkward, to say the least. Your heart was pounding in your chest.

It’s just your best friend you told yourself, but still, you felt like you’d been caught doing something really bad.

[!!!]

You were definitely overreacting. And you tried to calm yourself down, by focussing on your breathing. But it didn’t seem to help. It was like you were paralyzed. Like someone had pushed a button in you.

“Hey, hey are you okay love?” Roger said, concern in his voice.

“I’m fine!” You said in a higher-pitched voice than normal. That wasn’t convincing.

“No, you’re not! I can see it in your eyes and you’re breathing like you just finished running a marathon!” He said, but that wasn’t helping at all.

In an instant, you felt his hand grabbing yours and then he was dragging you through the museum. Trying to get you outside to a less crowded spot. And you ended up in an empty corner near the staircase.

Roger grabbed both your hands and looked into your eyes intensely, trying to get your attention.

“You need to breathe okay? Don’t want you to faint again.” He said.

You nodded and he started giving you orders “So inhale….aaaand exhale for me, okay love?” he said, moving his hands and yours up and down. You did that for some time until you were calm again.

[!]

“What was that?” He said, lightly squeezing your hands, still a concerned look on his face.

“I-I don’t know.” You stammered. “I really don’t know. I-I snapped. I mean it’s just Em. I don’t know why.” You said in a fragile voice.

“It’s okay.” He said, pulling you in for a hug. Your mouth lightly pressed into his shoulder and you could smell his cologne. The smell was pleasant, calming.

“Why didn’t we want to tell the others again?” You suddenly murmured.

“Because we weren’t sure what this was/is.” He said.

“Oh, yeah, right.”

“And how long has it been? A week? Probably less.” He added.

“I think so.” You mumbled.

“And you wanted to take things slow. Remember? Not that we’ve been particularly successful at that.” He chuckled and you felt the vibrations of his voice against your chest. This was nice.

“You feel better love?”

“I think so.” You said, and you lifted your head up. “Please don’t tell Emily about this. I really don’t know why I freaked out. Also after? What is that? And I’m sorry you still always end up needing to help me.“ You rambled. “Sorry...I...make no sense.” You said softly, shaking your head.

“It’s okay sweetheart.‘You wanna go back?”

“Yeah,” you nodded.

So you ended up going back to looking at all the art, and you didn’t dare to kiss Roger in public for the rest of the day.

After you were done you ate in the park that surrounded the museum. And now everyone was sitting very close to each other, chatting about the day thus far. Brian, Roger and Freddie were discussing god knows what; Emily had settled on laying on Deaky’s lap --- It had surprised you how easy Emily had integrated into the group. She got along very well with the boys. Especially John for some reason. Mary was leaning on her hands with her eyes closed, enjoying the sun; and you were sitting next to Roggie boy while he talked to his bandmates, subtly holding your hand. He turned his attention to you when you suddenly released his hand.

“What ‘you gonna do?” He asked.

“Grab my camera. This looks so cozy and cute.” You smiled.

So you grabbed your camera out of your bag and pushed against the little lever with your thumb. You took some pictures of the lot, smiling behind your camera. They looked lovely with their colorful summery clothes and a smile on their faces.

The rest of the day you spend walking through the city and you ended up in a shop which sold the most beautiful clothing. Way too expensive. There was absolutely no way you were able to afford it, but you could always try things on, just for fun.

The guys were happy that there was a big leather couch in the shop where they could sit since...well you were most likely going to spend quite some time trying on all the stuff. It was a rather tiny couch, but that didn’t seem to be an issue for them. It always surprised you how little they cared about their personal space. So now they were basically sitting on each other chatting about some new song ideas, because why not?

You walked out almost simultaneously, and the boys fell silent.

“You look lovely darlings!” Freddie cheered, seemingly mesmerized by the beautiful clothing pieces.

When you met Rogers' gaze you saw his mouth curl up into the cutest smile and he couldn’t help but bite his lip a little.

“Yes, you lady's indeed look stunning,” Brian said.

“Too bad we can’t afford it.” Emily laughed.

You walked a bit closer to Roger --- who was sitting in a corner of the couch --- while the other two girls were talking to his mates.

“You look beautiful.” He said softly, eyes half-lidded as he looked up at you. And he softly brushed a hand over your hip. You smiled.

“Thank you,” you said, almost inaudible. And briefly, it felt like you two were in your own little bubble. And it felt great.

A few minutes and some dresses later you decided to leave the store because the owner didn’t seem very pleased with you trying everything on and buying nothing.

When the rest was almost ready to leave you were still in the dressing room. You were never the fastest. And when no one saw Roger sneaked into the little dressing room, making you yelp and place your hands over your body in an attempt to cover up. Roger was quick to place his hand over your mouth to silence you.

“Yeeez Roger! Don’t scare me like that.” You said when he removed his palm.

“That first dress is so beautiful, you have to get it.” He blurted out.

It was indeed a stunning dress. It looked classy, but also fun and youth-like with the golden star appliques on the see-through tule. It really was gorgeous.

“Rog it’s too expensive.” You said and you couldn’t help but feel a little exposed, standing just there in your underwear.

“I didn’t say you have to pay for it.”

“You want me to steal it?!”

“No! Well, that’s probably another thing checked off your list.” He smirked.

“I’m not sure that's something I want to check off Rog,” you said and he snickered.

“But...what I wanted to say-” he continued. “-is that the band isn’t doing too shabby. You should know that! You work at a record shop for fuck's sake.”

“Yes? So?”

“Well, I can buy it for you if you want to?”

“You would do that for me?”

“I love how it looks on you.” He said. “Can you put it on again?”

“Uh...yeah.” You replied, turning to grab it from the clothes hanger.

“Can you close it?” You said when you had put it on, speaking over your shoulder and he gladly helped. Roger gently pushed against your lower back as he pulled the zipper up in one fluent motion. And lastly, he closed the little button that held the upper back piece together.

When you looked up you met rogers gaze in the reflecting surface. “it’s beautiful. Stunning.” He said, wrapping his arms around your waist and his warm hands came to rest on your belly. “You look...hot.” He said in awe. The last bit came out as a whisper, activating some sort of ripple effect in your body.

“Fuck I could take you right now,” he muttered, mesmerized by the view in the mirror. And his hands started to make their way down to your---

“Mr. Taylor! Excuse me?!” You said. In a flash you turned around again, eyes widening, jaw dropping a few centimeters.

“Sorry,” he chuckled rubbing a hand over his neck.

“You are unbelievable!” You smirked.

But still, you forcefully grabbed his face and gave him a bruising kiss. And you briefly let your hand slide down to his crotch, palming him through his pants. It was funny to you how startled he looked when you pulled away. It was very cute.

You pridefully smirked at your achievement.

“Hey, now you’re here. Could you help me take this off again?” You asked as you turned around again. Fully aware of what you just did to him.

“Oh, you are in for it Miss!” He growled as he started to fumble with the top button. But he couldn’t suppress a soft gasp from escaping his lips when the fabric fell off your shoulders to expose more of your back.

The harshness of a second ago quickly faded away.

He gently let a hand run over your back. “Shit, you’re so beautiful.” he sighed and he proceeded to place butterfly kisses on your shoulder and neck. You closed your eyes and let your head fall to the side, enjoying the feeling of his soft lips devouring your skin.

Roger lightly pressed his hips into your ass as he continued to place sloppy kisses on your body. And his hands started wandering again, sneakily moving lower and lower.

“Rog!” you warned.

“Hmmm,” he hummed against your neck.

“Rog, we’re in a changing room!” You chuckled. “Besides, I need to get dressed again because the rest of the group is waiting….I’m sure they’re already of suspicious us.”

“Fuck that! Emily already knows. I don’t care. You look too good.” He said, and you felt his hand slipping under the fabric of the dress.

“Rog, fuck. Please!” you groaned, feeling his hand moving up to your inner thigh.

“Y/n! We’re leaving!” You heard Emily shout from across the store. Earning herself an angry look from the shop owner.

“Shit!”

“Fuck,”

You flinched away from each other. And just like that, your little bubble burst.

“Uhm, could you excuse me?” You said, making a ‘go away’ motion with your hand.

Roger awkwardly nodded and turned his back on you.

So with lust and adrenaline rushing through your body, you got changed into your own clothes again and walked out of the dressing room.

Roger was still standing outside the stall when you got out, an expecting look on his face.

“So? Do you want it?”

“Yes?”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

“It’s so beautiful a-and I love it, but it’s so expensive and I don’t want to use you like that.”

“Y/n, I told you I wanted to pay fo-”

“I’ll pay half okay?”

“If you insist.”

“Deal?”

“Yeah, sure.” He said, dragging his words.

“Thank you so much!” You cheered, reaching out your hands to grab his face and kiss him. But you quickly retracted, realizing the others were still there.

This was hard.

---

“So? You bought that starry dress huh?” Emily said.

You were back at the house, now sitting in the kitchen together with a big bowl of fresh peaches in front of you. You had picked them up along the way home.

“Yes,” you shortly answered. “These things are good!”

“Shit, I’m making a mess!” You laughed. The sweet juice started to drip down your chin.

“Yeah, we probably look disgusting.” Emily joined in. “Maybe we should bring the others some too? Join us in being disgusting fruit monsters.”

“No way! These are way too good!” You snickered, a sarcastic undertone in your voice. “No okay we should, shouldn’t we? Kinda unfair to eat them all. And besides, I think my stomach is gonna protest if I do that.” you giggled.

You ended up going into the garden, sharing the rest of the peaches and you and the lot got lost in some intense rounds of scrabble.

---

The sun was steadily making its way down as you got ready to take a shower. You always found it a nice way to wind down, calm your nerves, reflect on the day.

You were about to take off your dress when you heard footsteps outside the door. And since that damn bathroom didn't have a lock you just proceeded to yell ‘Taken!’. Not really in the mood to have someone walk in on you again.

Although now you wouldn't really mind Roger walking in on you.

You heard a knock on the door. "Can I come in?" you heard a soft voice say, it was Roger. And you answered with a hesitant yes.

“Hey,” Roger said softly, peeking his head through the door opening.

“Uh, hi? I-I was just getting ready to take a shower. What’s up?”

“Just checking up on you, since you flipped back at the museum. I wanted to know if you’re still ok.”

He was standing in front of you now.

“I’m fine. Really, it’s okay.” You said, waving it off.

"Good, good. Uhm...if you were going to shower, 'care if I join you? ‘Saves water." he said, a little hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"Yes, as in you're okay with it?"

"I think so?"

"You think so?" he retorted. "You know, I'll shower later. Take some time for yourself." He said. And he gave you a kiss on your forehead before turning around to leave, but you grabbed his wrist, pausing his movement.

"no, wait! Stay.” You whispered. Roger turned around and his lips curled up into a soft smile.

“Yeah? Want me to join you after all?” He spoke softly with a now slightly devious grin on his face. He was up to something. “Come on, let’s get undressed then shall we?”

“Okay, now I feel weird about this.” You murmured, looking down at your feet. “Also, did no one see you going in here?”

“Everyone is everywhere and nowhere. I was reading something in my bed till just a few minutes ago and Brian and Deaks are downstairs I think. ‘Pretty sure they can’t see through walls and such.” He joked. “And please don’t feel weird, i-it’s just me. And to be honest, I’ve seen you naked more than- You know….a few days ago.” He felt a weird but good feeling going through his body as he said that. “If that helps,” he added. “You really sure you don’t want me to leave?”

You nodded and you took a few steps towards Roger. Your hands reached out to caress his chin. “No, I’m sure. You can stay.”

Your other hand made its way down to Rogers' hips and you briefly reached behind to give his ass a little squeeze, leaving him a little startled.

You pressed your lips against his before pulling away and placing your head on his shoulder. From the back, you started to push his shirt up. Your hands roamed over the skin of his back and you heard him sigh deeply. When the fabric was bunched up at his armpits, Roger threw his hands in the air so you could pull it over his head. And the shirt landed somewhere on the ground.

This time it was you who gasped at the sight of bare skin. It wasn’t like you had never seen his bare chest before, by any means. When he was rehearsing and it was a decent temperature he barely ever wore a shirt. But still, you thought he was so beautiful like this, gasp-worthy even.

Your hands had moved along with the shirt and were now on Rogers' shoulders, slowly making their way down again along his arms.

Your soft lips started devouring Roger's shoulders and neck. And you gently started to sucking at the skin, creating little red spots.

All of this made Roger gasp as a shiver shot through his body. “Fuck.” He muttered.

Your hand went down even further till it was resting on the waistband of his pants. You started fumbling with the zipper, but it didn’t really work. “Wait, lemme do that. It’s easier for me.” He chuckled and you stepped back just a little to give him some space.

In a matter of seconds, his pants were open and you stepped forward again.

In a matter of seconds, you had --- to your own surprise --- slid your hand into Rogers’ pants, making him choke on his breath.

His eyes were half-lidded when he looked into your eyes, breath fast and heavy as he felt your palm rest against his hardening length.

“You like that? Pretty boy? My hand in your pants?”

“Jesus, fuck. Yes!”

You dropped to your knees and proceeded to pull his pants down, Rogers eyes on you the entire way. He pulled one leg up and then the other so you could pull the material over his feet.

Sitting like that you couldn’t help but place kisses on his legs and you topped it off with some kiss on his clothed bulge, owning you another gasp from Roger.

“This isn’t fair,” he panted. “You’re still fully dressed and I’m almost...naked.”

“Fine!”

You moved back up onto your feet and Rogers' hands quickly started to work at your dress. And in no time you were both naked under the shower, and…a little turned on.

You grabbed the soap and- “Can I?” You asked with the bottle in your hand. And Roger nodded.

“Please.”

You squeezed some into your palm and carefully started rubbing the soap over his chest. Roger looked at your work with a soft smile on his face.

A few minutes later he did about the same for you. He was a little hesitant at first, but he quickly caught on when you started to encourage him.

“Turn around for me love,” He said and you did as he said. He started to clean your back, moving closer and closer to you as he finished the job. You sighed deeply at the feeling of his hands roaming over your skin and you relaxed completely. All the excitement and tension from the day fading away like ice in the sun.

But all of this ended when Roger suddenly pushed his body into your back, forcing you against the cold tiles.

“Jesus- Fuck! ROger! What the fuck!” You squealed.

“I did say you were in for it today didn’t I? Payback for leaving me hot and bothered. ‘Had to hide my hard-on for the entire ride home.” He growled in your ear. Speaking of…there was definitely something pressing against your back. And it was not Roger's belly.

“Are you serious?! This is hella cold! Let me go!” you said, trying to escape from his grip, but he was stronger than you.

“Sshhh, ‘s okay,” he hushed in your ear before spinning you around again.

You started hitting his chest in protest. “Ashole! You ever do that again and I’ll gut you, Taylor!”

“Sorry.” He apologized and he tried to catch you in his arms. Hugging you like a parent trying to hug their angry kid.

“Little fucker!” You muttered again this chest. “Not funny, those tiles are seriously cold.”

“Guess I’ll have to warm you up again then. Hmm?” He hummed.

“You better! Mr. Taylor!” And there it was again, that nickname. Over the course all those months it had changed from an obvious nickname to something that made his stomach turn and twist. But definitely in a good way.

“Say that again.”

“Mr. Taylor.” You repeated, but this time you said it with a more serious voice.

Right now it made him feel incredibly turned on. “You like that?” You asked.

“When you say it? Yes. Hell yes.” he sighed. “Fucking sexy,”

His cheeks turned a slightly darker shade of pink and then there was silence.

“Can you...turn around again?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Just wanna hold you again like today in the dressing room.”

“O-kayy?” You murmured, not sure why. “But don’t you dare push me against that wall again!”

“I swear it on my drum kit.”

His arms wrapped around you again as you turned around. And it felt...sweet...and also, kinda hot.

“I really love it, to hold you like this. Because like this, I can perfectly whisper in your ear; place kisses...hmmmm...on your shoulder and neck” he hummed. And you let your head fall to the side as he kissed you.

[!!!]

“Or I can slowly let my hand move down to your---”

You interrupted him with a quiet moan.

“That feel good love?”

“Hmhmm.” You nodded, your head falling back against his shoulders.

He kept rubbing over your clit till you were a quietly whimpering mess. You didn’t want to give the entire house a show.

“You close?” He whispered.

“Rog, please jus’ fu-”

You heard some fumbling before he spun you around again. And before you knew it he had pushed you against the cold wall again and wrapped your leg around his waist.

You really didn’t care about the wall right now, not at all.

You both held your breath as Roger experimentally pressed his hips into yours before dragging the tip of his length trough your folds.

Both of you gasped loudly as Roger slowly pushed into you, bit by bit. Till he was buried deep inside you.

For a moment the water streamed over you as you stood there, breathless.

“Fuck, feel so full.” You moaned, and almost simultaneously Roger choked out: “Oh...fuck- god you feel so...good love...feel so...tight. Squeezing me perfectly.”

“You were already close weren’t you?”

“Yeah. Please, Rog, move.” You sighed. “But be gentle okay?”

“Of course,”

He gave you an open-mouthed kiss as he pulled your thigh a little higher, so he could sink even deeper. And you moaned into each other's mouth.

He started to thrust into you at a steady pace and all you could focus on was the warm pressure in your lower abdomen and the sound of Rogers breath. Nothing else mattered. It was just you and him, him and you.

Your arms wrapped around him tightly and one hand combed through his wet hair.

You both finished with a series of quiet moans, they were almost inaudible.

[!]

The water kept flowing over you as you both calmed down. It felt so peaceful and quiet and lovely being wrapped in each other's arms. Almost as if you were actually becoming one for a moment. And it hurt when Roger released you to turn off the water to grab the towels.

You felt completely blissed out, sleepy, relaxed. As if someone had replaced all the sensations and feelings in your body with fluffy cotton candy, as cliché as it might sound.

“Rog?” you whispered, eyes closed. He had wrapped a towel around you both and pulled you back against his warm chest.

“Yeah?”

“Can I sleep in your bed again?” you murmured against the skin.

You just wanted to be close to him. Pressed against his warm body. Hug him, have him hug you, just...him. Be trapped in your bubble.

You were so sleepy that when you got out of the shower Roger had to help you dry off and get ready for bed --- not that he minded. And he indeed brought you to his room.

You laid there on his bed, Roger beside you on his side. He was absolutely mesmerized by how you looked in that moment and he felt so full of happiness. That you were his now amazed him.

“Can you hold me again?” You murmured, it was almost inaudible.

“‘Course.”

He snuggled against your back. Warm and cozy, even though it was quite hot already, you didn’t care about that.

---

“Rog? Rog psst! You awake?” You whispered while softly poking into his stomach.

“Hmmm? Good morning too you too. Is there something wrong, love?”

“Well Roggie, I dreamed about last night.” You smirked. “And now I’m sorta turned on.” You mumbled. “But also, I’m still very sleepy. So...”

“So?”

Maybe it was the fact that you were so relaxed, still feeling high in a way, that you were so blunt and straightforward. Or maybe it was the fact that you felt Rogers hard-on pressing against your back, but anyways-

“Can you just...fuck me really slowly again?”

To be honest, this kind of straightforwardness wasn't new. You had always been terribly honest with each other and now was no exception.

When you looked like crap he sure as hell was going to tell you. (You never got the chance to say that to him though since that bastard basically refused to not look fashionable at all times. But if he ever did you would definitely throw it in his face.) It had surprised you that it had taken him so long to tell you he liked you, since you were usually so open and chill with each other. But maybe this was an exception.

Yeah, Definitely.

Anyways, you telling him to fuck you --- not even calling it lovemaking or anything --- turned him on like mad. And he felt himself growing harder by the minute.

He was still hot and bothered from yesterday, couldn’t take his mind off of it --- and the time before that. And now this?!

“Oh please, can I?” he whispered excitedly.

Roger lazily god rid of his boxers and hiked your oversized shirt up a little. He caressed your hip with his thumb and placed a kiss on your neck.

"I just asked you too. So, yes."

[!!!]

"Need some prepping first? Hmmm? You maybe like it when I talk…dirty?" He began.

"let's try? Shall we?" You whispered back, your eyes closed as you listened to Roger's voice.

"You have no idea how much I want you right now...been thinking about last night too. Couldn't take my mind off of it. The water streaming over your skin…." He began. "your gleaming body...your-" he paused, and you felt the anticipation within you. "perfect tits. You make me so hard love."

You bit your lip as he continued.

"Y/N? Want me to touch you, love?"

"Yes, yes!"

"God, bet you're already dripping for me huh?"

"Wow I can't believe this is literally our third time and we're doing this?!" you laughed.

"Were we ever a normal couple y/n? I made love to you for the first time on the same day--- what am I even saying? The same night as I confessed my love to you. So… I think that says enough."

"Guess we're both just--- Nevermind. Did you just call us a couple?"

"I did didn't I. But should I continue or are we going to get ready for breakfast?"

You pulled your legs up a bit and pulled rogers hand down.

"Shit you are wet." he noticed.

He didn't wait any longer. He lined himself up with your entrance and he pushed into you, agonizingly slow. It made you gasp softly.

Your head fell back against Rogers' neck and you let out a guttural moan as he thrusted into you. It was so slow and lazy, but good.

He resumed his dirty talk and it got progressively filthier.

Moving from 'You're taking me so well love' to 'You're so fucking wet! I'm slipping away, almost sliding into your a--- oookay let's cut that of right there.

“Jeez, you're disgusting Rog. We're disgusting! We’re like horny teenagers.” You laughed when he said that.

"Fucking morning and night."

“We aren't horny teenagers anymore?!” He said sarcastically.

"Well, I can get behind the horny part but we're not teenagers anymore. Maybe mentally.”

"We're bad at this aren't we?" Roger murmured while he slowly kept thrusting into you, making you whine softly in between sentences.

"Yeahhhh." You laughed.

"God it feels so weird if you laugh. 'Squeezing around me."

"Yeah? Should I continue laughing? Does that turn you on?" You joked, purposely laughing even harder.

No, stop! Fuck…it feels so weird." And now Roger broke out into a laugh too. 

"Continue this another time?" You suggested.

"Maybe that's a good idea, but I'll definitely have to get myself off. Otherwise I won't survive." Roger snickered. Moving his hand up to his head for dramatic effect. "But seriously, I don't want to be hard again for half of the day. It's uncomfortable as fuck."

"No, wait Roger! Make love to me." You said in an overly dramatic voice as you tried to get on top of him.

"Yes my love, I will save you. I'll be your hero!" Roger jumped in again.

You briefly rubbed your hands over rogers chest and gave him a kiss before sinking down on him again, throwing your head back pleasure.

"But seriously Rog… Fu-ck…please get me off or I'll be frustrated the entire day, I swear!"

[!]

So, in the end, the laughing did stop and you were both content, so to speak.

Since you had made a habit of sleeping almost naked your underwear was…absent. So you asked Roger to go to your room and get a pair but…  

Apparently, you hadn't been very successful at keeping quiet and when Roger exited the room? Well…a Brown curly-haired man stood in the hallway.

"Good morning Rog. Heard you had fun this morning?"

Shittttttttt!!!

"Yeah, I did."

What was he doing?!

"Y/N came to my room, she was awake early. You know she makes me laugh all the time. She's hilarious you know, that's why I like her."

Awwww,

Brian squinted his eyes into thin lines, not really convinced of his mate's story.

"I'm pretty sure I heard a moan but okay…this time I'll take your word for it." He said like some kind of police agent. And then he walked away towards the stairs and added: "Oh yeah forgot to mention, you forgot something in the bathroom!"

A/N: a big thank you to the people who read, reblog, like and comment on my work. YOU ARE AMAZING! Because without these things I lose motivation. I create these things for free, all I’m asking you as a reader is to like, reblog and comment on my work. Even just a simple “wow” a meme or a keyboard smash makes me incredibly happy! Because there is nothing worse than making something and receiving no reaction to it.

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[softgrungeprophet]

it’s that time again. time for me to be annoyed/frustrated at the comics that came in the 20-teens that simultaneously responded directly to the 2000s, followed in the 2000s’ continuation, but completely glossed over and ignored the very serious topics that were brought up. and then we get the fucking 2018 run which does NEITHER and just seeks to make it worse for shock value without being even remotely thoughtful about anything it does! wow.

we could have had some really interesting growth for eddie and the symbiote’s relationship by honestly addressing things like eddie’s illness, hypocrisy as anti-venom, his status as a victim of abuse, and so on...

of course i know if i say “eddie is a victim” people will get hissy but like.... i’m not saying he’s an innocent blameless baby who was manipulated into being the weirdo he is... i’m just saying... he’s a victim of abuse. he’s been taken advantage of a lot. almost any help he’s received has required some kind of reciprocation.

he’s a shithead and he went off the deep-end after new ways to die because remender’s version of eddie fucking sucks, he’s smug and weird and violent, and also he’s been neglected and tortured and abused and experimented on and he needs therapy and blah blah blah

he’s also not some fuckin accidental drunk driver who was hit into thinking he’s innocent. that’s so fucking--jeez. everything about these retcons donny has been doing miss the point even more than the comics he says he loves so much. it’s wild. like i don’t like new ways to die OR new ways to live, remender’s run was okay but i hated the way he wrote eddie, marvel knights spider-man just sucks in general, the hunger 03 also sucks, but like they do feed into each other in a way that.... sort of makes sense....

i just wish there was a way any of the comics would have said, “hey look there are some ways in which eddie is a victim but there are also some ways in which he needs to take responsibility for his actions”

but that kind of nuanced take is impossible for the way these comics are put out and canceled and retconned and so on forever.. it’s so ... ugh.....

the hunger 03 sucks... it also influenced over a decades’ worth of Venom comics including costa’s in its own weird way.... and i just wish we could simultaneously be like, Yes the symbiote is not inherently evil or corrupting but Also it did abuse Eddie, and Yes Eddie has been treated poorly for a great deal of his life and Also is a motherfucker who needs to be held responsible for his actions.

Is this hypocritical to be like, “can we address the 2000s” while also saying “2018 run is not valid”

in my defense even the shitty 2000s were like a continuity and didn’t try to fully retcon every single aspect of venom lore that ever existed (tho it sure did plenty of retconning....) whereas the current run... is doing exactly that....

of course this goddamn run will probably also influence the following comics unless the next writers retcon the retcons or like, ignore it and it gets put into its own earth or something. idk. like no one really counts dark origin right? and that works cause it also had a negligible influence on the rest of the comics. but like, the bad hunger had a very lasting impact on the comics. so i guess we just hope that donny cates, despite currently selling super well, does not actually influence any of the comics that come after?

i don’t fuckin know. i just think it kind of sucks that like “eddie was abused” is something that gets used as either a “lol no that never happened and if you talk about it you hate the symbiote” or else an excuse to demonize the symbiote even after its own character growth arcs in the apparently supremely unpopular gotg and space knight stuff... lol

maybe if every fucking series from 2013 to 2016 (minus costa which is honestly more 2017) didn’t get canned we could have gotten more. like honestly, 2016′s Carnage--for all its flaws--seemed like it had something to say about Eddie as a character, about his flaws and so on, and I gotta wonder where that was going. It flat out says “Venom didn’t make Eddie Brock a bastard” so like? But then at the same time all of the symbiotes in that series were completely silent so? I don’t even know.

Cullen Bunn was clearly going somewhere too but I have no idea where other than “symbiote is alive but has trouble communicating” and “eddie is coming down from his murder spree as he realizes flash thompson is in fact helping people as agent venom”

the two fit together in a very strangely complementary way. sometimes i gotta wonder about a universe in which those two comics in particular ran concurrently to address venom, flash, toxin, and eddie’s many issues. but toxin’s probably gone... though in my heart they are with jubulile and her mom in south africa, learning what it’s like to be part of a loving family...

man. the resigned “Okay.” at the end of twav...... twav good imo.

anyway

i don’t even know what the point of this is. i’m all over the place in this post. it’s frustrating that donny has made it kinda impossible to bring up eddie’s victimhood without like... qualifying it to the ends of the earth to clarify that you don’t think he’s some kind of pure cinnamon roll who’s been dreadfully manipulated for 12 years....

I feel like I’m not making any sense!!! Words are hard.

I feel like I’ve kinda been avoiding writing about the symbiote though in part because it’s hard for me to balance that many characters and in part because of Donny’s stupid bullshit, which is dumb as fuck but I guess that’s what he wanted huh!!!! Need to read Lethal Protector to cleanse my palate but it’s taking forever to get it from the library because they only have one copy.

ugh

The symbiote is not an evil creature like he wants everyone to think... goddammit.... but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t carefully address both its and Eddie’s mistakes without fabricating new different mistakes to obscure the previous ones. Or whatever. Fuckin I don’t know lol the entirety of the continuity is just a bunch of bullshit. 80s-90s continuity largely separate from 2000-20...15ish continuity largely separate AGAIN from the 2016 continuity yet also directly tied to it, against completely separated from the 2018 continuity which is off saying “fuck you” to literally every venom writer to ever exist since Eddie’s conception, ironically including the guy who wrote the cursed hunger

What am I trying to say! I don’t know! i feel like a broken record. There’s a lot of empty space between Agent Venom and 2016 that was never filled! also between 2016 and 2018 lmfao.

Donny “everything went wrong and I’m not going to explain how other than ‘God’ and ‘Eddie lost his job cause screaming symbiote’“ Cates really pullin some shit. what do you mean eddie tends to work toward solving his own problems EVEN WHILE DYING. waid’s mini-story in NWTD showed that eddie, despite being sad and sick and exhausted was still like.... eddie, stubbornly searching out his own solutions and getting angry. ofc i’m not sure how well it succeeded at parts. the comics in those days were still pretty steeped in the weird symbiote hallucinations that it was never clear if they were meant to be caused by the symbiote or just eddie’s sick brain. like the Last Temptation. I have a love-hate relationship with those two issues... I think they’re pretty well-done but also something about them just rubs me the wrong way. 

Anyway back to Cates: it’s not like there wasn’t space for a spiral after FH or anything. You could have really dug into Eddie and the symbiote’s insecurities wrt family and parenting. but nah. let’s just make it so there’s a SECRET CHILD, and oh the pre-established sibling? we could have dug into her and made her a real character. but no, she doesn’t exist, women are either fake or dead or violated.

asshole.

but again like..... the 03 hunger, cursed and bad... like... it’s still workable. you can work with the corrupting forces, the addiction metaphor (on the SYMBIOTE’S part, with adrenaline) and the intense codependency, and still have them move on and into a healthier-by-comparison relationship.

but cates’ run is like... much harder to recover from if it has as lasting of an effect, because it leaves no part untouched, and goes beyond “normal” abuse into really weird unforgiveable territory... like the canon of that comic is the canon in which everything has been completely changed into something unrecognizable.

i joke about my AUs being unrecognizable because, visually at least, they WOULD be unrecognizable for most Venom fans, but the comics inform them as characters a lot in the stories i write in those AUs, from the 96 good hunger, to the 03 bad hunger, to space knight to venom inc, and so on. But donny cates really is out here essentially reverse-engineering retcons to justify his characterizations.

barely related: the way eddie was raised and the way he coped by overachieving and so on and so forth makes me think he would have--despite presumably gaining a great deal of confidence in college once out of his father’s home--been really vulnerable to being taken advantage of by like, other students or teachers, but idk how exactly to articulate what i mean like... uh... not even that he WAS taken advantage of but that his need for validation would have left him open to it... i guess??

that’s got pretty much nothing to do with this post though but kinda ties into what i’ve said before about how i think eddie was a withdrawn and isolated adolescent who only opened up in college. why i disagree with donny’s retcon for that reason in addition to other reasons--the way he’d been shown to be bullied as a kid in previous comics, as well as the lack of history of alcoholism, the clarification in lethal protector that carl wasn’t physical, so on and so forth.

again that’s not related to this post really... and it’s like, a good 50% headcanon, but it makes sense in my head as something that fits his history?? i guess?

[oh-styles]

Something About a Choice [Revised]

After seven months, I have returned with everybody’s favorite awkward couple. I want to say first, that this is not technically a new installment, which answers your question of, “Didn’t she already write a Something About a Choice?” Because, yes, you are right, friend.

The first time I posted this chapter, seven months ago, I hated it. It wasn’t what I wanted, it was rushed, and therefore sucked absolute ass. 

This is how I imagine it. So forget everything you read about the previous post - which has been deleted - and please enjoy the continuation of Something About a Feeling.

9/7 Update: As promised, this is the revised version of this chapter. Nothing important has been changed, but I went ahead and added some detail. You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to, but I needed to post it for my sake.

By now, Harry has learned more than enough about you to the point he’s lost count, like how you get the hiccups when you laugh too much – also works when you get frightened, which is easily – and how you once punched a bloke in the face when he slapped your ass in the middle of a Cinnabon.

“The manager gave me a free cinnamon roll!”

As the list continued to grow, there was one thing that stood out over the rest - not including having not seen Pretty Woman, which he gladly marked off your list – which was, “I haven’t been on like an actual, real date before.”

When Harry looks at you, he can’t begin to fathom the number of dudes who find themselves doing double-takes as you scan the aisles of a Barnes and Noble, or how they bask in your presence when you’re slumped on a sofa, reading Bukowski in the corner of a rundown café. But, yet here you are, standing before him in a Starbucks on South Grand Avenue, stealing sips of his iced coffee, admitting your most astounding secret – your words, not his.

“You know those awkward first dates where the guy picks you up in his car, opens the door for you and takes you to this shitty restaurant that you pretend to like, and you make awkward conversation while making awkward eye contact—oh, thank you.” You revert your attention back to the barista to retrieve your drink, grabbing a cardboard slip on the side of the counter. “And then he takes you home in a nearly awkward silence and then goes to kiss you on your doorstep, but you sideswipe him, and he goes in for the cheek, and you never talk again? Yeah, never had one of those, and I feel like you have to have one them or it’s lawful or something.”

You really were something else.

“So, you want to go on a shitty date?” Harry chuckles, adjusting the straw of his cup and shaking his head in amusement.

“No, I want to go on a date that feels real. Not that ‘Meet me at the bar in 10 minutes’ bullshit.” You let out an exasperated sigh, muttering something about Tinder ruining the dating age, and quickly turn on your heel. “I take everything I said back. I need that cake pop.”

The rest of the afternoon went as followed: cruising around in his Mercedes; making a comment about how, “This is a car you make love in,” and Harry instantly going frigid behind the wheel, averting the mere thought of the two of you laying down in the backseat, an entanglement of limbs trying to find a comfortable position, despite the mental imagery of ruining the interior; making a trip to YSL so he could pick up his new boots, and you making more comments such as, “Your shoes cost more than my rent. Think about that,” which he simply snickers to; you struggling to keep up with his long, lengthy strides, and him stealing a bite of your cake pop when you weren’t looking.

He truthfully enjoyed days spent like these, where he had no real commitments, and could just spend quality time with you outside of his house. He knew once his schedule picked up a bit again, times like these would come few and far between, so taking advantage of them now was his best objective, especially since he left for London in four days.

“You have to bring me back souvenirs, like a snow globe with Big Ben in it, and a shirt that says, ‘I Love London’… Oh, oh! And a crumpet.” You’re sat in his passenger seat, fiddling with a frayed string on your shirt. “What even is a crumpet?”

“I’m going to have to take you sometime, pet. I think you’ll like it.” Harry beams from the side, pulling out onto the road. “Won’t be there too long this time. Maybe two weeks or so.”

“Your mom seems so nice. She liked the picture of Meg I took this morning.

Another thing he learned about you over your time together was the fact you named your rescue cat Meg. You never gave a reasoning behind it, so therefore Harry never thought to mention it.

“She really likes that jiggly ball thing you bought her the other day. I hear her playing with it all night.” You stop short, tearing the string from your shirt. “I mean it. All night.” ‘ Harry can only chuckle as he keeps his attention focused on the road. “Sorry.”

And honestly, he wasn’t. He realized quickly that whenever you couldn’t sleep, he’d wake up at ungodly hours to text messages either: A) Talking about conspiracy theories you discovered on the dark web, or B) Asking to come over, and take a wild guess on which one he preferred.

If it means you snuggling up his bed at three in the morning, everyone wins in his book.

“Any new crazy theories you’ve read about?—”

“Yes! Okay, so apparently—get this—The Beatles never existed.” There was a long pause in which all you could hear was the muffled buzzing of the wind passing by, and the distant sound of hors blaring persistently around you, and that’s when you hear Harry suck in a breath.

“Alright, pet, it’s naptime when we get back to your flat.”

“No, you have to listen to this! They’re all paid actors—”

“I’ve met two of them—”

“You’ve met two paid actors—”

“Well they sure do deserve some Oscars then—”

“I’ll take a nap if you take one with me.”

That shut him up.

He’s not necessarily sure if you’re lying or not, but based on how you end up in his bed twice a week anyway, there’s some truth hidden in your words. And most nights when you’ve found yourself swaddled underneath his duvet, he realizes that this isn’t something you do with Niall, though maybe it’s because Niall hasn’t offered, and for that, Niall is a downright idiot.

And Harry is completely content with you by his side. He doesn’t care if it’s for sleep, or a cuddle – and if he was lucky enough to find himself in this spot, a fuck, but at least by the end, he’d pull you close to his side and fall asleep to your comfort.

He’d be spitting out lies if he said he hadn’t been getting the best sleep of his life since you started making an appearance.

“We’ll see, pet.” There’s a smirk hidden with his words, and he knows he’d also be lying to himself if he even thought about turning down a cuddle with you. “Oh, and thank you for the Starbucks.”

“Nah, don’t thank me. Thank my giftcard.”

Once the two of you arrived at your apartment, Meg was the first to greet you at the door, rubbing her face against the inside of Harry’s leg while you locked the door behind you.

“Well, hello. Nice to see you again.” He crouched down to her level and stroked her head, her back arching at the contact. “Still keeping your mother awake, I hear.” Harry hears an unamused hum under your breath as you slide out of your shoes, gently kicking your heel against his.

“I think you should babysit her for the night. Come to me in the morning and see how you like it.”

Considering Harry would much rather be woken up by you when Meg keeps you up, he could come up with the excuse that, “Meg is homesick and needs her mother,” and maybe, just maybe, you’d fall enough for his bullshit and find yourself sliding under the covers beside him.

“I think Meg and I would have a delightful time, wouldn’t we?” He beams down at the feline, scratching back behind her ears as he legs out a song of purrs. “So, how about that nap, hm? Think that coffee is wearing off.”

You turn to face him to find him laid sprawled out on your ceramic tiles, Meg finding a home resting up on his stomach, tail swaying delicately in his face. You can see him barely dodge the swings, narrowly taking out the glasses perched up on his head.

“Think she likes you more than me.” You giggle, admiring the two of them.

“Impossible.” He shoots back, a hint of a dimple popping from behind the cat, who appears to not fully take into consideration of personal space. “What’s there not to like about you?”

You don’t respond back at first, but watch as the two of them play on the floor, Harry reaching over and grabbing the god forsaken toy that he had to buy her out of the goodness of his heart.

“I’m going to bed… Feel free to play with my cat.” You had to stop yourself from using the derogative term that, you knew would get a chuckle out of your fellow friend, but could simultaneously place an elephant in the room that neither one of you are prepared to face.

You slowly begin to trudge off into your room, not but a second later do you hear the pattering of footsteps following you at lightspeed.

It’s not often does he find himself slotted beside you in your bed, but over the times he’s come to your place, he’s continuously chosen the same side each time, even if it’s just to sit and wait while you got ready for the day. And this time was just the same as any. You pulled back the duvet, not taking the time to make the bed earlier that morning, and slipped inside the cotton sheets, letting your muscles delve into the comforting, downy blankets.

You have your spot, and he has his – even a favorite blanket you pull from your closest for each visit, but somehow, he always ditches it if it means he can come closer and share yours.

“Hey, pet,” Harry breathes against your neck, having already disregarded his comforter and sidling close to you. “Mates are throwing a party in a couple of days. Y’should come.”

“You know me and alcohol don’t mix.”

“Don’t have to drink. Just want you there.”

You think before you have the chance to answer that he’s fallen asleep, but when you give him a curt nod and a simple, “Sounds fun,” you feel an arm pull around your midsection and squeeze against your side in acknowledgement, and before too long, the two of you are falling asleep 0 with Meg playing with her rattling toy in the other room.

*

The next time Harry sees you, debuting your golfing skills via Niall’s Instagram story, he can’t figure out what to focus his attention on more: your awful attempts at simply hitting the ball, or how good your butt looked in your shorts. Regardless, once you do manage to hit your target – taking pieces of the lawn with it – it nearly disappears into the closed off wooded section, and you dramatically turn around with wide eyes.

“Oh no, Niall!”

You would never let him live that down, and for that, Harry was grateful.

The next video of his is one you took of him, and right as he goes to hit the ball, you let out a raucous scream, causing him to lose his focus, and sending the ball completely past his hole. The caption read: ‘He’s losing his touch.’

The first thing he sees of your story, nearly an hour later, is on you standing on a mini golf course, next to a hole, with a club raised above your head, the text below saying: ‘Hole in uno!’

Harry tries to explain it to himself why he suddenly got an uneasy feeling welling up at the bottom of his gut, and maybe it was because Niall took you to a child’s golf course that is a hotspot for date night, but God dammit, if anyone is going to take you to a child’s gold course that is a hotspot for date nights, it was going to be him.

He wanted to be the one to wrap their arms around you, bending you over slightly, teaching you how to properly swing – without taking bits of the Earth with you. Not some quirky Irishman who probably was unsure of where to put his hands. And if anyone was going to celebrate with you after hitting your first hole in uno, he’d jump over fences and do backflips off cars to make sure it was him.

So, he told himself – promised – that when he gets back from visiting home, he was going to pick his balls off from the floor, dust them off, and muster up all the courage he had, and ask you out on a date. A proper date.

Or a shitty date, if that’s what you wanted.

He’d pick you up, take you to the crappiest restaurant he could find, skip out on dessert, and at the end of the night, make sure not to even go in for a kiss, just so you can have your shitty date that feels real, but the second it’s over, he’ll be damned if he’s not asking you out on a second, just to give you something you actually deserve.

Dinner at the best only for the best, all the dessert you could ever want, and once he’s dropped you off he’d go in for the most mind-blowing, heart-stopping, earthshattering kiss either one of you has ever had, and wherever it leads to, he’d be happy regardless.

He can’t even remember the last time he had sex. Three months? Is it nearing four? When did Hannah leave him naked and with potential blue balls in bed?

He doesn’t even want to reminisce on his last lay – a specific memory he pretends never happened – and focuses his attention on the way you’d beg for his cock, legs spread and fingers digging into the flesh of his thigh as he moves himself closer, rubbing his tip over your dripping core. You’d tell him how bad you want it, how you want to feel him stretch around you, filling you to the brim.

He wants to bend you over, your ass pressed tightly against his cock as he slams into you relentlessly, and he wouldn’t really know what to focus his attention on: the sounds of your skin smacking against his, or your muffled groans releasing into his pillow, because he knows if he takes a moment to fathom how warm and tight and wet you feel, a cunt unlike any he’s delved in, he’d be finished before you had a chance to scream out his name.

He’s already addicted to you, and he hasn’t even had the delicacy of indulging in your taste yet.

If only you knew the effect you had on him.

*

After his mother, who continued to express her love and adoration to the girl who seemed to snuggle her way into her son’s heart followed you on Instagram, Gemma soon followed suit. She was very much aware of the effect that you were having on her little brother – a good one, but an effect nonetheless – and doing as sisters do, she wanted to see who this girl was. She wouldn’t call it prying, but simply looking.

There was nothing wrong with looking.

But on the other hand, when you opened your app to see her chilling amongst your pending request list, your stomach turned.

She’s the big sister. She’s the protector. She’s the lion to the cub. Bigger singling’s have that basic instinct manually wired in them, where if their young sibling brings someone into their life, it’s like a switch is flipped, and it’s an automatic impulse to investigate who this newcomer is. And although her little brother might not forcefully decline any assumptions she began to express blatantly, she knew him better than most.

They once shared a womb – not together, but if they are products of the same two people, it must mean something.

Harry might tell her that you’re strictly a friend, but when she sees it with her own two eyes – him liking nearly every one of your selfies, including the one of you sitting up in his bed with bedhead and his hoodie resting over your slumped shoulders – does she realize that he is hiding way more than meets the eye.

And it’s when you post that photo, the morning after you were rudely awoken by a distressed Harold who needed a sleeping buddy, that a lightbulb goes off in Anne’s head.

Okay, you might be sleeping with her son. And after expressing a brief concern with her daughter – having assumed he had spoken to his sister about the whole ordeal – she lets Anne down by stating, “I know as much as you, mum.”

Which has brought Anne here, on the phone with her son as he stands barefoot in his bathroom with only a towel covering his midsection. You were downstairs, presumably rearranging his bookcase so it was in color order, though Harry had said himself that it doesn’t matter either way, to you, it makes all the difference.

“It’s pleasing to the eye!” You imply, skimming through a book briefly, only to toss it wide-eyed across the room onto his lap, him instantly grunting at the contact. “Erotic poetry! What would your mother think, Harold?”

Well, it was no secret now, especially with Anne expressing her concerns into his ear as he leans against his bathroom counter, drawing faces into the condensation on the mirror.

“I just want to make sure you’re being safe,” she exclaims, and Harry nearly has her repeat herself. “You seem to like this girl, enjoying her company—”

“And what kind of company do you think she gives me, mum?” He is staring back at his reflection, noticing the spot beginning to make itself noticed on his chin.

“Well, love, she seems to be over… a lot. And she was in your bed.” He wants to sink into the floorboards and become one with the house. He was very aware of that photo you posted, was even sitting beside you when you took it, even wondering to himself how similar your bedhead could compare to sex hair. “You know you can tell me anything, right? She’s a lovely girl—”

“Mum, I promise. She’s just a friend,” And as much as it hurt him to say that, he powers through what he knows deep down is the inevitable truth. “It’s not like that. Haven’t slept with her. There’s no plans to.”

There’s a short pause on the other line where he hears his mother sigh reluctantly, and there’s a beat of a moment where Harry almost does it; he almost confines in his mother in every pestering and strenuous feeling that’s left him tossing and turning most nights, begging for answers – answers that he doesn’t understand, partially due to feelings he doesn’t understand, brought forth by a girl who began as a complete mystery but then molded into this beautiful work of art who loves organization and dumb jokes, and erotic poetry, so it turns out.

“Just know you can talk to me about anything, okay, love?” Her reply is softer, and deep down she knows there’s something he isn’t entirely being truthful about, but she’s not one to pry unless given notable reason. “Just be safe. Don’t want you to put yourself in a position you’re not ready for yet.”

“Yeah,” He clears his throat, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I know.”

And that was the end of that.

It was later that evening, when the two of you found yourself a few shots down – you working yourself through a cranberry and vodka, which Harry pleasantly stole little sips from – that he lets it slip through his inebriated lips that, “M’mum thinks we’re fucking.”

“Fucking?” You snort, fiddling with the cocktail umbrella that he had placed behind your ear earlier that night. “You and me? Getting it on?”

“Properly banging.”

“Full on bumping uglies?”

“A bit of hanky panky.”

You stile a muffled laugh into his chest, bringing an arm up around his back to rest along the nook of his neck, and as he holds you against his frame, his own comes to rest at your side, as he glides his lips over your hairline and gently places a kiss above your brow.

“You feeling alright there, pet?” He begins to fiddle with the hem of your shirt, a peek of skin appearing where his thumb slowly makes gentle circles. “Think we should head back soon… I know my Sherpa is calling your name.”

“Your sheep?” He glances down to find your face buried in the crook of his shoulder, your voice muffled against the material of his shirt, and he almost has half the mind to assume you’re falling asleep on him.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

“No, the blanket, pet…” Harry carefully removes your drink from your hand to set it off to the side, and gently lifts your chin to catch your eyes half-lidded in a daze. “I can call the driver and he’ll be here in five minutes. How does that sou—”

“I need to pee.”

“Okay, do you know where the toilet is?—”

“Come.” Your hand is already wrapped around his wrist as you loop around guest after guest towards the far hallway, having already made a visit here earlier in the evening when a blowjob – the shot – malfunctioned all over your shirt.

“Okay, I can just wait out here while you—” Harry can’t seem to catch a break before he’s dragged into the bathroom, your body reaching around to lock the door behind him. “I—uh—”

“Just give me a second… Call y’man for the car.” You don’t waste a second before you unbutton your pants, and Harry feels his heart escalate in his chest as he distracts himself and fiddles in his pocket for his phone.

The first time he saw you naked from the waist down, was a god honest accident on his part, and if ever found himself lucky enough, he would expect the next time he saw you in such a state, would be in a completely different circumstance. Not while you are peeing.

“So, y’mom thinks we’re engaging in coitus.” Harry assumed the conversation had been forgotten, though there was always the chance come tomorrow when the two of you were sober and able, would bring the topic back up for a laugh. But, as you reached over to grab toilet paper, you take a helping glance up at the poor boy standing in the corner, eyes sealed to the floor as if he was taken into the woman’s bathroom by his mother.

“Yep. Playing the horizontal mambo.”

It’s a flush that lets him know he’s safe to look back up, and finds you focused on him from the reflection of the mirror. He can tell your mind is elsewhere, based from your tightly knitted brows and your lips pursed in a deep grimace.

“You’ve thought about it.” You say it so matter-of-factly, with such a mundane expression that he wants to know who sold him out. He feels his stomach churn - likely due to the seven shots he took - and he shuffles through his mind for any kind of excuse or denial drenched in lies to distract you enough to get you back to his place and tucked in bed without another word, but he feels his mouth go dry as you turn around to face him. “Niall told me, it’s fine.”

It’s fine.

It’s totally, fucking fine.

He is in no position to argue with you, considering he’s never once uttered a single word to Niall about anything that laid closely to the topic of you, but yet you stand here before him, with your hair gone amuck and a stain on your shirt from before, and he wonders if Niall was telling her what he had only simply been assuming, or if you were actually bullshitting him.

And when your eyebrows raise, your face filled with a glint of understanding, that maybe you realize his silence is nothing but his concealed answer.

“It’s okay…,” you begin. “If you do, I mean…” You go to lean on the counter, stretching out your hand to find his still rigid and cold by his side. “I don’t care…I have too, a little.”

Harry could have mistaken the sound of his stomach dropping for an atomic bomb; you were drunk, and when you were drunk personal space wasn’t a part of your vocabulary, and neither was a filter, so more things than none slipped passed your tongue unnoticed, leaving him uncertain of the truth hidden around your words.

But there was that night in his kitchen, when he held your sobbing figure against his own, listening to your heart break all over again over these things he couldn’t quite put a grasp on to fully understand, but having his own bit of understanding to see the impact it had made on you, leaving you alone to pick up the pieces.

“C’mon, pet—the car is waiting—”

And just as quickly as it went, his eyes dashing up to yours in a quick flutter, did he see yours coast up to meet his, and if he had blinked he would have missed it, ever so swiftly did you push up on your toes to tenderly seal his lips with yours.

He didn’t have time to close his eyes, and after a second passed when you tucked your bottom lip in between your teeth, letting go of his hand, did he watch you crack the bathroom door open to promptly slip out with a quick murmur of, “Better go find my jacket.”

[recentanimenews]

Bookshelf Briefs 3/16/21

Blood on the Tracks, Vol. 4 | By Shuzo Oshima | Vertical Comics – The first volume of Blood on the Tracks was suspenseful and shocking and I enjoyed that, but the next two installments were extremely disturbing because they basically depicted a mentally ill mother damaging her son in real time. I debated dropping the series, but decided to give it one more volume, and I’m glad I did. Seiichi finally has an ally, witness, and savior in the form of Fukiishi, his first girlfriend (who has her own shitty parent to contend with) and on the one hand it’s so great to see him finally have someone who knows exactly how terrfiying Seiko is and who gives him the courage to stand up to his mother. On the other hand, we saw what Seiko did to the last person who threatened to lead Seiichi away from her control. What is she going to do to Fukiishi? I’m simultaneously scared and hopeful. – Michelle Smith

How Do You Do, Koharu?, Vol. 1 | By Kanae Hazuki | Kodansha Comics (digital only) – If you’re wondering what you need to know from Say I Love You. to read this, the answer is nothing whatsoever—this takes place years later, and the only common connection is “Koharu” herself (real name Nagi). Instead, the book is a very good look into the life of those who livestream, and how a shared online connection can be unwanted… or scary… when meeting in real life. Especially as Koharu also works as a maid cafe, and has to deal with customers who also want to get up in her space. Koharu isn’t sure what she wants here, and the connections she makes with Shun are tentative. Negotiating modern relationships can be tough, but this looks like another fun shoujo series. – Sean Gaffney

A Journal of My Father | By Jiro Taniguchi | Ponent Mon – Whenever a new volume of Taniguchi’s manga is released in English it’s worth taking note, especially when it’s a lovely hardcover edition from Ponent Mon. The most recent example of this is A Journal of My Father, a quiet, contemplative work that was originally published in Japan in 1994. The story’s premise is simple enough—a man travels back to his hometown in order to attend his father’s funeral—but the characterization in the work is notably complex. After some prompting, Yoichi Yamashita, who has both literally and figuratively distanced himself from his family, arrives in time for the wake. Over the course of the evening, reflecting on his childhood and stories told by others, Yoichi gradually comes to terms with the fact that his father was a much more complicated person than he previously realized. Part historical drama, part family portrait, A Journal of My Father works on multiple levels. – Ash Brown

My Hero Academia: Team-Up Missions, Vol. 1 | By Yoko Akiyama and Kohei Horikoshi | Viz Media – Sadly, this ended up being a bit of a disappointment. The premise suggested we’d be seeing a bit of the class that never gets attention, but no, it’s the same old main cast for the most part. It does get a bit better as it goes along. There’s two stories involving Melissa Shield, the original character from the first movie, which give her some nice depth, and also gives her a chance to team up with Mei, who is essentially her Japanese counterpart… though their personalities differ. The best of the team-ups involves Fatgum, Tamaki, Iida and Momo searching all over to try to find the handsome hero who saved a little girl… whose face she can’t quite remember. Could be better. – Sean Gaffney

Spy x Family, Vol. 4 | By Tatsuya Endo | Viz Media – This may be the best volume in the series to date, which is saying something. Yor kicking a car became an instant meme, but I think my choice for top moment has to go to the Handler’s description of what war is really like, in all its gory, violent tragedy. This is not to say that this volume is not also hilarious, be it Loid’s pathetic attempts at excusing himself to go be a spy, Anya’s horrid realization that she can’t read a clock, or everything Yor does in general, this is a winner. As an added bonus, DOGGO! Yes, we get a new cast member, and Bond is not only best doggy but also can SEE THE FUTURE! The series does a wonderful job balancing humor, fake dating, comedy and action equally, and is simply a must read. – Sean Gaffney

We’re New at This, Vol. 3 | By Ren Kawahara | Kodansha Comics (digital only) – The sexy is definitely amped up from the previous volume here. While our lead couple still have not managed to go all the way yet, they’re doing pretty much everything but, especially when Sumika has to change clothes after getting soaked in the rain in Ikuma’s office… and just strips completely naked. (Kudos, by the way, for not going with the standard comedy “someone walks in” here.) Elsewhere, it’s rapidly become clear that the reason that these two are not getting any further is simply that they find each other TOO ADORABLE, and are too busy squeeing to actually get it on. Frankly, if they ever fix that, the series is over, but for now, it’s funny, romantic and erotic in equal measure. – Sean Gaffney

A White Rose in Bloom, Vol. 1 | By Asumiko Nakamura | Seven Seas – Turns out that Nakamura-san can write yuri just as well as she writes BL. Honestly, the main reason to pick this up might be the faces—the artwork on the expressions throughout this volume is exquisite, and yes, I’m including the seemingly “steel” Steph, who slowly gets immersed in the walking disaster that is Ruby. (I almost typed RWBY there, and this would not need too much rewriting to be an AU fic there, to be honest.) There’s also some nice heartfelt emotion here, as Steph already has girls in love with her who are not happy with Ruby, and Ruby’s own home life may force her to leave the school soon anyway. This doesn’t have a volume two out in Japan yet, but volume one is still worth getting for yuri fans. – Sean Gaffney

Witch Hat Atelier, Vol. 7 | By Kamome Shirahama | Kodansha Comics – The majority of this volume is dedicated to Qifrey, his past (much of which is still a mystery to him), and possibly also explains why he was so quick to take pity on Coco for her own tragic experiments. Indeed, Coco’s mother comes up again for the first time in a while, and it’s hinted that she may very well be beyond saving, and that Coco will have to come to terms with that. Still, Coco is the living definition of “take a third option,” as this volume shows, and I think in the end she and Qifrey will be good for each other—even if he still has quite a bit of darkness residing within him. All this and the usual jaw-dropping artwork make me wonder why I waited so long to pick this up from my stack. – Sean Gaffney

By: Ash Brown

[collecting-stories]

Distraction - Steve Rogers

Can you write something with with reader x Steve or Wanda where the reader is an intimidating secretive agent from some secret task force that the avengers need help from? And throughout the whole thing the reader is so serious and Steve or Wanda is trying to be friendly but keeps being put to the side and when it's all over it's like the reader flips a switch and they get to know each other? :-) I love your stuff! (Also my phone's acting up,, this is meant to be anon

Distraction - Steve Rogers

There were about eight different voices going off in your ear. You sat at the base of a digital mountain, computer screens lined the wall and the long desk was covered in equipment. The room was dominated by this mass of technology, only allowing enough extra space for yourself, the rolling chair you were sitting in and one other seat, which was occupied as well. By a super-solider that was adding an extra voice to the constant noise in your ears.

He'd been laid up by an injury he sustained last night. Having only this small room in the office across from the building they were trying to infiltrate they had brought him here. He had bled all over the floor while being bandaged and now he sat in a folding chair beside you, almost healed, with the bottom half of his uniform still on and his helmet sitting in the corner keeping his shield company.  

And he was talking. A lot.  

"So this system, it can pick up every floor of the building simultaneously? Video and sound and everything?" He asked, fiddling with a keyboard near him.

"Please don't touch anything." You reached over and grabbed his wrist. "It's all very sensitive."

You were used to working alone. And even when you didn't work alone the person working with you was working, not taking a breath because they had sustained ten stab wounds to the abdomen. You were contemplating getting a sign for the door, something along the lines of 'no talking beyond this point' because it was difficult to concentrate on the four remaining agents inside the building while Captain America himself was talking your ear off.  

"How long have you been doing this? Not this specifically, but the job? How long have you been on the job?" He asked.  

Sometimes it felt like decades that he'd been out of the ice but times like this made him feel like he'd been thawed out only yesterday. He and computers had come a long way but not enough that he could even begin to understand what it was you were doing as you typed away on your computer. He could hear his teammates voices coming through your headset in tiny whispers, overlapping each other as they gave out commands.  

"Second floor, 20 paces down, right side." You instructed, glancing at one of the screens. You didn’t answer the question Steve had directed your way.

"I definitely could've used all this back in the day. That was all guess work." He began, diving into a story you were sure he had told more than once. And if he hadn't told it than some 90-year-old at the VA had relayed it in his honor. Or Gary Sinise had read it off a cue card for the Smithsonian.  

It wasn't that you didn't want to talk to him, or didn't want to hear the story he was telling it was just that you couldn't afford to. If you wanted to get this mission with everyone alive then you needed to stay focused on this task, not the super solider sitting beside you.

When he'd first been brought in you had nearly started shouting at other members of his team. This was not a medical facility it was a tiny room the size of a closet with equipment that was worth millions. And you didn't want America's hero bleeding out on it. Well, you didn't want him to bleed out at all.  

"Captain Rogers-"

"Steve, please." He interrupted.

"Steve," you repeated. "I'm gonna need you to stop talking until your teammates are safely out of that building. Is that possible, maybe?"

"Yeah," Steve nodded, shifting his chair away from you a bit "yeah of course."

"There's a headset right there, if you want to communicate with them." You pointed out, reaching passed him to grab the spare headset that was resting beside a keyboard.  

The rest of the mission went the way it was supposed to, aside from the super-solider that was only slightly distracting. By the end you were almost thankful for his presence. He'd taken over the role of leader, giving commands through the headset and leaving you to do the easier work of maneuvering cameras and disarming any security systems in place.  

When the mission was over Steve, who was mostly healed, left the room with just a thank you. He didn't say anything else. Just placed a hand on your shoulder, one you really wanted to lean your head against, and then left. Then you were left alone in the small closet room to breakdown all the equipment yourself. Once you were out of tactical mode, when the mission at hand wasn’t the only thing that occupied your mind, you considered that you'd been a little hard on Steve. Well, not entirely. You did need to focus and he was extremely distracting, but that wasn't his fault and outside of a mission you wouldn't hate sitting next to him and hearing him relay old war stories that had been told a million times.  

So you made a surprise visit to the Tower. You considered going with the excuse that you were just checking up on him to be sure that he was alright but seeing as the serum had his metabolism working in overdrive that was a shitty excuse. He had been nearly healed by the end of the mission. There was no way he wasn't fully recovered by now. Instead you decided that your excuse would just be that you wanted to see him, because that was true. Not to mention, you went on deadly missions every day, how hard could talking to a guy be.  

You found him exactly where you were told you would, in the kitchen getting himself some lunch.  

"Did you know the VA hospital three blocks over has the best chicken salad sandwiches in the world?" You said, leaning against the island in the middle of the kitchen.  

Steve turned around, a look of surprise on his face. He was shocked both to see you standing in his kitchen and to have you sounding so friendly. You had been stoic during the mission, that was the word he had used to describe you when Sam asked.  

"No I...I don't think I've been in their cafeteria." Steve replied, his words catching in his mouth as he tried to speak.

"I always stop in when I'm visiting my granddad." You replied. It was probably selfish of you to have an ulterior motive as shallow as lunch but your granddad was always in a terrible mood and you need some sort of incentive to visit him twice a week.  

"Well it's not hospital chicken salad but you're welcome to share some turkey and cheese?" Steve offered, passing the plate across the island. Half a sandwich, looking fairly lackluster, sat on a paper plate.  

"How about I treat you to lunch somewhere not in this place?" You asked, looking around the kitchen. You couldn't remember the story he'd been telling you in the computer room but you were kind of dying to hear him tell it again. Simply because you wouldn't mind wasting a whole afternoon on him.  

Steve looked down at the sandwich he'd made for himself, the thought of going out somewhere enticing. The thought of going out somewhere with you even more so. "Alright. But I'll pay for mine." He stopped himself before he could say something dumb about a lady paying for lunch because he was sure you would snap at him for it. If not you than certainly Natasha later on when she inevitably found out he'd gone out with someone.  

"Then I'm not treating you am I?" You laughed.  

"I guess not." Steve sent you a rather sheepish grin.  

"Alright we'll go Dutch this time." You began to back out of the kitchen, waving for him to follow you. "So anyway, what was that story you were telling me? About how you wished you had surveillance 'back in the day'?" You asked.

Steve stepped into the elevator beside you. "I don't want to bore you with that story again."

"I was a bit distracted the other day, trust me, you run no risk of boring me."  

He hit the button for the ground level as he restarted the story about a rescue mission in the 1940's. You leaned back against the wall of the elevator, eyes focused on his face, and listened to him in complete fascination. Nothing was going to pull you away from this moment.

I chose to write this for Steve just cause I love him.