#<- additional tags to make sure my point gets across

[xltoucan]

I'm going to be real I think it's weird to have a bit about Ichiban having schizophrenia. Like as if it's a funny joke.

[bullet-prooflove]

Overcompensating: Jack Abbot x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @cosmic-psychickitty @ilariyalavorowrites @spooky-librarian-ghost

Thank you to the wonderful @caffeinatedwoman for sparking this idea.

Jack is in pain.

He hides it well but you can tell from the slight shift of his weight, the way he’s started to lean on things during the quieter moments when he thinks that no one’s looking. It’s only going to get worse because he’s six hours into his shift and it’s hasn’t even reached the witching hour yet.

“You need to sit down.” You say forcefully as you use your foot to kick one of the rolling stools towards him. “You’re going to fuck up your hip.”

“Nah, it’s all good.” He says, kicking it back towards you with his bad leg. It rolls into the halfway space between the two of you and you give him a pointed look.

“Jack.” You say with exasperation. “Nobody is going to think you’re weak for needing to take a breather. Your hip must be on fire right now. I can literally see you overcompensating.”

He straightens up, his mouth fixing in grim line as he glowers at you. You roll your eyes before taking his hand and pulling him towards one of the closed off treatment rooms.

“Sit.” You say gesturing at the bed and he sighs before parking himself on the edge as you draw the curtain across the window for a little privacy.

“Faye, I don’t need you to coddle me.” He tells you as you crouch down in front of him and roll up the leg of his scrubs to reveal his prosthetic leg. It’s a transtibial prosthesis that ends just below his right knee. The life span of each one is between 3-5 years and Jack’s is well past it’s sell by date.

He’s been fitted for another but due to the new tariffs, there’s been a delay on sending it over from the manufacturer in Germany. The misalignment of the ball joint mechanism is what’s causing his hip problems. It knocks him off kilter, distributing his weight unevenly which leads to putting additional pressure on his hip, back and thigh. It’s the reason he spends hours after his shift on the couch or in bed with a heat pack on his hip.

“You clearly do.” You remark as you help to remove the leg. He hisses in relief as the extra weight is removed, leaning back on his hands to relieve some of the pain at the base of his spine.

Your hands glide up his thigh, fingertips digging into the tense muscles to relieve some of the ache from the overcompensation.

“How’s that feeling?” You ask him and he huffs in response. “Jack baby, use your words.”

“Better, good.” He tells you, his head tipped back towards the ceiling as he closes his eyes “Now if you could just shift your right hand a little higher…”

“Handjobs are for good boys who listen to their wives.” You remind him as you work over the knots in his hamstring.

“And what do bad boys get?” He asks, the ghost of a smile crossing his lips, indicating the pain is starting to subside. You shift between his parted legs, leaning in close. Your lips brushing over that naughty little spot just underneath the hinge of his jaw and his breath hitches at the sensation of your teeth grazing over it.

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see when we get home, won't we soldier.”

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[always-just-red]

I loved the Drunked Call with Sylus scenario you made! I like the way you write it and I see you accepting request hehe. Can I request about... Sylus, Zayne and Caleb reaction meeting fem!reader, dates or accidentally met (you name it) and they noticed her long hair has been attached with chewed bubblegum? some kid pulled a prank on her before and she didn't even aware of it

Aw thank you so much!! 💕 I did different pranks for each of the boys just to keep things interesting- I hope you don't mind! They're all equally silly haha, and I had SO much fun writing them. Added Xavier and Raf for good measure, too!

It's Just Not Your Day...

L&DS Boys (& Caleb!) x Reader

Summary: It's you against the kids of Linkon City, and guess what? The kids are winning.

Genre: Humour + fluff!

Warnings/Additional tags: gn!reader, established relationship, swearing, canon pet names, reader gets a little stressed (and with some of these boys you can understand why 🙃)

| Word count: 4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Xavier ⭐

One of the perks of being a Deepspace Hunter is the way people look at you. You’re used to respect: appreciative nods and gestures, wide-eyed admiration. You’re out in Linkon almost every day, putting your life on the line for everyone in the city. You’re a hero, right?

So why is everyone looking at you so… funny?

“Xavier,” you speak in a hushed whisper, tugging at the sleeve of your partner’s uniform. “I don’t like this. Something weird is going on.”

He yawns. “What do you mean?”

Can he really not see it? Sure enough, a businessman strolls past you, his eyes locked on you as he frowns, mid-telephone call. You think he even stumbles on his words. “Just look around,” you whisper again. Someone is watching you from across the street, their head cocked.   

Xavier is already looking around. You’re on patrol; that’s sort of the point. But he trusts you, so he follows your instruction: casting his sky-blue eyes around a little more carefully. They narrow. “Sorry,” he says, because you’re usually on the same page, “what are you talking about exactly?”

You fold your arms impatiently. “People are looking at us, Xavier.”

“Oh, I…” he seems to hesitate, “I think they’re just looking at you.”

The words could be romantic, but you don’t get the impression they’re intended to be. He’s implying something. He’s uncertain. “What makes you say that?” you ask, hands moving to your hips.

He shifts awkwardly on his feet. “I think it’s your, you know—” his finger waggles in front of his mouth.

You don’t know. “My what?”

“Your moustache.”

“What?”

Your hand shoots to your upper lip, but you don’t feel anything out of the ordinary. Xavier is staring, though, so you reach for your phone and turn the camera on yourself.

A black, cartoon-villain moustache has been sketched onto your face.

You gape at your reflection. “H— how…?” you stutter, tracing your new feature. Then a memory of this morning flashes through your mind: how you’d fallen asleep on the train to work. How there were those two schoolkids, sniggering, when you’d woken up just in time for your stop. Ugh. Really?

Wait— this morning?!

“Xavier!” you exclaim, turning to him like you’d just found his sword in your back. “Why didn’t you say something?”

It’s just gone three in the afternoon, and he’s been with you for hours. “I thought you knew,” he mumbles, rubbing his neck gingerly.

“You thought I…” You’re too bewildered, too betrayed to repeat it fully. Worst of all you feel guilty; how the hell can he look so freaking innocent? You turn back to your phone, desperately trying to rub the ink from your skin. It doesn’t budge. It doesn’t fade.

“Are you ok?” Xavier asks.

Of course you’re not ok, you feel like an idiot. Your cheeks are hot and the redness is spreading to the rest of your face as you fail to reclaim any of your dignity. “No,” you spit back, “honestly, Xavier, how could you just let me walk around like I’m some kind of—”

You glance up to discover he’s no longer listening. He’s not even here; he’s over there, talking to an old man who’s sat completing a sudoku. Great. Wonderful. Why not? At least one of you is making a good impression on the citizens of Linkon City.

With your eyes close to watering, you have one last, futile attempt at wiping the moustache from your upper lip. It’s not working. Gods, you’re gonna be stuck like this, aren’t you?

Someone taps you on the shoulder, and you look up to see Xavier, back at your side. He smiles reassuringly, sporting a drawn-on moustache of his own. The ends of it are curled even more theatrically than yours.

“Xavier…” you half-laugh in surprise, your eyes watering even more. “Why would you—? Now we both look stupid.”

“I look stupid,” he corrects, running a thumb over your wet cheek. “You look really pretty, moustache or not.”

Zayne ❄

“What… happened?”

You sit across from Zayne on a picturesque park bench, like something from a postcard: blue sky stretched above, wildflowers sprouting from the grass below. Birds are singing, butterflies are flittering about, and even the doctor looks perfect— unmarred by the first half of his work day, no matter how stressful it’s been.

It’s a fairy tale you covet: a little reunion with the man you love, on the odd occasion where your lunchbreaks match up and he isn’t drowning in paperwork. And it would be a fairy tale, if it wasn’t for you. You— your uniform soaked and your hair dripping wet. The wooden bench has gone damp beneath you; you’ve literally only just sat down.

“Gee, I don’t know, Zayne,” you hiss, face almost buried in your phone, “what do you think?”

Not too far away from you, some kids are locked in a water-gun battle, their shrieks of laughter loud and infuriating. Zayne glances between you and them, making his deductions. “Why—” he starts.

“Doesn’t matter,” you sniff, wiping your forehead with the back of your sleeve. “They messed with the wrong person, and we’re gonna make sure they know it.”

“We’re going to?”  

“Yeah. Me and you. That a problem?”

You shoot him a glare that sends a shiver down even his spine. “No,” he answers quickly— a survival instinct, uncharacteristically submissive— but his composure returns as you turn back to your phone. “Haven’t you got—”

Another dark look.

“Haven’t we got better things to do than start a war with some children in the park?”

“Not really. Justice is justice.” You shrug before pointing a finger at yourself. “Deepspace hunter.” Then at him. “Cardiac surgeon. Precision is kind of our thing, right? They really don’t stand a chance.” You’re laughing, now: “Gods, I almost feel sorry for them.”

Zayne has been watching your descent into madness with a calmness that does him credit. When he interrupts, it’s gentle. “I don’t think—”

Too gentle; you don’t hear him. “Pick your poison, Dr. Zayne!” Your phone is angled at him to reveal the all-too accessible armoury of an online store. “You’ve got your standard water pistols. Your water blasters.” You’re scrolling and indicating his choices as though you’re the salesman. “This one has two options, single shot or power shot, and— ooh! Look at this one! The AquaJet3000!”

With a soft laugh, Zayne pushes your phone out of his face. He would buy anything you’re selling, although— having seen the prices on your screen— he knows he’d be bankrupt within a week. “Linkon City is fortunate to have you defending it, and whilst I would be honoured, as always, to fight at your side, I was hoping we could… relax. You’re on a break, remember?”

You pout as he peels a wet strand of hair from your cheek. “Justice doesn’t take breaks.”

“Well, justice is going to have to on this occasion, because I said so.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he chuckles. “Besides, you shouldn’t fight fire with fire, or water with water. A lot of people look up to you, you know. Me included. So, set a better example. Save violence for the Wanderers.”  

It ought to be patronising: him, lecturing you on right and wrong when you’ve already added three types of water-gun to your virtual cart. He’s always so righteous. So collected. So moral. You want to be mad at him, but how can you be when he’s looking at you like that? Like he thinks the world of you, even when you’re plotting revenge against ten-year-olds.

You have a point to make, so you fold your arms and turn your back on him, even though he’s making your heart feel so frustratingly warm and fuzzy.

“I have something for you,” he says quietly.

To hell with the point. “What is it?” you ask, spinning eagerly around.

He smiles as he retrieves something he’d concealed behind him. It’s a small-ish box, pale pink, with patterns printed to emulate white lace. There’s a logo in the centre and you recognise it at once. “No way,” you enthuse, “that new bakery finally opened?”

You’ve both been waiting for months. “I couldn’t resist when I saw it,” he confirms, lifting the lid. Inside sit two unbelievably pretty cupcakes, buttercream icing spiralled high and adorned with sprinkles of gold leaf. Zayne plucks one from the box. “Perhaps—” he offers it to you— “perhaps this can make you feel better? Without us needing to, well… attack children.”

You giggle; it does sound pretty stupid when he puts it like that. “Thanks, Zayne,” you grin, reaching out for your reward. You’re glad one of you is vaguely sensible— those water-guns were expensive.

The cake is an inch from your fingers when a jet of water sends it flying from Zayne’s hand. It lands at your feet with an unceremonious splat, and from somewhere behind you, laughter roars.

The doctor blinks down at it in disbelief, his hand still hovering beside yours. He grieves for a long moment, then looks to you solemnly like you’re a colleague and he’s about to ask for a scalpel:

“The AquaJet3000,” he says.  

Rafayel 🎨

“Rafayel, call me stupid one more time, and I’ll—”

You’ll… you’ll… what? He’s looking back at you with wide eyes, his hands frozen when they had just a moment ago been drying the plate you’d handed him. He has some nerve, pretending he’s the victim when he’s spent the entire evening insulting you. This is supposed to be a wholesome moment of domesticity— doing the dishes together before he has to disappear to a late-night gala— so why is he ruining it? Ever since you got home, it’s been: so how was your day, stupid? Hey, stupid, want a hand washing up?

He said he was fine with you sitting out the gala tonight, but maybe he’s not.

“I’ll do this,” you finish, lifting a palmful of suds from the sink and raising them to your lips, ready to blow.

“Puh-lease, you bought me this suit. You really think I can’t tell when you’re bluff— hey, wait! Stop!”

You do blow the bubbles at him, and he recoils, holding the plate and dishcloth up to defend himself. He blocks some of them, but not all of them. “Honestly, Raf, if you’re not ok with me skipping out on tonight then you can just say so.”  

He puts the plate gently aside. “I mean, of course I’m sad you’re not coming,” he thinks aloud as he sets about sweeping bubbles from his suit, “but I’m ok with it, really. You’ve had, like, a crazy week at work. You deserve a quiet night in.”

Compassion? Really? After you just—? Ugh. “So why were you being so mean, then?” you sigh, taking the cloth from him and dabbing away the bubbles he’s missed.

“Mean?”

“You’ve called me ‘stupid’ like fifty times in the span of, what— three hours?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs innocently. “Because you told me to.”

Huh? You stop what you’re doing. “Since when did I—”

He reaches over your shoulder and you feel fingers on your back. “See?” he answers, bringing a piece of paper in front of you. It looks like it’s been torn hastily from a notebook, and it says, in bold, capital letters: ‘CALL ME STUPID!!’

You take the note from Rafayel sheepishly, your lips parted in surprise. How did it—? Wait. “Those kids!” you exclaim, thinking back on your walk home from work. “Oh I knew they were spouting bullshit when they said they saw a Wanderer!”

Your dish-washing companion doesn’t seem impressed by your lightbulb moment. He’s watching you, confusion etched across his face, but you can see right through it. “Rafayel!” you slap a soapy hand to his chest, “you had to call me stupid that many times before telling me?”

“I thought you wrote it. Pet names can be weird sometimes— I don’t know what you’re into.”

He’s still acting. Still lying. Fine, two can play at that game.  

You fall deathly silent, turning back to the sink to retrieve the bowl you’d dropped in there the last time he’d called you your new ‘pet name’. “I guess it suits me,” you mumble, half to yourself.

“What d’you mean, cutie?”

He can call you cutie as many times as he wants; you’re out for blood. You give the bowl another once-over with a sponge. “Some hunter I am. Can’t even tell when some kids are messing with me.”

Rafayel frowns. “Hey, it’s been a long week, yeah? You’re just tired.”

“Tired,” you echo, and you drop the bowl back into the water with a dramatic plop. “Tired? No. I’m exhausted. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I work, there’s always… something. To make me feel like an idiot. To make me feel… stupid.”

“Hey,” Rafayel tries again, and his voice is fraught with worry. “Don’t say stuff like that. You’re not stupid. I’m stupid. I’m supposed to make you feel better and instead I was just screwing around. I’m sorry, ok? Don’t be sad. Please?”

He wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, resting his chin on the top of your head. You don’t give in, not at first, but then you hug him back. “Thanks, Raf. I’m ok— really.” You hear his phone buzz from where he’s left it on the counter. “You should go. Thomas will kill you if you’re late.”

“Nah, he needs me,” the artist chuckles. “You get first dibs, though. You sure you don’t want me to stay?”

“Yeah,” you laugh quietly back; your heart not quite in it. “Quiet night in, remember? Go on. Go.”

He steps away from you, though not before planting a light kiss on your cheek. “I’ll make it up to you when I get home,” he says, collecting his phone and the rest of his things. He gives you another kiss when he’s done, dodging your efforts to shoo him away. “Miss you already, cutie.”

“Go!”

And he does as he’s told this time, no matter how listlessly. It’s sweet he wants to stay and make things better, but he already has— he just doesn’t know it yet. It wasn’t the hug. It wasn’t the apology. You lean back against the counter with a smirk, savouring the view as he leaves.

It might have something to do with the note you’ve stuck on his back.

…

Rafayel retrieves the note the moment he closes the door behind him, stuffing it smugly into his pocket. He’ll have a story ready for you, by the time he gets home, about just how much you humiliated him. About how he walked around for a good hour before Thomas spotted the note and gave him a lecture about his ‘image’.

He smiles to himself; he’s a really good boyfriend.

Sylus 🩸

“You should know better than to keep me waiting, sweetie.”

Oh, great. This is just what you need.

You peek over the saddle of your motorcycle from where you’re crouched behind it. “Hey, Sylus,” you greet. The man is watching you, his arms folded. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Sorry?” he repeats, an eyebrow raised sceptically. “What— no ‘patience is a virtue, Sylus,’ no ‘oh please, Sylus, we both know you’ve nothing better to do?’”

You had disappeared behind your bike again, but you steal another glance at him. “Wow,” you marvel, “is this what you did before we met? Have arguments with yourself?”

“More or less,” he smiles dryly, then shrugs: “I’m not bad, as far as sparring partners go. You of all people can vouch for that. Besides, what were my other options? Mephisto?” He laughs. “Luke and Kieran?” He laughs harder.

“I’d rate Mephisto above you,” you add distractedly, no longer looking at him.

“Is that right?” he purrs, and it’s very obvious he doesn’t believe you.

He sounds close— too close— so you stand, re-entering his eyeline so he doesn’t come closer. Gods, this is embarrassing. Those stupid kids; he’s gonna have a field day if he finds out. “Yeah.” You wipe your hands slowly with a cloth, disguising the fact that your mind is scrambling. “The things that bird comes up with, just… scathing, honestly. Emotionally devastating.”

“Oh really?” Sylus tuts. “That’s awful. I can’t imagine where he gets it from.”

You smile back at him, resting your hands on your hips. You do feel bad, actually; you’d completely forgotten you were supposed to meet him this morning for breakfast before work. He’d received no texts to cancel. No calls. How long was he waiting at that sweet little café you’d picked out?

Then again, this morning isn’t really going to your plan, either.

“Something wrong with your bike?” he asks, because he’s already figured out that much. “Besides the usual, I mean.”

Your smile drops. Your whole act drops. “It’s nothing, Sylus.”

“You’ve already stood me up this morning, sweetie. Are you really going to lie to me, too?”

You let out an exasperated sigh. Fine. “Some kids graffitied it, ok?”

“This piece of junk? Really?” He toes the front wheel of it, then catches onto the withering look you’re sending him. “Oh no,” he tries again, with absolutely no enthusiasm, “what a dreadful crime against such an advanced, state-of-the-art vehicle.”

Prick. You keep the label behind tight lips as he wanders around the motorcycle to join you, assessing the damage. You’re stood by a bucket of water and the litany of rags you’ve used to try to scrub it clean— each one a testament to your failure. The sight alone makes you want to burst into tears. The skin of your hands is pink. Raw.

You feel cheated; you wish you were at that café right now.

Sylus taps a finger against his cheek, eyes narrowed pensively. They’re spoiled for choice of what to look at: misspelt obscenities, a generous number of crude symbols. All in permanent marker, naturally. “An improvement, wouldn’t you say?”

“I wouldn’t say. No.”

“Art is subjective.”

“Yeah? So is your face.” Not your best effort. Sylus glances up at you, amused. “Shut up,” you dismiss proactively. “Besides, this is my work vehicle. I can’t ride around Linkon on this. It would be—”

“Too staggering a blow to your professional reputation,” he finishes like he’s bored.

“This isn’t funny, Sylus.”

He points at a particularly chaotic drawing of a penis. “It is.”

You smack his hand away. “It’s not.” Your voice wobbles, ever so slightly betraying you. This is serious; you could get in trouble. You stare down at the graffiti, despair setting in.

Keys dangle in front of your eyes. “Here. Borrow my bike.”

“You’re joking, right?” You swat at them. “You really think that’s gonna help? Me— rolling up to work on a bike that costs twice my annual salary?”

“Twice? That’s cute, kitten.”

You glare at him, any guilt you felt about standing him up long gone. “Can you just stop? Being you? For like, two seconds? Please? This is the last thing I need today, Sylus. I’m gonna be late. I’m gonna embarrass myself in front of everyone. And worst of all? I was actually looking forward to seeing you this morning. Before all of this—” you gesture dejectedly at your bike— “all of this shit happened.”

Sylus is looking back at you, his arms crossed again. He does nothing for a few, slow seconds, and it’s just long enough to make you feel like you’re overreacting. Then he leans over, running a hand across your bike, and you watch as the graffiti flakes and lifts, turning to ash under the influence of his Evol.

He brushes his hands together when he’s done, straightening with a hmph and a self-satisfied smirk. Content (more than content— thoroughly impressed with himself) he turns back to you. Your bottom lip has dropped in surprise and he chuckles, reaching a finger to lift your chin. “You can thank me later, sweetie, and I intend to spend the entire day thinking about how you might. Don’t disappoint me, hmm?”  

You’re still silent, and it takes him a moment to realise you’re bristling with something other than awe and adoration. He frowns. “Sweetie?”

The second ‘sweetie’ breaks you, and not in the way he wants. You slap his chest, hard; he doesn’t really feel it.

“Sylus! You could have done that the whole time?!”

Caleb 🍎

“Sit still, dear.”

Sit still? How are you supposed to sit still when you’re brimming with rage? Every inch of your body is tense, waiting, yearning for you to spring into action. It wants you to retaliate. It wants revenge.

“I can’t, Grandma,” you whine, crossing your arms as if to hold yourself back. You’re still fidgeting on the chair as she navigates your hair with her scissors. “This sucks. Everything sucks. The only thing that could make this worse is if—”

You hear the front door swing open, then closed. Why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut?

Sure enough, Caleb strolls into the kitchen mere moments later. “What’s happenin’ here?” he asks, dropping a bag of groceries onto the countertop.

“Nothing,” you mumble. “Grandma’s giving me a haircut, that’s all.”

“Ok. So what’s actually happening here?” he tries again. He’s known you forever, after all; he can tell when you’re lying.

You swing a foot out at his shin as he tries to step closer. Nuh-uh. No investigating. No sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. “Nothing,” you hiss again. “Gods, Caleb. What’s your problem?”

“You’re my problem, pipsqueak.” He uses his foot to push yours away. “At least Gran’s on my side—” his amethyst eyes seek her— “can you tell me what’s going on? Please? Pretty please?”

A hand breaks their eye contact. “You don’t have to answer that, Grandma.” You glare Caleb down. “The DAA has no authority here.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

Grandma sighs; she’s had far too many years of this. “You know Mr and Mrs. Lee’s children? Down the road? Well, they—”

“Grandma!” You round on her. How long did she last— all of three seconds? You bitterly regard Caleb, your voice dark with resentment: “They put gum in my hair, ok?”

“Really?”

“Yeah." He wanted the truth, didn’t he? “They lured me in with some nonsense about a Wanderer. I didn’t realise until, well, until…” You wave at your hair. “Too late.”

He considers the story, then shrugs. It’s clearly not as thrilling as he was anticipating, because he disappears from the kitchen, leaving you and Grandma in peace once more. The silence is as uncomfortable as it is sudden. You’d expected laughter— a lot of laughter. Teasing. Maybe even a shot at how gullible you are.

You release an uneasy breath, resting your head back on the chair.

“Sit still,” Grandma repeats, nudging you, prompting you to sit up straight. “I’ve almost got it. Just one more… here!” There’s a decisive snip.

“Thanks, Grandma.” You slump again, staring up at the ceiling.

You’re not sure what you’re waiting for. Maybe for the blush of your cheeks to cool, or for a Wanderer to spring out of the floor, killing you, so you can be dead and not so embarrassed. You hear heavy footsteps— Caleb returning— and you really wish the Wanderer would hurry up.

“Caleb…” Grandma’s tone is wary. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”  

You readjust your head so you can look at him. He’s clutching what must be a dozen rolls of toilet paper; they’re piled up to just below his chin, almost spilling out over his arms. “How about it, pipsqueak?” he asks as he struggles to balance them. “A little team-up between the DAA and The Association— wanna do your part in reclaiming your neighbourhood?”

Now that’s more like it. “Fuck yes! Sorry, Grandma.”

You’re really as bad as each-other. She tuts reproachfully as you leap out of your chair, and she's disappointed, but not surprised.

[jessicas-pi]

ok first of all. thank you SO SO MUCH for putting your thoughts out there!! The fact that you have thought about this enough to have this much of an analysis is amazing to me. And it really helps me see how my own story reads to someone else! And I just love hearing your thoughts in general!

And please know that this is not ever meant to sound like i'm being all wElL AcKTuAllY, I just get really excited to talk to you about my story and I'm gonna try to not come off too loud but if i do, uh... sorry in advance? just know that if I were saying this to your face, it would be with a big stupid grin as i bounce up and down and flap my hands cuz!!! im talking about my story!! you're listening!!! you have thoughts back!!! i have thoughts about your thoughts!!! let's tell each other our thoughts!! :D :D

Also, apologies if some things in the first bit are vague, I'm really trying to keep this spoiler free for future events 😅

So, first off! There IS a reason Sabine failed to rescue Ezra so many times. And there IS a reason Sabine got to "cheat the system" and save Ezra without a big lesson learned (though the time she truly saved him, she did pass a 'test' of sorts, but, uh, more on that in a further meta.). And there IS a reason that it doesn't make sense for the Force to test Sabine so many times without her learning anything!!

And really, the reason is pretty simple.

It's not the Force.

It's not some all-encompassing cosmic power leading her on a journey to become a better Jedi. If it was, she wouldn't have gone through all of that. Heck, she might not have gone through any of that! And that's why it doesn't make sense for the Force to test her that way.

Because it's not the Force, and it's not a test.

It's the Mythosaur.

It's an actual being with motives, and those motives are---hopefully this doesn't spoil too much, but---primarily selfish. Sabine isn't being guided to a lesson that will teach her how to let go of her attachment. Sabine is being made into a better tool.

And when Sabine finally saves Ezra, it's not because of her own merit. A lot of it does have to do with how she finally lets go of her fear of failing that's prompting her to try to blunt-force her way through the portal and just trusts the Force. But she never would have been able to do it on her own. There are massively powerful Force-aligned beings that are in the middle of a cosmic chess game here. Not exactly against each other, per se, but they have significantly different methods of doing things.

In the end, a lot of the weird Force things that happen aren't really caused by the Force itself. They're caused by...

Well.

If you know you know, and if you don't, you'll find out soon enough!

So, yeah! she doesn't save him because she learns a lesson. She saves him because someone powerful wants her to. and, I admit, she does have a bit of an attachment issue with him!

(But---okay, so I gotta be honest. I'm really, really jealous of how well you write metas. Because they always make sense and mine can be pretty confusing. So I just want to clarify! I am probably definitely guilty of exaggeration in the name of emphasis in this last meta. I probably definitely need to work on that in the future. But for this one, like... please do take the strongest statements in there with a grain of hyperbole-flavored salt!)

Ok, on to more semi-coherence!

I'm just gonna start off this bit by guaranteeing you that this fic isn't gonna go the easy fake-marriage-of-convenience path. It's a funny plot device, it's great for an unserious fic, but as goofy and self-indulgent as this fic can be, when it comes to the actual relationship development? We do things the hard way here. I maaaay be guilty of the fake-couple-on-a-mission thing in a future book though. sorrynotsorry XD

And---ok, so, yeah, the idea of her using his feelings to pull off a BFF-fake-notmarriage thing as a way to keep him close would be very Not Cool of her. But, remember---Anakin suggests the marriage idea, jokingly. Zhaya suggests they do the BFF-oath-of-fidelity vow. But Sabine?

She considers it momentarily and says that it could work, and then dismisses it and says that they'll talk about it later. Because really, with more than five seconds of thought, she takes in the implications of what it would mean to him. In the moment when she's considering it, she thinks of their friendship and of the idea of staying beside him always, and that's tempting---but then she remembers the rest, and discards any vow as something to talk about later. (Later, as in, never. Or, maybe, as in, when they feel the same, and could make a vow in honesty. Because she won't hide behind a lie for something that big. She knows it would hurt him. He's too important to her.)

And, slight topic jump, but I gotta say---this bit you said here?

Not that I think that they would ever stop being friends; but if Sabine doesn't want to a pursue a romantic relationship with Ezra and yet that's something he does want in his life, then she knows that there's a possibility she will become #2 to him at some point, even if he remains #1 to her.

you are SO RIGHT. SO right. Like, not to go too heavily into possible spoilers, but... girl, have you been snooping in my Future Scenes I Wrote Now Cuz I'm Impatient document? Because that's practically a direct quote from Sabine during a Welp, Guess I'm Processing These Feelings About My Entire History Of Relationship Development With Ezra Aloud To A Friend Now conversation.

Also, on rereading my meta, I just realized I definitely needed to clarify something!!

So, when I said that ezra's feelings are soft and silent and hers are tumultuous and fervent, I wasn't talking about, like, a permanent thing for them. That part of the meta was supposed to be about their dynamic immediately post-reunion. I guess what I mean is, like, when they reunite, Ezra's all like "Sabine, hi! Missed you! How are you doing?" versus Sabine is like "oH my fORCE you're aLIVE you're HERE i watched you die so many times i failed you so many times YOU'RE ALIVE YOU'RE ALIVE you're BREATHING I can feel your presence and it feels like home it's YOU you're REAL you're not dead i didn't fail you i didn't let you die i saved you after all there was hope there was always hope I MISSED YOU SO MUCH"

So, like. Not the most healthy mindset to be in! But not a permanent thing, either. And, like... also, kind of understandable? I mean, the last interaction she remembers having with him was cradling his bloody corpse in her arms. that. uh. that kinda messes a girl up, yknow? So she's totally exploding with Ezra-Flavored Emotions right now. Everything she feels in this moment is bigger than what she'll feel later. And that's why she acts, like you were saying---selfishly!

The way she's treating his feelings isn't Average Sabine Behavior. It's Emotional Mess Sabine Behavior. She is completely out of whack here. Not that it's okay for her to mash down his feelings in any circumstance, but it's not how she's going to act once she can take a deep breath and cool down a bit.

Because the truth is that she cares about Ezra. And if she knew he wanted to talk about it, she would do it. She hides from it because it's the easy thing to do, but he's never wanted to talk about it with her before, either. She's trying to do what, as far as she knows, they both want. As far as she knows, he wants to get over it. And... he kinda does!

He likes her. He loves her. He really does. But he also feels that as things stand between them right then, the best solution would just be for him to get past his feelings. It's not like he only likes her romantically. They are friends. There's just this extra stuff on his side, too. So wouldn't it be simpler for him to get rid of some old feelings, than to wait and see if she'll get new ones? It's logical, yeah---but it doesn't mean he can't make himself stop feeling things, just like that.

And in the current moment, I don't think he's thinking about it at all! Sabine's here. She's happy. He's happy. If she did lie about him not saying something stupid---which he's actually pretty sure she did; Force-bonds can be real snitches when it comes to lying---that just means it's not going to be a problem for them! (...right?)

Both of them, I think, are still hoping they can make this work without needing to talk about it. They both like their friendship and they both want to keep it. And they're both afraid of losing each other if they talk about it, but Sabine is just as afraid of hurting him as she is of losing him. It isn't entirely selfishness, on her part. She's trying to keep something that's important to both of them---even if she's going about it wrong.

Anywayyy I have no idea if all this word vomit makes any sense whatsoever! But that's about all I got. And thank you so so much again for sharing all your real thoughts! I genuinely appreciate them, and it's given me Thoughts And Ideas to think about, too!

The Time Heals ‘Verse meta ramble, part 2: In Which I Scream Some More About Sabine And Ezra

Whoo! So! What was SUPPOSED to be a little backstory about The Line from Time Heals All Wounds turned into a massive rant. But that’s over, and you’re all as depressed as I am, and now we get to move onto other stuff!!

(spoiler warning continues!)

So now I’m going to ramble a little bit about the specific relationship dynamic between Sabine and Ezra currently in this because AGH. I just. I gotta talk about it. fair warning, the following rant has no discernible thesis statement and wanders around aimlessly. but hey, that's just how I roll.

Okay so Time Heals primarily follows Sabine. So that’s the lens we’re looking through. And it’s easy to forget that Ezra’s timeline is entirely different from hers. But it is. A story that has taken a year-and-a-half, more or less, for her, has been mere months for him.

Because Ezra died only weeks after the Battle of Lothal, remember?

It’s six months after that, when Sabine gets pulled into the past. It’s months after that when she rescues him. By the time they’re reunited on the Coronet, Sabine has lived an entire year in a galaxy without Ezra in it, and a few months more in a galaxy not knowing he’s there.

She has seen him die thirty-three times. She’s mourned him. She still mourns him. She dreams about his dead body in her arms. He haunts her. To an embarrassing degree, her life is centered around him.

Meanwhile, Ezra’s timeline looks like this:

—he purgills Thrawn into the unknown and Thrawn imprisons him —some weeks later, Sabine kicks open the door to his cell, slaps him, hugs him, proclaims she’s watched him die 32 times, provides no further explanation, and then someone tosses a thermal detonator into the cell and it all goes black —he wakes up somewhere on Mandalore during the Clone War and promptly gets adopted by four tipsy art majors —a few months later, the Force tells him to get a move on —he reunites with Sabine that afternoon and everything's great!

So as of chapter 15 of book 2, which is where we're at now, Ezra’s spent three, four months in the past—missing everyone, yeah, but missing Sabine least, because she’s the one who saved him, and that’s given him a gut feeling that she’s still around. To him, Sabine has been a wistful thought that comes and goes. He tells his friends stories about her and misses her. But he doesn’t mourn her.

Meanwhile, Sabine’s spent over a year believing that he is lost to her forever because she couldn’t save him. (She doesn’t know she saved him, remember? She’s forgotten. It’s all a blank, and she’s afraid to hope.) She is still in the vise-like grip of grief, even if she’s functioning around it. There has never been a moment when she has not been thinking about him. (And in a way, it’s his fault, because he loved her, and he told her so. And she cannot forget it, no matter how hard she tries.)

His feelings towards her are soft and silent. He's content to wait until he sees her again, without aching too badly at her current missing presence in his life. He is at peace.

Her feelings towards him are tumultuous and fervent. She's desperate to see him again and terrified that she'll lose him. it’s like nothing she’s ever felt before. She is the farthest thing from peaceful.

So, while Ezra's feelings may seem to run deeper than hers—he is kinda in love with her, after all—he's also completely normal about her.

Sabine, on the other hand, has been torturing herself with the memory of him for over a year. He's a bundle of guilt and grief and mourning in her brain. Her feelings for him are clear-cut, platonic, and so all-consuming that they verge on an obsession.

So really, he doesn't care about her more. He cares about her differently. But not more.

But—and this is important, not so much for the story, but it's important to me that you know this—Ezra doesn’t know she's changed. He knows the old Sabine, who was his best friend, even if sometimes she was distant. He doesn’t believe she cares about him as much as he cares about her. And he's resigned to that! It’s ok! He’s ok! He’s used to it, he’s used to hiding how much he cares, and nobody else knows. So he’ll go on hiding it and she’ll go on ignoring it and it won’t matter.

But the Sabine that Ezra entrusted his blade and his homeworld to with one last, long look is a different woman than the Sabine that kicks down the door of his cell on the Chimaera a few weeks (a year) later.

And where does the difference lie?

It lies in the fact that she lost him. It lies in the fact that he died in her arms. It lies in the fact that he has consumed every waking thought of hers for months. 

It lies in the fact that she will. not. let. him. go.

She didn’t let him go when he was dead. And now that he’s alive? Now that he’s with her again?

Well.

There is no holding at arms-length. She would clutch his living form as tightly as she held his lifeless body, if she dared. She doesn’t, but she still reaches out to him—bumping shoulders, brushing hands, touching him just to know that he’s there. He is everything to her now. It’s not a love like his. It’s wider than that. It’s relief and joy and comfort in his presence and an impossible dream come true.

If Sabine had been the same Sabine he knew before, maybe things wouldn’t have changed course. If she had gone on ignoring it and he had gone on hiding it, maybe time would have faded his feelings, and maybe she never would have grown any for him.

But in a world where she holds him desperately near, near enough to feel his heartbeat and know he’s alive—in a world where their fledgling bond doesn’t lie dormant and unknown, but is woven strong and glows warmly, tethering their very souls together—in a world where he is everything to her, and she shows it—now that’s a different story. As he slowly finds out just how much he means to her—and he's grown to mean far more to her now than he did before—it throws him off-balance.

And as for her?

Well, this is where my Ramble Part 1 becomes relevant! Because he told her. And she knows. And now that she knows, she can’t look past it like it was never there, because it is there, and glaringly obvious when she looks for it. (She can't stop seeing it.)

The path they've always hoped to take—the one where it goes away and they are fast friends with nothing more between them—is no longer an option. By admitting his love, the other version of himself made it impossible for her to ignore it. By holding him so close, she makes it impossible for him to hide it. (In a way, they've doomed each other.) And she knows he can’t hide it, and he knows she can’t ignore it, so the only choice they have left—besides honest, which is a thing neither of them is ready to face—is to do their mutual best to pretend it doesn’t matter, and not talk about it.

But it does matter, and sooner or later, they'll have to talk about it.

And deep deep down, they both know that, too.

~~~

tune in next time for what I expect to be a ramble about a couple specific scenes! unless I write a different ramble first! We'll see!

[fairy-writes]

Hii! Can I have a head canons request for Soshiro Hoshina with a fem reader? (Kinda angst)

Reader is a quiet (stubborn) and hardworking recruit but quite distant nor avoid interacting with vice captain Hoshina (but ofc they act professional and follow his orders).

In reality reader was falling for him but didn't want bother him despite they're both in duties not thinks he doesn't have time for a relationship.

Soshiro was also falls for reader but quite hurt avoiding him even he start to get along with them. Would he give up and leave them or he's gonna make reader spill what she felt for him?

OBJECT OF YOUR AFFECTION

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Kaiju No. 8

Pairing(s): Hoshina Soshiro x Reader

Word Count: 0.8k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Female!Reader, Defense Force!Reader, Angst to Fluff, Confessions, Use of the Nickname“Sweetheart”

Notes: I hope you like your request!

__________________________________________________________________________

Hoshina Soshiro was completely and utterly out of your league. That much was evident in the first moments you met him. 

As a transfer from the First Division, you were used to a certain level of lacksadasicalness from Captain Narumi. It was practically in his DNA. 

But in the Third Division? There was no such thing. And that applied to pretty much every member. You quickly realized you had to step up your game if you wanted to survive here. 

So you approached Vice-Captain Hoshina with a request for training. 

You weren’t on his level, but you knew your way around a sword well enough, so he took your request readily and seriously. 

And it was then that your little crush began to blossom. 

When your crush became a little too much to bear, and you feared it was becoming obvious to him, then the avoiding him started. 

You weren’t necessarily going out of your way to avoid him… No, no, no. That would be even more obvious than if you had stamped your feelings across your forehead. 

But you certainly made it a point to avoid eye contact when he entered the cafeteria or volunteered for missions that would be carried out away from him. 

However, as clever as you thought you were, you should’ve known he was more clever than that. 

The sound of your rank and last name being called made you nearly choke on your mouthful of rice. You look up at the sound of Vice-Captian Hoshina’s voice and meet his gaze. 

“Meet me in my office, please.” He said curtly, and you nodded hastily as he spun on a heel and left the cafeteria. 

A myriad of whispers erupt then, theorizing what he could possibly want with you. And you have to tune them out or else you’re just going to work yourself up into a frenzy.

So, you play the good little soldier and follow him to the large doors that hide his office. It had been a recent addition to the Tachikawa base after the kaiju attack. He and Captain Ashiro got almost identical offices at the base, something you were sure Hoshina was delighted about. 

Except… Why did the vice-captain want to speak with you? 

You had no clue. 

A flinch jolts your body a few more steps into his office as the double doors shut with a resounding “bang,” effectively cutting off your sanctuary that was the rest of the base. The vice-captain steeples his fingers together as he sits behind the large desk currently covered in paperwork.

“Do you have any idea why I’ve called you here, Officer?” He asks, and you shake your head as you sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk. 

“No, sir. Have I done something wrong?” You ask, and he mulls it over, tilting his head this way and that as a hum escapes his lips. 

It wasn’t helping your anxiety at all. Not one bit. 

“No. I just had a question.” He said eventually, and your heart thunders in your chest. Was he going to ask you to resign as an officer?

“A question, sir?” You ask hesitantly, and he leans back in his seat. 

“Have I done something to offend you?” Hoshina asks, and you sputter in surprise.

Where had that thought come from?!

At your surprise, the vice-captain elaborates. 

“You have been avoiding me. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” He says slyly, and you have to stop yourself from hitting your own forehead with the heel of your hand. Because, of course, he’d notice! Anything else would be easy!

“I—I was hoping you wouldn’t notice…” You say lamely, and he chuckles. The sound nearly sends your heart into cardiac arrest. 

You had always liked his laugh.

“I’ve grown… Rather fond of you… So, of course, I’d notice.” His tone is cheeky like a schoolboy knowing something he shouldn’t. You feel your ears burn and stare down at your clasped hands. 

On the inside, your mind is reeling. 

“Fond of me, sir?” You inquire dumbly, staring stupidly at your hands and pointedly avoiding his gaze. A hand tips your chin up until you’re looking into his eyes. When had he moved?!

“I’m saying I like you, sweetheart. I was hoping you liked me too, but it seems I was mistaken—”

“No!” You blurt out quickly, and he recoils slightly. 

It took all of two seconds for you to realize that you technically rejected him and the words came tumbling out. 

“I mean—I do like you! I really do! I thought you just had no interest in a relationship! So, I avoided saying anything! And—”

“Breathe, sweetheart, breathe. You’re gonna turn blue at this rate.” Hoshina teased, and your mouth shut with an audible ‘click.’ 

He liked you…

The object of your affection actually liked you!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Great Expectations 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Professor Holmes’ class is your most difficult, but he’s about to make it even more challenging.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (modern AU)

Note: monday

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Friday arrives too quickly for your likely. Amid the usual cluster of readings, lectures, and assignments, you have Professor’s Holmes’ additional task to add to the pile. It feels unfair that he would point out your own efforts only to force more upon you. His praise hardly seems like that in retrospect. 

That you did the readings likely made your experience simpler, though the vague instructions leave you uncertain. No rubric, no objectives, no outline. Your format in the usual style and triple-check the word count before you resign yourself to fate or fortune, whichever favours you. 

As usual, Professor Holmes prefers a physical copy, neglecting the digital workspace designed by the campus for ease of access. He doesn’t seem to be the type for the easy way out, does he? You try not to malinger on your gripes and head off, promising to reward yourself with a double whip frap for your work. It’s certainly more than you’ll receive from your professor, even if you do manage to gleam your first A+ from the man. 

The softness of autumn mingles with the crispness of early winter. You mourn the orange and yellow leaves as they start to curl at the edges and brown, blowing across the pavement and catching on pantlegs and tree roots. Midterm season is almost over but it won’t be long before finals rise to haunt you. 

You come up the Herringbone building and look up at the romanticist arches and columns. The esteemed architecture has you feeling even smaller. Surely, the professor will only add to that. 

Inside, the air is dry from the heat blowing from the high vents and curved staircases crest the foyer. You follow the left one up and continue along to the small set of steps that lead up to a hallway with only three office doors. Holmes is at the very end. You went there once before when you needed to be signed into the course; he was certain to make you wait then threatened not to sign the form at all. 

You stop and stare at the frosted glass with his pedigree emblazoned on it. You contemplate just shoving the paper through his slot but the light is on. You raise your fist and gently tap on the wood. You bounce on your feet as you wait, tugging at the itchy collar of the blue sweater dotted with little clouds. In the warmth of the stuffy building and under your wool jacket, it’s stifling. 

You hear movement from within and ready yourself for the encounter. You don’t think you’ve ever talked to Professor Holmes without some degree of awkwardness. On your end, of course. He can’t be bothered to care what others think of him. 

The door opens and you try to smile but it feels like chewing rocks. He looks back at you without an ounce of emotion. You gulp. 

“Um, Professor, I have my paper--” 

He’s already walking away as you stand dumbly in the doorway. You blanch as he circles back to his desk and sits heavily in his seat. He leans forward and dips his head, bending over an open leather folio with a lined pad within. A curl falls onto his forehead and he reaches without looking for the pipe propped up on a mahogany tray. 

“Come in,” he says before he puts the pipe to his lips and bites down. He teethes on it as he snatches up a pen with his other hand. You warily obey and cross the threshold. 

“So, um, here you go,” you near the desk and lay down the stapled paper. He doesn’t look up. “Erm, thanks, professor. I hate to disturb, so I’ll just leave it here--” 

He sighs and sits up, flicking back the curl as he replaces the pipe on the tray, “they won’t let me light that, even with the window open.” 

You glance over at the drawn curtains and nod, “oh.” 

“You’re the first,” he interjects before you can summon any sort of response. 

“Ah, oh--” 

“You are rather quick, aren’t you?” He challenges as he rolls the pen between his fingers, his shoulders spreading wide against the puckered leather chair, “fleet of foot, as some Victorian ponce might say. Quiet.” 

You blink and purse your lips, giving a shrug. 

“You didn’t say hello,” he intones, “it is courteous when you see an acquaintance to greet them, though I suppose etiquette does continue to change.” 

“Um, I didn’t want to... impose?” You murmur. 

His expression remains cryptic. You can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused or something else. 

“So you didn’t,” he shrugs, his vest bracing on his chest. 

“Sorry, er, sir. But um, there’s my paper, I’ll... let you be. I’m sure you’re busy enough--” 

“Terribly busy,” he confirms dryly. “Since I’ll have a new batch of papers to mark, I’ll be kept well in hand.” 

You clasp your hands together and sway, “right, uh--” 

“And you’ll be off like the rest of those dull girls, paying no mind to the real purpose of study, but rather the wordly pleasures of the modern campus. All that pumpkin spice and such.” He reprimands. 

“Oh, uh, professor...” you know better than to argue. He is set in his ideas of his students and what should make you any different than the rest. 

“Right then,” he reaches for your paper and barely glances at the title page. He flips to the short essay and his eyes skim. He reaches for the antique pen and marks up the page as he goes. He hums as he scratches with the nib. “Good point but clunky prose. No, redudant.” He scribbles his comments in the margins. He turns to the second page and sighs. He closes it and holds it out. “You show comprehension but you need refinement.” 

“Um, thanks, er...” you take it hesitantly and back up again. He watches you with his bold blue eyes, not showing a single crack in his veneer. 

“Go off and enjoy your weekend, don’t fret over the fault of others. Certainly, you show more promise than most who haunt my lectures,” he says. His tone is flat but his words are praising. The contradiction has you off-foot. 

“Thank you, Professor, have a good weekend too.” 

He doesn’t respond as he puts his attention back to another stack of papers. You turn on your heel slowly and scurry to the door. He clears his throat and you stop. 

“Perhaps I mightn’t have such a tedious weekend.” 

You glance back but he still has his head down. You nod and leave him be with a sharp inhale. You hold your breath in until you close the door from the other side. 

Only a few more weeks and you’ll be through this class. Hopefully, you won’t ever have to face the heart palpitations that come with each encounter after that. For now, you will focus on the last paper and the eventual exam. Those are hurdles that look higher the closer you get. 

📕

There’s a cafe off campus you prefer. The library kiosk and the franchised booth in the Student Rec Centre are always overcrowded. This place isn’t so bad. A local mom and pop with a single barista. Maude, the retiree turned businesswoman, works slowly but efficiently. Traffic matches her pace but is enough to keep her thriving. 

“I’ll bring it to you, dearie,” she smiles as she hands you a plate with a crumbly scone on it. You thank her and go to find a seat. 

The place is homey. The seating is mismatched. There are armchairs around a low coffee table, some long tables with thrift store dining chairs, and square table in the corner with two benches and some stools. The rug that stands center to the sitting space is faded but its patterns still visible. 

You claim one of the armchairs near the bookcases and sit. Despite the tense submission, you’re glad not be stressing over another mark. Another A- to add to the rota in Holmes’ class. You could do a lot worse given what you’ve overheard from your classmates. 

The door opens and closes, letting in a chilly. You keep your coat on as you balance the scone on the coffee table. You’ll wait until you have your mocha and savour them together. It’s a rare treat but the dropping temperature coaxed you into it. 

A familiar baritone pricks your ears. You glance over before you can bury your nose in your phone and flinch. What luck. You almost doubt it’s a coincidence. Twice in a row you’ve managed to stumble upon the Professor outside of class. 

Your shoulders sink as you turn back and plant your elbow on the armrest, shielding your face behind your hand. What do you do? Your mind races. Despite what he said in his office he does not radiate welcoming energy. You can’t just flee and leave your order behind; it isn’t fair to Maude and you wouldn’t want to waste the money. 

Professor Holmes’ voice carries. He orders a black coffee and two shortbread biscuits; the Saturday special. The elder barista takes his order and as usual, bids him to sit down so she can bring it to him. You chew your lip as time ticks on. Make up your mind. 

Too late.  

“Pardon, oh,” Holmes approaches and gives pause as you look up at him. “You aren’t reserving these for your friends?” 

He gestures to the other arm chairs. You shake your head and clasp your phone tight in your hands. He dips his chin and sidles around the coffee chair. He removes his jacket and hangs it on the rack between the bookshelves. He lingers there as he browses the titles on the spines. 

Maude appears with your mocha in a large mug on a matching saucer. You thank her as she sets it by your scone. She calls over to Holmes, “I’ll have your coffee and biscuits in just a moment, dearie.” 

He turns his head and nods but says nothing else. She shuffles off and you lean forward to take your mug. Somehow your chocolatey treat doesn’t seem so sweet any more. He backs up and lowers himself across from you. You shyly return his gaze over the brim of your cup. 

“You come here often?” He asks. 

The question has you off-guard as much as his presence. You slurp noisily before you pull the cup away and put it down. You take the napkin by your scone and wipe your lips. 

“Sometimes. Once in a while. Er, I... I make my coffee at home. Tea, more often.” You clamp your lip shut before you can ramble on. 

“Mm, yes, I prefer tea as well. I was suggested the dark roast here by a colleague however.” 

You don’t know what to say. You’re entirely unprepared for the conversation. You’ve never thought much of what he might speak of outside his lectures. His interests, you assume, would align with his expertise. 

“You are enjoying your time? You haven’t any schoolwork?” He asks. 

You slant your lips one way then the other. You look down at the bag by your feet and back at him. He wears a wool sweater with elbow patches; not quite casual but casual for him. 

“I was going to do my readings...” you say. 

“Ah,” he sits back in the chair as Maude brings his coffee and biscuits. He thanks her tersely. 

You bend over and reach for your bag. You slide out your notebook and open it to the printed articles stashed between the pages. You hope it’s enough of an excuse not to talk as much. 

“My class?” He asks. 

“Yes, sir, er, Professor,” you answer. 

“Those are available digitally, as I understand.” 

“I know, but I, er, prefer print.” 

“Mm, yes, it does permeate more effectively, doesn’t it?” He intones. 

You agree with a silent nod and try to focus. You’re too shy to check if he’s watching you but it feels like he is. He sighs and sips from his cup. 

“What were you on the hunt for then?” He asks abruptly before you can read the introduction for the fifth time. You look up, perplexed. “At the craft store?” 

You open your mouth then pause. Finally, you summon the answer, “thread.” 

“Thread?” 

“Yes, I... make little things. Sometimes. It wasn’t urgent. I don’t have my sewing machine in my dorm and... no time.” You shrug and let the papers lay flat on your notebook. 

He considers you as his cheek dimples and he leans his chin on his knuckles. He looks down at the cup he holds over one leg. He sucks his teeth. 

“Rather flat,” he dislodges his elbow and leans forward. “And what did you get? It smells intriguing.” 

“Mocha with peppermint,” you answer. 

“Mm, with whip?” He peeks at your cup and the melting glut of cream. 

“Yes, Professor,” you reply. 

“I think I might trade mine for the same,” he stands with his cup in hand. 

You watch him, confused and uneasy. So much for getting some studying done. You doubt you’ll be able to concentrate with him looming on the other side of the table. 

[heartfullofleeches]

I was reading through the Titus tag and came across the blurb of him with Nightlight reader and that made a crack nsfw idea come into my head

Nightlight twirling around happily with their new upgraded body gifted to them by none other than Titus himself: “Wow this new body is amazing!! The new decals are gorgeous and I feel like I can shine brighter than ever before!! I cannot wait to share all my new upgraded features with you! …Ah but I suppose.. I do have one questionr..”

Nightlight shyly pointing down to the new.. addition between their legs: “It seems you’ve decided to add some.. genitals onto my new body.. I don’t have the bodily functions that require genitals so.. what exactly are they for if I may ask…?”

Titus: … :)

[18+. Yan Space Emperor + Android Darling. Darling mentioned to have both a cock and a pussy]

"Titus.... I don't mean so sound ungrateful....but I don't see the point of all these...."upgrades" you added to my new body."

"If you ask me I'd say they're quite beneficial for us both. Haven't you ever wondered what it's like to experience things the same way beings of flesh and blood do?"

"I guess...I have another question.. Is it normal for these parts to be this wet all the time?"

"That's just the lubrication, dear. Nothing to fear. Shall I show you its use?"

Nightlight has some trouble getting used to there new body. All these new features are overwhelming for the poor bot - not to mention the sensations attached to them. The emperor's team worked tirelessly to accomplish everything on their overlord's list of requirements. Nightlight's new additions meant nothing to him if they couldn't feel what he was doing to them. As selfish as the tyrant can get, he longs to share the pleasures of the bedroom with the sweet little android he plucked from earth that has made his comfort their sole purpose.

Nightlight grows more accustomed to their new form when Titus drops hints that he sleeps best after a long night of passionate sex to drain his energy. He can tell they're a little nervous - it's a lot to take in. He slowly works them up to the idea of sleeping with him while also testing their functions to make sure everything is in order - fingering/jerking the android off while they're cuddled together, wearing clothing that by some miracle is more revealing than what he usually has on, messing with the sensitivity of their parts.

Titus put a lot of thought into what he wanted for Nightlight's updated body. A dial that controlled how sensitive they are to his touch was a must have. So was the option for their parts to be interchangeable. It makes for an easier clean when he stuffs their pussy full of his cum, but there are some days where he'd like to be the one coming undone on Nightlight's cock. Nightlight of course has their own say in which they use - but the bot is honestly just happy to be there. They do enjoy their new upgrades, but their favorite features has to be how flexible Titus' servents have made their new body. They can put their legs behind their head with no problem!

Titus loves that little feature as well. Maybe a little too much.

Couldn't find anywhere else to put it, but Titus totally demanded somewhere that Nightlight's lights get brighter/flicker when they cum.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for asking someone not to make my art about a ship I hate?

This happened a couple months ago, but I’m still kinda unsure if I handled it correctly.

Basic rundown of events: I posted some art of a character on their own in the evening, and when I woke up the next morning, someone had reblogged with an addition about a ship that’s a big notp for me. I messaged them to ask they delete it as politely as possible, because people had been interacting with that version of the post specifically and it made me uncomfortable. They responded by saying I was being immature and needed to learn not to police what other people do on the internet. We exchanged a couple more messages, and I tried to explain my position my throughly. Neither of us was overtly hostile or anything, but I felt extremely talked down to by their tone of voice. After our conversation, we both blocked each other, and that was that. They never did delete their addition.

Why I think I might be TA: we weren’t exactly friends or anything. Neither of us followed each other. I’d seen them around in the fandom, and they’d reblogged some of my art in the past, but I think messaging someone I didn’t know instead of just blocking them might have been a bit of an overreach. Plus the ship in question is canon, and not particularly controversial or anything, so most people in the fandom probably wouldn’t have minded.

On the other hand, the ship being so unavoidable is a big part of the reason it upset me so much. It’s hard for me to exist in this fandom without having to see it constantly, and I don’t even ever mention the other character in it for fear of this exact thing happening. I’ve had people be assholes on my posts about the ship I prefer, or go out of their way to interpret my romantic posts about them platonically, or add tags to my art about how they only like my ship as backstory and not endgame. I don’t want to have to put a disclaimer every single time I post about this fandom. I just want to enjoy the things I like without being negative all the time. Which is why I figured messaging privately was more polite than making a stink where everyone could see. I specifically mentioned that I knew they wouldn’t have known and wasn’t mad.

No one actually ended up reblogging their addition, which is also a strike against me, but I got a lot of likes on specifically that version of the post, which made me scared they were going to. I hated the idea of having to turn off reblogs on a piece I’d worked pretty fucking hard on because a version I found so upsetting was in circulation. If it was just tags, I’d have blocked, but it being an addition is different. I don’t think asking people not to make my posts about it is “policing what other people do on the internet”. You’re in MY house, on MY post with MY art I spent hours on. Making additions to art posts already seems somewhat rude to me, that’s just not something you do, but I guess that’s a matter of the corner of tumblr culture you’re used it.

Also, their response felt very aggressive and condescending. They implied I was, like, a kid, and I do think I’m somewhat younger than them, but the only information about my age in my bio at the time was that I’m an adult, so it felt like a rude assumption. My age doesn’t have anything to do with it.

Again, though, I do absolutely see how my initial message could read as entitled. During the rest of our messaging, I did lose my temper a little bit at one point; I said something about how I’ve had to deal with shit in this fandom before, and I don’t remember the exact words since, again, we both blocked each other, but I know I swore at them. That might’ve come across as more aggressive than I wanted, and probably didn’t exactly help deescalate. (Can’t say for sure, I don’t have their side of the story)

Like I said, this situation was a bit ago now, but it upset me pretty bad at the time, and I’m still not entirely sure who’s in the wrong. So, AITA?

(Also to get ahead of this: please don’t make this about shipcourse in the comments. It’s not about that. They and I have similar opinions on that discourse from what I’ve gathered anyway. Thanks.)

What are these acronyms?

[yourch1ld]

Stupid Dare (Part 1)

additional tags: sfw, phiilip graves × male!reader, college!au, call of duty

A/N: so, hello, I'm new here and here's my stupid fanfic (?), this is mid, but I swear I'll try make next chapter better and cooler, thank you in advance for your time! <3 (and yes, English is not my first language, so sorry if there're mistakes).

Part 2

-------------‐---------------------------------------------------------

Finally, the moment came when you moved away from your toxic parents to another place — a college you barely scored enough points to get into with a scholarship. You thought things couldn’t get worse, that a new life was ahead and everything would be great.

WRONG.

It was the end of August, and you arrived at your college dorm in Texas. There are no words to describe how nervous you were, but a kind lady helped you find your room and not get lost in the chaos of students just like you.

Your former friend always said that no matter what, you’d be able to make new acquaintances and friends. But that also didn’t go the way you hoped. You became a loner, and the only looks you got were judgmental — or curious… curious about how weird you were.

The only thing you were lucky with was work. Sure, working at the local McDonald's wasn’t fancy, but you got paid well enough to not starve.

Things couldn’t possibly get worse… right?

They could.

There was someone called Phillip Graves. He was on the football team — not the most popular one there, but still got attention from girls. Though nothing more than flirting ever happened between him and them.

It was Friday evening of the first week of classes, and all the football guys were hanging out in one of the rooms, playing “Truth or Dare.”

As usual, they spun the bottle, and at some point, it pointed to Graves. A mischievous grin appeared on his face and he simply said, “Dare.”

"Then we dare you to start a relationship with that weirdo..."— one of the guys said.

"Yeah, remember that LGBT pin on his bag? So pathetic..." — another one added.

"If you want, we could even pay you a little extra to fuck him and record it, ‘cause this is too funny to just do it for a game..."— the team captain said while looking at Phillip.

The grin stayed on the boy’s face.

It was pathetic that he agreed — but that was drunk Graves…

The next morning, Phillip began his little hunt.

He tracked you down and slithered like a desert snake toward a mouse — right when you were alone in the open area behind the school, sitting in the grass.

"Hey, cutie, is it hot out here, or is it just ‘cause a thing like you’s around?"— a devilish smile crept across his face as he came closer, leaning over you.

You didn’t answer, just blushed and looked up. Clearly, no one had ever flirted with your virgin ass back in your hometown.

"Don’t be nervous, babe, it’s just me — Phillip. You can call me Phil if that helps you relax."— he suddenly sat down next to you and rested his head on your shoulder like he had known you forever.

It looked like a damn romcom (sorry), but you couldn’t do anything about it.

That kept happening for several days. He’d come sit by you, say a few words…

Honestly, it made Phillip feel relaxed, and your quietness seemed kind of cute.

One day, you finally started talking to Phillip, and oh God — you liked his temperament, his voice, the way he moved his hands…

It was probably the first time you fell for someone — not some game character, but a real guy.

But of course, in Graves’s head, there was already a plan.

One that was in motion.

And you — you were the target, the prize, the toy in his hands. Like 3-in-1 instant coffee.

[greetingfromthedead]

Vash's Moving Castle (Vash x Reader)

Plot: A strange building made up of old spaceship parts, moving around on two legs across the wasteland of the desert, it hisses and creaks and fills the heart of many with fear... That castle is home to the magnificent tech wizard Vash, infamous for both his gunmanship and for being a womanizer—or so the rumor goes in your city. You're the eldest child of a gunsmith and as such don't expect much from your future. However, your simple life takes a turn for the exciting when you're ensnared in a disturbing situation, and the mysterious tech wizard appears to rescue you.

Pairing: Vash x mostly GN Reader, occasional she/her pronouns, the use of "girl" etc from quotes directly from the movie. I tried making it completely GN, but my flu ridden brain short circuited on some very specific parts so I gave up.

Raiting: Everyone

Tags: Howl's Moving Castle style AU, no use of "y/n", Vash is a tech wizard, I have both brainrot and the flu, idk what else to put here, Howl is cute, Vash is cute, I tried my best.

Word count: 3.7k

Author's Note: Got the idea yesterday, yall seemed interested and the flu ridden brainrot I had to endure all day today was simply debilitating so I wrote a little something. I hope you like it, not sure if I will continue or not even though I have quite a few HC-s for this little AU situation.

The 6th city, May, is decorated more than usual. After all, May Day has arrived. Even though it is still early in the afternoon, the streets are bustling with people. The aroma of baked goods reaches your nose through your open window, and it makes you think about your sister, Meryl, who is working at the very popular doughnut shop on the other side of the city. She must be very busy today with the rush of customers coming in for their celebratory pastries. For you, it's a free day. Today, your little weapon's repair shop, which you inherited from your father, is closed. You decide to take advantage of the downtime and visit your sister, whom you haven't seen in a long time.

You put aside the little handgun you have been tinkering with and stand to close the window. Your little shop is situated quite high, and the workshop has the perfect view to look out over the roofs of all the other houses. Your eyes glance over the familiar sight—the scrappy buildingd made out of old spaceship parts and in the distance, you see the wide open desert. But today it is slightly different. You heard the commotion this morning when the people first noticed the addition to the landscape. With fearful and hushed voices, they talked about the monstrocity looming on the horizon and the kind of calamity it might bring.

"It is Vash's Moving Castle!" The people on the streets whispered and pointed. "Do you think the horrible Typhoon has come to lay waste to our city?"

You knew very well the rumors about the gunslinger and tech wizard named Vash the Stampede. He is said to be a ruthless demon specializing in murder and wide-scale destruction. Apparently, he kills without mercy—men, women, and children alike. He has wiped whole towns from the face of the planet, and his infamous castle is created with the sole purpose of being a weapon of mass destruction.

As you pull the window closed, you look at the mass of metal outside of town. Calling it a castle is a gross overstatement. You can't imagine how such a heap of scrap gets to be called anything so magnificent. It consists of layers upon layers of old spaceship parts, jutting out at odd angles and covered in rust and wires, its massive turrets and spires reaching towards the sky. It has two large legs underneath it, much like a tomas, that the building uses to move across the desert. This is not the first time Vash's fortress has passed by May City, and you think the excitement is unwarranted. Sure, the gunslinger has a reputation, but nothing catastrophic has happened so far. You can't help but wonder why everyone gets so worked up every time the castle passes by; he would surely go to the bank or somewhere else where he can get easy money. You are just a small shop owner; as long as you don't get in his way, it seems unlikely he would take any interest in you. He might be a womanizer, but he only has eyes for pretty girls.

You get quickly ready and close the shop. The streets are decorated with colorful ribbons, and you hear cheers coming from all over town as the annual parade begins. You have chosen a truly awful moment to try and make your way across the city, but you are determined to see Meryl. As you push through the crowded streets, you catch glimpses of the parade. People are showing off their inventions and talents. You see giant hydraulic pants marching down the street. Exo-suits and new kinds of weaponry. On other streets, you see entertainers dancing and singing in colorful costumes. Some are juggling fire, and others are performing daring acrobatics. This world truly is a marvel.

You make it to the gondolas and squeeze into one with some other people. It takes you over the winding roads, and you see the flags and market stalls lining the streets. The smell of freshly cooked food wafts up to you as you take in the sights and sounds of the bustling marketplace. May is filled with all kinds of people; for days, the sandsteamers have brought in travelers from all over, and it shows. The whole city is alive with excitement and energy.

You get off your ride on the slightly calmer side of the town, and you know the familiar route you need to take to get to the doughnut shop. The quiet side streets are nearly empty; just a few people mingle on the sidewalks. You try to avoid them as much as possible and turn to an even smaller ally as a group of drunkards head your way. You hold your breath and hope they don't notice you, looking nervously over your shoulder as you hurry along.

"Hey, it looks like a little mouse lost its way," you suddenly hear, and as you look back ahead, you see you nearly ran into a man who has just come around the corner. He is grinning mischievously, blocking your path. He is a lot taller than you, and you can see his rifle slung across his back. Surely he is a bounty hunter; you see them a lot, and with all the people flowing into town, you would think they have their hands full.

"Oh, no. I'm not lost," you say, shaking your head and recoiling a bit, leaning away from the man.

"This little mouse looks thirsty. We should take her for a cup of tea." The man continues like he didn't hear you at all. You try sidestepping him, but as you do, a second man appears from behind him. He is just as large with a big mustache, and he looks at you curiously as he leans closer, blocking your way further.

"No thanks. My sister's expecting me." You avoid looking directly at them, instead trying to think of a way to escape. They make you very uncomfortable.

"She's pretty cute for a mouse." You try to keep your cool and find a way to politely excuse yourself from the situation, but the mustashed man is leaning even closer, his face level with yours.

"How old are you anyway? You live around here?" The first guy leans toward you too. Neither of them sounds menacing, but they fill you with dread.

"Leave me alone!" you say with as much bravery as you can muster, taking a step backwards.

"You see? Your mustache scares all the girls," the first man nudges his comrade.

"So? I think she's even cuter when she's scared." the other replies, not taking his eyes off you.

"There you are, sweetheart." A different, smooth male voice speaks up behind you, capturing the gaze of the bountyhunters before you. "Sorry, I'm late. I was looking everywhere for you."

He speaks close to your left ear, and a hand gently rests on your right shoulder. It's not a voice you recognize, and his touch makes you stiffen up. Your body had been ready to run for your life, but now you find yourself sandwitched between two unknowns. Yet something about the man behind you is comforting, or maybe it's just that you see the upset glint in the eyes of the men before you.

"Hey! Hey! We're busy here!" The man you had run into first speaks and looks like he is puffing himself up to look more menacing. His companion, too, straightens his back, ready for a violent confrontation.

"Are you really? It looked to me like the two of you were just leaving." The calm voice beside you speaks with a hint of amusement. You feel him shift slightly, but you don't turn your eyes away from the bounty hunters in front of you. You see their gazes move over the man, their eyes widening at something where his left arm would be, and you see them freeze up and then nudge each other. They look very uncomfortable.

"This is not worth it," one of them whispers nervously to the other.

"Yeah, we better get going," the other answers with a whisper, and they start to shuffle away from you, back into the alley they had come from. As they get further away, their step hastens until they take off running. You watch them disappear into the darkness, wondering what caused them to have such a reaction.

"Don't hold it against them," the soft voice next to you says, and you finally turn to look at him. He is a tall young man with a soft smile on his lips. You see his pretty blue eyes behind orange tinted round glasses, and his blonde hair is about shoulder length. A tight golden hoop hangs from his left ear. He is truly very handsome, and his expression is warm and inviting. He wears a pillowy white blouse that flows down to his slender waist. A pendant hangs from his neck, and a red coat covers his shoulders, but his arms are not in the sleeves.

"They aren't actually all that bad," he says, continuing his thought from before, and his eyes capture your gaze again. "Where to? I'll be your escort this evening."

"Oh, I'm, um, just going to the doughnut shop." You pull back a little from his closeness, but feel his hand firmly on your shoulder.

"Don't get alarmed, but I'm being followed," he says, leaning closer to you. His hand moves from your shoulder and instead hooks around your arm. "Act normal."

You avert your eyes, but he ignores your awkwardness completely and starts walking along the street with your arm intertwined with his, like it's totally normal. Your body is still stiff, a slight fear lingering in the back of your mind, yet this is exciliating in a way you never expected. You find yourself surprisingly comfortable in his presence, despite the fact that he is a total stranger. His pace is somewhat brisk, but you can easily keep up. The unknown of who could be following him is a bit frightening, and you find yourself pressing into his upper arm for reassurance.

As you walk past some dark and narrow alleys, you start to suddenly hear commotion.

"There he is! Go! Hurry!" You hear shouting, and it sends a shiver up your spine. Yet the man beside you keeps the same pace and, for the moment, seems unbothered.

"Sorry. It looks like you're involved," he says calmly as you try to glance into the alleys where the commotion stems from. You see a mob of gunslingers squeeze themselves hurriedly into the narrow gap between the buildings and start to rush towards you. It is frightening to you, and you grab a tighter hold of the man's arm. Your right hand grasps his shirt, your heart pounds in fear as your body stiffens. More voices start to echo from up ahead, and a few people stumble onto your street.

"This way!" he whispers insistently, and the man pulls you into a side alley, his pace getting faster as he leads you away from the gathering crowd. You struggle to keep up with him so you have to start running, your mind racing with questions, but you hold onto him tightly, and you feel certain that everything will be alright. He keeps going faster and faster, and you can see the main street ahead, but suddenly your view gets blocked by more armed men appearing to block our path. You feel a surge of panic rising in your chest, and the reassuring hand sliters out from your weakened cluth as you have trouble holding on while you run.

"Come on!" The mystery man's voice is soft and insistent, with a hint of amusement as you feel his arm wrap around your waist, both of you running straight towards the angry looking mob. You see that some of them have drawn their guns and have them pointed straight at you, but the thundering footsteps behind you tell you that they are unlikely to shoot here in this narrow alley to avoid hitting anybody else. Your confidence in getting out of here wavers, but suddenly you are tightly pulled against the man's side, and his other hand takes yours. It feels cold and hard; you catch a glimpse of blue, but you are too distracted by the fact that your feet are no longer on the cobbled street. You rush through the air, seemingly kept up by the mysterious blonde.

Instinctively, you curl up, looking around for an explanation. The coat that covered his shoulders before hangs over his left arm, and from his back protrubes a pair of giant feathery wings. You've never seen anything like this. Is this a new invention? Has he come here to present his masterpiece to the masses during the parade? Who is this man? He has to be a brilliant inventor. Your mind is captivated by him; you want to understand his mysterious contraption, and your gaze moves along him, down his left arm, and you see it's not a real arm at all; it is made out of strange blue metal, the hand holding yours is made out of the same material. The forearm is mostly covered by his coat, but you're sure that everything from at least his elbow down is a prosthesis; the rest is hidden by the flowy sleeve. You feel his fingers move so organically that you're sure this must be lost technology. What a strange man! You've never seen anything like this.

"Now, straighten your legs and hold on tight," you hear the man say gently, and you follow his command. You relax your legs and grab tightly onto him. His strong arm around you presses you into his side, and you wrap your legs with one of his to make sure you cannot slip away from his grasp and plummet to your death.

You are still mesmerized by his wings, how large they are as they stretch out behind him, allowing him to fly effortlessly through the air. You feel a rush of adrenaline as you soar higher. The streets beneath you look so small; people are just specs moving around. You let out a gasp of amazement, and it makes the strange man chuckle. He flies you both over some rooftops, and you see the familiar doughnut shop come into view.

"You're a natural." You hear him praise you, but to you, it makes little sense; all you do is hold onto him for dear life. But you can't deny the exhilarating rush of flying through the sky. You have never felt so free. The wind whips through your hair as you soar above the city. You feel like you could touch the clouds. You relax a little bit in his grasp, hearing his feathers rustle in the wind as they allow you to glide through the air. To your surprise, very few people pay any attention to you. Most of them are too focused on the parade passing by. The ones who did notice you stared in awe, not believing their eyes or perhaps mistaking you for a worm.

You get closer and closer to the familiar shop, and you realize he is aiming for the second floor balcony. He lands gracefully on the bannister and gently guides you onto the floor, like you weigh nothing at all. His hand holds onto yours for a little longer as he bows closer.

"I'll make sure to draw them off, but wait a bit before you head back outside." His voice is low and gentle, with a soft smile dancing on his lips and in the glimmer of his eyes.

"Okay," you say, still stunned by what had just happened. Your fingers gently grip his as he straightens up and pulls his hand from you. His wings fold down behind his back and disappear before he takes his coat and drapes it over his shoulders.

"That's my girl," he says with a low and husky voice, a hint of pride in it. He smiles brightly and takes a step back, making you gasp as he falls into nothingness. You rush to peek over the railing, only to find that he has disappeared into the crowd with no hint of anyone noticing him at all, so he must be alright. You breathe a sigh of relief, grateful that he is safe.

You linger on the balcony for a little while longer. It all seems too incredible to be true—almost magical. Never would you have thought something like this could happen to you; you are so used to your dull life of being the eldest, but then again, that's what it means to be a responsible and reliable older sibling. Or perhaps you have caught some nasty disease and are just imagining all this during a fever dream. Either way, you enjoyed this. The realization prods you in the side as you remember that you didn't even ask the gentleman's name. Perhaps you will get lucky and see him introducing his invention at a parade in the future. Or perhaps this encounter will just remain a peculiar memory in the back of your mind.

You turn to enter the hallway and see a wide-eyed young woman staring back at you. She is frozen, like she has seen a ghost, and she looks at you with a hint of mistrust.

"Hello," you say, trying to strike up a conversation. "I'm here to see Meryl; she's my little sister. I'm sorry to have just barged in to the staff's quarters. Could you tell her I'm here? I'm in no rush; I'll wait till she has time."

She still stares at you and seems too frozen to say anything, only giving you a stiff nod and heading downstairs, where you hear a lot of commotion. You turn back to look out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man again, but he's nowhere to be seen. The sweet smell of doughnuts and jam fills your nose as you patiently wait for your sister.

You fall deep into thought, only to be awoken by some loud running footsteps heading your way and Meryl's voice calling out your name. She rushes to you and grabs your hands, so you turn to face her.

"Meryl!" you say with slight apprehension as you see the surprise in her face.

"What's going on? Someone just told me you flew down into our balcony!" She says it with disbelief. It takes you a moment to process her words before responding.

"So that did happen. That wasn't a dream," you say with a mix of confusion and sadness. You hear a different voice speak to Meryl as you turn your gaze out the window again, not registering what they talk about. You relive everything that has happened to you within the last half hour in your head, trying to commit every detail to memory. Meryl looks at you with concern as you look away so apathetically and then drags you with her to the backrooms of the kitchen to sit down with you on some boxes in the storage room. She presses you until you open up and tell her everything about your track here and the strange man who saved you.

"Wow! He must have been an inventor then!" Meryl exclaims as you finish your story with how he disappeared into the crowd.

"But he was so kind to me. He rescued me, Meryl."

"Of course he did! He was trying to seduce you! You are so lucky! If that inventor was Vash, he would have done much worse right then and there! He is an awful womanizer!"

"No, he wouldn't. Vash only does that to beautiful girls."

"Ah, don't give me that! You need to be more careful! It's dangerous out there! Even the infamous Millions Knives is back on the prowl." She looks at the side of your face and leans closer. "Are you listening?"

But you are so consumed by your thoughts, you barely realize what she is saying. Your gaze had been fixed by a giant tub of custard.

"Huh?" You finally turn to face your sister again.

"Argh!" Meryl lets out a disgruntled sigh. You see it from her face that she's about to start lecturing you, but a young man informing her about a new batch of dougnuts being done saves you from it.

"Okay! I'll be right there!" She turns a touch more cheerfully toward the cook.

"Alright! I better get going then. I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay." You stand up, ready to leave, to both avoid getting Meryl into trouble and getting an earful from her about the horrible danger that is lurking outside the city walls.

Meryl sees through you immediately but chooses not to lecture you this time on that topic. She leads you to the backdoor, where a man is carrying bags of flour.

"Now," Meryl comes close to you again. "Do you really want to spend the rest of your life in that gunshop?"

"The shop was just so important to father, and I'm the eldest! I don't mind." You try to keep your tone cheerful as you look into her concerned face. But deep down, you know her words stir something up.

"I'm not asking what father would have wanted. I want to know what you want," she continues insistently.

"Well," you start to answer, not sure about what to say, but the man who carried in the flour comes back to say goodbye to Meryl, and your sister turns to him to wave goodbye. You take the opportunity to start to walk away and say, "I better get going."

"It's your life! Do something for yourself for once, will you?" she says, hoping that you will finally prioritize your own happiness.

"Bye, Meryl!" you say over your shoulder with a slight smile as you head home. Your head is still filled with a million thoughts, and Meryl only added to them. Yet you are glad she seems happy with her new life after she left your family's gunshop. You can't help but wonder if you'll ever find the same peace and contentment. But it matters little; you're the eldest, and you have a duty.

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[sterekbros]

for the rest of our lives (1958 words) by Winchesterek Rating: Explicit Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Additional Tags: Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future Fic, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, True Alpha Derek Hale, Pack Alpha Derek Hale, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Stiles Stilinski is a Nice Thing, Knotting, Barebacking, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Derek Hale Loves Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Loves Derek Hale, POV Stiles Stilinski, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Fluff, Slice of Life Series: Part 6 of Laughter Lines For: @sterekweekly momentous and @sterekfests theme sweater weather. And @warmandfluffybingocards square morning cuddles.

Stiles shivered as the cool air licked at his skin, a smile spreading across his lips as he felt the heat against his side. He rolled over and snuggled into it, firm muscles and soft hair reminding him that he was with Derek and they had come back to Virginia. They’d spent a year traveling the world and Stiles hadn't returned yet to the FBI. At this point, he thought he never would. They’d found a nice place in rural Virginia just in case he decided to try to go back to work, but it hadn't even occurred to Stiles to call his boss and ask for his job back. His leave was long over and he was sure someone else had his job by now. It was a momentous decision.

His fingers trailed along Derek’s chest, tracing absent symbols against his skin. They’d grown so much together over the last year; their matebond was stronger than it ever had been before. There was a strength and surety he could feel in the bond, like their love was a rock that couldn't be broken, no matter what people thought of them.

Stiles smiled and turned his face to press kisses against Derek’s chest, feeling when Derek started to wake because the arm wrapped around Stiles curled more around him and Derek’s fingers started running along his back lazily.

“Good morning,” he breathed against Derek’s skin. Derek grumbled and Stiles chuckled, teasing his tongue over Derek’s nipple.

“You’re a menace,” Derek said with a gasp, his hand moving to cup the back of Stiles’ head. Stiles grinned, giving Derek’s nipple one more teasing suck before he turned up to capture Derek’s lips in a kiss.

“Hey,” he said softly, leaning up just enough on his elbow to give Derek a more thorough kiss.

“Hey,” Derek replied, brushing his nose against Stiles’.

Stiles knew it was one of the things they did and he wasn't sure how they’d gotten started with the whole ‘hey’ ‘hey’ echoed response, but Stiles loved it. It was something so simple and intimate, like a secret all their own.

“How’d you sleep?” Stiles asked, just studying Derek like he’d never be able to get enough of him. And he never would. Stiles knew that.

“Perfect, with you in my arms,” Derek replied with a smile spreading across his lips.

Stiles laughed and smacked Derek in the chest. “You’re such a sap!”

“What, it’s true!” Derek added with a laugh of his own, grabbing Stiles’ hand on his chest.

Derek captured Stiles’ lips in another kiss, even as Stiles was still laughing into the kiss. But he wrapped his arms around Derek and rolled over onto his back, dragging Derek on top of him.

“I love you,” Stiles said softly, his fingers threading through Derek’s hair.

“I love you too, so much,” Derek replied, kissing Stiles again, deeper this time.

Stiles moaned softly, spreading his thighs to make room for Derek between them. He could already feel Derek’s dick pressing against his hip, hard and demanding, Stiles’ cock already half-hard itself. He hooked his calf around the back of Derek’s thigh as Derek rocked against him.

“Why did we sleep with clothes on?” Derek muttered against Stiles’ lips, his hands already moving to push at the waist of Stiles’ sweatpants.

“Because it’s getting cooler and I move around too much at night to sleep naked,” Stiles replied with a chuckle. “I get cold when I roll away from you.”

Plus, Stiles was used to sleeping with his clothes on. It was something he’d picked up over the last twenty years, always ready to fight… always reaching for his gun, which was something that was hard for him to break over the last year during their travels.

“No clothes,” Derek growled as he pushed Stiles’ sweatpants the rest of the way down so Stiles could kick them away. “We’ll raise the heat.”

Stiles was laughing softly still as they continued to kiss.

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles breathed, his hands moving to push Derek’s sweatpants off his hips, working them down until he could use his long legs to strip Derek out of them. Derek broke their kiss long enough to yank Stiles’ shirt off and then crushed their lips together again.

Stiles moaned, rolling his hips against Derek, chasing the friction he badly needed as he felt Derek’s dick slide against his. He broke from the kiss, tilting his chin up and Derek wasted no time in dropping kisses and bites to his neck that shot straight to Stiles’ dick.

God, when Derek left marks on his neck it made his dick ache and leak, even though he already had a matebond. Having everyone being able to see that he belonged to Derek did things to Stiles. He loved it and he knew that Derek did too.

“Mmm, fuck,” Stiles breathed. “Get the lube. Need to feel you inside of me.”

Derek nipped at his neck and gave a disapproving sound at having to move away, which was normal, but Stiles managed not to chuckle as Derek withdrew and shifted over to grab the nightstand drawer. He yanked it open and fished out the lube, handing it to Stiles.

Stiles grinned and gripped the lube bottle, flipping the cap and squirted some into his hand before pressing it between them and gripping Derek’s dick. Derek groaned, dropping his face against Stiles’ shoulder as Stiles slicked him up.

“Stretch me on your cock,” Stiles breathed against Derek’s ear and Derek couldn’t do anything but nod as Stiles pressed Derek’s dick between his asscheeks and rubbed his sensitive cockhead over his hole.

“You’re gonna kill me,” Derek teased, catching Stiles’ mouth in a kiss.

“At least it’ll be a good death,” Stiles joked back and gasped as Derek pressed forward, forcing his way into Stiles’ body.

“Fuck,” Stiles gasped, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as his eyelids fluttered closed. His head dropped back against the bed, his body arching against Derek and taking him deeper until Derek bottomed out and they both let out desperate sounds. “God, I love it when you do that, making me open for you. You feel so damn good.”

“Mine,” Derek growled, punctuating it with a thrust of his hips and his mouth dropping to Stiles’ neck as Stiles turned his head. Derek scraped his teeth over Stiles’ mating bite, which caused Stiles to groan as he wrapped his legs around Derek.

“Yours,” Stiles breathed, letting himself go as he felt Derek through their matebond. A wash of warmth and love and desire that echoed his own. He threaded his fingers through Derek’s hair, cupping the back of his head as Derek worried his mark. “God, Derek. All yours. Always.”

He felt Derek’s fangs teasing his neck and god, Stiles wanted Derek to bite him and renew their bond, but first, he wanted —

“Fuck me,” Stiles begged, his nails digging into Derek’s shoulder as he clawed at him with blunt nails. When Derek pulled out and thrust back into him, Stiles moaned as Derek nailed his prostate.

And god, when Derek started moving in earnest, Stiles couldn't do more than take it as Derek’s hips pistoned perfectly, fucking him hard. Stiles’ toes curled, his long legs squeezing tighter around Derek.

“Derek, fuck—Derek—” Stiles gripped Derek’s hair and pulled him up into a kiss. Stiles kissed him thoroughly as they rocked together, Derek’s fang knicking his lips and tongue but Stiles didn't care. He loved it when Derek shifted for him because it meant that Derek was sharing all of himself with Stiles. That he trusted and loved him enough to do that.

“Stiles—” Derek slurred through his fangs, pressing his forehead against Stiles’, like he was struggling for control.

“I’ve got you,” Stiles panted, kissing Derek again. “Flip us.”

Derek nodded, holding onto Stiles as he shifted and rolled onto his back, gripping Stiles’ hips firmly.

Stiles grinned down at Derek, settling on him until Derek’s dick was pressing deep inside of him, stretching him in the best ways. Derek’s cock felt so much thicker when Stiles rode him.

“You’re so fucking hot when you’re shifted.” Stiles kissed Derek, Derek’s arm wrapping around him and holding him close. Stiles could taste his blood on Derek’s lips and tongue, the metallic tang reminding him how sharp Derek’s fangs were and it only made his dick harder. “I need you to knot me.”

“You know I won't ever turn down that request,” Derek replied, thrusting his hips up, showing how much he didn't mind. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Stiles replied softly, kissing Derek again as they started to move, Stiles easily rising and falling on Derek’s cock, the muscles in his thighs tense, his hands moving to brace himself against the headboard.

Stiles whimpered and Derek groaned under him as they moved in tandem until Derek’s hands gripped Stiles’ hips so hard that he knew he’d have bruises in a few hours. He whined as Derek held him still, fucking up into him, skin slapping together with the force of his thrusts.

“Fuckfuckfuck—I’m gonna, oh fuck—Derek, knot me,” Stiles begged, lips parted with desperate, needy sounds escaping as he fought for control. He didn't want to come until Derek was knotted inside of him, but god, he was so close.

Derek yanked Stiles down onto his cock and ground against him, Stiles’ hands dropping to Derek’s chest, his hips rolling and grinding with Derek’s until he felt Derek’s dick start to swell.

“God, Stiles. Gonna knot you up and fill you until you’re leaking,” Derek panted, a rumble coming out of him that Stiles always swore was a purr. And it was always so fucking hot.

Stiles captured Derek’s lips in a desperate kiss, needing more as Derek’s knot swelled until they were locked together. It was always so overwhelming in the best ways as Derek’s knot stretched him impossibly full, pressing against his prostate until Stiles tensed above him.

And then he was coming, white and hot between them, painting Derek’s chest and stomach with his come.

Stiles’ toes curled as his ass squeezed Derek’s knot, fluttering and milking him through his own orgasm as Stiles felt Derek’s knot pulsing come into him over and over again. His dick jerked weakly, blurting more come onto Derek as he thought about how if things were different, Derek could get him pregnant like this and god Stiles wanted that when he felt like this. Perfect and whole and swimming in Derek’s pleasure like an unending loop through their bond.

He kissed Derek without coordination, rubbing their lips together and pressing their foreheads together as he felt Derek’s arms wrapped around him, his mate’s hands running up and down his back in soothing strokes.

“Never gonna get used to that,” Derek panted, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. “You’re amazing.”

Stiles laughed, but it sounded more like a drunk giggle.

“Mmmm, same to you,” Stiles replied with a lazy kiss. “I love you so much, more than anything.”

“You’re my everything,” Derek said softly, holding Stiles flush against him despite the sticky mess between them. Stiles didn't care. It marked Derek as his and he loved that anyone with a supernatural nose would know that Derek was his by scent alone.

“I know what you mean.” Stiles nuzzled against Derek’s neck, breathing in deeply and letting his scent wash over him.

Everything was perfect, if even for a moment, in a small town in Virginia where no one could take away their happiness. And Stiles would do anything to keep it that way, living the rest of his days with Derek right here, wrapped in each other's arms.

[corinthianism]

everything has changed | dean winchester (2)

pairing: dean winchester/f!reader additional tags: reverse isekai, fluff, crack, meet cute, slight angst

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter | ao3

CHAPTER TWO: GREEN EYES, FRECKLES, AND YOUR SMILE

Your alarm blared to life at 7:00AM, shocking you awake as the morning sun hit your eyes like it was trying to blind you. The offending sound was cut short by a prompt smack of your hand. You rolled over onto your back and rubbed your eyes, the sleep fading away slowly as you blinked up at the ceiling. The bed was warm and plush under you, inviting you back to the dream world with every passing moment that you didn’t move. You were tempted to accept that invitation. Then, your drowsiness vanished altogether like a popped bubble as you remembered yesterday’s events.

You met Dean Winchester in the flesh, and he was staying at your house.

That was enough to jog you awake, sitting upright and rubbing the tiredness from your eyes again as you contemplated on what to do. A quick glance to the side let you know that your bedroom door was slightly ajar, so you decided to get your robe from the foot of your bed and see if yesterday was just a fever dream.

The fuzzy slippers kept your feet off of the cold wooden floors, though you took great care in making sure your footsteps were quiet as you wrapped your robe tightly around you, padding over to the living room to check if your suspicions were true. At first glance, it seemed that everything was completely normal… until you saw sock-clad feet poking out from the armrest of your couch.

The couch was facing away from you and as you got closer, you saw a wallet and keys on the coffee table in front of it. A few more steps even closer, and there was the familiar mousy brown mop of hair that belonged to none other than Dean Winchester, who was sleeping soundly in your living room. His soft snores filled the room, his right arm hooked under the pillow his head was resting on. His other hand was under the pillow as well. He was wearing one of your exes’ old shirts, which was luckily just his size, and old sweatpants that had belonged to your grandfather. On top of him was a thick blanket that you always kept on the couch, for the nights that you wanted to snuggle up and get warm while watching a movie. It made Dean look a little bit small. If the circumstances that led him here weren’t so odd, you might’ve felt more warm and fuzzy inside at the sight in front of you.

“Should I wake him up?” you wondered. Even asleep, he looked so exhausted. Handsome, yes, but exhausted nonetheless. You reached out to tap his shoulder, only for him to jolt awake and you were met face to face with the barrel of the pistol he was hiding under the pillow.

“WHAT THE FU— DEAN! It’s me!” you put your hands up in panicked surrender, “It’s me! From yesterday!”

“Where am I?” he grumbled sleepily, squinting his eyes despite his gun being perfectly aimed at your head.

“You’re at my house!” you almost-yelled, exasperated. “You were bleeding out on the curb yesterday and we talked at the diner?”

After a few moments of just… staring at each other, he finally seemed to process what was going on, letting out a soft “oh” as he lowered his gun and placed it on your coffee table next to his other stuff, “Sorry ‘bout that, sweetheart.”

“It’s fine— actually, it’s not,” you nearly conceded. “Please don’t point a gun at my face ever again.”

“I thought you were… somethin’ bad,” he murmured, letting his head fall back onto the pillow, those last two words being muffled by the fabric. It took him a couple of seconds to pull himself back up and lean against the couch, looking up at you. “Uh, thanks for letting me crash here tonight.”

“No problem,” you nodded slowly, looking at everything except for him. You cleared your throat, “Coffee?”

“Please.”

Dean was a surprisingly neat house guest, but it might’ve just been because it was his first night here with you. The two of you settled across from each other on the island countertop of your kitchen.

He took a sip of his black coffee, eyes darting around to inspect his surroundings, “This is a nice place you got here.”

“Thanks,” you hummed appreciatively. You worked your ass off to buy this house, which was a near-Herculean feat in this day and age. It was your space, and it was very you. You were proud of that. “Took a while before I got it though. I used to rent an apartment with some friends, but the inheritance from my grandpa helped a lot, too.”

“Oh, well… good for you.”

You wanted the ground to swallow you alive. Small talk hurt you like nothing else, though it seemed the same could be said for Dean, whose gaze was now avoiding yours, much like what you had done earlier in the living room.

“So,” you looked up at him when he spoke, “you know a good chunk about me, ‘cause of that… Supernatural show.”

“I guess? The CW cancelled it back in, what? 2011? When Misha Collins died, so there’s definitely a lot I don’t know now,” you told him, absentmindedly stirring your coffee.

“Misha who?”

“He played Castiel.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you sighed. “It’s a shame, I met him once. He was nice.”

He gave you a sympathetic look, knowing that that man’s death was another life lost because of his job. “So the show just… stopped?” he asked, trying to confirm your earlier statement. “You don’t know anything that happens after?”

You shook your head.

Dean chuckled dryly, “Can’t say I’m complaining, I’d rather not have a whole ‘nother universe watch the literal story of my life.”

That earned him a quiet laugh from you, “I don’t blame you. It’s, um, pretty sad. No offense.”

“None taken, you’re right,” he managed to give you a small smile, “say, I think it’s just fair that I get to know you. Since I’m crashing here in the meantime and all.”

And there it was again: the urge to jump through the window now that he was staring at you, waiting for you to tell him about yourself. Dean motherfucking Winchester wanted you to tell him about yourself. Same dude who went face to face with archangels, regular shmegular angels, demons, and whatever else since it was clear that his life kept going long after Supernatural ended.

You couldn’t stop your anxiety from creeping in, “Yeah, uh, I don’t think you’d wanna hear about it. I’m a pretty boring person.”

“Sweetheart, after everything my brother and I have been through? I think boring is pretty great,” he winked at you, something that you would’ve never thought in a million years that Jensen Ackles would do to you, let alone Dean himself. It was bizarre, the way your hands suddenly got very sweaty and how the words couldn’t really escape your throat.

“I… uh…” you stuttered. “I graduated a couple years ago? Lied on my CV, got this really nice remote job. I… don’t really go out much, which is kinda disappointing, considering my major.”

If he noticed the self-deprecating remark you made, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he got this glimmer in his eyes as he listened to you intently, “What’d you study?”

Your brain nearly short-circuited right then and there. It was pretty fucking sad, how such a simple question had you freezing up like a clam. You scrambled to regain your composure, trying not to mess this up and send this semi-okay conversation into the trash, “Archaeology.”

If there was a glimmer in his eyes before, there were fireworks in them now, “Woah, like Indiana Jones?”

The laugh came out before you could even register it, and maybe it was just in your head, but Dean looked mighty proud of himself for being the one to coax it out of you.

“Yeah, like Indiana Jones. I’m just… not doing a lot of exploring or anything,” you smiled. “But I had a lot of fun studying it, surprisingly. It’s just a shame I never got to actually use my degree for the job I have now. You don’t exactly need to have an archaeology degree to be a customer service provider.”

“It’s never too late to start,” he grinned, before leaning forward and donning this almost-really-serious expression, “wait, how old are you?”

“Younger than you,” you responded in a rare show of cheekiness, taking a sip of your coffee as he rolled his eyes, “but thanks, maybe one of these days I’ll go uncover some ancient mysteries or something.”

“Now that’s something I’d pay to see,” he smiled sincerely.

The next few hours were spent not doing much. Dean’s wound was still fresh, and without the help of a certain angel friend, moving about too much could tear the stitches. There was one perk of not having a life: you had a shit ton of vacation days that you decided to take advantage of after breakfast. You figured two weeks off was enough to help Dean, since there was no way Sam and Castiel weren’t already trying to get him back. And because you didn’t wanna piss off your boss. That was a pretty big factor, too.

Dean was restless, most likely a result of how demanding and taxing his job was, but you stayed surprisingly firm when he mentioned his plan of going back to that sidewalk to see if he could find any clues that could help him get back home. Guilt blossomed in your chest for not allowing him to do much, but the risk of his stitches tearing and compromising his ability to protect you should anything follow you to your home was too great. You had to look out for yourself, too, though the idea of him being in pain again certainly didn’t help convince you to agree to his plans.

He was currently in the living room, where you had set up HBO for him so he could just watch something while you went about your day. You managed to dig out some more clothes for him to wear, just in case he felt like showering. You wanted to go to Goodwill and get him some new clothes, since it seemed he would be staying with you for quite a while.

“Dean?” you called out to him.

He paused the show he was watching, which upon further inspection turned out to be The Last of Us, and turned his head to face you, “Yeah?”

“I’ll just go out for a bit. I’ll be back in thirty-ish minutes maybe?”

“Woah, woah, woah, hang on. What do you mean you’re going out? It’s not safe,” he said, his back suddenly straightening as he stood up. “I’ll come with you.”

“Dean, it’s just a quick milk run.”

“Exactly. I’m probably not gonna tear my stitches on a milk run, right?”

You couldn’t argue with his logic, and also because a very big part of you would feel better with him around, even if you were just going to buy a few clothes.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he got closer to you, placing his hands on your shoulders in an effort to get you to agree, “I’d feel a lot better if I could stay there with you since you’ve helped me so much already.”

You deflated under his gaze, unable to do much other than relent because goddamn it, how could anyone say no to him? Maybe he learned a thing or two about puppy dog looks from his brother. It was infuriating. And it also echoed your sentiments from yesterday, about him staying with you instead of at some run-down motel.

With a defeated sigh, you cocked your head as a sign for him to come with you to the garage. He grinned and got his now-spotless jacket, which you had washed thoroughly the night before.

Now that you thought about it, you decided to go to Target instead, suddenly feeling embarrassed if you were to bring Dean to Goodwill of all places. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but you figured you could afford to spend a little more on the man that saved the world. Well, his world.

“Okay, wait,” he grabbed your wrist. “Do you have a sharpie?”

“What for?”

“Anti-possession,” he explained. “I’ll just try my best to draw it on your arm or something.”

Your eyes widened, simultaneously because you realized that possession was definitely a real threat now, but mostly because he didn’t need to draw anything on your arm.

“Uh, Dean?”

He looked up at you, brows furrowed in concern, “What is it?”

You froze, “I don’t think I’m gonna need it.”

Before he could ask any more questions, you turned around and pulled the collar of your shirt down, revealing a small anti-possession tattoo of your own.

“Please don’t ask. I was young and stupid,” you cringed, letting go of the fabric to cover it back up.

“I wouldn’t say it was stupid,” he chuckled, intrigued by the story behind the tattoo, since you were definitely not getting chased by demons at any point in your life besides maybe now. “It saves us some time, at least.”

You nodded stiffly, opting to head straight to the garage to get your car. He followed after you.

Dean let out a wolf whistle, “Oh, would you look at that…”

In your garage was a cherry-red 1965 Ford Mustang, an all-American car if you ever saw one. Your companion clearly liked what he saw, briefly looking over at you as if asking for permission to swoon over the car, which you happily gave him.

“Hell yeah,” he grinned to himself, immediately going over to look at very little thing the car had to offer. “Oh, she’s beautiful. She got a name?”

You smiled fondly at the sight of him looking so giddy, “Yeah, my grandpa called her Monroe.”

“Like the actress?”

“Yep,” you nodded, putting your hands in your pockets as you walked over to where he was standing. “Wanna take her for a ride?”

That question alone made Dean look at you as if you hung the sun, moon, and stars in the sky. His lips curled up into a soft smile, “You sure, sweetheart? It’s your car after all.”

“Well, how many girls can say Dean Winchester drove them around?” you smirked, tossing him the keys from your pocket.

His hand gripped the keys tightly, like he was holding a rare gem. Or like Rose holding her big gaudy Heart of the Ocean necklace from Titanic. After you opened the garage door, Dean wasted no time in taking the car out and feeling the fine leather seats under him that were so reminiscent of his Baby’s. Only a day has passed and it was clear once you hopped in that he was missing a certain Impala.

“So, where we headin’ to, ma’am?” he cleared his throat, giving you his signature charismatic smile, his eyes still lingering on every nook and cranny of the Mustang.

“Target.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s only a few blocks from here.”

“What’re we doing there?”

You turned to him, flashing him a winning smile, “We’re going shopping.”

He just shrugged, not questioning your choice. The radio beside the steering wheel caught his attention, prompting him to turn it on out of curiosity about what a woman like you liked to listen to. With a press of a button, the radio came to life.

“—For times when my life seems so low

It would make me believe what tomorrow could bring

When today doesn’t really know

Doesn’t really kn—”

“Air Supply?” he asked, surprised. “You listen to Air Supply?”

Your cheeks heated up with embarrassment, causing you to sink in your seat, bracing for some judgment on his part, “...They’re good.”

“Never said they weren’t,” he grinned, leaning forward to turn up the volume as he drove. He began to lip-sync to the rest of the lyrics, fisting the air as the song reached its iconic chorus.

“I’m all out of love, I’m so lost without you

I know you were right believing for so long

I’m all out of love, what am I without you?

I can’t be too late to say that I was so wrong”

He went as far as to nod his head to the music, glancing at you every now and then to see the way your eyes watered from laughing so hard. He cracked a satisfied smile, turning his attention back to the road as Target came into view. It didn’t take him long to park the Mustang, leaving the passenger’s seat to go over to your side and open the car door for you. He’d done it so easily, so nonchalantly, that you almost didn’t think much of it until you got to the main entrance when you felt his hand lightly brush over the small of your back.

When the cool air of the store hit you, so did the realization that he was so close to you. Your shoulders were practically touching as you walked, and you couldn’t help the way your face got hot whenever he gently placed his hand on your shoulder whenever you made a turn.

Finally, you reached the menswear section of Target.

“Oh, are you buyin’ clothes for someone?” he asked, looking around, though you saw the way his eyes lingered on the canvas jackets and the plaid shirts, all conveniently organized together in one area.

“For you,” you patted his shoulder.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “You’re already letting me borrow some.”

“Yeah, like… two shirts and one pair of sweatpants. And you’re only wearing those pants right now because I threw them in the laundry as soon as you took a shower,” you put your hand on your hip, eyeing his jeans.

He looked away, suddenly embarrassed because he knew you were right. You grabbed his wrist, pulling him towards the racks of canvas jackets he was staring at moments before, “What’s your size?”

He took a deep breath, “...Large.”

“Great,” you grinned at him, starting to peruse the jacket options in front of you. Truthfully, the prices made you die inside a little bit, but you wanted to do something nice for Dean. He was your guest and he agreed to keep you safe. You didn’t miss the way he would constantly glance at you as soon as you stepped out of your garage.

And you hoped that maybe, once he went home, it would be like bringing a piece of you and your world along with him. Something to remember you by. It’d only been a day and he was already the best company you’ve had in the last few years.

“Holy shit! Is that Jensen Ackles?” you heard someone say from behind you and Dean. He turned around, immediately putting himself in front of you as a teenage boy got closer. An older man, who you assumed was his dad, wasn’t too far behind. “Dude, can I take a picture with you?”

The boy was no more than sixteen. Thick black-rimmed glasses sat on his nose, where snot glistened disgustingly under the overhead department store lights. Blond hair was stuck to his sweaty forehead, a large dark patch under his armpits: all tell-tale signs of a would-be incel, if he wasn't already.

Dean smiled awkwardly at the boy and sighed, “Sorry, kid. I can’t.”

He must’ve expected the kid to just accept that answer and leave, but to his surprise, the boy was persistent. Annoyingly persistent.

“Come on, bro! It’s just one photo!” the teen pushed. The dad wasn't doing anything to get his kid to behave, too distracted by some phone call.

“Kid,” Dean spoke firmly, “I really can’t right now.”

At this second rejection, the kid got this indignant look in his eyes, his attention turning to you. “Is that your girlfriend?”

“What?”

Without warning, the kid took out his phone and started recording, pointing the camera at you and Dean, “Guys, look what I found! Jensen Ackles is like, alive! And he has a new girlfriend!”

“Fuck,” Dean muttered under his breath. “Hey, kid, can you stop that?”

The boy ignored him, still shakily recording without a care in the world. His father was still busy talking to someone on the phone.

“Okay, you know what? Give me that,” Dean frowned, snatching the phone away. The kid yelped in surprise, his eyes widening comically so.

“Give it back!” the kid pushed his glasses back up. “Give. It. Back!”

Dean sported a shit-eating grin, “Or what?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say the kid started reddening like a cartoon character out of anger, steam blowing from his ears. He ran towards Dean, not unlike a rabid animal. Now it was Dean’s turn to flinch in surprise, nearly losing grip of the phone when the kid managed to get his grubby little hands on it. Despite the whole thing lasting about five seconds, it was almost like everything happened in slo-mo.

It was ridiculous to watch. Ridiculous probably wasn’t even enough to describe it. A forty-something man and a pubescent kid playing tug o’ war over a phone. Said forty-something man also being a fictional character that got sucked into your world.

It was enough to write a New York Times bestseller about.

The phone fell to the floor, its screen shattering into tiny little glass fragments. The sound of it hitting the ground finally got the kid’s dad to look; first at his kid, then to Dean, then to you, then to the broken phone.

The matching look of utter anguish on his and his son’s faces told you that that phone was probably incredibly expensive.

You and Dean shared a look, one that confirmed that you both had the same thought:

Run.

And so you did.

He grabbed your hand, breaking into a sprint as the father’s brain seemed to finally catch up with what was happening. The teen boy started cursing at the two of you, using words that he most definitely learned from the darkest depths of the Internet. The boy’s yelling attracted the attention of other customers, and as more eyes turned to you and Dean (who they would only know as the guy who plays Dean), the sight of the main exit of Target had never looked sweeter.

Though the other customers weren’t really doing anything except look at you, it made the whole store feel extremely claustrophobic. Dean tugged on your sleeve, forcing you to run faster and match his pace.

As soon as you got out of Target, very narrowly avoiding the guard thanks to the guy’s delayed reaction to what was happening, Dean fished your Mustang’s keys out of his pocket, fumbling with them a little bit before getting in and inserting the keys into the ignition.

He waited for you to get in, and like so many times before with his beloved Baby, he floored it and drove away with a victorious laugh.

“Oh my god!” you gasped, breathing heavily. The rearview mirror showed the father-son duo from hell jog out of the building, still yelling profanities at you.

Dean was still laughing, having seen the same thing in the rearview mirror from his side.

“I should feel bad but I really don’t,” his laughter simmered down to an amused chuckle. “Kid had it coming.”

“That’s so mean!” you smacked his arm, though you were still smiling.

He turned to you briefly, “Well, we can’t have the world thinking Jensen Ackles suddenly reappeared outta nowhere, right? And with a new girlfriend, no less. I bet that would be a scandal.”

You tried to suppress the blush starting to bloom in your cheeks at the mention of being mistaken for his girlfriend, “Yeah, you can say that again.”

“Sorry about that,” he apologized out of the blue.

“Huh?”

“You were gonna do something nice for me,” he told you. “And then that happened.”

“When in doubt, blame the kid,” you reassured him with a smile. He threw his head back as he laughed at this, before reaching for the radio. This time, “You’re Still The One” by Shania Twain started playing.

And everything was alright again.

author's note: hope you guys enjoyed the second chapter! let me know what you think and as always, likes and reblogs are always appreciated!

taglist: @delfonicstheme-blog @deans-spinster-witch @nancymcl @tiredstrangerr (let me know in the comments if you'd like to be added to the taglist!)

[oacest]

hii oacest scholars!! i have been recently reading a lot of your blog and asks (also those fic recs are god tier!!!) and i was curious about the history of this collective account and how it came about? and thank you for all the (frankly prize worthy) work you do!!!

WELL. funny story lol. the three of us have a mutual friend (who prefers to remain nameless so shall henceforth be called Friend of the Blog, aka fotb) who got hella into oasis about two years ago. we chortled! we smirked! we even pointed and laughed! "the wonderwall band??" we said. "how incredibly cringe. okay girl go with god!" (obvs we are all north americans lmao.) a year passed. then i (trill) saw this post randomly on my dash and went Wait What..?? a brief investigation revealed the loch lomond kiss, which i sent to jackie, my regular partner in crime. she went "omg let me check with fotb to see if this is anything 👀." it was indeed Something, and fotb hooked us up with a selection of primers, fic recs, and blog suggestions. jackie, who doesn't usually like incest but is a good bro (if you will...), looped in the third of our triumvirate, bal. they watched supersonic together that same morning on a whim, after which bal furtively went off to read all the aforementioned primers and recs. a week later i had glanced at the provided material, shrugged, and moved on with my life. bal however saw the writing on the wall. jackie and i spent a week pointing and laughing at HER. (bal: to which i retaliated with a devastating dripdripdrip of insanely compelling details about the brothers).

[for the purposes of this post's historical accuracy, jackie spent about an hour backscrolling through tumblr's horrid chat to find and screenshot our (restrospectively hilarious) Very First Exchange about it, for posterity]:

(shoutout to me equating larry with mclennon + jackie instantly namedropping the mcpoyles 💀. well at least we have gerard and mikey.)

finally jackie weakened and one day i received a tremulous message.... "UH OH!" it said (spiritually, not literally). then it was only me pointing and laughing, alone in the world 😔. PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME READ FICS i cried, but alas. i was made to read fics. the deal was sealed. a week after that i realised we could start a shared blog together in order to collect and organise the massive amount of mind-shattering information we were absorbing at breakneck speed. jackie, pun queen criminal, remarked "why is it called gcest when oacest is right there?" and against all odds that url was free. bal's indomitable scholastic spirit kicked in. a queue and a tag system emerged. archive dot org received a 3000% increase in oasis-based searches. it was all down(?)hill from there.

[a few additional screenshots that span across the following couple of weeks, illustrating the humiliating heel turn that occurred]:

we joke ("joke") that we're in a polycule with oasis, bc we all fell insanely catastrophically in love with it in exactly the same way and to the same life-altering degree. the sort of crazed infatuation where you can't eat, can't sleep, can't think about ANYTHING else. our various latent drinking and smoking habits went into panicked self-medicating overdrive. we neglected our friends, family, pets, and personal hygiene. i personally spent two weeks with a severe hand tremor and thankfully my actual irl boyfriend happened to choose that particular month to go visit his other partner bc otherwise he would surely have broken up with me for ghosting him (bad poly etiquette on my part smfh). all we did, every day all day, was talk about oasis, watch oasis, think about oasis, dream about oasis, listen to oasis, read about oasis,,,, you get the idea. 🎶 boss makes a dollar, we make a dime, that's why we think about brotherfuckin on company time 🎶. after about five months we had finally juuuuust reached the sort of deeply committed equilibrium where we could start tentatively thinking and caring about other things part-time.

and then august 25th rolled around. :)

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Have you seen the movie gifted? It never fails to make me cry, Chris does so well in it and so does Makena god that girl knows how to act.

Honestly one of my favourite movies to date, father daughter duos are my fave. Chris acting as a parental figure is so sweet!! And who doesn't love a rough exterior guy who's good with kids.

It always loops me around to thinking about Steve having a kid dropped on him and having to navigate being a father, maybe a one night stand turned baby mama 9 months later who wants nothing to do with a baby.

Steve would be such a good dad too, I know he'd want the best for his kid. He'd have a big freak out initially and struggle but once he gets used to it a bit more he just loves it. He loves his kid and he knew that as soon as he laid eyes on the kid but now he actually has time to sit and just FEEL it. His little baby has his eyes and it makes him want to sit and cry.

One winter soldier saga later, Bucky is back and finds out Steve has a kid, maybe 2 or 3 at this point. Bucky is nervous staying with Steve while he's healing to begin with but with a kid in the house? No way. Steve manages to wrangle him to stay and Bucky and the baby actually form a little bit of a cute connection.

When Steve and Bucky find their romantic side again and Bucky is free from the hydra shit in his head, they really form their own little family. And god the domesticity of it all makes me want to cry and sob and cry. They'd both be such good dads and sooo protective, the best protected kid around I'm sure you can imagine.

I can totally see Steve and Bucky being the type of parents to be anxious messes when their baby starts school and their kid is as confident as ever, not even looking back as they run off to find friends.

Ragggh it just makes me wanna cry.

Parent Stucky for life 💔💔‼️‼️

I haven't seen Gifted (note my tag "watch? party?" lol). But, from the clips/gifs on Tumblr, it seems really sweet and like, yeah, they both do wonderfully in it!

Even though I haven't seen it, it's still wild to me whenever I realize just how old McKenna is now, haha. Like, she's still acting, but most often, because I'm not an avid consumer of movies/TV/series, I come across her in the music scene and like... when did this little girl turn into a teenage punk rock icon? 💀💀

I love it.

"And who doesn't love a rough exterior guy who's good with kids."

I have no idea! I don't even want kids personally, or really like kids all that much (I didn't grow up around younger kids and so they're a total mystery to me, lol) and it still gets me, lmao. Especially when it's Chris and/or stucky.

Steve would be such a good dad, yeah!! He'd take after his mama and be great at it <3 Definitely an adjustment, too, but he can handle it.

"He loves his kid and he knew that as soon as he laid eyes on the kid but now he actually has time to sit and just FEEL it. His little baby has his eyes and it makes him want to sit and cry."

AW

I am so amused by the idea that Steve either continues to have accidental children with one night stands because, one, that's just funny to me, two, how carried away can you get, wouldn't you learn your lesson after one misstep, no matter how much you love your baby, wrap that super dick up, Steven, and, three, not so funny, but I can actually see that happening because if this is canon Steve, why would people stop at trying to steal his blood? They'd probably also want his super serum babies, too. Then, maybe it's not that he's forgetting to wrap it before he taps it, but those pretty gals are poking holes in his condoms, acting as more heads of HYDRA 👀

So, my addition to this is me saying more kids. Not just one. By the time Bucky shows up, I want him to have two or three, haha. Like, Bucky is so fucking confused. He's like, there is one child... okay, there are two?... wait. THREE?! STEVEN, I TOLD YOU TO NOT DO ANYTHING STUPID UNTIL I GOT BACK. WHY DO YOU HAVE THREE OFFSPRING. AND--w-without me? 👉🏻👈🏻

Oh my god, though, yeah, Bucky is reeling from that. He doesn't know what to make of it. He is very much refusing at first, but I think it would end up being really good for him.

Besides, it's cute. Steve feels very, very domestic with a kid (or two) and Bucky in his house.

Exactly! The domesticity! Just their little family. Adorable <3

Oh, for sure, they're anxiety ridden parents. They both got to therapy ('cause god they need it), and they go to therapy together, and their therapist is constantly, gently reminding them that they shouldn't be so overprotective or helicoptering their kid(s). Like, sure, it's logical for the kid(s) of Captian America and The Winter Soldier, but it's only logical to a certain extent. Their baby needs to be able to have alone time and develop their own independence, too. They're teaching their kid(s) and learning themselves, too.

If you're still in the mood for kid fics, might I suggest:

"Setting: In A Honeymoon" by me

and

"you will always be my favorite form of loving" by thiccbuckybarnes

and that's it because I don't normally read kid fics myself, haha

[vodika-vibes]

Yo, could i get a Delta Squad story where Boss brings in his firstborn child to the squad? Hehehehe

Delta Squad's New Addition

Summary: Two months after his son was born, Boss decides it's time to introduce him to his uncles.

Pairing: Clone Commando Boss x F!Reader

Word Count: 1461

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Boss asks as he watches you carefully bundle the infant up in thicker clothes, “I don’t mind waiting to introduce him to my brothers.”

You roll your eyes, “Boss, babe, you’ve been chomping at the bit to introduce little Alyn to his uncles since the day he was born.” You press the little boy into his father’s arms, “Why do we only own orange clothes for him?”

“Because that’s what color armor I wear. You thought it was cute.” Boss points out dryly.

You pause and squint at him, “And you let me?”

“The first time I tried to suggest that we buy other colors you started crying, so I took the high road and just didn’t mention it ever again.” Boss replies.

“...I cried? Over clothes colors?”

“You were very hormonal.”

“Ugh.” You make a face, “I’m sorry.”

He chuckles and leans over to kiss your temple, “It’s okay. It’s a relatively minor thing, after all.” He watches you carefully pack the diaper bag, and he stops you with a laugh, “Cyare, sweetheart, I am able to do all of this.”

“I know, I know.” You sigh, “I’m just…a little anxious. Your brothers still don’t know about me, and now your introducing Alyn to them, and I just-”

“Everything is going to be fine.”

“What if they scare him?”

“They won’t because then they’ll have to deal with me.” Boss says patiently, “And you need this. You’ve been going non-stop since you got pregnant almost a year ago. You deserve this break.”

“I-”

“Go. Spend time with your friends at the spa.” Boss kisses your forehead, and then ducks his head to brush his lips against yours, “Have a nice, fun, relaxing day. And don’t worry about anything.”

“You’re asking for the impossible, love.”

“Try to not worry about anything.” He lightly tucks some hair behind your ear, “I know worrying comes as naturally as breathing to you, but trust me.”

You sigh and lean into his touch, “I do trust you, I’ll try to not worry so much.” Just then your friend pulls up in the speeder and parks in front of the house. “Um, let me know how it goes?” You kiss Alyn’s forehead, and then look up at Boss.

“Of course.” He kisses you one more time, and then gently nudges you out of the house and into your best friend's waiting embrace. 

He waits until the speeder is gone, before he looks down at the baby in his arms, “So, are you ready to meet your uncles, ad’ika?” Alyn just yawns widely and grips his finger.

Boss steps into the debrief room where his brother’s normally are, and he’s not the least bit surprised to see that the only one there is Fixer. He sets Alyn’s diaper bag on a table, and carefully sets Alyn’s car seat on the table next to the bag, and pulls him out of it.

Fixer stares at the baby, his jaw slightly slack, and then his gaze slides over Boss, who is dressed in casual clothing, and his jaw drops a little more. “Vod…Boss…you…who..-?”

“Where are Sev and Scorch?” Boss asks as he offers Alyn his finger.

“...training room-” Fixer says slowly, “Are we really not going to mention the tubie? I feel like we should talk about the tubie.”

Boss rolls his eyes and then walks across the room to his brother, “Fixer, allow me to introduce you to my son, Alyn.”

“Son. You have a son-?”

“He’s two months old now.” Boss says calmly.

“...where’s his mother?” Fixer asks, his voice hushed as he offers the baby his finger.

“I sent her on a spa day. She’s been going non-stop since she found out she was pregnant a year ago, and deserves a break.” Boss replies, “Do you want to hold him?”

“Can I?”

“Take off your gauntlets and chest piece, and you can.” Boss says easily, a small amused smile crosses his face as Fixer quickly strips the top part of his armor off, faster than he’s ever done it before. Boss chuckles and passes Alyn into his brother’s arms.

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Fixer says quietly, as he looks down at the baby in awe.

“Wife,” Boss corrects with a wry smile, “I have a wife.”

“And you haven’t introduced her to us?” Fixer asks, looking up at his brother, slightly hurt.

“We’ve been busy.” Boss says with a shrug, “And it’s not exactly like it’s legal, vod.”

“...oh. Right.” Fixer mutters, “None of us would have ratted you out, Boss. You have to know that.”

“Course I do. But I also wasn’t about to risk my pregnant wife until I was sure that she was safe.” Boss replies easily, not feeling the least bit guilty about it. “I’ll introduce you all to her when she comes to get Alyn later today.”

Fixer opens his mouth to say something, only to pause when there’s some loud voices, and then Sev and Scorch push their way into the room, and stop as soon as they see Boss in casual clothes and the baby in Fixer’s arms.

“What the kriff-?” Sev breaths out as he walks over to Fixer and peers at the baby in his arms, “Who’s the tubie?”

“Boss’ son,” Fixer replies.

“Son!” Scorch and Sev turn startled eyes towards their brother, “You have a son?”

“Obviously, seeing as he’s right there.” Boss says with a roll of his eyes.

Scorch strips off the top part of his armor and makes grabby hands towards Fixer, “Let me hold the baby,” He whisper hisses, “What’s his name?”

“His name is Alyn, it’s a family name from my wife’s family.”

Scorch and Sev stare at Boss, stunned, “You’re married?” Sev asks blankly, “Since when!?”

“For over a year now. You’ll meet her this evening.” Boss replies as he watches Fixer pass Alyn to Scorch, “She’s taking a rest day at a spa, she deserves it. Seeing as she handled the pregnancy mostly on her own.”

“If you told us-” Scorch says between cooing at the baby.

“Nothing would have changed,” Boss says easily, “I know that. And so does she. Luckily, my wife is amazing enough to handle everything on her own. Though she shouldn’t have to.”

“Are you going to have more?” Sev asks as he peers at Alyn over Scorch’s shoulder.

“Maybe, probably, eventually.” Boss shrugs, “She’s still recovering from Alyn’s birth, so she said we can talk about it in a year, and no sooner.”

“I can’t believe you managed to find a wife and have a son, and I haven’t even found a girlfriend,” Scorch grumbles, though it’s clear that he’s not actually upset.

“Well, he is Boss,” Sev says with a laugh, “It only makes sense.” He pulls of the top part of his armor and sets it next to Fixer’s and Scorch’s, and then he leans over to lightly trail a finger through Alyn’s curly hair, “His hair looks red.”

“Red runs in my wife’s family. Her mother and both of her grandparents are redheads,” Boss explains, “Though she says that he looks like me.”

Three sets of eyes focus on the baby, and then over to Boss, “Yeah. I can see it.” Scorch finally says.

“He does look an awful lot like the tubies back on Kamino,” Fixer notes, “Though I’m sure some of his mother’s features will come in as he ages.”

“He has our curls,” Sev notes with a slightly smug grin.

“Apparently he was born with a full head of hair.” Boss pulls out his comm, and swipes through some pictures, “Ah, here we go.” He turns the device towards his brothers, “My wife, and Alyn, an hour after he was born. We were on a mission, so I couldn’t be there, but my wife’s best friend made sure that I was kept up to date.”

Fixer frowns, “I remember that mission, you were super distracted all day, I thought you were feeling under the weather, not that you were worried about your wife.”

“I tried to hide it.”

“You did a shit job,” Sev says, “Even I picked up on your nerves.”

“Yeah, yeah. I was hoping to be there for the birth, so I was annoyed that I couldn’t be.” Boss says with a scowl, “Besides, we got through just fine.”

“Yeah, if not a little rushed.” Scorch teases, before he hands Alyn to Sev, “You said we’re meeting your wife this afternoon?”

“Yeah. She said she’ll bring food.” Boss replies, “She’s a little nervous about meeting you all. So be nice.”

“We’re always nice!” Scorch says.

“Bullshit.”

“We’ll be on our best behavior for our sister-in-law.” Fixer interjects, “Do you think she’ll bring wedding pictures?”

[hopeforchanges]

Don't mind me, just another petition like your previous ask to make power couple au an official fic :))))))))

haha i might! and i was actually just going to read for the evening and turn in early like a grandma that i truly am - then i saw this come in and yaaay cause it's actually Wednesday and i so rarely have snippets to post on Wednesdays cause i usually update things on Monday. Still, i'm sure that if i write a lil' addition to the power couple au tag, it won't be bad for the:

Optics part 5 (914 words)

The motel smells like mildew. The wallpaper’s peeling, the A/C hums like a dying bat and Anakin ... and Anakin’s on his third chair.

Or rather, what’s left of it after it meets the wall.

“I’m such a fucking idiot!” he shouts, pacing across the carpet in wild circles. “I should’ve known it was a setup! I should’ve answered—I should’ve answered your calls!”

Obi-Wan sighs, heavy. He’s leaning against the wall like he’s aged five years in the past five days. His jacket’s still on, collar tugged open, eyes rimmed with sleeplessness. He'd rather be at home - their home - he bought and let Anakin decorate - but New York never sleeps and neither does the former Senator Palpatine.

So a motel it is.

He doesn't interrupt. Not yet. There is a point just before the wave breaks - when Anakin Skywalker's anger is ready to be extinguished by reason. It quickly morphs into desperation, but Obi-Wan Kenobi is a politician.

He can work with desperation.

Anakin throws a lamp. It sparks once, pathetically.

“And Satine?! Satine?” His voice cracks. “She was all over you like a fucking soap opera! And I just stood there like a dumbass! I left! I left you!”

He’s panting now, hands on his knees, hair sticking to his forehead. The room goes quiet except for his breath and the slow drip of the busted faucet.

“Oh fuck,” Anakin whispers.

He straightens up, pale, trembling. “Oh fuck me, the ring. I—I threw the ring in the fucking ocean.”

His voice breaks on the word ocean.

Now.

Obi-Wan’s eyes flicker toward him, then soften. Finally, finally, he pushes off the wall and crosses the room.

“Anakin.”

Anakin’s shaking his head, fingers tugging at his curls. “It had our names on it. You engraved it. I don’t even know where it landed—I didn’t even watch—I just threw it, like—like a tantrum-throwing toddler—”

“Anakin.”

“I’m the worst—”

“Anakin.”

Obi-Wan takes his face in both hands. Anakin freezes.

“The ring,” Obi-Wan says gently, “is exactly where it’s supposed to be.”

Anakin blinks. “At the bottom of the Atlantic?”

“Yes.” Obi-Wan leans in. Their foreheads touch. "A secret no one else knows but us. This whole blue world will carry my love for you, deep under the waves.”

Anakin exhales, shaky. “That’s the gayest shit you’ve ever said.”

Obi-Wan smiles. “I do try.”

Their lips meet like magnets snapping into place.

Soft. Then hungry. Then desperate.

Obi-Wan walks him backward until Anakin hits the mattress, knees bending, breath ragged. His fingers slip under Anakin’s shirt and push it up in one smooth, practiced move—like this is the first time he’s imagined peeling him open.

“I’ll get you a new one,” he murmurs between kisses. “Something subtle. Gold. Flat chain. You’ll wear it around your neck—publicly, it’s just jewelry.”

“But we’ll know,” Anakin breathes, voice already wrecked, hands working fast at Obi-Wan’s collar, yanking it open like it’s offended him personally.

Obi-Wan chuckles low against his mouth, then sucks his lower lip between his teeth until Anakin makes that sound—that one. The one that always meant yes, more, you, now.

Anakin exhales sharply when Obi-Wan’s hands drag across the sharp lines of his waist, thumbs pressing in like punctuation. The shirt vanishes. Obi-Wan’s follows. They strip each other without elegance, like the clothes are in the way of something holy.

“You don’t have to—” Anakin starts, but Obi-Wan catches his face in his hands, all heat and intensity.

“I want to,” he says. “I want you.”

And then he takes him.

Anakin responds like he’s trying to crawl inside him, fingers digging into his back, dragging his nails down ribs and spine.

They move together in a heat-slick blur, Obi-Wan driving him back until Anakin hits the mattress hard enough to bounce. He gasps—but it’s not pain. It’s permission.

Obi-Wan follows him down, knees between his thighs, body heavy, grounding. One hand tangles in Anakin’s hair, the other finds his hip and pulls, dragging him up with a grind that draws a sound from Anakin's throat no one will ever hear from his mouth except for Obi-Wan.

Anakin opens up. Lets it all fall away: the prying eyes, Satine, the ache of things that could’ve been. Lets Obi-Wan fuck it out of him until there’s nothing left but breath and heartbeat and the sound of the bedframe rattling like it's about to confess too.

Obi-Wan hooks one of Anakin’s legs over his hip and lifts, shifting the angle, deeper, sharper. Anakin arches with a strangled groan, clutching at Obi-Wan’s shoulders, his back, anywhere he can hold onto as if he’ll fall apart otherwise.

“You’re still angry,” Obi-Wan murmurs, lips brushing sweat-slick skin.

“I’m furious,” Anakin gasps, biting down on Obi-Wan's neck, right where the signs of heartbeat knocks under the soft skin.

“Good,” Obi-Wan growls, and fucks him harder.

And then nothing but heat and motion and the kind of silence that means everything’s being said at once.

When it’s over, when the motel room has gone too quiet and the only sound is the broken hum of the air conditioner trying and failing to matter, Obi-Wan leans in and kisses the edge of Anakin’s temple. Soft. Almost sorry.

“Next time you throw a ring,” he says, voice rough, "I’ll dive in after it.”

Anakin groans into his shoulder, wrung out and wrecked. “I’ll throw you in first.”

Obi-Wan laughs—quiet and real—and they lie tangled in each other, not touching the parts of themselves that might still break.

****

For interested parties:

Optics: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4