#without a single flying fuck of a regard to what people think

[frnkiebby]

Another one

jfc even channeling it with the green frankenstein’s monster mask~🎃

[lightningarmour]

Absolute comics first thoughts

For the first time since the end of DOOMSDAY CLOCK I've been persuaded into paying money for a DC comic, and two, no less.

I've been 100% checked out of the DC sphere for about 5 years, only occasionally seeing some news here or there about the latest crossover event or fave character or what have you, and I regard those with the passing interest one might have in seeing a hot air balloon. Nothing has drawn me back partly because I'm old now and don't have the time or inclination to try catching up on years of crossover event, status quo altering storylines and yadda yadda.

I had heard about the new ABSOLUTE line of titles, but from the initial teasers and previews, not the least of which was the character design for Absolute Batman with his giant stupid fat bat symbol, I just wrote it off as them doing yet more edgy elseworlds stories, and thought no more on it until maybe three weeks ago. I saw a little roundup of details about Absolute Superman from an interview with Jason Aaron and it caught my attention.

I've gone on at length in the past about how I think that any earnest attempt at writing Superman for modern audiences that keeps true to the "idea" of Superman without making a cynical edgelord version of the character would need to depict Superman as a politically engaged, class conscious individual at least, and a full on Leninist at best. Now obviously I do not expect DC comics to publish a comic about communist superman without it being a laughable piece of propaganda like RED SON, but nonetheless, hearing that Absolute Superman is about a superman who is fighting a mining corporation to protect a community of abused labourers, and re-imagining Krypton as a caste-based society that was destroyed by reckless exploitation of the environment, I was certainly interested.

I resolved to check it out at least. I'd seen some of the details about Absolute Batman, that he's not a billionaire and whatever and still wasn't too interested, but realized I'd heard basically nothing about Absolute Wonder Woman. "She didn't grow up on Themyscira" okay what does that mean?

At this point both Batman and Wonder Woman were out so I looked it up and found some pages from Absolute Wonder Woman #1 and was pretty much instantly hooked because the art was tremendous, and Wonder Woman is flying on a skeleton pegasus with a huge Guts sword and like, that just fucking rocks ass, come on. So I was now sold on two Absolute series, I decided eh, what the hell I'll check out Absolute Batman #1, maybe I could be convinced.

So now that I've read all three first issues of the new ABSOLUTE Universe, I have some thoughts.

ABSOLUTE BATMAN #1 is a confused mess. I think that Batman, being easily the most popular DC character, with the broadest demographic appeal, has too much baggage. You'd kind of think that with a character like this where everyone knows his whole basic backstory, you could gloss over the details a bit more, but this issue is so concerned with establishing and referencing as many iconic Batman characters as possible, it's so bloated.

in this one(1) issue they set up or directly show you: Alfred Pennyworth, Jim Gordon, Barbara Gordon, Harvey Bullock, Killer Croc, Penguin, Riddler, Cat Woman, Two-Face, Black Mask, Ras Al Ghul, and of course we cannot go even one single issue without giving you The Joinker. It's too much. Ease off. We're not going to encounter probably two thirds of these people for ages. And, frankly establishing that half of Batman's presumptive rogue's gallery just so happened to be Bruce Wayne's childhood friends is dumb as shit. The dynamic between all of them is going to follow the exact same "gasp, could it be that my old friend is now a criminal?!" dynamic like 5 times in a row.

This is easily the most edgy of the current Absolute series and is basically exactly what I assumed the whole imprint was going to be, but it really feels in places like Scott Snyder wanted this to be a Batman that was darker and more violent but then DC editorial was like "no, Batman can't kill people" so he adjusted the script as little as possible to reassure the audience that he's rolling non-lethal damage as he stabs the shit out of people with his ear-knives and chops their hands off.

Despite all the parts I don't like about how they portray Batman, the thing that pisses me off is I really like the way they are doing Bruce Wayne.

Typically Bruce Wayne, the billionaire is kind of a hard character for me to like because of how much he serves this kind of great man power fantasy(yes, I know, superhero comics are inherently fascist) He has a vendetta against the concept of crime because his parents were killed by a criminal, so he takes it upon himself to "protect" Gotham, but in many depictions of Batman it's kind of like, what exactly is his connection to the city other than he lives there and presumably is the HQ of Wayne Enterprises. he views it the way a rich person would, dirty and too full of undesirable people who must be punished so that he, a wealthy socialite can enjoy the place without having to see the underclasses.

Making Bruce a working class urbanist is such a more interesting way of exploring the character. He loves the city because he grew up in it's streets, played in it's parks, attended it's schools, rode it's busses. Adding the layer on that that he became a civil engineer and worked with the municipal government does for the first time I've ever seen something interesting with Gotham by kind of interrogating the notion of what makes a city what it is. Is it the infrastructure, the people, the civil servants? It's the most interesting Bruce Wayne has ever been.

But then as Batman he's just fucking mutilating people and blowing them up with bombs and whatever. Yawn. I think that the Batman aspect also annoys me because it so blatantly disregards the central premise of the Absolute line. What if Batman wasn't a billionaire? Well then he wouldn't have access to tons of money and resources to do his Batman shit! So they like, half-ass that by giving him the kind of stripped-down arsenal. No gadgets and gizmos, just knives and a hunk of bat shaped metal used as a battle axe. But then oh yeah he also has some kind of miracle fabric that he can use as like tendrils or whatever and it's completely bullet-proof and so on and so forth. Like, Batman really really does not feel in any meaningful way like he is working at a disadvantage in this version of the story, and that just makes the whole thing so damn boring.

ABSOLUTE WONDER WOMAN #1 fucking kicks ass. This was by kind of a wide margin the best issue of the three series debut issues. I think that unlike Batman and Superman who both have quite a lot of baggage tied into their backstories and supporting cast and so forth, Wonder Woman has never quite achieved the level of iconography as they have so there's almost more freedom to do something new without hitting a bunch of prescribed plot points. In fact she might be the one of the trinity who has had the most attempts to re-imagine her and spruce her up to get people interested. I recall back in 2010 they did a big shake up that was not too dissimilar to this new take on the character. What if she never grew up on Themyscira? What if she didn't have the favour of the gods, etc. And I really liked that one, so I guess it's no surprise I'd be fond of this new version as well.

I think the number one thing that hooked me on this issue is the artwork, tbh. It's my favourite style so far of the Absolute comics, and everything just looks so cool and big and epic and awesome. That's it. It's just cool as hell.

The next most important thing is it has much better pacing than the other issues. You get a very simple, very effective set-up. The Amazons have been punished by the gods so this baby is being raised in hell by a witch. That's it. Good, effective time lapse of her growing up interspersed within the action scenes of her fighting monsters. It's simple and to the point but still leaves me invested int he mystery and wanting to know more. And again, it did not feel the need to shoe-horn a bunch of characters in so you can do the soyjack point at the issue. They could have easily shoved Steve Trevor in there as one of the soldiers responding to the freaky monster pyramid but that would have just been lame. It's confident enough in itself to not have to try and get you with low hanging fruit.

I don't really have much else to say, it's just cool and good and I'm unequivocally excited for more.

ABSOLUTE SUPERMAN #1 is a solid start. Now I'll admit I'm way more of a Superman-head than I am for Batman or Wonder Woman. This was the series that made me interested in the Absolute experiment in the first place, so I'm probably way more willing to be lenient towards a Superman title than say Batman.

That being said, this one also has like Batman, aspects I really like, and others I'm a bit iffy on, though not in as wide a gulf as Absolute Batman. As I said before, I've spent probably too much time trying to think of how to reinvent Superman in a modern context and, specifically, from a politically left-wing perspective, and I'll say that so far I think they're doing a decent job.

It's obviously nothing new to look at Superman as an immigrant story. Going all the way back to Siegel & Shuster, who were children of Jewish immigrants, the whole idea was what if this guy came from somewhere else. I think that the way that Jason Aaron has interpreted that concept for a modern context is actually quite brilliant. It's almost less of what if Superman was an immigrant than what if Superman was a refugee? Rather than unable to return to his homeland, but finding a new home with loving foster parents we are given the suggestion that he's never had a stable home since arriving on Earth. Moving from one place to another, nowhere to go home to, hiding among the economically exploited peoples of the global south.

It's such a riveting set up, I'm really excited to see how this version of the Character is informed by his history.

I also like the use of Krypton as kind of a heavy-handed double metaphor for stratified class society and the dangers of climate change. Like, it is presumably already dead and gone and unable to like, textually affect the story so who cares if it's allegorical nature is too on the nose. I also really like the notion of Kal El having like, living memory of Krypton, rather than only knowing about it from recordings on an alien flash drive or whatever.

I think the use of this "Lazarus" corporation as a kind of stand-in blanket evil corporation that does every kind of exploitative, extractive, broadly seen as morally wrong kinds of industries a bit hokey but hey it's a comic. I love the use of the Peacemakers as the like, corporate PMC security force though, that's fun. I am pretty curious if Lazarus is going to be a kind of fake-out Lexcorp. Like Luthor is the head of it but they called it by a different name so as not to ruin the surprise of his introduction. That or maybe it's related to Ras Al Ghul? Who knows, but I'm interested in what their whole deal is. They not only operate diamond mines and factory farms but also like, hunt down alien technology to reverse engineer?? And employ a Brainiac. curious as to what the deal is with the screaming jars. Does being shrunk down just like, really hurt? Seems like almost going overboard with the concept. Like not only does he shrink down cities and put them in jars but he also tortures the shrunken people? Like why, what's he getting out of it?

Some of the iffy parts for me include the suit AI thing he's got because I'm frankly sick of that trope by now. Ever since Iron man it's like every fucking character in comics has to have some kind of tech suit with a quirky robot voice. I'm willing to give it a chance on the grounds that it's like alien technology so sure whatever. I kind of like that he has to fucking charge the suit with a solar panel. I am curious about what exactly the breakdown is with the suit. He uses his x-ray and laser eyes so presumably it's still Kal himself who has super powers and they're not like, imbued by the suit. The suit seems like it is regulating his powers in some way. Like without it he couldn't control them and would cause havoc, but the fact that he has to like charge the suit's battery is kind of funny. Like, is the suit solar powered and his powers are just inherent no matter what, or does he still derive his power from sunlight as well? Fuzzy on the rules.

I also don't like the Lois reveal. It's just dull. Who care. The little teaser of Kent Farm is interesting to me. Feels like several different ways they could pivot:

Kal El's rocket lands and blows a hole in their barn, they find him and are frightened of him so they call the authorities/Lazarus and Kal flees.

Similar to above but they care for him like usual before Lazarus shows up looking for the alien craft and kill the Kents to remove any witnesses

Altogether it does enough things I'm interested in to keep me going with it despite the few quibbles I have. So far it's 2/3 on the Absolute universe and with the "phase 2" or whatever announced I'm 100% guaranteed also picking up Absolute Flash because it's my boy Wally and Jeff Lemire writing, like come the fuck on, how could I resist that.

[swifty-fox]

i fucking LOVE kink psychology and talking abt it bc i've said it b4 and ill say it again: ppl are so fucking critical abt kinks without really understanding what kink is. like bdsm being called abuse when its so much deeper than that pisses me off sm. i just think kinks r neat

Kinks are so neat! People are weird and like to do weird stuff in bed! it usually ties back to their childhood in some capacity. t's kinda why I'm writing this Dom Gale au. I wanna explore kink with them in a real and accurate way

“What about people who say it’s abuse? I mean, what's the separation between some asshole who beats his girlfriend and then the dude in a leather mask whipping his until she bleeds?” 

It’s a blunt question, the kind of thing that would come off as rude if it wasn’t the whole reason John was here. Gale folds his fingers together, presses the steeple of his pointers to his nose and regards John. 

“When I dominate someone I am playing a role. I mirror them, make them feel comfortable.”

“You’re doing it now,” John points out, had noted the way Gale kept his body full on and open towards him, their shoulders aligned, hands in similar positions save fro when the blonde was speaking.

“So are you,” Gale shoots right back, grinning wider. 

“Journalist Jedi powers.” John winks at him.

Things are looser now, two friends chatting instead of an interview. It surprised John, the ease with which they slide into it.

“My question stands, though,” John asks, taking another sip of his tea. “What’s the difference?” 

“Consent. I’m selling someone their fantasy. And if they don’t like it or don’t want it then it stops with a single word. If you want to come at it from a psychological angle I’m giving someone a therapeutic space to explore desires they may be scared or ashamed of. I’m giving them safety and comfort and attention.” 

Gale looks John over, his eyes assessing. Though what for, John is not sure. “When I’m alone with someone I am in control of their safety. Mental and physical. It’s a thrill, having that power; and it’s a responsibility I don't take lightly. It’s like flying.”

[x0401x]

Hi there! I wanted to ask, what were your impressions/thoughts of Tsurune season 2 episode 1 so far? And the colors symbolism in the opening song with the ribbons? Just curious about your thoughts, thanks and have a great day!! :D

BRUH. I LOVED IT??? FUCK YEAH, THAT WAS AMAZING.

I really wonder how all those annoying Anons who filled my inbox with garbage back in 2019 are feeling right now, because just in this one episode, KyoAni has fixed literally every defect that I had pointed out in S1. The amount of improvement is just surreal.

First of all, the storytelling this season. The freaking storytelling. You can tell the difference between works that a studio actually places their bets on and the ones they don’t by the amount of effort that the animation team puts into the flow of each episode. S1 was an ungodly mix of slow pace that suddenly went too fast at punctual moments without any warning, bad humor, boring tone, missing information, inconsistencies and shit that the animators pulled out of their asses to cover up plot holes. This one, though? Smooth as a feather. Full of well-thought details. Scenes and events connecting properly with one another. Flashbacks very nicely timed. It was entirely an anime-original episode, 90% non-canon content, yet there’s canon info at every single second. I love the little things, such as the way that we’re led to think that the MVP of the sports event is going to be Rika and the show makes use of every possible hint that it’s going to be her, until the very last second, where it turns out that it’s Ryouhei. Awesome screenplay right there. This episode was meticulously planned and it shows.

The changes in visual. The upgrade in the artstyle is the most easily noticeable thing about the animation of this season, but the quality is a million times better too. The characters also have a lot more facial expression now. I once talked about Morimoto Chinatsu’s incredible talent for character design and the way that she goes as far as giving not just different hair and eyes, but also different eyelashes, eyebrows, ears, noses, mouths, chins, jawlines and even fucking wrists to every single character that she drew for the novel. And seeing S1 doing the opposite and giving every character a base face was just... no. So now that there’s been a turnaround and the characters externally show what they’re feeling and thinking, following their journey is a whole new experience. That moment when the team stares at Minato after he answers Masaki’s question is pure character study right there. And it’s probably the most blatant example of this season’s improvement, given that we never had this in the previous one. I also love how the expressions are not just there, they’re on-point. On par with what the novel tells us about them. My biggest peeve with S1 was that I’d look at these kids and a voice at the back of my head would go “who the fuck are you people”. Those weren’t the characters I knew. They didn’t look like them and didn’t act like them. But now I recognize them. These are the kids I read about. They finally feel like themselves.

The symbolism of the series. By God, so many treats in this episode in that regard. The yesterday-today-tomorrow blossom splashed with watercolor in the team’s theme colors. The intimist approach of the shots. The way that Minato and Shuu’s positions oppose each other on-screen. The lighting, the colors, the smear filter… literally everything is more vivid and lively. One of the things I recall commenting about S1 is that it didn’t feel like a KyoAni anime because KyoAni’s works are very immersion-based. You can feel yourself being inside that world, together with the characters. But I couldn’t feel that from Tsurune’s first season at all. With this one, I was able to dive head-first into it. It was absolutely magical. I also love that the leaves that fly out of the targets whenever the characters hit now don’t look so obviously like CGI.

Personality traits. They’re fucking everywhere. Like I said, this was entirely an anime-original episode, yet there’s canon info at every single second. Even better: information that clearly contradicts S1 but that matches the novel. Seiya being a smartass little shit full of wit instead of a Minato-obsessed yandere. Kaito being a team-driven hardworker instead of an obnoxious asshole who wants nothing but victory. Ryouhei actually acting upon his lack of experience in archery to catch up to everyone. Nanao being charismatic and having screen-time of his own instead of being pushed to the background while all his personality and lines are used on Seiya. Minato expressing his thoughts and feelings instead of just being an emotionless doormat who never really does anything. We learned more about the characters in just these 20 minutes than the entirety of the first season. It feels like KyoAni has finally taken a step back to look at the material they had in their hands and truly took in what the novel was about and what each character had going on for them. Even the girls’ team was fleshed out in this one, which was honestly a great surprise. I think we’ve gotten from this episode all the little things we didn’t get from S1, such as the way Noa and Yuuna are fangirls of Rika. The way Nanao shines better as support than as main even though he’s so conspicuous. The fact that Kaito is good at soccer and Seiya loves soccer tactics. The way Ryouhei, who doesn’t know much about archery, is used as the eyes of the viewers, and how unpretentiously the lessons he is taught are presented to us as something that we should also keep in mind (for example, that the target is the archer and the archer is the target, and when you’re at the stage of the draw, you’re aiming at your very own self). And the way that Minato is something in this season. We finally see the inner machinations of his mind here aside from his struggles with target panic.

Lastly (and what I consider to be most important) is that the roles of each character and their relationships with one another seem to be in tune with the novel now. Well, okay, almost. Seiya is still being weird around Masaki, but I guess that’s because it’d be too sudden if Seiya started acting the way he acts in canon (y’know, like a normal fucking person). However, the difference is that the narrative is clearly pushing towards Masaki instead of Seiya now, as it should be. Kaito, Nanao and Ryouhei, who used to be just in the background most of the time in S1 are now set perfectly into their own functions and you can tell that they do exist for reasons other than just fill up the team positions. Nanao also seems to be his own person now instead of living through Kaito. Seiya is being shown looking after the whole club, as the competent club president that he is, instead of just Minato. Minato now has proper reactions to everything and doesn’t just completely ignore when Seiya is being a little shit. Masaki is now acting like a true mentor and already in the first episode we have him giving more advice to the boys than the entirety of the first season. But more than anything else, what caught my attention was Shuu. S1 did him really dirty by giving him scary jealous rival vibes and not expanding at all on his relationship with Minato. As I said before, they’re not your usual sports anime rival duo. They really respect and admire each other, are jealous of each other to some extent, but they’re friends first and foremost. They’re also opposites of one another in every way. We didn’t get any of this in S1, and now we’re getting literally all of it at once. What a fucking blessing.

Honestly, the only things I’m concerned about in this season are 1) Kaito and Seiya’s relationship. It’s probably too late to mend it now and make it the way it is in canon, and it also seems the animators are just not interested in doing that, which kinda hurts, but I guess we can’t have it all. And 2) Minato and Masaki’s relationship. I’m pretty sure that we’re not gonna get the same amount of content for them as there is in the novel, and in the off-chance that we do, it’s just not gonna have the same approach or the same quality. Minato and Masaki are mirrors of each other but the anime vehemently refuses to acknowledge this for some reason. They try to treat Masaki as a completely separate entity that has absolutely nothing in common with Minato despite all of the mystic, supernatural and fate-oriented themes that their connection is centered around and the fact that they’ve gone through very similar experiences and hardships in doing archery. But I’d rather believe that it’s a little too early to make a judgement and wait. Truth remains that the characters and their relationships in the anime will never be nearly as good as they are in the original work no matter how hard they try, so I’m just gonna take what I can get.

Anyway, these are my thoughts on this episode. It was one of the very rare instances where I completely approve of anime-original content in an adaptation.

[arionwind]

So there's a trend I've been seeing, well for a while, but lately it's been grating on me especially hard with regards to the Crimew No-Fly List "hack". It's that genre of post that, often angrily, but sometimes just condescendingly/disappointingly tells people that they aren't taking a topic seriously enough or focusing on the correct part of it. I wanna break down just why I am find it so upsetting, and this event is an exceptional case study for it.

Because on the surface, it's entirely understandable. This is public-facing evidence in the government's own hand of a staggering litany of human rights abuses that really does deserve more in-depth discussion than it has been getting. People are absolutely justified in feeling frustrated that more discussion hasn't spawned at all social levels about this and while it's natural to cry out asking why that isn't happening, I think there's a few points that need to be kept in consideration.

A lot of us have been, in one way or another, dealing with this for years. Part of the horror of the No-Fly list is the sheer scale of it - so many people have been and continue to be harmed by their baseless inclusion on the list that it is difficult to even conceptualize how much pain has been inflicted, and that does matter. And I promise you, every single person on that list knows how big a deal both the list itself and this latest (though not the first) leak of it is.

The people on the list know. Their families know. For those lucky and brave enough to try and fight their inclusion in court, their legal teams know. All these people know, viscerally, how wretched this list is and have been bearing up under its weight for years, only talking to the select few they trust. My partner has been open about their inclusion, but I also have professional ties to people who have worked on cases trying to get names removed. Attempting to talk about their work publicly results in harassment by law enforcement and, if kept up, inclusion on the same or similar watch lists.

The angry calls for greater discussion will certainly cross the dashboards of people who are treating this whole thing like a silly meme, but it's also going to hit those of us who have been not discussing but living this constant pressing horror for years now. Hearing people say that, because we are enjoying some levity being injected into this constant source of suffering in our lives we don't "really give half a fuck about tearing down imperialism and colonization" or that we are "laughing and not actually caring" is gut-wrenching. Especially when it comes from people who also regularly talk about the need to avoid activist burnout or for marginalized people to care for themselves.

But I get the impulse to lash out like that. I have had to write and rewrite this very post more times than I can count now to cut out angry and inflammatory phrasing on my own end. And I know that, both in personal posts in the past and in reblogs, I often still fall prey to that thinking of "this is (rightly, justifiably) upsetting so I am going to lash out at people who don't seem to care".

But in this introspective moment, I am trying to stay aware (and want to try to stay aware in the future when I am tempted) that at least some of the people reblogging and posting these things are also hurting and responding to that. And while my first impulse is to cast aspersions on the people hurting me (even in this sentence I had to stop myself from slyly giving an "example" of what I would say if I wanted to lash out and thus satisfying that spiteful desire without admitting to it), I'm also trying to keep in mind my goal here.

I am hoping that at least a few people who have made (or at least reblogged onto my dash) these furious posts - both about this and other issues - will also consider what it is they are trying to accomplish. I also (again) want to keep in mind that I and people like me who are hurt by these posts aren't the only ones impacted by the No-Fly list. That people making these angry posts can be too, and as such I don't want to say that their justified expressions of frustration and rage need to be made more palatable, because they don't.

I do need to point out, though, that I've found the best way to start a discussion of a topic on the internet is to start discussing it in an open medium where others can join in. And when I look in the notes of the inflammatory calls for discussion (or even just awareness), I mostly see people talking about the call itself.

And there's nothing wrong with being angry and wanting to vent. There's not even anything wrong with being angry and wanting to vent in a public space where others can commiserate with you and help you feel less alone. But it *is* going to be much better for everyone - yourself included - if calls for awareness focus on calling for awareness and venting frustrations focus on venting in ways that don't further compound frustrations. Because looking at the notes of all of these more furious posts on these topics, I cannot imagine the constant fighting the OPs wind up doing feels soothing.

[reverend-dog]

Above the Law

Bloodspell hunkered in a corner of the garage, from where she enjoyed a direct view of the courthouse entrance and total concealment, courtesy of a caterer’s van parked in the loading zone. She stared fixedly at the entrance, soothing her impatience and quelling her disappointment each time the doors slid open and somebody other than her prey appeared.

Indignation smoldered at the core of Bloodspell’s passion. “Self-important bitch,” she muttered. “The fuck she think she is? A warrant? For me?” A sudden snicker broke from her lips. “Time I’m done with you, won’t even be dental patterns left.” She shifted her weight to relieve a cramp that burned in one hip. “After all I’ve done for this city!”

The doors slid open again, and Bloodspell’s heart thudded with anticipation. “About fucking time,” she breathed at the sight of the tall, well-dressed woman with shadow-hued hair and elegant mahogany features, who struck a brisk pace between the rows of cars. The woman’s pumps clacked echoes from the concrete floor, sharp and regular as a metronome.

Bloodspell wove currents of energy from the air to fashion a phantasmal noose, but aborted the spell partway. “No,” she murmured in the woman’s direction, aware her voice would not carry, “better you know it’s coming.” She wrapped a glamour around herself, and crept from her hiding spot to trail her quarry.

The woman slid between two cars and reached for the driver’s door of an unassuming Subaru sedan. Bloodspell stood in the middle of the lane and dropped her glamour, then began to weave. She watched the woman turn, eyes widened in recognition, then glance around herself as runes appeared and whirled in orbits.

“That’s right,” Bloodspell boasted, “it’s me! You’ve made a name for yourself, putting away some of the best heroes this city’s ever had. But @ing at me?” She pronounced it as ‘at-ing’ as she shook her head. “You need a lesson whose side you supposed to be on, Prosecutor Lyta Kennedy!”

The runes spun faster, sanguine glow increasing. Bloodspell’s anticipation grew as it did every time she had a foe at her mercy. So what if she sometimes lost control and did more damage than she intended? They deserved it, every single one of them!

Lyta Kennedy gazed at the runes that whirled and spun no more than a finger’s breadth from her skin. She took on a faint frown, as if confronted with a bothersome fly. Then, almost too fast to follow, Lyta thrust out one hand and snatched a rune from the air. As Bloodspell stared, her quarry popped the rune in her mouth and swallowed.

Bereft of a key component, the other runes wobbled and drifted from their course, until the spell fell apart and dissipated. Feedback hissed through Bloodspell’s head, and she staggered. “The fuck?” she mumbled, and blinked her eyes back into focus. “What you do?”

Lyta regarded her without fear or anger, but something worse: disappointment. “I should remember whose side I’m on?” she challenged. “Which of us has outstanding warrants for two counts of second-degree murder, three manslaughter, sixteen aggravated assault, destruction of public property, criminal trespass, and resisting arrest? And you call yourself a superhero?”

“I am a superhero!” Bloodspell protested. “You know how many crimes I’ve stopped? Lives I’ve saved? I took down the High Street Cannibals single-handed!”

“And in doing so,” Lyta amended, “put eight people in the hospital, including two bystanders, destroyed eight cars and a restaurant. Does the name Kim Van ring a bell? His family owned that restaurant. They’ve had to sell their home to cover the losses, and are running a GoFundMe to pay their medical bills.”

“That wasn’t my fault!” Bloodspell protested. “Black Rooster tried to run me over! He’s the one crashed into the place!”

“You started the fight,” Lyta pointed out, “when you attacked the Cannibals’ hideout, which was also the top floor of an occupied apartment building. That building now is uninhabitable, which means all the families living there have had to find other places to live, or are homeless.”

Bloodspell’s eyes dropped for a moment, then glared at the prosecutor again. “Because the Cannibals had their drug lab there! And do you know what else they were into?” She stamped one foot forward to emphasize her point. “They lived up to their fucking name! Anybody crossed them, or even saw something they weren’t supposed to see, ended up in a meat locker!” She flung up her hands. “Okay, so maybe I hit a little hard, but they needed it! The city’s better off without them, can you argue that?”

Lyta’s expression did not change. “Explain that to Moesha Carpentier,” she suggested, then made an exaggerated ‘oh’ face. “Wait, you can’t. She’s in a coma from when one of the cars you destroyed rolled over her.”

“Well,” Bloodspell offered in desperation, “where were you? Where was the law for all those people living in that building, being scared every day? I did what you couldn’t do, and this is my reward? Fuck you!” She spread her hands to weave.

“No,” Lyta retorted in the same long-suffering tone, “fuck you.” She lifted one hand and snapped her fingers.

A roll of tape appeared in midair next to Bloodspell’s head. It glowed under the garage’s dim lights, and hovered in a way completely unlike a normal roll of tape. A length of it unwound and wrapped around Bloodspell’s head, covering her mouth. The roll whirled around Bloodspell much like her runes had earlier surrounded Lyta. One pass pinned Bloodspell’s arms to her side, the next encased her hands, then a spiral wound around her legs and ended at her ankles. Job done, the roll of tape vanished.

Bloodspell’s breath exploded through her nose as she toppled to one side, and lay wriggling against her restraints. She glared at Lyta, then fear entered her eyes as the other woman walked closer and crouched over her. “No matter how strong you are,” she said, “the law is stronger. And in case you missed it, this is a citizen’s arrest.” Standing, she turned and pulled out her phone.

[deedo2313]

Fuck it Friday

So, I've been tagged by the lovely and incredibly talented @thekristen999

From what I've figured how it works, is that you post a part of a wip you are working on and then tag someone else to do the same.

Well why not... I did use to actually write fics (a very long time ago, when I didn’t fully appreciate how much free time I had at my disposal) but haven’t done so in quite a while. Looking through my stuff I do have quite a few wips that never got posted anywhere (and probably never will) like that 7k smutty Spuffy Christmas fic that I've been meaning to finish every year around November/early December... for the past 18 years 😅

I've decided to go with something more recent from a couple of years back, before Infinity War & Endgame and the Russo brothers completely ruined the MCU for me by destroying every single (found) family and making it impossible for me to enjoy any of the other movies without that painful tinge of heartbreak & sorrow and just this profound fury at what is to come (but that is a rant for another time).

Anyway, the fic is called Stuck in the Middle with You and it’s a very self indulgent epic saga following BAMF Darcy Lewis and her two lovers and covert triple agents Jack Rollins and Brock Rumlow from the end of Thor through most the other MCU movies. I did actually spent a couple of months plotting it all out and have written several parts of it in no particular order, but then just never found the time to write down most of it properly, and isn’t it just fascinating how eloquently you can spin a narrative when you're laying half awake in bed for a relaxed lazy morning but when you try to write it down later all you can produce is "there were people and things happened" lol

Also, I've decided I'm too old to feel guilty about my ships and I'm not open to judgement about my choices. If you don't like them, I don’t care.

So to finally cut all that rambling short...

Darcy had timed her arrival just right to be conveniently in front of Secretary Pierce’s office as Captain America strides off in the direction of the elevator. She manages to catch his attention just as he is about to board the lift.

“Captain Rogers,” she calls, hurrying after him, “if you have just a moment, sir, there is an urgent report I need you to read and sign off on.”

She can see the indecision in the confused tilt of his eyebrows as he turns to regard her, but luckily his manners win out once again and he stops just inside the elevator doors.

Darcy angles the tablet she holds out in his direction away from the security cameras. She doesn’t think what she is about to show him would be ligible on the feed, but better safe than sorry.

“It will only take a moment” she tells him and waits as he peruses the message.

DON'T REACT OPENLY. SURVEILLANCE!

HYDRA HAS INFILTRATED SHIELD!

PEARCE THE HEAD.

TAKE USB. READ ON PC WITHOUT INTERNET CONNECTION ONLY!

SGT. BARNES IS ALIVE & IN HYDRA CAPTIVITY.

PEARCE PLANS TO HAVE HIS MEN ARREST YOU ON THE WAY DOWN.

RUMLOW & ROLLINS GOT YOUR BACK.

MAKE FIGHT BELIEVABLE

Shocked blue eyes fly up to meet hers and she tries to convey as much sincerity and confidence as the situation allows while she covertly nudges the usb stick she had concealed behind the tablet into his hand.

He seems to get his facial expression under control in the next moment and goes through the motions of signing off on a report.

“Thank you Agent - “ he nods at her and she is about let him step back into the elevator when three agents she thinks she recognises from STRIKE Team Beta suddenly crowd close and herd her into the elevator with them calling for the Lobby and the doors close before she has a chance to step back out.

Well shit!

A couple of floors down the doors open again and another handful of operatives she doesn’t recognise and Brock get on.

“Excuse me,” She tries to shuffle to the doors to make her escape, but she’s boxed in by an unmoving veritable wall of muscle.

They seem to be ignoring her on purpose and while the Captain starts to bristle at the obvious disrespect they are showing her she hopes it's because they are just regular assholes who are trying to get under her skin and not because someone got suspicious of her actions in the past couple of weeks and decided not to wait for Project Insight’s launch to get rid of her.

Brock has his back to her and Captain Rogers, but as he assesses the situation out of the corner of his eye she can see the exact moment he notices her. His eyes widen just a fraction and his shoulders grow impossibly even more tense as he suppresses the urge to reach out for her, knowing Sitwell is keeping a close eye on the proceedings through the security feeds.

At the next stop she gets squished even farther back when Jack boards the car with Michaels and Gregson in tow.

He notices her right away, though and his expression shutters from his professional scowl to just blank, his gaze flicking over to Brock and they seem to carry a whole conversation with pointed look and a quirk of eyebrows.

She has resigned herself to not getting off the elevator any time soon and contemplates how to get out of the center where the action will take place.

“Lewis!” Brock’s sharp call interrupts her thoughts, “Do you have the specs ready for me to brief the team on the next mission? The timetable has been moved up.”

“Yes Commander.” she easily plays along and this time the wall of muscle actually parts for her when she moves in his direction. She holds her tablet out for him and Jack steps closer on her other side under the pretense of reading over the mission specs as well.

When the elevator jolts to a sudden stop she is ready and confident in their ability to keep her safe.

Steve had pocketed the usb drive and tried to project a calm exterior while his thoughts were raging in a tumultuous tornado.

Shield infiltrated by Hydra? Bucky alive? How could this even be possible? With Hydra’s influence reaching as far as Pierce, whom could he even still trust? Had Fury known? Was that why he had been killed?

On the other hand what reason would the pretty brunette have for making something so outrageous up? And it would be an explanation for all the things that didn’t add up lately.

As the the elevator filled with only the biggest and burliest agents her warning of this being a set up to quietly bring him into custody at the very least seemed to be true.

She obviously hadn't planned to be trapped right alongside him, though.

He kept a wary eye on his surroundings as the agents got in position around him and felt a lance of concern as her continued attempts to leave the elevator remained unsuccessful.

He was just about to intervene on her behalf when Rumlow called her over.

As he observed the STRIKE Commander and his second, who had stepped closer onto Lewis’ other side, he noticed their rigid postures and the tense glances they shared as they bracketed Lewis between them.

She did say they were on his side and their obvious concern for the low ranked agent that basically screamed helpless civilian seemed to corroborate her story.

They seemed to come to some kind of decision and just as the first fist flew towards his face he saw Rollins herd Lewis into the farthest corner where he surreptitiously passed her one of his shock batons and effectively shielded her from the rest of the elevator and the camera's eye with his considerable bulk.

Soon enough only Rumlow and Rollins were the last ones left standing and Lewis wedged in her corner from where she'd covertly taken out one or two men with the taser and made sure a couple of the others stayed down.

He abandoned his attempt to say something when all three of them threw a quick glance at the cracked but apparently still working security camera above their heads and Rumlow tapped his com unit once to let him know everything would be monitored.

They rolled their shoulders and he had only a short moment of reprieve where Rumlow mouthed “Make it look believable.” at him with his back to the camera before they were both on him.

“Sorry, Cap, it’s nothing personal.”

_____________________________________

Since I just got back here after my several years long hiatus, I have no idea whom to tag or who all is even still around, so if you wanna do it, feel yourself tagged <3

[pretty-weird-ideas]

This and also... POC can disagree on solutions and critique each other on the basis of what solutions are needed. But surprisingly, EOTWR didn’t even do that. They have been supportive of what the candidates have said they have done, at best you could state that they ended on a low note on the candidates with, “Yes this is good but they didn’t mention one of our three demands”. But like, I cannot stress this enough that if this wasn’t an antiracist movement that called itself such, people would not be upset that a single issue campaign kept hustling about a specific policy they wanted. 

Like. I’m not asking why a problack prison reform campaign hasn’t said anything about other black issues (lest they be antiblack). Nor would I call said prison reform campaign critiquing Kamala Harris antiblack posers. Another example, if an anti-puppy mill campaign was working with Vegans and they reblog, support and join in their action. The campaign can support them, but still ask whether or not they support puppy mill regulations. People flipping out that POC question other POC about their specific antiracism policies as if that is calling their experiences into question is against progress. I promise you that these candidates do not give a flying and flipping fuck that other people said, “They didn’t say anything about the DEI consultant in this interview. Let’s ask them next time.”.

Also I’ve noticed people specifically making antiblack dogwhistles regarding who the mods might be. Which is... no don’t do that. You can have genuine critique of unequal treatment of candidates by the mods without going “I know what race the mods are teehee (they’re black because I think Black people are inherently ignorant)”.

you know what’s fucking wild? when @end-otw-racism’s first action started in may, they were incredibly clear that they had narrow and specific demands for the otw, and that their demands were commitments the otw had already made. if you need a refresher, here are their demands:

Harassment policies that can be regularly updated to address both on-site harassment and off-site coordinated harassment of AO3 users, with updated protocols for the Policy & Abuse Team to ensure consistent and informed resolutions of abuse claims

A content policy on abusive (extremely racist and extremely bigoted) content; by abusive, we are talking about fanworks that are intentionally used to spread hate and harassment, not those that accidentally invoke racist or other bigoted stereotypes

Hiring a Diversity Consultant within the next 3-6 months

Committing to a policy of transparency on this topic, with quarterly updates on the progress of these projects including challenges and their plan for overcoming those challenges. These quarterly updates should be published on OTW News page and newsletters, not solely discussed in Board meetings

and despite the fact that these were taken specifically from the otw’s own commitments, a lot of people immediately decided that this was an overreach on the campaign’s part. they fabricated supposed secret agendas that the campaign must have; they invoked slippery slope fallacies to say that this would lead to mass content removal for anything on ao3 that even skimmed the line of racism; they claimed to know who was leading the campaign and tried to discredit the campaign based on that, because they claimed that those people had larger agendas.

despite all of that, otw themselves came out reaffirming their commitment to these priorities. which is great, but that was not the end of the work, because those commitments were made by the existing board, which is about to turn over in the upcoming board elections. it's essential to hold the incoming board accountable to the previous board's commitments.

but when @end-otw-racism’s second action around otw board elections has continued to keep those specific, clear demands in their focus, they’re getting hounded for it from the other side: by people claiming that this analysis they did of the otw board candidates – in which eotwr made it clear that they were looking at whether the candidates talked about any of the eotwr demands or not – was racist for not counting the work asian candidates raised around reaching out to non-western and non-english speaking fans as fulfilling eotwr’s demands.

(which, let’s be clear, they don’t! issues around access for non-western and non-anglophone fans, around the way chinese and chinese diaspora volunteers have been mistreated by otw, around translation, are all worthy issues to be pushing on. eotwr has even uplifted some of them. but they are separate from eotwr's core demands.)

so first eotwr is overreaching and trying to bring down every fanwork that could be even slightly misconstrued as racist, even though they’ve always been clear about their narrow and specific goals…and now they’re racist for not addressing every form of racism, even though they’ve always been clear about their narrow and specific goals?

it is completely valid for eotwr to look at the board candidates’ platforms and say “they did not mention these things that we are looking for”, because the things that eotwr is looking for are commitments otw has already made. it is not eotwr picking out certain “keywords” that they’d like to see – they are looking at whether potential incoming board members are prioritizing those specific commitments and will uphold them. and otw has had those commitments for three years! this is not new stuff!

also, if you read that analysis again, eotwr is not even criticizing the candidates for not mentioning their demands! they are simply pointing out what we can glean about the candidates from their platforms and bios, because the platforms are the main information we have about the board candidates right now. eotwr has been incredibly clear that they want to talk to candidates and learn more about their priorities. they've also been clear in urging other people to come up with their own analyses of the board candidates, and they have in fact reblogged and uplifted other people’s perspectives on the candidates.

i cannot stress enough that we need more folks in this space to be pushing on anti-racism, and eotwr having a narrow scope is not a bad thing. there is endless work to be done, and others who disagree with eotwr’s tactics should start their own campaigns! eotwr literally only started like two months ago with a call to action. it’s very possible to emulate them and push for parallel priorities.

advocacy work also needs groups with different tactics and approaches. my day job is in climate change advocacy, and we do our most effect work when multiple organizations are representing different perspectives and pushing in different ways. i'd love to see that kind of advocacy ecosystem built up in fandom.

but right now, eotwr is the only campaign i know of trying to do large-scale anti-racism work around otw at all. and to actively push against the campaign because you think it’s racist to focus on specific goals and gently critique board candidates based only on those specific goals? is, i'm sorry, fucking ridiculous.

[whoreforharlow]

They’re not wrong! It’s called No Place Like Home for a reason and it’s annual too so it’s expected to come every year but it’s kinda unfair to the rest of us who don’t want to travel to Kentucky. As long as he’s having fun with it I guess

Exactly. Idk if that anon thinks I'm stupid and need to be told all of the obvious information regarding celebs favoring their home state/city more than others lol

Now this is just me getting on my soap box, so not directed as a response to this ask lol

👇🏾👇🏾👇🏾

Like it makes sense why NPLH is only in Kentucky and it's really not that big of a deal. I'm not rocking back and forth in the corner of my room having a mental breakdown regarding the fact that he's only doing 6 shows and their all in Kentucky 😂

Like idk when it became illegal to be upset about decisions made by other people that distantly affect me, and even shit that doesn't remotely affect me lol. He has a show, I can't go to said show, I'm upset. I feel like it's perfectly normal to be annoyed/upset with this lol. And it's not just Jack, it's literally any other celeb too. Yall don't think I be bent out of shape everytime Dreamville fest comes around and I can't go because I can't afford to be flying out and paying for a hotel room ON TOP of tickets?

This is not Jack specific entitlement lol

I, as the center of the universe, feel entitled to EVERYTHING that I want. I'm a certified hater lol, I hate when things aren't convenient for me. Doesn't mean I'm having a conniption about it. I'm coming ON MY BLOG to complain, and then going back to my regularly scheduled program where I forget this man exists entirely.

I SWEAR I barely care about not seeing him in Kentucky lol. I was upset for like 2 minutes when I heard the news, threw my lil "It's not fair" tantrum and moved on lol. Let me clarify for those that need it: This man, a complete stranger to me whom I do not know and who does not know me, could never make me miserable as he does some of yall on this app.

Yall take shit way too seriously on this app with feeling like you gotta throw your think piece in someone's inbox 🤣

I'm here to have fun and that's it, and it's those think piece in someone's inbox warriors that feel the need to explain to a stranger that this stranger that doesn't know who any single one of us are on this app, "doesn't owe you anything"... like it's not that deep lol, you're not saving Jack's feelings or whatever by invalidating fans who are disappointed that he's not touring. He doesn't owe anyone anything in the same way no one owes anyone anything in this world.

Like tbh, entitlement is even too strong a word to be using when it comes to me just wanting Jack to tour. It's not entitled. I'm a fan wanting an artist to tour the country and being disappointed when he doesn't. If we waterdown the meaning of entitled to you can't want a single thing in this life without it being called entitled we'll destroy the idea of living in a society which is built on expectation of giving and taking. We give this man money and support and in turn he gives us music and tours lol. Not entitlement, just business. Now if I was out here with pitchforks and petitions, then I would say it's entitlement lol, but not me expressing disappointment on a fucking Tumblr blog 😂😂

And to the people that are hellbent on explaining what No Place Like Home means... please shut up lol, nobody here is that dense that they can't understand why he would choose only Kentucky, his home, for this tour.

Anyways, I'm over this now. Get out my inbox with the whole Jack doesn't owe you anything, I know he doesn't, but it doesn't mean I'm not disappointed/upset/annoyed or whatever other feeling word can be used here

[jarofstyles]

For mafia harry, I just love the fact that’s he’s only soft for his girl. So something soft!!!! Plss n thxx

He’s literally so soft for her it’s ridiculous.

Warnings: fluff, talk of murder, mafia type stuff

Check out our Patreon!

—-

It wasn’t uncommon for Harry to come home with bruised knuckles. While he tended to have his men take care of business, he couldn’t help but be hands on sometimes.

When it came to certain motherfuckers, he truly couldn’t help but get in on the action and keep his name at the top of the’ who not to mess with’ list.

But his one and true weakness was sleepy eyed and soft as she stepped into his arms. He had gotten home from some business only an hour ago and put on the coffee pot. Being out all night was not ideal in the slightest, mainly because he had Y/N at home. Before meeting her he could go days at a time without sleep, without even being home. But having a woman he loved so deeply in his bed, who truly adored him and looked past his very unusual career path. She was so giving to him, with her time, energy, body, affection. He had hit the jackpot when it came to women and he knew all to well. So did anyone else.

It took a lot to get a man like Harry soft. He was hard and jagged around the edges. Throwing a punch or getting rid of someone wasn’t a big deal to him. Then Y/N stumbled into his life by accident and he found the heart he had covered with ice melted into a puddle of mush that she hand shaped in her own form. It was comical at times to see his attitude change when she would walk into the room.

“H?” She whispered sleepily. She shouldn’t be awake, but her body had somehow known her hero was home. While Y/N was well aware of his faults and his dangerous job and tendencies? He fiercely protected and cared for her. Provided for her. Gave her a home and a best friend and loved wrapped into one. No one was perfect, but Harry was perfect for her. “Where were you all night?” His stomach twinged with guilt as he pulled her into his chest, large hand cupping the back of her head and keeping her body close to his.

“M’so sorry, angel.” He whispered, pressing multiple kisses to her hairline. “We found one of the rats.” He grumbled, making Y/N freeze. Her head pulled up from his chest and her eyes were a dangerous glint. One that, quite frankly? Made him hard. As soft and gentle as Y/N is, she had come to take Harry and his men as family. You fuck with them? You fuck with her.

“And you took care of it?” Her tone was low, Harry still shocked at how fierce his little angel could be. How protective. She made them cookies and tea and brought sweets to the underground clubs, but was willing to put someone on their ass if they hurt Harry. It was fucking hot.

“Y’know I did, sweet girl. M’always taking care of my people.” He was cut off by her lips pressing to his jaw, her head tucking back into his neck. It was early and she hadn’t slept well. Y/N usually didn’t when it came to Harry being out and doing dangerous things. Her sleep schedule had been the worst it’s been since dating him, but it was the easiest sacrifice to make because she was getting to be in his arms. When he was home?

She got the best sleep of her entire life. Especially after getting dicked down.

“Know you do.” She relaxed, hand running over his broad back. The shirt was slightly damp form his sweat but she didn’t mind. The skin under was hot and it did get her mind going to think about how sexy he looked when he was mad. As long as it wasn’t at her? It went straight to her cunt.

Okay. Maybe even when it was at her. But it was very hard to make him angry at her. He was 100% a pushover for his girl. Y/N was the only one ever allowed to raise her voice at him.

~

The first time it had happened around others, they’d all nearly choked. Harry had ate the last of the cookie butter, which Y/N had been saving. It actually pissed her the fuck off, and not realizing he was in a meeting she had stormed down the hallway with her volume on 10. The girl wasn’t one too raise her voice often, but Harry knew how to push her buttons.

“Harry fucking Styles! You better hope to god you’re busy because I’m going to shove this jar up your ass!” She seethed, the stomping of her feet making everyone’s eyes widen. The men he worked closely with usually had a softer version of her. But it was earlier in the day, not their normal time, and gathered in the office in Harry’s large home.

Harry froze, realizing what it was and winced as he watched the door fly open. There, in all her big shirt, no pants and freshly woken glory was his beautiful Y/N. Empty jar in hand. Her eyes cut around the room but the fury she felt was too deep. This was personal!

Of course, they all were tense because No One talks to Harry Styles in a tone like that and got away with it. The shock that crossed their faces when Harry sheepishly got up and crossed the room, hushing her and trying to approach her like a wounded puppy was pure and utter insanity. The big man who always had a straight face, mean punches that knocked out cold, little regard for most people and took care of many a week was letting his woman talk to him like that.

“M’sorry, baby, I meant to get more but we called an emergency-“ he was cut off by a single hand raising, lips snapping closed as he watched his little love step closer to him.

“If you aren’t ready to go to Trader Joe’s in the next 15 minutes….” Her eyes narrowed. “You’ll be cut off.” And Harry knew exactly what that meant.

No sex.

There was no way he was risking that.

“Okay, okay.” He raised his own hands in surrender. “M’gonna finish up. Go get ready, we’ll take the Audi.”

They all learned that day that you didn’t mess with Y/N’s food, and Harry Styles only had one singular weakness.

~

Granted, Harry never was ashamed of it. He always said that his woman was half of his strength. She didn’t need him, but he needed her. Harry loved her so wholly and deeply that he knew that she was it for him. He had bought an engagement ring only 2 months in. So no, he didn’t ever deny it.

If anyone ever tried to use Y/N against him, they ended up in the river. Or in several pieces. He had very little restraint over that, considering all threats he took very, very seriously. The one light in his life was something he kept close, protected, and loved.

“Why don’t we go shower n’then we sleep? Hm? M’sorry to keep you up late, angel.” He puckered his lips down at her to be met with a soft peck, nodding her head at the idea. “And then we can make some ‘brunch’, whatever you call it.”

It got a laugh out of her, so he considered it a win.

“Mhm. If you thought I was letting you into our clean sheets smelling like guns and sweat. It’s sexy for dirty sheets but I’m simply too tired. Got the new ones I got online too.” She sighed, playfully teasing him because she knew it would get him to smile. He saw horrors every day, and if she could get some silliness in him it would lessen his stress.

“Oi. Don’t be callin’ me smelly, little girl.” He pinched her cheek, obnoxious kissing her mouth. “Better get your ass up there and get naked so we can pass out. M’Gonna need those pretty hands helping me wash, I fear… I’m a dead man walking.” He was dramatic, obviously overtired and it got a giggle from her.

“In your dreams, Mafia Man. Let’s move.”

“You’re right, I do dream about that.”

[ihatebnha]

this didn’t exactly capture the vision i had in my brain... but... here. i have a 10 minute all verbal presentation on kierkegaard tomorrow that i haven’t started yet. wee mom im flying. 

note: i am hearing, but i’ve taken 4+ years of ASL and have studied disability rights. if i am incorrect OR disrespectful about any information in this, please don’t hesitate to correct me. hopefully the intention behind this is understood❤️

(warning: deaf!bakugo + hearing!reader who is described in a dress and heels) 

-

I always think about what it’d be like to meet Bakugo at a hero gala… maybe you’re not another hero, either, just someone who was invited on behalf of a friend, to make a speech, I don’t know, to sit there and look pretty. 

Anyway, I like to imagine this as a deaf!Bakugo AU… and of course, though Bakugo doesn’t and didn’t like Galas at the best of times, now they’re just fucking miserable. 

He can get around in them fine, sure… but the large event halls echo with voices that fuzz-up his hearing aids, people don’t stand still long so it’s hard to catch a set of lips without constantly reminding everyone that now he reads lips… and interviews, award ceremonies, dinners have become such ordeals with all the interpreters and special accommodations that the hero commission requires him to have, as if he’s not fine. He’s fine. 

He’s still number two, after all… something people seem to forget, it being literally the only reason why he even still goes to the things. 

But to continue, Bakugo leaves the gala early. He always does… and though it used to be a signature thing for him (his blatant dismissal of such a hero tradition something that gardened him much media attention in the following days), now it’s mostly just because he wants to go home. 

-

Bakugo finds you, sitting by yourself on the curb outside of the hotel hosting the event. He’s just given his ticket to the valet, who said something (though he wasn’t paying too much attention to his face) about it taking a while to fetch his car due to the amount of people who showed up to the event tonight. 

(Yeah, he’s well aware.) 

He hovers behind you for a couple seconds, watching you tap your bare feet together and smooth over a scape on the slick side of one your heels, and debates whether making himself known to you is worth it.

He hates this part. Hates having to explain himself to a stranger, having to stand around looking like an idiot (much less a rude one) for not responding, or submit, by speaking, to the judgement of someone who just doesn’t get it. 

He thought meeting people was bad when he could hear? Now it’s so much worse. 

It used to be that he wasn’t understood for reasons regarding his personality; that he’d scare people away who just wanted to get to know him, in every single, invasive way... now, it’s like the same people don’t even try, and he reminds himself to question if things have always been this way. 

Bakugo thinks there must be silence when he steps beside you, though to him, there always is… and when he looks down at the way your dress is splayed all over the pavement, you’re the one who signs first. 

“You sign?” 

He doesn’t even have to concentrate to know what you’re saying. He’s good at sign language, good at everything (and it’s not even the second or third one he learned)… but the words surprise him nonetheless. 

He turns back to you with a glare, lips tugged downward indignantly and hands shoved in pockets, only to find you smiling up at him from where you sit. 

“Sorry,” you begin, your hand somewhat shakey. “I’m not deaf, but I thought…” 

Another pause, though your expression doesn’t fall. “Whatever, don’t know.”

Bakugo notices, in the way he notices everything now, how indecisive you are with your signing. He wonders if it’s because he’s a pro hero, or if you’re just really, really bad at the language. 

He also notices, however, just how pretty you look… and again he’s not so sure why the thought jumped to mind. It’s expected, right? The both of you are at a hero gala, dressed to the nines in glitter and spandex (something that’s been done one million times before), and for once, he’s actually thinking about it? 

Maybe it’s because the only people he’s used to signing with are a lot older than him and much more… depressing than someone in a pretty dress. They are those who were assigned to him, forced to deal with him during his long recovery stint, those who are teaching him to be okay with himself in therapy… and Deku, who is… doing his best at learning Sign, but can never seem to find the time. 

Bakugo thought he didn’t mind. He was always okay on his own, after all… and though he could brush you off or answer you with his voice, both of which being disses in their own right… for some reason, he doesn’t. 

Instead, he asks: 

“Why’re you out here?” and his hands feel rather heavy. 

Shrugging, you wave a hand at him as if to brush off the question, your eyebrows raising in humorous shame. “I don’t know anyone.” 

Bakugo knows what you mean without you having to say it. He’s probably known for a long time. So, he responds. 

“It’s shit in there.”

You laugh, and despite not being able to hear the sound (his implants long taken off and stowed away), Bakugo can tell that it’s such a good laugh: the crinkle of your makeup-covered eyes catching the light perfectly, the painted nails on your fingers barely working to cover your mouth. 

He doesn’t want them to. 

“Fuck,” you confirm, “It is.” 

And suddenly, he doesn’t feel half as bad.

[selfobsessed-godcomplexed]

Prologue

[Rick Sanchez x GN! Reader]

A/N: I'm sorry if nothing in this is consistent with "did the dopamine wear off?" story. I honestly couldn't figure out whether I wanted it to be an actual sneak peak or a rough concept so I just went with what was best for this story.

"Where are you going?" Diane asked you, pressing her hand to your back gently. It had been only a few days since Rick and Diane's marriage and it had torn you apart. You didn't know why, but you had no interest in sticking around to find out. "Anywhere but here." You shook her hand off your shoulder. "Well, I'll see you again soon, right?" Richard asked, a bit of hesitation in his question. "I sure fucking hope not." You snear, with a click of the little white watch on your wrist, you were gone. Hopefully for good this time. Yet you couldn't hold back the tears. They were your best friends, but after their wedding you had nothing but a burning, yet cold, sensation in your chest with the mere thought of them. Why...? Shouldn't I be happy? It didn't matter. You were done. You had better things to do.

"I love you." You cried. Shaky breathes escape your lips, you covered your eyes with your arms. You hate those words more than anything, but all you wanted to do was tell Rick. He was gone, he wasn't yours. The cold burning sensation in your chest came back, the pain it brought was unbearable. He was happier without you anyway...

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

The sound of space debris hitting your vehicle snapped you out of your thoughts. You scoffed. Landing your vehicle. Birding man. You thought there'd be no harm in attending the festival, maybe it'd even be fun. Everyone was dancing or getting high, you stood away from everyone for at least half an hour before you decided to walk around out of boredom. You weren't a buzz kill, you swear. You just had no social ques. You accidentally bumped into a blue haired man amidst your mindless wandering. He wore a black leather vest over a blue turtleneck. His dark eyebags assuring you there had been many sleepless nights. "Sorry." He mumbled shuffling away from him. He waved it off. You couldn't figure out why but the man had looked so...familiar. It infuriated you that you didn't know why. You couldn't for the life of you figure out why you felt as though you met him before.

"I have been informed you are freely distributing a grossly illegal federation hallucination." The sound of one of the bird people's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. "Well I wouldn't know what to charge, I sure didn't pay for it." The blue hairded man paused. "W-wanna hit?" He offered the bird person the tube of whatever substance he had on his person. "I am indeed down to clown."

"My name's Rick."

Rick. That name...

"My culture regards naming as a form of cage, my friends call me bird person." The bird man responded. Taking another hit. "Culture really fucked you over on that one, huh?" Rick responded.

"Affirmative."

Rick turned to you, offering you the tube they'd been smoking out off. "W-what about you? Want a hit?" You took a moment to think about it. Shrugging it off you took a hit from it, blowing out a hot pink ring of smoke. "Got a name?" You stared at him, for whatever reason the question annoyed you. "Yha. (Y/n)." You scoffed. He hummed. Almost as if you two had been thinking the same thing.

Have you met before?

You stuck around for a bit, spending the rest of the festival to have fun with Rick and bird person. Amidst the joy between you three you snuck off, making your way back to your vehicle. The familiar dead panned voice stops you in your tracks. "Where are you going?" You shot him a glare. You were irritated but you didn't understand why. "Where do you think, genius. Home. Clearly." You remarked.

"W-well, I'll see-I'll see you again soon, right?"

Your eyes widen.

"Well, I'll see you again soon, right?"

It couldn't be him. It was just a coincidence, right? "I sure fucking hope not." You snear, gettin in your vehicle and driving/flying off. Rick was in disbelief of the all too familiar coldness. Almost refusing to let himself remember. But sadly he couldn't repress the memories. Of you, of him. Of what you guys had...

You unlock the door to your house, slamming it shut. You make your way down to your basement. Turning on the lights, large human sized glass tubes lined the wall all filled alternate bodies, clones and various other creatures. Several gadgets spread about the walls and some on shelves. Your desk a mess with papers and tools, empty bottles and cans littering the floor beneath. You open the mini fridge beneath your desk, taking out the single bottle of vodka you had left. "Fuck. I'm out." You groaned laying your head in yours arms. You didn't want to remember. Yet at the same time you wish you could. Your memories feel so misty, bits and pieces missing. But it's enough to bring back the cold burning feeling in your chest. Why did you feel this way? It didn't matter. You wouldn't be seeing rick again. You didn't need people intruding in your solidute.

You took your watch off your hand, placing it on the table. One of your greatest accomplishments. You admired it. Back when you and Richard had been friends, he had always talked about portal science. Inter dimension travel. He never shut up about it. But shortly gave it up for Diane and his daughter. You could almost say Diane ruined your friendship. Or maybe you were just in denial of your jealous. This accomplishment meant nothing if you didn't accomplish it with him. That was the whole point of this stupid portal shit anyways. To spend our lives travelling the infinite cosmos. As...friends. Just...just friends.

You scoff, a tear streaming down your face. Fuck that guy. You despised him. He meant absolutely nothing. All the time in the world and you still had no time for him. Nor did you want any. You down the bottle of vodka, nothing else could fill that void in your chest but the bitter sweet taste of vodka. You put it back down, the bottle falling over and shattering in the floor. You sigh. Your head falling back down into your arms. Your burning red eyes became heavy. You were so tired.

You sworn you could hear a familar swish as you let yourself drift off to sleep.

Do I love you...?

[bigskydreaming]

Hi, I was reading your post about Jason punching Dick in the face when Dick revealed he fake his death was bullshit ( which it was) and it reminded me of an issue/question that has bothered me for sometime.

Why did people believe Dick was actually dead?

I’m not the most avid comic reader so maybe I missed something but it was always weird to me that everyone just accepted this especially given how Bruce was acting or should I say wasn’t acting.

This is a man when his child died another child had to come along and told him sir you are being too violent and emotional you need supervision. When his other child died he went all over the universe to bring him back to life because he knew it was possible ( which was happening at the same time), so why didn’t anyone think it was weird he wasn’t doing that for Dick. Can you imagine Dick really dying that soon after Damian it would be injustice Batman Version. You are telling me that Tim, Jason or Barbara didn’t think it was weird that Bruce didn’t also bring Dick’s corpse to the bring Damian back to life mission or mention it to themselves. Like what more likely Dick dead and Bruce is handling it well or that he fake his death to do something stupid and Dangerous after his partner/brother/ little bit my son the feelings are complicated died after he was knocked out and woke up to his corpse.

Oh man, this is like, the entire nature of my beef?

(Slight derail just to emphasize the fact real quick that Dick DID actually die, he was just revived quickly, but like, the trauma of his death was very real and its not like anyone was clued into Luthor having a resurrection backdoor built into his literal murder of Dick in the actual moment of it happening. So Dick’s death wasn’t fake, and additionally, he didn’t have anything to do with like, telling people about it, because he was literally comatose in the cave and recovering while Bruce was telling people....by the time Dick woke up in the cave, we already know that Alfred at least had already been convinced by Bruce that Dick was dead, so I have a kneejerk need to pushback against the Dick faked his death narrative by reminding people wherever possible that Dick had no agency in the spreading of that narrative. 

It happened without him being involved, and the only actual contribution he ever made to it was just not revealing he was alive before Grayson #12, after Bruce like.....emotionally, mentally and physically badgered him into accepting that doing so would be directly harmful to his family and he didn’t want to be the reason more people died when like, people had just died because he ‘let’ himself be captured and interrogated by Power Woman’s Lasso of Submission, did he?

SORRY TO BE PEDANTIC, just wanted to start this off on a clarification, even though I know the aim of your ask was very much in tune with the rest of my response. A lot of people don’t read the actual comics, so like, I’m never gonna skip over an opportunity to emphasize that the shorthand people use to refer to Dick’s death and the year he was with Spyral, is like, literally just shorthand for describing it. Its not actually an accurate description of how all that went down and who had the most hand in it).

BUT ANYWAY. BACK TO THE MEAT OF THE BEEF.

Okay so like, not only was the entire family and Bruce himself giving Dick shit for his death and Spyral, like, PAINFULLY egregious because it was literal victim blaming in every possible sense of the word....

None of it made a LICK of sense with ANY of their characterizations, and they ONLY all accepted it on face value because the Plot Demanded It, and when you're like, no, as a reader I say The Plot Demanded It is not a good enough reason for me to be like well sure, that makes sense......looking at the characters ACTUAL actions at face value pretty much just makes them all look like assholes?

Like, Tim has never gracefully accepted anyone's death. Ever. This is core characterization for him. He will go to the ends of the earth for his loved ones and to bring them back, prove they're not dead, refuse to let death be the final verdict for them. He was tempted to use the Lazarus Pit to bring his parents back to life. He refused to accept Bruce was dead long before he had any proof whatsoever of that theory. He tried to clone his BFF/future-husband Kon in his fucking basement like, dude was two whole inches away from going Full Dark Side in his quest to bring back a lost loved one no matter WHAT the cost.....and then you've got Dick unmasked onscreen, killed offscreen, and Bruce then reporting to the rest of them with zero inflection 'oh Dick's dead now. Its very sad' and Tim's just like, sure. Sounds legit.

I mean?!?!

And you're SO RIGHT ABOUT THE DAMIAN THING! Bruce LITERALLY LITERALLY LITERALLY went BEYOND the ends of the Earth, like, he full on chartered a fucking space ship to fly his whole family out to APOKOLIPS to bring Damian back from the dead by going to EXTREME lengths.....WHILE everyone else thought Dick was dead....

And not a single person looked at Bruce and was like, okay, not that we're not down to do this for Damian because we miss Stabby Smurf something fierce ourselves, but.....what the fuck is UP with you dude? Why aren't you displaying ANY hint of this same kind of energy in regards to your eldest son that you said you watched die right in front of you?

Like....I don't know that we were actually ever told that Dick's coffin was empty or had a fake in it, but like....this family of detectives who refuse to accept death, defy death, COME BACK FROM THE DEAD....not a single one of them said like, okay, if I'm gonna like, ACCEPT accept that Dick is dead and gone for good, I need to at least just see him one last time? That's literally all it would have taken for someone to realize hey something's a little wonky here. Where's the dead body, Pops?

Since when has Jason ever missed an opportunity to prove Bruce is a) full of shit, b) acting like an emotionless robot and all his kids deserve better especially when they've just like....died, c) just factually incorrect and wrong and jumped to a conclusion before it was conclusively proved, d) lying like a liar or e) all of the above?

Nobody even ASKED if Dick's body could be put in a Lazarus Pit? Yeah, Jason wouldn't necessarily recommend it himself, given what it put him through, but actually fuck that, I take that back, because I'm NOT actually of the opinion that Jason full on hates his life and actively spends every second of every day wishing he hadn't been resurrected, even if it had come with a huge buffet of additional trauma and pain.

And that's kinda what's implied when people just take it for granted that he would never be on board with any scenario involving using a Lazarus Pit to bring Dick back, because it suggests that based even just on his own experiences and feelings, he honestly believes Dick would prefer being dead and not have ANY further opportunities to be with his loved ones, his friends, help save the damn world again at some future point.....that Jason, projecting based just off himself, legit feels Dick would rather be dead than have another shot at life even WITH the downsides of Lazarus Pit usage? Nope. Sorry, I don't buy it.

Speaking of not buying it.....you know what was missing from all those soliloquies the others monologued at Dick about how they felt and were hurt and just devastated by his death, to such a point they can't seem to muster a single shred of happiness that he's NOT dead still -

(seriously, Damian was the ONLY person in ALL THE LANDS OF EMOTION-HAVING who expressed ANY kind of positive reaction to having Dick back. We were so fucking cheated of like.....ANY opportunity to have the characters show just how much they valued him by just being fucking HAPPY he was alive, no matter what else was involved....and then most of fandom compounded that by for years being like mmmm, no, Dick didn't get yelled at enough by his family for what HE put THEM through. Needs more yelling. More punching too. Bad Dick. Bad. This is the only way you'll learn not to die and get shipped off on a mission that you don't want but at least is to protect your family after being beaten into it by your dad whilst victim blaming you for dying in the first place. WHEN WILL YOU LEARN TO THINK ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE AND THEIR FEELINGS FOR A CHANGE, DICK?!?)

- But like, BUT I DIGRESS aside....you know what was missing from all those monologues about how hard DICK'S death and ensuing year of basically exile from his loved ones was for EVERYONE BUT HIM?

We never got a single line of explanation as to what everyone else officially thinks even happened to him in the first place?

Like, did Bruce straight up just say oh bad news kids, your brother umm. Expired. Spontaneously. There's no one to blame, he just keeled over, its all very sad.

Is that how that went down?

You're telling me that the explanation of Dick's death didn't come with a single pointed finger at someone for this family of blame-happy vigilantes to like, BLAME for the loss of this brother they all mourned oh so much, they just couldn't help but blame him for all the hurt it caused them?

The family that in every other fic is like OBSESSED with avenging and being avenged and all things vengeful and even tangentially vengeance-y....like didn't ask for a single detail on whomst the fuck deprived us of our brother-having?

Where were the attempts on Luthor's life by Jason (who I mean, yeah I know it was in a previous continuity, but erasing that timeline doesn't erase my awareness of the time Dick killed Jason's murderer so like.....mmm, just saying, woulda been nice)....where was the rage directed at the Crime Syndicate and references to how seriously and personally the Batfam took making sure that they were PUNISHED for all this and would never be free to wreak havoc on their world or their family again? What did they tell Damian when he came back to life, and how are you going to tell me that this fraternal little ball of fury didn't aim himself like a cannonball at whomever the fuck had DARED take HIS Batman from him when Damian wasn't around to have his back?

Not only does everyone else's desire to be avenged start falling really flat the second you factor in hey maybe Dick feels "mmm what about MY avenging" sometimes, and why doesn't anyone ever care about doing that for him.....but also, y'know what REALLY sucks about the ONLY person we actually SEE being blamed for Dick's death and ensuing absence being like....Dick himself?

Not only were his family all super keen on making all of this HIS fault and HIM the bad guy because of how it made them all feeeeeeel (and meanwhile fuck his feelings, am I right Batfam hfaklshfklahfkla).....

They somehow found a way to justify prioritizing this OVER ever even getting around to blaming some villain for his death in the FIRST place, in the entire year or so they thought he was still dead!

Like, you couldn't come up with a single target in all that time, but Dick's back two seconds, and you don't even give him a chance to EXPLAIN before you're punching him, shutting him down with 'I expected better from you' and turning away with 'I don't want to hear it, why am I surprised Dick Grayson disappointed me again'?

afshklfhalfhalfhla

Make it make sense!

And like, it won't, cuz it doesn't, and it never will, and like I said at the top, the ONLY reason it all played out this way is because DC doesn't give a fuck about character development and deemed it necessary to go down this way for the sake of the plot (which was totes worth it, I mean, glad we sacrificed characters for this A+ plot which was clearly the greatest plot of all time and definitely justified every story choice made or not made around it loooool).

BUT.

BUT BUT BUT.

The problem isn't JUST that DC is stupid, even though that is an eternal mood and quite the problem.

Its that the SECOND large parts of fandom decided to play along with DC and just accept the story at face value, only add to it and play into it exactly as it happened in canon with no significant deviations, and like, heaping on the LITERAL abuse from Dick's siblings while ignoring the LITERAL abuse from his father....

THAT....is when all of this becomes relevant.

Because the second people decided TO engage with the reasoning DC gave for what Bruce did and how and what Dick did and how and just not mess with any of that and have it all play out exactly like that...

The second people are like, okay we're FINE with not just dismissing this story as OOC writing that doesn't make any sense, and actually VALIDATING it to various degrees by engaging with it as is....

That's when 'OOC writing' stops being an excuse or explanation for alllll of the above gaps in character logic and actions.

Because its like, when you had abundant chance to REJECT this story and say nope, this was bullshit from start to finish and I'm not here for it, when you were just as capable of transforming literally ANY aspect of this story you didn't like into something that made more sense to you....

And you chose not to.

That's.....accepting it as valid writing. You were like, okay, I'm game to just treat this as a thing that happened, just like they said that happened.

For the chance to give Dick shit for it, see. For the angst, see.

And that's when I'm like okay cool, so when engaging with this story as is and accepting it on face value and just delving into the characters as they were SHOWN interacting with and around these events......for the angst or whatever....

You guys just all decided en masse to just hop, skip and jump over allllllllll the opportunities for angst inherent in examining even ANY SINGLE ONE of the above lapses in judgment or hypocrisy on the parts of the characters (who don't get to be excused by OOC writing if you're not going to call the story an example of OOC writing, whoops).

And its just like, uh, what's up with that?

[istumpysk]

“Arya isn't classist because she befriends smallfolk" is like the tripe “I'm not racist I have black friends”, that's NOT HOW IT WORKS! She's a noble, she'll always be one. If their lives weren't fucked & she grew up in Winterfell, she'd be a lady, live & behave within that paradigm. Does anyone truly think she'd have given up her name/title/lands and left to live as something else ? Sure, she'd treat people in her employment & smallfolk better than other nobles but the Starks or Edmure Tully already do that. Just like Sansa's best friend being in lower status than her, Arya befriending smallfolk doesn't mean shit either regarding classism in the bigger picture. Of course, we should talk about these serious issues when analyzing ASOIAF but not understanding the concepts & what you’re talking about leads to a much more harmful narrative. She’s of nobility, she isn't revolutionary, she isn't a marxist, she can't be. There’s no such thing as benevolent aristocrat, just like there’s no such thing as benevolent capitalist today or a communist banker. You can’t have nobility without inequality and exploitation.

This isn’t what class conscious means! Of course, people who scream “Arya’s better, she isn't classist” ad nauseam don’t give a single flying fuck about any of that, they’re just using it to push their anti-Sansa agenda. But their hypocrisy shows when their ideal ending consists of Arya not only reclaiming her title & position in society, but also reaffirming the class structure of Westeros by being queen. Which is fine by me this is that kind of story after all, but they’d better cut the BS when they don't even try to be consistent and logical.

Go off, anon. Lol

It's like anything else. When people start accusing Sansa of classism, they're fully admitting to you they have little to work with.

[titan-fodder]

Prima Vista Part I

Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader wc: ~ 9.7k Warnings: dubious consent (because of alcohol), just copious amounts of sex, oral, squirting, 69ing, college shenanigans, obnoxious frat boys, terrible fashion choices A/N: At long last, here we have the beginning. Massive thanks to @pleasantanathema and @whats-her-quirk​ who have been cheering for me since I told them I wanted to right a “little college AU” for a “little collab” June and I have been planning for a while. Also, I don’t know where I’d be without Lauren’s fraternity knowledge, so extra thanks for that, babe. I hope everyone has as much fun with this fic as I did.

God, you hate frat boys. 

Their sense of entitlement, all their fucking house pride. Brother this, brother that. It's annoying. Add in the factors of being an athlete on top of it, and they're downright insufferable. 

So it makes absolutely no sense that you're at a fucking Pi Kappa Alpha party. 

Your friend, Hitch, dragged you here (naturally), and it wasn't like you could really object considering she's the only real friend you have on campus. You study together and switch off between dorms to watch movies and bitch about classes. She's the complete opposite of you in many different ways, but you soul-bonded over biology and that was that. 

Unfortunately, Hitch decided she would leave you to your own devices almost immediately, opting to skip over to a game of beer pong and flirt with a boy in her statistics class. You have no idea why considering he has a fucking bowl cut, but she's been talking about him for weeks now. 

The party is filled with loud music and too many people with red solo cups. There's no way they're all of age, so you're already paranoid that the cops are gonna raid the place, but there's nothing you can do besides leave. It's a tempting thought. 

Before you can, though, there's an uproar in the kitchen, and curiosity gets the best of you. Moving from your place against the wall, you make your way over to peek in and see what's going on. A large group of frat boys, what you think are sorority girls, and whoever else wants to join are raising their cups to cheer. An especially loud voice rings out above the rest, "One win down, eleven more to go!" 

Claps and supportive shouts are nearly deafening. 

"I think we can do it! Do you think we can do it?" 

More cheers, more hollers. 

"Let's hear it for UC lacrosse!" 

You have to cover your ears this time. Should have known this party was to celebrate the win earlier that day. 

When the crowd parts, you see the ringleader, Erwin Smith who is very well-known on campus for three reasons: he will talk your ear off about history if given the chance, he's irritatingly gorgeous, and he will fuck any pretty girl with a pulse. 

Again—you fucking hate frat boys. 

To ease your bad mood and possibly encourage you to have some semblance of a good time, you shuffle further into the kitchen to grab a drink. You feel a little exposed, not dressed like many of the other girls who are either in rompers or the classic sorority chick outfit (giant college shirts that cover their shorts). You are in a crop top, torn shorts, and a floral cardigan. Not your best outfit, not your worst. 

There's no way you're touching any of the pre-poured cups or the jungle juice, opting for an unopened can of mediocre beer. 

You feel someone approach you from behind, glance over your shoulder to see nothing but a broad chest covered by a fucking hawaiian shirt. 

Craning your neck, you're met with another familiar face, one Mike Zacharias known as 1) Erwin's best friend, 2) one of the tallest guys on campus, and 3) the best lacrosse player on the team. 

You haven't spoken a single word to him but that doesn't stop him from grinning at you, flipping shaggy hair from his face, and chanting a low, "Shotgun, shotgun, shotgun!" 

"Are you god damn joking me?" You ask with a raised eyebrow. 

"Hell no!" 

"I have shotgunned a beer literally once in my life, and at least half of it ended up on my shirt."

"That's alright," Mike's smile shrinks to a smirk. "We're all about getting chicks wet in Pike." 

Face falling, you scoff, "Yeah, okay, I'm leaving." 

You sidestep him, cracking open the beer, but he follows close behind you. It makes a little bit of fear spike in your gut—everyone knows the horror stories that accompany many fraternities—but you're mostly just annoyed. 

"Hey, what's your name again?"

Again. As if you've actually formally met before.

"Why do you care?" 

Mike does not hesitate when he answers, "'Cause you look like you're having a shit time here, and I'd like to change that."

You roll your eyes, let your head loll over your shoulder to look at him again. If you're being honest with yourself, he's kind of extremely hot with his undercut and flippy hair, not to mention the stubble that's grown out just enough to make you think thoughts for a split second.  

"A noble cause," you quip. "Truly." 

He chuckles, watching too closely as you take a sip of your beer. 

"So? Name?"

After too big of a swallow, you answer him, and light green eyes brighten a little. 

"Oh, you're Hitch's friend, right?" 

Of course that would be your only identifier on campus. Hitch is insanely pretty and very outgoing. It makes sense that people just know you as her tag-along. 

It doesn't stop you from feeling slightly offended, though. 

"Yeah, and you're Erwin's friend, right?" 

"Among other things," he snorts. "Mike Zacharias." He holds out a massive hand that you eye before taking, figure you shouldn't be too much of a bitch and make a bad impression on the most highly regarded frat at the college.  

"I know who you are, dude. Not many people don't."

"Aw, flatterer." 

That grin is back on his face, lopsided and far too charming, and you definitely need to get away from him before you down a couple more beers. 

"Freshman?" He pries, and somehow you wind up at the staircase, leaning against the wall and praying he'll just stand beside you instead of caging you in. 

He does, and you let out a breath of relief. 

"Sophomore."

His eyebrows shoot up for a second. "Fuck, you've made it through a whole year flying under my radar?" 

You give him a wholly unimpressed look. "Wow, you really know what to say to a girl, don't you?" 

"That came off as shitty, sorry. I just mean, like, you're super cute. Feel like I would have committed you to memory if I'd seen you."

Your face heats up probably more than it ever has in your life, but you still snap, "We haven't had a single class together, I never go to your games, and this is the first Pike party I've been to."

Mike nods. "Ah, that explains it. Just haven't given anyone a chance to notice you." 

"Sure, let's go with that."

Another several sips. You hiss at the taste, and Mike laughs. 

"Can't handle beer?"

"Can't handle shitty beer."

"Ouch. Want me to grab you something else?"

He really doesn't seem to understand the warnings all girls have heard over the years. That, or he just doesn't care. You don't know him well enough to pass that kind of judgement.

"Uh, no. I always make my own drinks at parties."

"That's understandable." Except it isn't. He doesn't have a clue. 

"Well, you can go grab one, and I'll just finish this one for you. Don't want it to go to waste."

It's your turn to smirk now. "That desperate to swap spit, Zacharias?" 

"Like this?" He laughs through his nose. "Nah. But I can think of other ways."

"We've been talking for literally two minutes."

"I'm perfectly capable of making decisions in two minutes."

"Not any good ones obviously."

Tilting his head, Mike thinks out loud, "Can't tell if that's an insult aimed at me or yourself." 

"Take it however you want. I don't really care."

His eyes glint with amusement. There's no way you're escaping this any time soon. 

Long, thick fingers close around the top of your can, and he gently tugs it out of your hand then keeps those eyes locked with yours as he takes a sip. 

"Gross." You try to keep the teasing tone from your voice. 

"Just go get another drink."

You actually listen, mostly to get away from him but also because you could go for something easier to stomach. 

A game of King's Cup is going on in the kitchen, a five obviously being drawn because everyone suddenly pantomimes holding a steering wheel. It's surprisingly fun to watch, so you post up next to the counter after mixing orange and pineapple juice with rum. 

"Four's whores!"

"Categories! Different beers!"

"Seven heaven!" 

"Ayyy, waterfall!" 

You shake your head as everyone drinks for way too long. Some people are already swaying in circles where they're sitting. Others are simply red-faced. 

"Wanna play?"

"Jesus! You came outta nowhere."

Mike looks too smug for your liking, but doesn't say anything, just crushes the empty can in his hand and throws it into the trashcan next to the back door, all gooseneck and perfect arch. 

"Let me guess—you're reigning champ at beer pong."

"Nah," he waves you off. "That's Erwin and Nile. King's Cup however…"

"King's Cup isn't even a competition. It's just flipping cards and getting fucked up." 

"Well, yeah, but it's still fun."

You let out a heavy sigh, eyes still trained on the game going on, then concede, "Once this one is over, I'll play. Just to get you off my back." And because he won't have the chance to talk to you for the duration of the game. 

"Excellent."

You manage to finish your drink by the time the round ends, have to rush to make another as Mike strides over to the table and steals the two seats that have been vacated. They're right across from each other. You don't know if you'd prefer that or just sitting next to him so he can't stare at you.

Sauntering over, you plop down and place your drink in front of you. The guy to your right is quick to introduce himself with hooded eyes and a self-assured smile. You give him basically the same treatment that you've been giving Mike, making him pout and turn away as a freckled girl deals out the cards. 

It's fast paced, and you find yourself drinking more than you'd planned. Mike picks you as his buddy (of course), and the guy next to you makes everyone drink for nearly thirty seconds straight when he pulls an ace. 

Still, you find yourself laughing as people scream and curse. You catch eyes with Mike often, and as you finish your second drink, he begins looking very attractive. More attractive than before. So attractive that you allow him to pour your third cup. 

"If you roofied this, I'm gonna be real upset with you," you tell him just before taking a sip. He added more rum than you did, but that doesn't surprise you. 

"Hey, one of Pike's virtues is being a gentleman."

As soon as he says it, about seven people around the table shout, "Pi Kappa Alpha!" like some kind of sports team, and you roll your eyes so hard it hurts. 

You're drunk after this game. And, then you make another drink and get plastered. Meandering around the rest of the party, bodies begin to blur together, the music fades in and out, and you barely know what you're saying to Mike anymore as he follows you close behind in the same state. For every drink you've had, he's had two, and now he's walking around with a cup full of jungle juice nodding at his brothers, smiling at all the girls who look at him.

His room is downstairs unlike most of the others, right at the end of the hallway. It makes it far too easy to end up inside, but as soon as the door closes and his huge hands find your hips, your world disappears entirely. 

*

The first thing you feel when you wake up is a nauseating pounding in your head. The second is a very large body behind you. 

God dammit, you think, trying to recall the events of the night before. 

Pi Kappa Alpha. Hitch left you, so you hung out with… Mike Zacharias? From the lacrosse team? 

Frowning, you try to look over your shoulder, but all you can really see is a head of hair. However, you can feel the coarseness of his beard against your bare shoulder, and that's enough to solidify that it is indeed Mike behind you. 

Shifting some brings more of your physical state to your attention—your naked chest under the blanket, the way your legs are pressed together, your pussy between your thighs… swollen? Jesus, what did he do to you last night? You can also feel something dry and crusty on your stomach which is both disgusting and relieving. At least he had enough sense to pull out. 

Luckily, his arm isn't wrapped around you which makes it much easier to sit up on your elbow. It takes you a while to locate your clothes around the room from where you are, and even then, all you can find are your shorts, shoes, and bra. You peer around, trying not to groan at the headache threatening to make you black the fuck out all over again, but that pounding as well as the nauseating churning of your stomach is making it difficult. 

You slide out of the bed, basically crawling to the little pile of discarded clothes. As you fumble with fastening your bra, you glance around one more time in search of your shirt and cardigan, but it’s no use. What you do see, however, is the obnoxious Hawaiian shirt  Mike had been wearing the night before, and well… You’d rather not leave the Pike house topless, so…

Snatching it off the floor, you slip your arms through the giant sleeves and somehow manage to button up about half of it. Then, you’re flying out the door, desperate to be in your own dorm, curled over your own toilet, in your own clothes. 

Oh, thank god his room wasn’t upstairs, you praise, trying to remember the way to the front door. There are numerous bodies and tipped over cups to navigate through, and you cringe at the various odors that assault your senses. 

You see the door from across the room, so close and getting closer as you try not to trip over anything, but as you pass the kitchen, you hear a smooth, familiar voice greet, “Good morning,” in a smug way. 

Erwin is leaning against a counter, smirking over a steaming cup of coffee. He’s wearing only sweatpants, his hair is a little mussed, and for a split second, you understand why he pulls so many girls. 

Still, you roll your eyes and continue moving—a classic DNE situation, but the frat boy doesn’t seem to get the message, instead calling out, “Nice shirt!”

“Fuck off, Smith,” is the only thing you utter before leaving, slamming the door behind you. 

*

Mike easily catches the frisbee that spins directly at his face then quickly throws it back to try and catch Nile off guard. It works, and the brunet curses and has to go running after the flying disc. 

A few girls watching from the nearby fountain clap and yell his name, wriggling fingers in a wave as if he can actually see that far away. Mike gives one wave of his own hand then turns back to the grass where Nile is jogging back to his place.

“You did that on purpose, you asshole!” He spits.

Mike shrugs his shoulders, yells back, “Get better at frisbee, and you won’t have this problem!”

Nile throws the plastic so hard that it flies off toward the fountain, making all those girls scream and dive for cover. 

“Yeah, I’m not getting that,” Mike shakes his head. Nile drags his fingers down his angular face before setting off on yet another trek, apologizing profusely then standing around to flirt like usual.

Blowing hair out of his face, Mike considers joining his brother, but before he can, he sees a familiar figure turning on the sidewalk, about to pass the fountain and head toward Hartley Hall. 

His feet are moving before he really registers it, glad his long legs can carry him quickly even at a walk. Mike calls out when he’s a couple yards away, and you turn to him, eyes growing wide before you start to move faster. 

He can just barely make out the words, “Nope. Not doing this,” and chuckles, catching up the rest of the way.

“Hey, chill, I just wanna talk.”

You turn to look at him, head tilted up, squinting against the sun, and Mike has never been more thankful for his height because you look so god damn cute all small and irritated with him. 

“What is there to talk about? I don’t even remember anything.”

“Yeah, neither do I,” he says, lacing fingers together behind his head. “Shame.”

“Whatever.”

Mike tries and fails to hide a snort, nods at Nile as you both pass him and the gaggle of girls surrounding him. Mike has no doubt his friend will get at least one phone number out of it, if not all of them. 

“Did you at least have a good time before you blacked out?” He ventures.

You shrug your shoulders, hitch your backpack up a little higher. “Maybe. But, if I was just around you the whole time, probably not.”

“Aw, come on! What did I ever do to you?”

“You need a list?”

Mike nods. “Would probably help.”

“For brevity's sake, I’ll just say that you started the night trying to get a literal stranger to shotgun a beer and ended the night fucking said stranger and… Not holding back, apparently.” Mike frowns, about to ask what you mean by that, but you elaborate before he can. Voice dropping, you question, “Do you have any idea how fucking sore I’ve been for the last few days? What the fuck do you even have hidden in those stupid shorts?”

“I’d be happy to show you again.” He grins sideways, and when you shoot him a venomous look, he figures it’s time to change the subject. “Anyway, I may have done that and more, but you’re the thief.”

“Excuse me?”

Mike tries to sound nonchalant as he accuses, “Stole my shirt and everything." Honestly, he's a little upset that he didn’t actually get to see you wearing it. 

“I—”

“That’s my favorite shirt, you know?”

You laugh. Finally. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“That shirt is fucking heinous, okay? You’re lucky I didn’t burn it.”

“Does that mean I can have it back?”

You make a little noise in your throat, something between a grumble and a growl, but you check your phone and tell him, “Fine. My next class isn’t for another couple of hours, so just…Follow me.”

It takes immense effort to not skip to your dorm like a little kid, but Mike is excited. He’s not gonna try anything weird, but just seeing your space? He’ll be able to get a better feel for you. So far, all he knows is that you live and breathe sarcasm and can’t handle your liquor well. It’s enough to get him a little more than interested, but it’s not enough to go off of.

The two of you gain a few looks as you make your way through the shared study space of the dormitory, heads turning, eyebrows raising in recognition. No one should be all that surprised; it’s not like Mike and Erwin haven’t frequented a lot of these rooms. 

You lead him down a hallway, and Mike looks at all the little dry-erase intro boards hanging outside of every door. He’s a little surprised to see that the one by yours isn’t blank. Your name is written in bubble letters, surrounded by little hearts, and when you catch him looking at it, you’re quick to tell him, “Hitch.”

“Ah. Of course.”

He follows you inside, staying by the door to not invade too much of your space, but he doesn’t even try to be subtle as he looks around the small room. Pennant for the college hung up over a cork bulletin board that’s a mess of photos and sticky notes. Cluttered desk with just enough of it cleared to fit a laptop. Tiny succulents on the window sill. Double bed covered in a quilt. And there, in the open closet, Mike catches sight of his shirt—pastel pink and littered with palm trees. 

After dropping your backpack on your bed, you step over to the hanging clothes and grab it, muttering, “Ridiculous,” as you hand it over.

Mike laughs as he slings it over his shoulder. “You know what’ll make you hate it even more?” You quirk an eyebrow, probably doubting that anything could, but your entire face falls when he informs you, “I have matching shorts to go with it.”

“No you do not.”

“Definitely do.”

“That should be a crime. You should be arrested.”

He chuckles, has a retort on the tip of his tongue, but something catches his eye—a bookshelf tucked away in the corner by your bed overflowing with novels and knick-knacks. Mike sees a particularly thick paperback, recognizing the black background and small desert picture on the spine.

“Bro!” He walks over, plants a hand in the middle of your mattress, and reaches for it. “Is this fucking Dune?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“This is, like, my favorite book, dude.”

“Seriously?” You sound just as disbelieving as you do disinterested. 

Mike begins flipping through it, scanning over highlighted passages as he nods. “I have the whole series back home, but I only brought this one and Messiah with me to college.”

He straightens up but keeps a knee on the edge of the bed, and you plop down to sit on it, watching him closely as he continues to look over the notes scribbled in the margins. 

“I had to read it in high school," you tell him. "Then my cousin gave me a lot of the books after I talked with him about it one time. I haven’t gotten around to reading them, though.”

“You really should,” Mike urges. “I mean, I know you probably have a shit ton of reading for classes, but if you ever get the chance, you should at least read the next two.”

“You some kind of closet nerd, Zacharias?”

“Kinda,” he admits, putting the book back on the shelf only to grab a worn copy of Fellowship of the Ring. “I mean, Erwin and a few others are well aware, but I don’t really broadcast it.”

“Not good for the cool guy image?” 

“Nah, people are just more interested in other things,” he mumbles, eyes fixed on the tiny print.

“Mike Zacharias,” his gaze flicks to you as you laugh quietly. “Lacrosse god and big fucking geek.”

He closes the book and uses it to lightly hit you on the top of the head with it. You half-heartedly smack him right in his abs only to push against the muscle harder and ask, “Jesus Christ, what do you have under there?”

“You know, that’s the second time you’ve asked what I have under my clothes,” he points out, a little too satisfied. “Better watch out, or I’m gonna start getting ideas.”

You huff, but your hand is definitely still on his stomach, unmoving but warm through his shirt. Mike told himself he wouldn’t do anything weird once he got here, but you’re already on the bed and touching him, and he’d kind of really like to have this particular experience while sober, so he very slowly takes your wrist and moves it away. 

It makes you look up at him, a question dancing in your eyes as your lips part. Mike makes sure his own stare conveys everything he’s thinking, wishes he could just transplant his thoughts into your brain so that he can put you a little more at ease around him. 

You’re onto him, though, tugging your hand from his grip and blinking a few times. He figures you’re about to point to the door and tell him to take his fucking Hawaiian shirt and leave. 

Instead, you pull on the fabric covering his ribs so that he loses his balance and has to catch himself before crashing into you. It puts his face level with yours, and you take the opportunity to kiss him—hard, desperate, and a little confused judging by the way you’re frowning. 

Mike grunts, holding himself up with the arm on the side of your hips then uses the other to slide under the thigh closest to him and pull you further onto the bed. He’s straddling you in no time, up on his knees so that he doesn’t crush you. 

Hearing the sound of shoes hitting the ground, he tugs his shirt off over his head, and then he’s curling over you again. Your mouths grow slick with spit. He slides his tongue past your lips, and you arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair. Mike pushes you back down so that he can strip you down to your bra and panties then takes the time to rid himself of his shoes and shorts.

“Oh, fuck,” he hears you breathe, and when he glances up at you, he finds you staring at what he knows is an intimidatingly large bulge under his boxer briefs. “It makes sense now—the soreness.”

Mike chuckles, slots his forearms on either side of your head and mutters, “Yeah, sorry about that.”

You lick his lips and he bites yours, bodies clashing together as he grinds himself against your covered pussy. Eventually Mike is able to snake a hand down your body, making sure to brush over your ribs so that you squirm beneath him. Fuck, he already loves the way you squirm. And, when he moves your panties to the side and teases your little hole, already wet just from making out, Mike discovers that he loves the way you moan too. 

He’s slow as he pushes a finger in, groaning when you clench around it. Pumping it in and out, he gently works you open and wonders if he was courteous enough to do this the other night. He hopes he was. 

You spread your legs for him, start bucking into his hand, especially when he hits that special spot inside you. 

“Fuck, fuck, fu—” You grab his face, bringing it close to yours again so that you can muffle curses against his lips. 

When Mike adds a second finger, your jaw drops, and you start to tremble. 

“Too much?” He asks.

You shake your head, stutter a breathy, “N-no. Just—ah—slow. Go slow.”

He moves to suck on your neck, promising, “I will.”

Mike waits until you’re dripping into his palm and spread about as widely as you can be underneath him. Then, and only then does he shimmy out of his underwear and question, “Condom?”

“Bookshelf,” you huff. “In the jewelry box.”

When he opens it, a little ballerina spins, and Mike has to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. “That’s twisted.”

“Shut up.”

He grabs one of the gold packages and tears it open, then rolls the latex over his cock and discards the wrapper somewhere. 

Mike only gives you his tip first, sits right inside your entrance so that you can squeeze him and get used to the feeling before he pushes in any more. You barely shift your hips back and forth, like an experiment. It’s just enough for Mike to see slick coating the end of the condom, and he nearly starts drooling.

He presses in a little more, appreciates the way your eyes roll into the back of your head, then adds one more inch.

“Jesus Christ.” Your breaths are coming in short gasps, words slurring together. He’s not even halfway in, and you’re already fucked out. 

Your cunt is spasming around him, and Mike tries to get you to relax more by lightly rubbing your clit with the pad of his thumb. 

You leak around him, pussy slowly but surely opening up a little more so that he can slide in further. He gives a few shallow thrusts that make you whine, then reaches up to grab one of your pillows which only sends him deeper. 

“God dam—”

Mike lifts you and shoves the pillow under your hips, smiles in a way he’s pretty sure you hate, then jokes, “Better to fuck you with, my dear.”

“In...sufferable…” The annoyed tone is lost when you cry out. Mike buries himself as far as he can without hurting you. He isn’t quite balls deep, but you feel so fucking good that he doesn’t even mind. 

Starting a steady rhythm that has every upthrust dragging over your g-spot, Mike watches through foggy eyes as your mouth opens and closes, chest rising with stuttering breaths before you exhale and moan. He dips his thumb between your folds to gather a little bit of slick and return it to your clit. The circular motion makes you arch again, and Mike abandons the little bud for just a moment so that he can unclasp your bra and pull it off. The sight of your tits bouncing in time with his thrusts almost does him in, but he holds back, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to gather himself.

You’re just clamping around him so perfectly, pussy drooling and creaming on his cock, and Mike is not a quickshot, but for you—

He pulls out all at once, flips you so that you’re on hands and knees, then spreads you open to lick into you from behind. 

“Holy—” 

Mike’s cock is throbbing where it bobs against his stomach, but he can ignore it for the most part, focused on eating you out, sucking at your messy lips then dragging the flat of his tongue over your hole. He moves his face back and forth, wants to leave his mark on you in the form of stubble burn between your legs. 

“Mike, Mike, fuck, please.”

He’s positive you can’t actually hear him when he teases, “Please what?” right into the crevice of your ass. 

You growl, push against him, and swallow enough pride to beg, “Please fuck me.”

Biting his lip, Mike straightens up enough to watch his fingers disappear into your pussy. One, two, then a third that makes your messy entrance stretch for him. He lowers his face again, feather light licks around your sensitive hole, and when he twists his wrist so that he can tap on your spot, you come immediately. 

A mixture of slick and squirt drips from your cunt and soaks into your quilt. Mike pushes more out as he continues to finger fuck you, humming at the way your arms give out and you fall against the mattress. 

This is the perfect position for him. He replaces his wet fingers with his cock and ruts into you quickly, chasing after his own impending orgasm. Pretty little whimpers fall from your lips, fuck drunk as you babble, “Oh, god, Mike, Mike, fuck…”

He’s gripping your hips too tightly, pulling you back against him, shoving his cock deeper and deeper until he finally comes with a shudder and a low groan. 

Mike pants for a few seconds, then leans down to press a few kisses to your spine, but instead of the usual happy sighs he gets from most girls, you just roll your shoulders and mutter, “Stop that.”

He does, then pulls out, takes a second to stare at your pussy—worked open from his size and still dripping. It would make a very pretty picture, but Mike wouldn’t dare try that with you. 

You roll onto your back, a huff of air leaving your lungs as you scrub a hand over your face then tilt your head to him. It looks like you have something to say, but you just chew on your bottom lip, eyes moving from Mike to the door.

And, he can take a hint. You don’t have to say it. 

With a self-deprecating snort, he pulls the condom off, tying it then tossing it into the trashcan by your bed. 

“Yeah, okay,” he nods. “Let me just…” Mike tugs his clothes back on, kindly tosses you your top so that you can cover yourself like you obviously want to. 

He makes sure to grab the Hawaiian shirt that brought him here in the first place, tossing it over his shoulder then striding to the door. 

Chancing one more glance at you, you force a smile and try to pad his bruised ego. “Don’t worry, it was good. You were good. It’s just not gonna happen again.”

Mike fights a smirk, raises a hand in a wave, then steps out.

Not gonna happen again, he chuckles to himself. Yeah, right.

*

You don't understand how this keeps happening, how you keep ending up in bed with Mike fucking Zacharias. 

This time you had gone to the disgusting bar right off campus, got one whole drink in your system before the familiar trio walked in. They were all in khakis and pastels—Erwin in blue, Nile in yellow, Mike in pink. Again. 

You actually slammed your head down on the bartop because despite how basic he looked in his light polo, Mike was still hot. 

Is still hot. 

Back at the Pi Kappa Alpha house, you're a mess of limbs on his bed. You take immense pleasure in tugging his shirt off, and once his arms are free again, he's lifting the hem of your little skirt and mouthing over your thong. 

You're more than tipsy after a couple more drinks but nowhere near as drunk as you were the first night. It hadn't taken much convincing from Erwin for you and Hitch to play pool with them, and when Mike had come up behind you to help you line up your shot, you knew you were a goner. 

While he's busy between your legs, you take off your shirt and bra. Green eyes flick up as soon as you toss both articles on to the floor, and without any hesitation, Mike reaches up to grope your tits. 

He's clumsy and distracted as he tongues over the warmth pooling in your underwear, squeezing plump flesh and pinching your nipple so that you whine and push your hips further into his face. 

Mike groans, just as drunk if not more so. He's messy as he kisses your thighs, nearly rips your thong when he pulls it off of you. 

His tongue feels good, too fucking good as he laves over your entrance, soothing an ache that isn't quite there anymore but definitely was a few days ago. 

"Taste so fucking good," he grumbles, slurping and sucking and making you squeeze your thighs around his head. 

"Okay," you pant. "Okay, okay." You grab him by the hair and lift his head from you, stomach flipping at the sight of the bottom half of his face absolutely covered in slick. 

God dammit, why is he so sexy? 

Your mouth waters, and the thought of possibly giving him head this time crosses your mind. You're just inebriated enough to stay relaxed, didn't drink to the point of throwing up, and he has gone down on you the last two times so... 

Lizard brain taking over, you sit up, tell him to flip over, then start making your way down his body. 

Mike grabs you before you can turn to face him, fingers digging into your thighs and pulling you down to sit on his face. 

"Fucking—I'm trying to blow you, for Christ's sake."

He moves his head just enough to tell you, "So? You can do that while I do this."

And, he's not wrong. It just means that you're gonna get distracted. 

For a while, all you can really do is control your breathing and undulate on top of him, but eventually you fall to your elbows and lick up his shaft from base to tip. 

Mike really does have a nice cock—a beautiful cock—bigger than you've ever taken in terms of both length and girth, and veiny in the perfect way. Even his balls make your pussy throb, large and round, the right just slightly bigger than the left and now dripping with saliva as you lower your mouth further and further onto his cock. 

The feeling of his tongue buried in your cunt is making you delirious, eyes rolling, muscles going slack as you gurgle around the tip hitting the back of your throat. 

Mike groans into you, his legs starting to shake, and you assume in your half aware state that he's trying to not just skull fuck you into oblivion. 

You know you're making a mess, both on his face and on his cock. The fingertips that have been holding you open shift, one of them slipping into your clenching hole, and your hips begin to move on their own volition, riding what he'll give you while moving your tongue back and forth. 

You've only taken about half of him, doubt you can take any more. He's hot and heavy in your mouth, and when you pull off to breathe, you can taste pre cum on the back of your tongue. 

It triggers something in you, makes you raise up and clumsily turn around so that you can work him inside of you. 

Mike groans a long, "Fuuuck," and immediately starts thrusting upward. 

You're lucky you're as wet as you are, but the burn that comes with getting so stretched out still makes you hiss. You brace yourself on his broad chest, feeling the dampness of sweat forming a sheen on him, and your own body starts to feel too hot. 

You had wanted to ride him to feel in control of the situation for once, but you quickly realize it's not gonna happen, Mike gripping your hips and moving you how he sees fit. 

He's raw this time, a thought that should scare you, but he feels so good even through the discomfort. Every vein and ridge hits all the sweet spots inside of you, the flared head of his cock smooth as it presses just where you need it to. 

You're squirting again—he just seems to be able to fuck it out of you. It's not the high you're looking for, but the release in pressure still feels divine. 

Mike seems to enjoy it too because he looks down at where you're connected, swears at the way you gush on his cock, then starts swiping fingers over your clit so quickly it almost hurts. 

More fluid leaks from you, and Mike breathes a low, "Come on, baby, come on, 'm gonna fuck you dry tonight." 

Hearing him talk like that—his hand rubbing over your overstimulated clit, his thick cock threatening to split you in two—causes heat to travel up your legs and down your arms until it settles in your stomach and floods you. 

You cry out, stars and tears behind your eyes as Mike keeps going, taking everything he can from you until he's laying in a huge wet spot in his bed. 

He lifts you just in time to shoot cum upward on your chest, white splattering then dripping down in strands to pool on his stomach. 

You stare down at him, mouth hanging open and find him looking up at you with the same expression. 

It's hands down the best sex you've ever had, but you're not about to tell him that. Instead, you dismount him like the fucking horse he is and stand on weak legs, actually have to lean on the bed for support. 

"Just stay the night." His voice is deep and full of gravel. It's entirely too hot. 

"Absolutely not." You shake your head, grab your shirt and his boxers then ask, "Where's the nearest bathroom?" 

"Down the hall on the right, but you don't have to sneak out the window or anything. Just use the front door if you're tryin’ to run away."

You can't help but snort. Stupid. "I'm not trying to escape, dummy. I just need to pee." 

"Oh. Right."

You slip out of the room, hoping it's late enough for everyone to be asleep, but you have no such luck as the door to the bathroom opens and fucking Erwin steps out. 

He hums, looking you over for a moment as his lips lift on one side. 

"Don't say anything," you grit through your teeth. 

He holds his hands up in surrender, chuckles, acting all innocent. "Wasn't going to."

You squint, not believing him for a second, then move around him to get to the bathroom. Before you can shut the door, you hear him mutter, "Another one bites the dust," and consider running out and strangling him.

*

"Please please please come with me to this game," Hitch begs, her hands clasped together, imploring eyes wide and doe-like. 

"No. You have plenty of other friends to go with. You don't need me there."

"But, I want you to be there. It's gonna be such a good match. Rival schools and all that."

You roll your eyes. "Hitch, in all the time you've known me, have you ever seen me give a single fuck about sports?" 

"No, but you'll finally get to see Mike and Erwin and Nile play."

"All the more reason not to go."

"Do you not like them or something? Why wouldn't you like them? Everybody likes them!" 

She doesn't know, and you don't want her to. She had been too caught up with that Marlowe kid at the party, then was kept busy playing pool with Nile to see you and Mike slip out of the bar together. 

It's the only secret you've ever wanted to keep from her. You will take it to the grave. 

"I just… I just don't, okay? I get a… Sleazy vibe from all of them."

You really don't. Not exactly. You're not a big fan of the 'fuck-every-chick-on-capus' mentality, but most college boys think like that. Only difference is these three can actually achieve it. 

Hitch crosses her arms over her chest and gives you a look you've seen on your mother's face many times, usually when she has a point to prove. 

"You know I'm just gonna keep bothering you until you come to one, so why not just get it outta the way?" 

And, there's that point. 

"Ugh." You know she's right, and you really can't put up with this all semester. "Fine, but I'm gonna bitch the entire time."

Hitch squeals and claps, bouncing where she stands. "Yes! Wouldn't have it any other way."

You dress in school colors, put your hair up so that it won't be on your neck as the sun beats down, then take Hitch's little hatchback to the field. You try to talk her into sitting toward the back of the crowd that's gathered on the bleachers, but she just pulls you to the front without acknowledging your request. 

Even with the helmets, you can easily make out who's who, mostly because of their size. Mike and Erwin are doing some kind of pregame ritual where they hit their sticks together, shout something, and chest bump. It's the most alpha thing you've ever fucking seen and makes you question why you ever thought screwing one of them was a good idea. 

To be fair, you never really did think it was a good idea. It just kind of happened. Three times. 

But, it needs to stop. 

You repeat that thought to yourself as you watch Mike sprint across the field and launch the ball into the goal several times. You repeat it as he dances around his opponents with ease, quick footwork until he can throw them off. You repeat it as he stands on the sidelines and takes his helmet off to shake out sweaty hair and squirt water into his mouth. 

And, none of it really helps. Mike is pretty incredible on the field, especially with Erwin and Nile backing him up. Everyone in the stands is screaming, yelling their names and chanting. It's a little contagious, you have to admit. You get as far as clapping but refuse to actually cheer. 

At some point, Erwin jogs over to the bleachers and waves his arms for everyone to get louder, and they sure do. Even through his helmet, you can see his sparkling white smile, and your own lips curl up as you shake your head at him. Unbelievable. He has all these people at his beck and call. 

Erwin has to get back on the field, though, fueled by the crowd like the other nine players. They end up pulling ahead of the other team and finishing the game eleven to seven. 

Naturally, Erwin announces a party at the Pike house, and naturally, Hitch drags you to it. 

This one is even bigger than the last. It offends every one of your senses—too loud, alcohol permeating the air, bad drinks, worse dancing, and strangers rubbing against you as you pass them. 

You give up on your beer before you’re even halfway through with it, just set the can on one of the counters and start milling around. You’d rather be anywhere else but here. Your head hurts from the game earlier, baking in the sun and not drinking enough water. Should’ve taken an Advil… And some Benadryl. Hitch wouldn’t have been able to bring you here if you’d been unconscious. 

All of the lacrosse team is there, flanked with guys who won’t stop slapping them on their backs and girls who won’t stop batting their eyes and squeezing their biceps. It’s comical, really, the fairweather trend. There’s no way this would be happening if they’d lost their last three games. Instead, the team would be getting harassed and pestered, not so subtle comments about practicing more and replacing members. You’ve seen it all before. 

Leaning against a wall, you watch it all unfold. It’s probably the most entertaining thing at the party other than the group of sorority girls dancing on a table. Things are getting out of hand already, and you would prefer not be here for the aftermath, but just as you're about to leave, Mike breaks away from the group and strides over to you.

“Hey, didn’t expect to see you.” He takes a sip from his cup, smiling around the rim.

You use your usual excuse: “Hitch,” and he nods. 

“Right. Did you watch the game today?”

Crossing your arms, you mumble a, “Yes,” that Mike can’t hear but can definitely see.

He beams then asks, “You gonna tell me I played well? ‘Cause I did.” He’s all cocksure and giddy, and it makes your body run hot in a few different ways.

“I don’t think you need anyone else fawning over you,” you say with a condescending laugh.

“You mean you don’t want me to flex for you?”

“I’m leaving. Right now." When you push past him a little too roughly, it causes him to drop his cup, and your shirt is suddenly plastered to your chest and stomach. The white isn’t discolored, which leads you to believe, “Fuck, is this just straight vodka?”

“No, Christ,” he cringes at your wet state, looking genuinely apologetic. “It’s just water. Sorry.”

You scrunch your top up to wring it out, wondering what he’s doing drinking water instead of liquor, but you’re not about to pick on him for staying hydrated. 

“It’s fine. I was about to leave anyway.”

He’s quick to stop you with a, “No, don’t. Just… change into one of my shirts or something."

Narrowing your eyes, you contemplate how many ways this can go wrong, how much you should not allow this, and even go as far as accusing, "You're just trying to get me in your room again."

"You wanna stay in a wet shirt?" Not really. "Come on."

He jerks his head toward the hallway, and you end up following him, grumbling the whole time because you swear to God if you end up on your back for him again, you're going to be very upset with yourself. 

Mike beelines it for his dresser as soon as you're in the room, much quieter than the rager outside. He digs around in it, flipping all the way to the bottom then pulls out a heather gray tee. 

"It'll probably still be a little big, but it's from high school, so you shouldn't drown in it."

He tosses it to you then, to your surprise, turns back to the wall to give you the privacy to change. You eye him the whole time, peeling off your top as well as your bra since it soaked through. His shirt still covers your little shorts, and you assume you look a lot like one of those sorority girls, but it's good enough, has that super soft feeling from being worn too much. 

"Thanks. You can, uh… You can turn around now."

Mike looks over his shoulder, like he's making sure you're decent, then turns around fully. 

"I was trying to get outta there anyway. Spilling a drink on you was a good excuse."

You open your mouth, choking on a scoff, then ask, "Did you do that on purpose?" 

"No! It really was an accident. I'm glad it was just water, but I still feel bad."

You're squinting at him, but now you're curious about something else.

"Why'd you wanna get away from the party?" 

Sighing, Mike shows a tired smile. "Honestly, I'm still worn out from the game. I'm already sore and covered in these god damn bruises. I just wanna relax."

"If you're covered in bruises, I can't imagine how the other team feels. You smacked the shit outta some of 'em."

"So, you were watching."

"I may have glanced up once or twice," you lie. "Anyway, why don't you just hide out in here?" 

He shrugs his shoulders. "Erwin insisted I show my face, and I didn't want him to give me shit about being a recluse."

You can relate. It's why Hitch drags you everywhere. You wouldn't even leave your dorm for classes if you didn't have to. 

Still. "Dude. You're definitely not a recluse. You're fucking everywhere. All the time."

"So? I can get tired too."

He's got a point. 

"Can we just chill in here for a while?" He asks you. 

"Why do you need me to chill? You basically just said you needed a break from social interaction."

"Yeah, but not all social interaction," he corrects with a small grin. "Please? I've got movies and video games, Zelda and shit."

Again, the contemplation kicks in, all the pros and cons. You know very well what this can (will) lead to, but you also want to escape the party. And, if Hitch whines about you leaving, you can tell her you were there the whole time. Not like it's a lie. 

"Fine, but I have some stipulations."

"Oh, do you?" 

"I do."

Mike waves a hand for you to go on. "Let's hear 'em then."

Holding up one finger, you tell him, "You have to let me snoop around your room—" he laughs. You lift another finger, "—and we are not, under any circumstances, having sex."

"Deal." 

You tilt your head, taken aback at how quick he is to agree. "Wait, seriously?" 

"Seriously. Go ahead. I'll pull up Hulu."

You hum, still suspicious, but start making your rounds, taking in photos from what you assume to be the high school soccer team he played on, then a fishing trip with Erwin, a middle-aged couple with a dog, and some pinned up tickets to sporting events he's attended. 

He has a bookshelf against a wall, textbooks at eye level, but the top and bottom shelves are filled with sci-fi and fantasy novels that make you smile. His TV is fairly large, big enough to see the picture from his bed which is also sizable and draped with a plush comforter. The last thing that catches your eye is his closet, halfway open and full of jerseys and Polos. A few different pairs of shoes sit at the bottom, but pushed all the way in the corner are a few boxes of fucking Magic the Gathering cards. 

"Oh, man. You really are a closet nerd. Like, literally."

"Huh?" Mike looks over at where you're kneeling, realizes what you're looking at and actually sounds self-conscious when he admits, "Yeah, uh, I wasn't joking the other day." 

"I've never played—too technical for me—but my friends in high school did."

"There are baseball cards back there too if that makes me any cooler."

"It doesn't," you say bluntly before straightening up and reaching to shut the door to his room. Plopping down on the floor next to him (where he was smart enough to sit), you add, "But even I can admit it's kind of endearing."

"Oh yeah?" He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, that stupid lopsided grin on his too-handsome face. 

"Don't get cocky, Zacharias." 

"You wouldn't let me if I wanted to."

Both of you agree to a Batman movie, and you make yourself comfortable, kicking your sandals off and leaning against the bed behind you. You're a little too aware of Mike's body beside yours, but you're able to ignore it for the most part, keeping a few inches between your arms and legs. Of course, he still brushes against you when the movie ends and he takes the time to stretch. His shoulders roll, making his shirt strain over his back, and when he holds his arms out, linked at his fingers, you can't help but take a quick look at his bulging biceps. 

"Fuck, I'm gonna feel like garbage tomorrow," he complains. You can see the bruises littering his arms, some of them thick lines while others are almost perfectly circular from where he was hit with the end of a lacrosse stick. 

"You have any classes?" You ask. 

"Just my ten o'clock and three o'clock."

You make a noise of acknowledgement then fall silent. You're not sure how to hold a conversation with him that isn't sarcastic or snippy since you haven't actually done a lot of talking in the first place. 

"Sucks," is all you can come up with. 

"It's alright. I've probably dealt with worse."

"Probably?" 

"Well, nothing really comes to mind, but I'm sure I have."

You should get going. It's late, and you have a nine AM tomorrow. Plus, the longer you sit next to Mike, the more ideas pop up in your head. Dirty ideas. Ideas that will leave you disappointed in yourself. 

"Well, I'm gonna head back. This has been…" You're unsure of what word to use, don't want to get his hopes up by saying 'fun'. 

Mike figures you out and offers, "Tolerable?" 

"Yeah, we can go with that. I'll get your shirt back to you sometime soon."

Mike chuckles and gets to his feet. "Just whenever you can." He grabs your wet top from the ground and holds it out to you, then reaches for the door as you slip on your sandals. 

You feel him close behind you, close enough for his chest to push against your back when you straighten up. His arm is pressing into your side, hand curled around the knob and twisting it, but he's unable to open the door as you let your head fall against it. 

"God dammit." 

"Hm?" You can tell he's leaning down because his breath falls just over your ear. 

"I said we weren't—"

He cuts you off, "But, you want to."

He's too hot and too smooth, and you can’t stop yourself from turning around and breathing, "Yeah, I want to." 

It's different tonight. Mike takes his time undressing you, kissing and sucking your neck, your collarbone, your nipples that pebble against his tongue. It's unnerving even as you squirm and moan. 

He eats you out lazily, flattening his tongue against your folds then dipping into your slit so that he can slip into your twitching hole. 

When he adds a finger, you immediately grind down on it, silently begging him to work you open enough to take his cock, but he doesn't move any faster, apparently content to just drive you insane. 

You're nearly begging by the time he turns you on your side and moves to lay behind you, hiking your leg up and pushing most of his length inside of you in one faultless motion that makes you choke and sob his name. 

That stretch is back, delicious as it is painful as he splits you open. His thrusts are the same slow pace, cock dragging against gummy walls as he drapes an arm over you to toy with your swollen clit. 

It takes you both longer than usual to come, but when you do, your whole body trembles against him, and you have to suck in several deep breaths until you feel like your lungs start actually filling with air. 

Mike paints your back with warm cum, groaning right in your ear as he rubs against you, his cock sliding easily up and down your skin and making more of a mess. 

That unnerving feeling blooms in your chest again, crawls up into your throat. 

Tonight had been too casual, too natural. The way you hung out and watched a movie was already a little strange. Him fucking you from behind, holding you tight against his body, was too tender. And, now, after he leaves to grab a wet towel and uses it to clean your back, you find yourself searching for words again only to come up with passionate—intimate. 

And, words like that scare you.

[ n e x t ]

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Dumb Luck

Prompt: the usual "Everyone knows Merlin has Magic but Merlin doesn't know they know" but Arthur's being really fucking thick about it. Everything that could possibly be magic Arthur has brushed off as luck or something. At some point Merlin realizes that the knights know (or maybe he's known all along) and the knights tell Merlin that Arthur knows but he's being stupid, which leads to Merlin performing increasingly extravagant/impressive/silly magic in front of Arthur until the point Arthur just asks if Merlin would like him to acknowledge the fact that he doesn't care that Merlin has magic

no brain cells for these boys, leon stop hoarding them

Read on Ao3

Warnings: none!

Pairings: merthur, can be platonic or romantic who tf knows

Word Count: 2943

Alright. Merlin’s going to be honest. Is the absolute best at hiding his magic from people? No. Is he a damn sight near better than some other bastards would be if they had his magic? Yes, yes, he is, thank you very much. They would do quite well to remember that he is magic, and he’s had it since he was born, so he knows what he’s doing when it comes to knowing that he has it. Yes, thank you, he doesn’t go around doing every single thing he could with magic because well, then he’d never get to do much of anything ever again.

And that would be boring.

But yes, maybe he’s a little petty or lazy sometimes. Honestly, he’s just being efficient. Yes, he can justify pettiness as efficient. He’s just getting them back for something that he would otherwise have to expend so much effort doing. It’s very handy.

So the knights work out he has magic. Big surprise there, he knows. Lancelot is Lancelot, Gwaine is Gwaine. Percival stumbles in on him lifting too much a little too easily and cracks a joke about having Merlin pull his weight more on hunting trips and patrols. Elyan watches him fix armor and immediately clamors to bring Merlin to his and Gwen’s forge so he can actually show him how to fix armor.

Leon takes him aside quietly one day and thanks him. Merlin doesn’t start crying, he doesn’t end up breaking down into Leon’s arms, and Leon definitely doesn’t promise that although Merlin may not have been knighted, he thinks of him as his brother in arms.

Leon is very rude sometimes, as a matter of fact.

But Arthur doesn’t seem to notice.

Now, Arthur doesn’t notice a lot. Doesn’t notice Merlin shifting his chair a little bit so he crashes onto the floor, doesn’t notice Gwen spending just a hair too much time with Morgana in the evenings, doesn’t notice the guards that don’t even pay attention to the dungeons. Like, at all.

But there are some things he…should notice.

Like when a branch suddenly lifts itself up from a forest floor to trip a bandit.

“Bandits,” Merlin mutters under his breath, “why is it always bandits?”

He deflects a blow and sends one of them flying into a tree. Behind him, Elyan parries a blow and deftly clubs the man over the head. Arthur is battling another bandit a few paces away as one tries to run up behind him.

Merlin’s hand is out in a flash and the tree branch right in front of Arthur wheels up and smacks the man across the face.

Arthur whirls around and cuts the other man down, successfully putting an end to the fight. Around the clearing, the knights shake their heads and go about picking up the rest of their camp. Really, being far too calm for men who just killed a bunch of people.

Except for Merlin.

Merlin, while this is happening, is slowly coming to the conclusion that he would like to be swallowed up by the ground and never emerge again.

He just used magic, very obviously, in front of Arthur.

Is this the first time he’s done it? No, not by a long shot, but it is the first time he’s done it without any regard for whether Arthur can see.

Arthur turns and Merlin’s heart drops to his stomach.

Arthur wrenches his sword out of the ground and stalks over to him.

Arthur roughly grabs his shoulder. Shakes. Hard.

“Merlin! Merlin, answer me?”

“…Arthur?”

Arthur’s face is drawn. Grim. Almost his father’s. His grip hurts.

“Where are you hurt?”

Merlin blinks. What? Where is he what?

“Where is it, Merlin,” Arthur growls again, already looking him over, “where did they hurt you?”

“I’m—I’m not hurt.”

“You’re paler than a damn sheet, Merlin, you must be losing blood.” Arthur’s hand is…surprisingly gentle as it lifts his chin. “Tell me where. Come on. Now’s not the time for shame.”

“No, no,” Merlin mumbles, “I’m not—not hurt. Didn’t get hurt.”

Arthur slows, grim expression morphing to confusion. “Then why do you look so…”

If in doubt, poke fun at yourself.

“Just scared, I guess,” Merlin tries with a self-deprecating laugh, “wasn’t expecting bandits.”

Arthur huffs, lightly shoving his shoulder. “Leave it to you to be such a drama queen that I think you’re bleeding out.”

“’S nice of you to care.”

“Just glad I don’t have to drag your corpse back to Gaius.”

2.

So that was…bizarre. Not the most bizarre thing that’s ever happened to Merlin, not at all, but bizarre. Arthur may be a little unobservant at times but he’s not that oblivious.

But, in fairness to him—which is something Merlin tries not to do too often—he was in the middle of a fight and had just killed a man. Knights may not be known for the smarts but they are known for their overprotectiveness.

Yes, he can hear you lot protesting over there, it’s true and you know it.

And maybe…maybe Merlin’s been getting a little sick of Gaius screaming about how secret his magic must be kept in broad daylight with the door wide open. Listen, if you think he’s about to get scolded by your parental unit and not immediately find some way to rebel, you don’t know Merlin very well.

And yes, maybe there’s a sick little thrill he gets out of doing magic in front of Arthur.

Maybe.

So. The next time they’re on a hunting trip and he’s as sure as he can be that there aren’t any bandits around, he decides to push a little bit.

Arthur is lounging around because you can take the prince out of the castle but you can’t take the castle out of the prince and he thinks he’s still about to receive the finest of dishes that Camelot’s kitchens can prepare. Well, no, but he is about to not have to cook it himself.

“Light the fire, Merlin, it’s not that hard.”

“Have you ever lit a fire a day in your life?”

“Sure, when I was training.”

“Training? You needed training to learn how to light a fire?”

“It was survival training, with the elder knights. Had to survive a night on my own.”

“On your own?”

“Well, my own campsite. They stayed about a league away.”

Merlin just sighs and crouches down. He eyes Arthur, who is tending to his sword, and then very slowly but pointedly sets the flint and steel aside. Arthur isn’t paying much attention to him.

Slowly, Merlin leans forward and lights the fire with his magic.

Arthur looks up. Merlin looks back at him. Arthur swings the sword off his lap. He sets it on the log, his hand still wrapped around the pommel. The tip of the blade points straight at Merlin’s chest. It gleams in the firelight.

“See? I told you it wasn’t hard.”

Is…is he serious?

3.

As it turns out, yes. Arthur is completely serious.

And at this point, this is science, now, what Merlin’s doing. Experiments. He has to know the limits! He has a hypothesis, he has a method, he wants to reach a conclusion.

Hypothesis: Arthur is really, really oblivious to anything magical.

Method: do increasingly obvious magic in front of Arthur until he notices.

Conclusion: how oblivious is Arthur?

An important caveat: Merlin doesn’t know how Arthur will react to finding out he has magic, but he can burn that bridge when he gets there.

So when he wakes Arthur up the next morning, he draws the curtains with a flourish and when Arthur turns over and pulls the blanket up to his cheek in protest, he flicks his wrist and yanks the covers off the bed.

What does Arthur do?

Mumble and groan and stumble out of bed saying Merlin’s worse than his first governess.

“Wait, first?”

“Morgana and I snuck a toad into her bed. She quit after that.”

“You two did what?”

“Think there’s still frog spawn in that bed frame. Father had that chamber closed off for a while.”

“You—eat your breakfast, you prat.”

“You’re the one that pulled my blankets away!”

4.

…okay, so he needs to take it up a notch.

One of the ones that pisses Gaius off the most is when Merlin uses magic to polish multiple pieces of Arthur’s armor at the same time. So when Arthur is at his desk, Merlin lays his shield across his lap and grabs two polishing rags. He sets the can of polish next to him and starts working on the shield. When he’s sure Arthur is focusing, he uses his magic to lift the breastplate up next to him and start to beat out the dents.

“Merlin,” Arthur sighs, “can you keep it down any?”

Showtime. “Don’t know what you mean, sire.”

“That bloody racket! Can you at least be a little quieter?”

“What racket?”

Arthur shoves the paper away from him and glares at the ceiling. “That banging! It’s so loud I can barely hear myself think!”

“It’s no louder than you normally are, sire.”

“Oh, you—I ought to—“ Arthur just mutters to himself as he claps his hands over his ears.

But he never looks toward Merlin.

Huh.

5.

So maybe Arthur isn’t ignoring him because he’s oblivious. Maybe…maybe he knows already and is…is trying to protect Merlin.

Uther is still King of Camelot. Morgana is outspoken against his cruelty but he is still very much in charge. There’s only so much protection the knights can afford him. There’s only so much protection Arthur can afford him.

So…so maybe Arthur is pretending he doesn’t see because he knows he can’t save Merlin if he has to acknowledge it.

Merlin takes a few days to process that. The knights are concerned, they ask him what’s wrong, what does he need, how can they help? He waves them off, says he’s just thinking.

“Maybe,” Lancelot says kindly, “but with you, Merlin, you’re never just thinking.”

“Or at least it doesn’t stay that way for very long,” Gwaine agrees, slinging an arm around Merlin’s shoulders, “and I don’t know about you lot but I like a little bit of forewarning before I wake up to ale in my shoes.”

“You asked for another round, you didn’t say where.”

“Why the hell would I want them in my shoes?”

Gwaine does what Gwaine always does and steers the attention away from Merlin, leaving Leon and Lancelot to carefully prod him a little more privately. He waves them off too, even though he’s sure he isn’t keeping as much as he would like to be from Leon.

Merlin stops using his magic as much. He does his chores as much as he can using his two hands, lugs buckets of water without complaint, polishes armor until his nose burns and his eyes sting. He uses his magic for particularly stubborn stains in his room and keeps a sharper eye out for how to move this bandit’s sword a little to the right, or how to make this knight’s staff a little heavier.

He thinks Arthur is trying to hide for him, so he hides for Arthur.

Then he can’t hide.

A sorcerer is threatening to collapse the walls of Camelot in on themselves. The entire citadel shakes as Merlin and the knights rush out, dragging as many people as they can. The stone trembles and the wood groans and there are screams. More screams than Merlin could ever bear to hear join the chorus of more than he could ever know that plague him every time he closes his eyes.

He shuts them anyway and runs.

He runs away from the knights, magic pushing him faster, faster, faster with the need to protect the castle, protect the people, protect Arthur. The sorcerer is pulling him away from his people and for that…for that, he must pay.

By the time he gets to the field, it is rippling with magic. Merlin’s fingertips, his ears, even his nose tingles as he rushes deeper, deeper, deeper, trying to get to the eye of the storm.

There, in the middle of a patch of grass, stands a sorcerer. In robes deeper than night and hair whipped up in the wind of the spell.

Merlin grits his teeth and says no.

And when the Greatest Sorcerer to Ever Walk the Earth calls, Magic answers.

The sorcerer is dust before he manages to open his mouth. The field settles. Magic returns to the earth. And Merlin collapses to his knees as the knights run up behind him.

He isn’t a fool, despite what others may have led you to believe. He knows this was magic, could only be magic, and could only be stopped by magic.

So when the knights rush up to him and collapse to their knees around him, muttering that he’s alright, he did it, he’s safe, he did it, is he hurt, all he can think of is how he’s going to have to explain this to Arthur.

They tell him he doesn’t need to explain anything. That Arthur already knows, that he doesn’t care.

Merlin doesn’t believe them. Even if he saved Camelot, which he’s already done, he has magic. He used magic to do it.

They tell him again that it doesn’t matter, that Arthur doesn’t, won’t care.

But Merlin still has to tell him.

“Tell me what?”

+1.

Arthur rushes into the clearing. He can hear him behind them. He can’t find it in him to get up. The knights are still around him, he can hear Lancelot’s voice in his ear, feel Leon’s hands on his shoulders, but he can’t move. Can’t speak.

“Tell me what,” Arthur repeats, and oh, he sounds angry, “what is it?”

“Merlin,” someone—Gwaine—is muttering, “Merlin, it’s alright, he won’t care, he doesn’t care—“

“Of course I care,” comes the cold, cold voice and Gwaine falters, “now move.”

Merlin’s chest clenches. There’s the sharp sing of steel as Gwaine draws his sword.

“Put it down.”

“Nope, can’t do that.”

Then Leon stands up. “Arthur, please think carefully about this.”

“I don’t have to think carefully about anything. Merlin is hurt, let me tend to him. He’s mine.”

“You won’t hurt him.”

“No, I certainly don’t intend to, so move.”

Lancelot’s hands are the last to leave him. Merlin is cold. It’s so cold. His magic buries deep inside his chest and it feels hard to breathe.

Boots. Boots on the ground in front of him. They flatten the grass as a shadow blocks the light. Armor creaks as the figure kneels down. A gauntleted hand cups his chin.

“Merlin,” comes a voice that’s soft, too soft, “Merlin, I need you to look at me.”

And what is he supposed to do, disobey?

Arthur’s face is too warm when Merlin looks up at him. His mouth tugs up into a little smile as Merlin finally makes eye contact with him.

“There you are,” he says, still in that soft voice that doesn’t make sense, “now, are you hurt?”

Merlin can only blink.

“Merlin,” he says, and his voice is a little firmer as he cups Merlin’s chin properly, “are you hurt? What happened?”

His throat is too dry. “Not hurt.”

Arthur relaxes, only marginally. “Then why do you look so upset?”

The world could collapse and Merlin would be frozen here, trapped in the silence of Arthur’s gaze.

Unbidden, his eyes flash gold.

Arthur takes a sharp breath in. Merlin braces for a hit only for—

“Oh, you idiot,” Arthur whispers, “do I actually need to tell you I don’t care if you have magic?”

Pause.

Go back.

One more time.

What?

“I don’t care, you idiot,” he says in a tone that is too fond, “I don’t care that you have magic. You have it, you’re still Merlin, I don’t care.”

Rough metal gauntlets cup his face and oh—it’s cold—

“Merlin, look at me.”

“I—I am.”

“No, look.”

He blinks and has to focus on looking at Arthur.

“I’m not mad,” Arthur says firmly, “and I don’t care that you have magic.”

Merlin starts to laugh. Because of course, of course, Arthur doesn’t care. He’s been so stupid. Arthur doesn’t care. Arthur doesn’t care. He’s doubled over before he can stop himself. The laughs keep pouring out of him, his magic rushing back to his fingers, his nose, his chest. He laughs long and loud and hard and then Arthur is murmuring at him again because no, no, he isn’t laughing anymore, he’s crying.

“Come here, you big baby,” Arthur murmurs, tucking him into the gentlest embrace he’s ever had from someone wearing armor, “yes, there you go, that’s it.”

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

Arthur has known Merlin has magic and he doesn’t care.

…wait, does that make Merlin the oblivious one?

Nah, that couldn’t be it.

It’s not like Arthur is hiding anything else from Merlin.