#(that has a stupid amount of branching)

[thelonelyshore-if]

DEMO

Update Wordcount: 107,512 words Total Wordcount: 333,798 words

Hello, everyone! Chapter 3 part 1 is finally here c: Hoping to follow this one up with part 2 in the next few weeks. This was a long time coming and there's so much in here that I can't wait to share. Thank you everyone for your patience, and I hope you enjoy!

In this update you can:

Walk back into town!

Hang out at a gas station! Get to know the owner!

Find a new place to stay! (optional)

Meet Croft! (finally)

Learn about Easthaven from a new, totally unbiased source!

Look into local real estate!

HUGE thanks to my beta readers; they actually and for real saved my life. For this update I went in and made a character builder, so you can skip straight to the new content if you'd like c: Additionally, content warnings have been updated; those can be found here. And the code is now visible!

If you have any feedback, or notice any bugs, feel free to send it to my inbox or post on the game's forum thread.

[lovegasmic]

 IT HAS TO BE NOW ?

XIAO, SCARAMOUCHE, KAEYA + FEM!READER

mdni. semi public sx, exhibitionism, degradation ( scara, he's a little shit ) creampies, cockwarming ( kaeya )

to any other person walking around Wangshu Inn, the sight of Xiao with his arms wrapped around his lovely girlfriend at the top balcony of the inn, brought them only fondness over the couple. luckily none of them dared step into the intimate space, or else they would've noticed the young adepti’s pants slightly lower on his hips, blushed face and shaky exhalations from the tight grip of your hot pussy around his cock.

“xiao...” you gasp, clutching onto the wooden railing right behind your hips, roughly pressing into the soft skin of your ass, “they’ll see” yet he doesn't reply, instead pressing you closer to his chest, sliding in a bit deeper into your heat as the man whines loudly on your neck. you can’t deny Xiao looks utterly cute all whiney and fucked out just from the squeeze of your walls around his length, pressing into you with soft, barely noticeable grinds that’s mostly him staining your insides with immense amounts of precum.

“im so close, please... just a bit more” Xiao huffs, pinning your hips against the rail so you have nowhere to move as he starts to buck into you, taking your creamy pussy right where he wants. one of his hands go unnoticed under your drenched panties, which are just roughly pushed aside and catching the drops of slick that pour out of your cunt, adding enough lubrication to your pretty puffy clit. “cum, I need to feel you cum around me” he hisses, almost in pain from how tight your hole sucks on his length, pulling him nice and deep for his cum to spurt into your pussy as you convulse and cum around him, head hanging low in an attempt to hide the pleasured look on your face from any poor unlucky traveler.

“everyone in the Akademiya is so fuckin' stupid” Scaramouche hisses under his breath, followed by a string of curses that you have no idea who he learnt from. the other thing you wonder about is how is he capable of speaking so much while undoing your shirt buttons, roughly tossing it open for his hands to cup your breasts, tugging on the slightly hardened nipple from the outdoors breeze.

“they can go to their dumb explorations alone I don’t know why they would want me there” your boyfriend complains again, pushing you further until your hands press against the rocky stone behind the Akademiya, right where the path ended and a slightly secluded spot appeared from behind a couple of branches.

“are you sure no one comes around here?” you ask ignoring his complaints, which get cut off suddenly before he grunts.

“yeah I'm sure, besides...” Scaramouche smirks to himself, raising your skirt until the fabric bunches on your hips, roughly pushing your underwear down for two of his fingers to slide across your slit, “you’re so wet, this whole thing turns you on, huh? what a slut”

you try to fight back, you really do but your words die in your throat as soon as Scaramouche’s dick presses against your entrance, inching inside so painfully slow you could only whimper, spreading out your legs for his forcefully thrusting inside your pussy, not giving a fuck if anyone could hear his loud throaty groans of pleasure, nor the loud squelching sound of your cunt getting pounded roughly. it takes you an embarrassing short time to cum, being stimulated since hours earlier did the trick but neither you nor Scaramouche could take your sweet time, and the flutter of your walls is enough to make your boyfriend cum as well, humping into your back for every drop of cum to be deep in your pussy.

a soft spank on your ass and he's quick to fix your panties, watching them wetten by the mixture of your slick and his cum, “see you at home” he smirks and leaves a kiss on your lips, at least now, cheerfully walking back into the Akademiya.

“you’re doing amazing, baby, just hold in a little more” Kaeya whispers in your ear, his voice so soothing you could only nod, although unable to resist the urge to squirm in your place, accidentally squeezing harder against the man’s cock slotted deep inside your walls. his arms clutch harder around your waist, forcing you to sit quietly on his lap, the long skirts you wore enough to cover your laps and the lewd action you were participating in at the second floor of Angel’s share.

you whine, soft and breathy, noticing by the corner of your eye, how Kaeya seemed to be a bit too slow in drinking his last glass of wine, swirling the cup between his palm with a soft smirk always present on your lover’s face. his name comes out of your mouth almost in a beg, to which he replies with a chuckle, “what is it, darling? you’ve been so good so far, I know you can just wait a bit more, can you?” he whispers sultry, bouncing his leg so you choke out on a moan at the sensation of his cock caressing your insides.

“y-yeah, I can” you mutter.

“that’s my good girl” your boyfriend praises in a melodic tone, leaving a soft kiss on your neck before his free hand slides under your skirt, rubbing on your bare puffy clit until your walls quiver around his cock, ripping a groan out of his lips and a follow up praise. “i wish for nothing else than bending and fucking you right here” he sighs, deep and full of lust as you hiccup in need, “but we can’t leave just yet, that’d be a pity” Kaeya mocks, continuing his assault on your clit as his uncovered eye glimmers with amusement, adoring how your forehead rests against the table, eyes closed shut and whines coming out freely out of your mouth. he just needs to see you cum, to make a mess around his cock with a broken sob and nails digging in the wood of the bench for plenty of people to wonder what were those marks made from.

[miiyas]

heian era sukuna who swears that all forms of love are futile and unnecessary. he feels it, he understands it, but he just finds it pointless to him.

heian era sukuna who took you in out of amusement after finding you lost in the woods, his demeanor displaying his usual loud and powerful self.

heian era sukuna who initially wanted to make you a maid, or perhaps a jester for his own entertainment, but went against it in the end. after all, it'll be a waste of such a pretty face, no ?

heian era sukuna finds you in the heart of his botanical garden, helping a few maids pick out an amount of fresh fruit that extends out of the branches. for the first time, sukuna finds you smiling and for the first time, he stares for a little longer.

heian era sukuna who then suddenly invites you to dinner almost every evening, a feast laid out in front of you across the long table. you're both sitting on opposite ends, and a frown itches on the corners of sukunas lips, his eyes rest on your face. you're frowning. why are you frowning ? you were smiling with the maids a while ago, so what's the difference now ? there's a whole feast that can't reach any imaginable standard to any human glutton, so why were you upset ? he pays no mind to it for the first few times, but if this is a continuous habit, he might as well make you a jester, and the thought of it cracks a grin on his hungry lips.

heian era sukuna who finds himself walking past the gardens more often, a place where he pays no mind to. if the botanical burned down, it'll take a few weeks for him to realize before dismissing the matter. but he cant help it. why cant he help it ? that much he rather not find out. you're always residing in the lush of green and herbs and flowers, picking away at fruit and taking stolen bites like eve being lured into the fruit of evil. and sukuna notices this. he notices every time. so it come to a shock of his own and yours when he comes up behind you, reaching out one of his four arms to grab for an apple you've been jumping for without a word, leaving and grumbling on what to make of you.

heian era sukuna who somehow gets to learn of your favorite flower and the lack of it in the garden from a maid. by the end of the week, there's an abundance of the species and sukuna claims that the garden was missing something, brushing you off with a lazy wave of his hand. but something he doesn't miss is the way your eyes shined. for once, there was something more than a subtle shadow forecasting over you, and a strange, disgusting feeling overwhelms him for a moment.

heian era sukuna who has the sudden, odd thought of reopening his love of poetry. his mind has been strumming a few haikus the past few weeks and it was all about you with the blend of comparing you to the gentle breeze of spring and the refreshing summer sun. he's writing again, uraume seemed to notice. all for a pathetic human he just so happened to pick up one day.

heian era sukuna finds himself picking fruit from his garden and greenery more often, all that just to be with you. he doesn't speak much, no, but his actions are growing more sincere, more observant. and he hates how there's a dull pang on the top left of his chest when you smile at him with such generous kindness and not the niceness that he has always been shown by villagers out of the fear of their death.

heian era sukuna understands love. he feels it, he knows what it is and yet has simply rejected it for years. and he wants to continue to reject it. continue to loath it with his whole being ... but god, youre making it so hard for him with that stupid smile and your silly remarks and the way you smell like fresh apples after leaving the garden ... why must you make him love the thing he hates ?

[flowersforbucky]

sucker for you

peter maximoff x reader

word count: 1.2k

i can't stop thinking about how peter would react to reader taking his lollipop from him and putting it in her mouth so here's a little drabble about that

a/n: i should be working on this bucky piece that i started like 3 weeks ago but i just needed to get this out of my system first

warnings/tags: language, use of alcohol (everyone is 21+!!), no use of y/n, peter's pov, and some ✨️tension✨️

Peter didn't know it was possible to get so flustered over a human being.

He's never exactly considered himself to be a ladies man, but around you? He's hopeless. A lost cause. Every time he's near you, it feels like his first very day ever interacting with another person.

From the way that your smile reaches your eyes whenever he makes you laugh with a stupid joke to the way that you always smell sweeter than the candy that he eats too much of, he's been a goner for you since the day he first met you.

And the worst part? You seem to know exactly how to make him blush.

As per usual on Friday nights, yours and Peter's group of friends is hanging out in the woods behind the mansion. You're all lounging around a bonfire that Scott works to keep going strong, talking amongst yourself in pairs.

"You know, I heard Warren telling Scott that he's planning on asking you to the winter gala," Jean snickers to you.

Peter isn't trying to eavesdrop, really. Jean just has zero volume control when she has any amount of alcohol in her system. He'd be able to hear every word she's saying even if you and her weren't sitting right next to him.

He twists the stem of the cherry flavored lollipop that he's sucking on, trying and failing to focus on whatever it is that Kurt's rambling on about. His body is angled away from yours, but he can feel the vibration of your low laughter from where your shoulder rests against his.

"What?" Jean demands when you offer no response other than some giggles and a shake of your head. "You've already turned two people down. You're kinda running low on options at this point.”

Peter had heard that you've been asked to the gala that Charles throws in the name of the X-Men every year. He couldn't lie, he was relieved when he'd found out that you had shot down the suitors - not that he'd ever have the balls to ask you himself. He had no desire to be added to the list of people that you've rejected to a glorified prom.

“So? I can go alone. Going alone is better than going with anyone who isn't the person that I actually want to go with,” you answer with a shrug of your shoulders.

Peter tenses at your words, his stomach doing a somersault.

“And who would that be?” Jean asks in a teasing voice, almost like she already knows the answer.

Before you can respond, Peter quickly shoots to his feet. Kurt comes to a sudden stop in the middle of a sentence, and both you and Jean turn to look up at him from where you still sit on the old, fallen tree that is being used as a bench.

“Where're you going?” You ask. Peter knows it's probably wishful thinking, but he can't help but think that there's a hint of disappointment in your voice.

“Back to the mansion. I've gotta take a whiz,” he retorts, hoping he sounds casual. Truthfully, he can't stand the thought of having to hear you say some dude's name in response to Jean's question.

“Since when are you above pissing in the woods?” Scott laughs as he piles some more branches onto the bonfire.

Peter shoots him an obscene gesture, about to bolt in the direction of the mansion when he feels your hand wrap around his from beneath him. You begin to get up, and he instinctively helps pull you into a standing position.

“I'll walk back with you,” you tell him as you drop his hand. “I'm going to grab a few more beers.” You smile at him in the orange glow of the fire and he forgets how to speak. He motions as if to say after you and you begin walking in the direction of the mansion.

He's fully aware that he could have the two of you back to the school in a split-second, but despite how nervous he gets around you, he'd never pass up the opportunity to spend a few moments alone with you. Living here, you're both almost always surrounded by other people. If it's not Jean, it's Storm. If it's not Storm, it's Raven or Hank. If it's it's not –

“I just had to get away from that,” you sigh when the two of you are out of earshot from the others. “I love her, but Jean can be kind of relentless,” you add with a small laugh.

“You can say that again,” he agrees, his voice mumbled from the lollipop stuffed between his teeth and his check. “Just the other day she was saying that I should ask someone.”

“Yeah?” You quip, a curious edge to your tone. “And are you going to?”

“Nah,” Peter shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Like you said, it's better to go alone than to go with someone who isn't the person you really like.”

“So what's stopping you from asking her? Is she already going with someone else?”

“No,” he answers, coming to a stop in the middle of the moonlit path the two of you are walking on. “She's not. But she's already turned down basically everyone in the school, so I don't think I stand much of a chance.”

Sometimes Peter starts a sentence without knowing where it’s going, but right now even he's shocked by his words. He's not quite sure where the bravery came from, but he can't exactly take it back now. You're not stupid - he knows you can read between the lines to deduce who he's talking about.

You come to a halt, turning back to look at him. He offers a small, nervous smirk and resists the urge to dash away before you can reply to his confession.

“Three people isn't basically everyone in the school,” you chuckle with one of those grins that could bring Peter to his knees. You take a few slow steps towards him, stopping when your chest is just inches from his. Your gaze flickers from his eyes and down to his mouth before you reach a hand up to his face and pinch the stem of his lollipop between your thumb and index finger, plucking it from his mouth.

His eyes widen in surprise, all but bulging out of his head when you pop what's left of the red lollipop into your own mouth. You swirl it around in your mouth, your plump lips wrapped around the stick.

“But for what it's worth, the whole school could ask me and there's only one person who would get a yes out of me.”

You pull the lollipop from between your lips and hold it back up to Peter's mouth, resting it against his bottom lip until he parts them - to speak or to accept the sucker, he's not sure. But he doesn't do anything to stop you when you guide it back inside his mouth, the flavor of the cherry candy and your saliva infiltrating his senses when it meets his tongue.

“Just in case you were wondering,” you shrug, and turn to continue your walk back to the mansion as if you didn't just make his heart combust in his chest.

He speeds after you, deciding that maybe Jean has a point - maybe he should ask someone after all.

•••••

thanks for reading! this was my first time writing for peter, i'd very much appreciate comments/reblogs 💕

[gguk-n]

if you still take requests would you like to write an oscar x reader where they got to know by a coincident and the reader knows absolutely nothing abt f1 and also not oscar so when he was like I drive for f1 she was like wtf should I do with that information??

She doesn’t like cars

{Reader’s POV}

I met Oscar at a grocery store after I had moved to Monaco. The company I worked at were establishing a new branch here and wanted me to help smooth out the process. Who was I to say no to an opportunity of a life time? But being away from friends and family got very difficult when you enjoy being around people.

I only got the weekend off; so I had to make the best of the situation. I was grabbing milk at the grocery store when another hand grabbed the same carton. I looked at the tall, handsome man next to me; “I grabbed that first” I said. “Sorry” he quietly apologised and moved on. We kept running into each other in different isles and the more I stared at him and his toned thighs I found myself drooling. Well, it’s not everyday an attractive man keeps running into you. So, I did what any rational single woman would do and asked him out. To my surprise, he said yes. I doubt myself too much sometimes, I had thought.

We started going out on dates and spending time together. He was rich and had a pretty decent apartment he owned, from what I gathered. He must make quite a decent amount or he comes from money since he’s constantly away on what I assume are business trips over the weekends every few weeks. Did I ask what he did? No. Did he ask what I did? Not particularly. But I did give him my business card.

We were cuddling on one of these days while Oscar was raking his fingers through my hair; “You always help me feel normal” he whispered. “You make me feel rich” I giggled. “What’s mine’s yours babe” he retorted. “Sure, darling” I muttered. “I’ll be gone over the weekend, again” he said stopping his hand movement. “Again? Don’t you think your boss hates you or something with how much they make you go on trips or maybe they love you” I voiced my concern. Oscar laughed a deep laugh which sent vibrations through my body. “Baby, I know this year’s schedule has been a little more hectic with more races” he lamented. “What races?” I asked. “Formula One races” he replied quizzically. “What’s that?” I asked narrowing my eyes. “You don’t know?” He questioned. “Don’t make me feel stupid for not knowing” I whined.

Oscar sighed before speaking, “so, what you’re saying is all this time you had no clue that I was a Formula One driver?” he asked. “Do you test cars or something. I thought they had dummies for that” I quizzed. Oscar was now sat up an amused expression on his face. “No baby, I drive for McLaren” he explained. “Good for you?” I said slowly, I didn’t want him to feel bad about his job or the fact that I knew nothing about it. But since when did they pay test drivers so much?

Oscar started laughing, “that’s it. Take the weekend off. We’re going to Singapore” he announced. “Not this suddenly” I said. “It’s next week. We’ll fly together. Can’t have my girlfriend not knowing what I do for work” he announced kissing my lips.

My interest was piqued so I ended up googling Formula One. My jaw was on the floor when I realised that Oscar was one of the twenty drivers; he was crème de la crème when it came to motor sport. We’d been dating for a while and I knew nothing about what he did, no wonder he owned a place in Monaco; I couldn’t help but laugh. But in my defence my country isn’t huge on motor sports, so I’m sure Oscar can forgive me.

“You didn’t tell me you won 2 races” I announced after finishing dinner that day. “Oh! Did you google me?” He asked. “Nope, I google formula one and you were on top of the list for the previous race. Then I googled you” I explained. Oscar nodded. I sat down on Oscar’s lap, facing him. “Can’t believe you make so much money and let me pay for our meals” I said shaking my head. “That was one time and you insisted” Oscar explained. “Still” I whined. “Can’t wait to watch you win, people say you are really good” I smirked. “Yeah” he said. “Cocky much.” I laughed. “Maybe you can show me how good you are, now” I winked. “I can show you how good I am in everything” he smirked. “I love you, race winner Oscar Piastri” I said kissing him. “Love the ring of it. Gonna have to win more now” he whispered. “Can’t wait to watch you” I mumbled pulling him in for another kiss

[mommysorryshizun]

Shen Yuan, 22, starts playing Proud Immortal Demon Way, a well-known Otome game, and gets insanely frustrated at the fickle point system, coding errors, and totally unbelievable dialogue! He absolutely trashes the game across all platforms - from Twitter to Reddit, there's no one who is a more dedicated hater than he is! His ratios on all platforms are not exactly in his favour... At the root of it all lies his hatred of Otome games in general - Shen Yuan hates being unable to say what he truly means.

Then one day… he bumps into Luo Binghe irl. Literally. In Liu Qingge’s pretentious uptown coffee shop of all places- face planting right between the man’s tits while he’s distracted by harassing someone on Twitter - oh my god, what kind of bad cliche is this??!?!?!!! At first, he’s so shocked he can’t even speak to apologise, staring dumbly at the fucking Adonis in front of him. When he finds his voice again, he squeaks out an embarrassing “sorry!” before scuttling off, right out the cafe door from whence he came. And without his coffee! The stranger didn’t even look that much like Luo Binghe from the game! Right……?

It doesn’t seem to matter… until he arrives at work to find fucking MOBEI-JUN!!! THE GUEST EXECUTIVE FROM THE COMPANY’S MAIN BRANCH!!!! Shen Yuan stares at him for an embarrassing amount of time, to the point that Mobei-Jun raises his eyebrow in question, before gesturing to the seat beside him. Shen Yuan…………... IS GONNA DIE!!!!!! Men can’t… they can't be allowed to sit like that! It should not be allowed! It's not like Mobei-Jun is really doing anything special, one ankle resting up on his knee, legs spread wide open and… SHEN YUAN PREFERS TO USE HIS IMAGINATION!!! THANK YOU!!!! At least his imagination isn’t so dangerous for his heart…

Shen Yuan can explain away many things, including not-Luo Binghe’s appearance at the coffee shop and Mobei-Jun being. Entirely Mobei-Jun, name, and all. But when it happens a third time!!!!! Shen Yuan becomes convinced he’s cursed. Yue Qingyuan might be the whiniest, most tragic character in the game but god he is so tall, his shoulders are so broad, and his smile- This is not allowed. Shen Yuan is sure there has to be some kind of karmic law against this. He’s been cursed, oh my god, he’s totally been cursed. Coffee shop not-Binghe, workbei-Jun, and now new neighbour Qingyuan. NO ONE’S BEEN IN THAT APARTMENT IN DECADES!!! WHY NOW!!! WHY SHEN YUAN??????

It only gets worse from there.

Mobei-Jun might not give a flying FUCK about Shen Yuan, his sole focus remaining on Shen Yuan’s insufferable colleague, Shang Qinghua, but that doesn’t stop Shen Yuan from getting almost-boners every time the man scoots behind his chair to go to the bathroom during long meetings, or stares at him with interest when he presents a PowerPoint manifestation of the ideas he had at 3am. And Yue Qingyuan might definitely be trying to get in Shen Yuan’s pants and Shen Yuan knows as soon as he unlocks this man’s backstory his life will be ruined but that doesn’t exactly mean he’s avoiding the free food and company he offers.

The only person he hasn’t seen recently is not-Luo Binghe… which is good! Luo Binghe hates Shen Yuan in PIDW, who’s to say real life won’t be the same? Shen Yuan prefers to be an asshole through the screen, not in real life where the risk of a man who you could fit two liquidised Shen Yuan’s into punching him in the face is very very real. This lack of meeting might also be because Shen Yuan hasn’t gone back to Qingge’s coffee place for two weeks. The man (friend???) in question, a coffee connoisseur (apparently) may or may not be threatening his life for skipping his morning stop for so long.

Unfortunately, Shen Qingqiu is stupid, so after those two weeks he assumes the coast is clear and it’s safe to return. It is not. Sat out the front, Luo Binghe is just as tall and unfairly beautiful as last time Shen Yuan had the misfortune of bumping into him. And nope, no, Shen Yuan was wrong this guy and Luo Binghe are fucking identical save for the sweet smile plastered across real-Luo Binghe’s face. As if he could get more attractive. THIS IS SO TWISTED. In another fit of brightness, Shen Yuan pretends not to notice him. Orders his coffee as per usual. He’s almost made it to the end of his order before Luo Binghe goes and ruins everything.

“I’ll pay for it,” Binghe announces cheerily, reaching over Shen Yuan’s shoulder with a credit card. Daddy’s money no doubt. What was his aggravatingly wealthy father's name in-game? Ugh, asshole. Shen Yuan splutters some kind of refusal, but Binghe just hums pleasantly. “You forgot yours last time. They were calling… cucumber for a long time…”

Shen Yuan just needs to go home and kill himself. Right now. He considers scurrying away again, but bracketed between Binghe’s massive arms and the till he just mumbled out a miserable “thank you,” and resigns himself to fate. Luo Binghe finishes his order for him. It’s kind of creepy. Which makes it hot. This definitely doesn't say anything about Shen Yuan sexually or developmentally. Shen Yuan ah, Shen Yuan. At least he rests easy in the fact that real-Binghe is definitely not coming onto him. After all, in PIDW the man doesn't really hate Shen Yuan for Shen Yuan, but for his female persona.

They both wait for his coffee in a corner, Luo Binghe standing so close to him their forearms are almost touching. Shen Yuan regrets wearing a short-sleeve dress shirt today. He regrets being alive at all, actually. He would reach for his jacket but that would mean their arms definitely would touch and he would rather tie himself to a pyre and light the match with his teeth.

“Cucumber?” the server says, unsure. Clearly new. Awesome. Shen Qingqiu now needs to gain back twice the karmic points he lost telling anyone other than Liu Qingge about that stupid fucking pseud. Luo Binghe follows him like a puppy out of the coffee shop. Shen Qingqiu coughs awkwardly.

“Thank you,” he says again. Luo Binghe cocks his head. Like a fucking dog!!! If he knew Luo Binghe was so cute maybe he’d give him a chance in-game… Shen Qingqiu barely avoids smacking himself in the face to tamp down the heat rising in his cheeks.

“You’re welcome… cucumber?”

“Shen Yuan,” Shen Yuan offers his real name with a huff.

“Luo Binghe,” Luo Binghe responds, beaming.

“I know.” Ah. Shen Yuan. You really can’t help yourself, can you?

Luo Binghe cocks his head the other way.

“Bye,” Shen Yuan waves stiffly before breaking into a full-out sprint down the sidewalk. FUCK! FUCK! NEVER EVER EVER GOING BACK TO THAT COFFEE SHOP! SORRY LIU QINGGE!!!!!!

[jedi-luca]

Head Over Feet: Chapter Three Fade Into You

Summary: You didn’t know Dina before she came back to Jackson. She’s guarded, jaded, and carrying the weight of too many goodbyes. Now you can’t stop thinking about her. It’s a slow burn, and you’re patient… but will she ever let down her walls? Or will someone else reach your heart first?

Pairings: Dina x GN!Reader slowburn

warnings: spoilers if you haven’t played the game or seen the show

Previous Chapter

The trail winds narrow through thick trees, the sun filtering through in slanted beams. The late afternoon heat clings to your shirt, and the quiet between you and Dina isn’t awkward it’s just easy.

Or it was.

“You always this quiet on patrol?” Dina asks suddenly, her voice cutting through the hush like she’s been stewing on the question for miles.

You shrug. “Just enjoying the weather.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re enjoying sweating through your shirt?”

You smirk. “It’s better than freezing my ass off.”

She laughs softly and slows her horse so you’re side by side. “Alright, mystery person. What’s your favorite movie?”

You blink. “That came out of nowhere.”

“I’m trying to get to know you,” she says, mock-offended. “You’ve been in Jackson for how long? And I still don’t know your answer to the most basic question.”

You glance at her. “Attack of the Clones.”

She physically recoils. “You’re joking.”

“Dead serious. I used to rewind the arena scene over and over.”

“Oh my god.”

“Lightsabers. John Williams. Anakin’s stupid little rat-tail braid. Come on.”

“You know he says the word ‘sand’ like five times in one scene, right?”

You nod, straight-faced. “It’s rough. It’s coarse. It gets everywhere.”

Dina groans. “You’re the worst.”

You flash her a grin. “What’s yours again?”

“The Mummy. Which is objectively perfect. Brendan Fraser? Rachel Weisz? The tension? The eyeliner?”

You hum. “Rachel Weisz was so hot.”

“Exactly.”

She’s smiling when she looks at you again. “Okay, lightning round. Favorite color?”

“Dark green. Or navy blue.”

She nods approvingly. “Favorite snack?”

“Popcorn. But like movie theater popcorn. Extra butter. Probably a dangerous amount.”

“First concert?”

You think. “My brother took me to a Metallica concert right before the outbreak.”

Dina whistles. “Solid choice. Favorite band now?”

You nod. “Pretty much everything. Depends on the day.”

“Favorites?”

“Death Cab, The Smiths, Fleetwood Mac, Zeppelin, Mariah Carey-

She laughs. “Mariah Carey, seriously?”

“She’s a legend,” you say, completely sincere. “Always Be My Baby still hits.”

Dina watches you for a beat. “I think I just learned more about you in thirty seconds than I have in the past three months.”

“I’m very mysterious.”

She mutters, “Yeah. That’s kind of the problem.”

You look over, confused. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says too quickly, then nudges her horse forward again. “Favorite breakfast?”

“Veggie scramble but it has to have serranos. I do miss those McGriddles from McDonald’s though.”

“Okay, okay, first celebrity crush?”

You pause. “Natalie Portman.”

Dina raises an eyebrow. “Queen Amidala?”

“She had a blaster and perfect hair. How could I not?”

She laughs, and it bubbles out easy loud enough to startle a bird out of a nearby branch. She watches you out of the corner of her eye, still smiling. “You’re kind of a dork.”

You shrug. “You asked.”

“Yeah. And I’m learning so much. I bet your childhood room was full of action figures, lego, and gaming consoles.” She shifts in her saddle, tone light but searching.

“You’re not wrong just missing the poster of Queen Amidala herself.”

Dina snorted before asking the next question rolling around in her mind.

“What about… first kiss?”

You blink. “Like, ever?”

“Yes, ever.”

You furrow your brow. “Her name was Lili Cooper… She kissed me on my birthday. She was one of my bestfriends…Never did get to say goodbye to her.”

“You sound like you still think of her.” Dina huffed.

You chuckle and wonder if it’s weird that you still think of her.

She tries again. “Alright, serious question.”

“Finally.”

“If we weren’t out here patrolling and you could be anywhere… anywhere at all. Where would you be?”

You think. “I dunno. Maybe a beach. Somewhere quiet. Bonfire. Music. Friends.”

She nods. “Would I be there?”

You don’t even hesitate. “Course you would. You’d make fun of my playlist.”

She smiles, but it fades just slightly around the edges. “You’d let me make fun of it because you don’t actually care what I think.”

You glance at her, confused. “No. I’d let you make fun of it because you do care.”

That throws her off for a second.

The two of you dismount at the creek not long after. You kneel to refill your canteen. Dina crouches beside you, knees brushing yours.

She doesn’t move away.

“Y’know,” she says, almost too casual, “if this were a movie, this’d be the part where we almost kiss.”

You snort. “God, you really do think life is The Mummy.”

She blinks. “What?”

“You’ve got, like, genre goggles on.”

She stares at you for a second. “I was—okay, never mind.”

You grin, oblivious. “Who’s supposed to be Brendan Fraser in this scenario?”

“I- no one, Jesus.” She stands up suddenly, brushing her hands off. “Forget I said anything.”

You watch her, confused. “What?”

She just shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You call after her, playful. “You’re just mad you didn’t think of Attack of the Clones first.”

She flips you off without looking back.

On the ride home, the quiet feels different. Not awkward, not tense, just full of the things she didn’t say. And the ones you didn’t notice.

And later, brushing down your mare in the barn as the sky fades to gold and the sweat cools on your skin, you think about the day. The laughter. The questions.

You think: that was nice.

You don’t realize she was maybe trying to hand you something more.

Not yet.

After patrol both you and Dina stayed in the stables taking care of your horses.

You’re brushing down your mare in one of the open stalls, the sky outside still glowing from the last of the sunset. It’s hot not scorching, but warm enough that the back of your shirt sticks to you in places and your forearms glisten with sweat. You work slowly, rhythmically, dragging the brush down her side in long strokes. She huffs softly under your hand.

Dina’s a few feet away in the next stall, quiet, but you can feel her watching you.

It’s been like that since patrol ended. Glances that linger too long. Jokes that died on her lips. The kind of tension that hums under everything not quite friendly, not quite flirting, but sharp enough to notice.

You don’t say anything. Just keep brushing, letting the silence settle.

She leans on the wooden divider between you, elbow bent, head tilted slightly. She’s been standing like that for a while now not brushing her horse, not even pretending to.

You glance up. “You planning to help or just stare at me all night?”

Her lips quirk into something that looks like a smirk but doesn’t quite land. “You complaining?”

You give her a look. “Wouldn’t dare.”

She smiles, but it’s tight, like she’s holding something back. Her fingers trail absently along the wooden edge, like she needs something to do. Something to stop herself from reaching for you.

“You really weren’t kidding about the Star Wars thing?” she mutters.

You grin. “Not even a little.”

“You know I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon, right? Just… you, sitting in a dark room, taking Attack of the Clones seriously.”

“It’s a masterpiece,” you say earnestly, running the brush down your mare’s flank. “Lightsabers. Politics. Space opera romance. Natalie Portman in ten different dresses plus her white little number in the arena.”

Dina rolls her eyes. “You really had a crush on her?”

“Still do, technically.”

She laughs under her breath. “You’re such a nerd.”

You shrug, smiling. “You love it.”

“Yeah. I do.”

Her voice dips. You don’t catch the shift. You’re still caught up in the rhythm of the brush, the smell of dust and hay. The feeling of the day stretching behind you like a golden ribbon. It was a good patrol. You liked it. You like being around her.

“You ever think about how weird it is?” she asks suddenly. “That we spend all day dealing with real shit and then come back and pretend like brushing horses and small talk is normal?”

You glance at her. “Feels normal to me.”

Dina nods slowly. “Yeah… that’s the problem.”

You let her words hang there, unsure what she’s trying to say. She’s been off since that last break you took by the creek quiet, thoughtful. Frustrated, maybe? You rack your brain trying to figure out what you did.

“Hey,” she says after a moment. “What’s your type?”

You blink. “Like… romantically?”

“No, medically. Yes, romantically.”

You think for a second, completely serious. “Uh… funny. Smart. Likes music. Can survive an apocalypse.”

Dina stares at you. “So… Natalie Portman again.”

You smile, missing the exasperation behind her eyes. “You said she was too perfect.”

“You said she was perfect. I just said she has range.”

You laugh, soft and genuine. “So what’s your type, then?”

She hesitates. Then she glances at you, and for a second, you see it — the flicker of vulnerability, the want, raw and too-close-to-the-surface.

But she just shrugs. “I don’t know. People who notice things.”

You don’t clock the double meaning.

Instead, you give her a small smile. “I notice stuff.”

“Yeah?” she says, but it comes out flat. “You notice I’ve been staring at you for the last twenty minutes like I’m about to explode?”

You blink. “What?”

She shakes her head quickly. “Nothing.”

You finish brushing down your mare, give her a pat, and start gathering the supplies. The tension hasn’t broken it’s just folded itself into the quiet. Dina’s still hovering, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Then she clears her throat. “Hey… I was thinking maybe we could set something up this weekend. For Charlie and JJ. Like we talked about the other day?”

You pause. “Yeah? That’d be great.”

She nods once, not looking at you. “Cool. Just figured, y’know… they’re kind of friends now.”

You smile. “Hey, kind of like us.”

That earns you a soft laugh, but her gaze drops again, unreadable.

You don’t notice how long she looks at you.

You don’t notice the way she’s holding her breath when your arm brushes hers as you walk out of the stables.

But you do notice the quiet between you feels heavy in a way you can’t name.

You think maybe she’s tired.

You think maybe she’s still just cooling off from the heat.

You don’t think not yet that you might be the thing she’s burning up over.

And for a second as her shoulder brushes yours in the dark you let yourself believe it’s just nice.

That is just what friendship feels like.

Even if it isn’t.

🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄

The house is quiet. JJ’s down the hall, sound asleep, his soft, rhythmic breathing a comfort through the baby monitor.

Dina lies in bed on her side, one arm curled beneath the pillow, the other pulled tightly to her chest. The window’s cracked just enough to let in the late-August breeze. It should be enough to cool her down.

But it isn’t.

She shifts again, tangled in her own sheets. Her skin feels too hot. Her brain won’t settle.

Every time she closes her eyes, you’re there.

It starts simple. She’s back in the stables. You’re brushing down your horse again, sleeves rolled up, soft hum in your throat. She’s standing behind you, watching the muscles shift under your shirt as you work.

Then you turn. Smile at her. Say her name low, warm, familiar in a way it shouldn’t be. Not like that.

And then she’s closer. Too close. Her breath catches in the dream and in real life, chest rising too fast as the image sharpens: your hand at her waist, your eyes dark with something she hasn’t let herself imagine before. Not really. Not honestly.

You kiss her.

It’s desperate, hungry like you’ve wanted her for ages and she’s finally letting you have her. You press her back into the stall wall and she pulls you in harder, gripping your shirt, arching into you like her body’s been waiting for this. For you.

You whisper her name.

Her heart races.

Your mouth moves along her jaw, her throat. Your hands slide under her shirt and she gasps. The dream shifts, becomes hazier, more abstract warmth and motion and skin on skin, all of it too much and not enough.

She wakes with a sharp breath, her body pulsing, lips parted, sweat clinging to her chest.

The room is quiet again, but nothing feels still.

She stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched, heart pounding.

Fuck.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. She was the one who said she wasn’t ready. The one who drew the line. And now she’s dreaming about pulling you into her bed and begging you not to stop?

She groans softly and turns on her side, burying her face into the pillow.

The worst part? It wasn’t just sex. Not in the dream. It was closeness. Softness. That look in your eyes. That touch she’s imagined but never let herself admit she wanted.

She closes her eyes again, but it’s useless. Your face is burned there now the warmth of your hand, the sound of your laugh, the way you look at her like she’s something worth reaching for.

She rolls onto her back and stares up into the dark, one hand over her chest, steadying herself.

Tomorrow’s the playdate. She should be focused on JJ and Charlie, on keeping it light. Friendly. Controlled.

But all she can think about is you.

And how bad she’s starting to want the one thing she swore she wasn’t ready for.

🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄

The sun was high and warm, casting gold across the yard behind Dina’s house that rare kind of August afternoon where everything in Jackson felt calm for once. No patrols. No infected. Just a patch of soft grass, laughter, and two toddlers chasing each other in chaotic circles.

Charlie shrieked with delight, knees grass-stained, as she pounced after JJ, who ran in zigzags with a stick held triumphantly in the air like a sword. Dina stood nearby, cheering them on like it was a championship game.

You watched her for a beat her laugh loud, her smile easy, and her eyes… just a little too bright. Like she was trying too hard to fill the space between you with light.

She waved you over to the porch. “Come on, I made lemonade.”

“Lemonade?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t take you for the hosting type.”

Dina handed you a glass with a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “What can I say? I woke up in a mood.”

You sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder on the porch steps. The kids squealed in the yard, rolling in the grass. Charlie handed JJ a flower like it was a treasure, and he bowed with the seriousness of a tiny king.

“They act like they’ve known each other forever,” you said, sipping your drink.

Dina nodded quickly. “Yeah. They just… get each other. No weirdness. No history.”

You glanced at her. “That sound a little loaded?”

She shook her head fast, brushing you off. “Nah, just making an observation. Kids are smarter than us. They don’t overthink everything.”

That part sat a little too heavy in her mouth. You didn’t push.

You reached for the same cookie on the small table between you. Your fingers brushed. She didn’t move hers.

Just smiled.

Like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄🍄

The house had gone quiet except for the soft hums of the Mazzy Star in the background. JJ and Charlie were both finally out cold. JJ tangled in blankets on their bed, Charlie on the guest bed curled against a stuffed fox like her life depended on it.

In the kitchen, the warm flicker of the oil lamp cast long shadows across the counters. You and Dina stood side by side at the sink, passing dishes back and forth in a rhythm that didn’t need words. Every so often, your hands brushed. Every so often, she looked at you just a second too long.

“You’re good at this,” she said finally, not looking up. “This whole… domestic thing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Washing dishes?”

She smiled faintly. “No. Being around. Being steady.”

You dried your hands and turned to her, leaning your hip against the counter. “You say that like it’s a rare thing.”

“It is,” she murmured, finally meeting your eyes. “For me, anyway.”

The silence stretched not uncomfortable, but charged. Like the air had gone heavier between you.

Then she stepped closer.

“Dance with me.” She said softly as the song changed.

You blinked, not sure you heard her right. But she was already reaching for you, gently tugging you away from the sink.

You set the rag down and let your hands find her waist. Carefully at first, like she might spook.

But Dina didn’t flinch.

Her hands slid slowly up your arms, the warmth of her touch leaving a trail in its wake, before settling behind your neck. Fingertips brushing the edge of your hair.

She was close now. Too close. Not close enough.

The music filled the space between your bodies low, a little scratchy from the old speaker, something familiar with a slow beat.

You swayed together, her forehead nearly brushing yours. Her breath smelled faintly of tea and cinnamon, and you didn’t dare breathe too hard, didn’t want to break the fragile thing blooming between you.

Her thumbs pressed into your sides like she was memorizing the shape of you.

“You’re good at this.” she whispered.

“At dancing?” you teased, voice just above a breath.

“Always being there.”

You didn’t say anything. Just tightened your hold on her slightly. Just enough for her to feel it.

The music went on. She tucked her head against your shoulder, just for a second. You thought she might stay like that. But then she leaned back. Looked up at you with that storm in her eyes restless, full of things she hadn’t said yet.

Her gaze dropped to your mouth, just for a beat.

You didn’t breathe the moment her hand grazed your chest. “You ever think about it?”

“About what?”

“This,” she whispered, and kissed you.

It hit like a match striking too close to dry kindling fast, hot, and impossible to ignore.

Her hands slid from your jaw massaging your arms before traveling into your hair. Dina’s body flush against yours, mouth parting against yours passionately.

Your hands finding her waist, then her hips, then lower. She gasped against your mouth, and you caught her thighs, lifted her in one smooth motion, setting her on the counter.

Her legs wrapped around you instantly.

The kiss deepened, all breath and desperation. The toes of your shoes banged against the lower cabinets as your bodies flush together.

Her fingers tangled in your hair, her mouth open against yours like she needed this, needed you. Your hands slid beneath her shirt, not rushed, but certain. She tilted her head back, exposing the soft curve of her throat, and you didn’t think, just leaned in, teeth grazing the skin beneath her ear. She whimpered your name.

You rocked into her and felt her hips respond letting out a low, aching sigh. Her hands began fumbling at your belt.

That’s when you froze.

“Wait.” You pushed her hair back.

Her breath catching chest rising and falling fast.. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated, heart pounding. “I’ve never…” you clear your throat. “I haven’t done this before.”

Everything slowed.

Dina’s eyes searched yours. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Oh.”

You nodded once, lips still parted from the kiss. “Is that okay?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hands slipped from your belt. Her expression shifted, not rejection exactly, but something more complicated. Caught. Torn. Frustrated.

“It’s okay,” she said finally, gently. “Of course it is. I just… I didn’t think it would go that far. I thought we were just blowing off steam you know? Stress relief.”

You stepped back, heat draining from your face. “Right.”

“No, Y/N, wait!” She slid down from the counter, adjusting her shirt, eyes wide. “That’s not what I meant. I just… I’m not in the right place. For anything real, and your first time should be- it should mean something more. Something real.”

“You kissed me like it was real. Like it was something more.”

She didn’t argue that.

Your stomach turned. You stepped back, gently. “Right. Sure.”

“Y/N, I swear, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I got caught up. I just… I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

“What do we have, Dina?” you asked, quietly jaw flexing.

She didn’t answer.

Just stood there — arms crossed now, trying to put space back between you the same way she’d closed it.

You nodded. “Okay.”

You crossed the house, scooped up a half-asleep Charlie from the spare bed, and walked to the front door.

Dina followed a few steps behind but didn’t say your name.

Didn’t stop you.

“I didn’t mean for it to go like that,” she said as you opened the door.

“I know.”

The air outside was cool and sharp. You didn’t look back.

And inside, Dina stood frozen by the door, lips still tingling, heart twisted in a way she didn’t have a name for.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, like she could hold the memory there. Like it wouldn’t already haunt her in the morning.

Dina moved slowly to the kitchen sink, pouring herself a glass of water just to keep from shaking.

The song from earlier was still playing faintly in the background soft, unfinished.

She turned it off.

The silence after felt too loud.

Next Chapter

[flamingpudding]

Fictober23 Prompt: 4 - "Do you even know what this means?"

Fandom: DPxDC

Rating: G

Warnings: -

Tim stared at his family with pure exhaustion before letting out a sigh while covering his face with his hands because of the worried looks they were sending him after his long rant.

It had all started with a stupid school project. It was just supposed to be a stupidly simple school project. Did he think of the whole thing as the greatest nonsense project his school has ever come up with? Yes. Did he still do it? Yes. He needed the extra credits, because of some stupid meetings he had missed other projects which was the entire reason he took part in this one.

Maybe he should have tried buying his grade out of it like all the other snobbish rich kids but then he would feel guilty and the moment Alfred found out, he would have to life with the disappointed™ look. Something he really didn't want to deal with. So instead he took part in this stupid ancestry project his school had organized.

But when he had allowed the school to send in his DNA he certainly did not expect the result he got back. Because when he opened the email, he noted that it was addressed to someone named Danny Fenton not Tim Drake, he didn't even read the rest really. That should have been his first warning.

His second warning was when he had hacked into the that DNA testing facility to actually get his results back and then found a note on his data file about a near 100% DNA match to one Danny Fenton which caused them to assumed that Tim was Danny and just had sent in his DNA a second time after, he peaked through his finger onto the screen, 5 years. That should have been his second warning.

But no, Tim had actively ignored all the warnings and decided to dig into who this Danny Fenton was. Because there were so many possibilities of how they could match but only so little to explain the time difference between them sending in the DNA samples. For dear good Tim hoped to all things that there wasn't someone else to have attempted to clone him before Ra, no worse even, he hoped HE wasn't the clone in this situation.

Really he didn't want to add existential crisis to all the problems and cases he already had to deal with.

So what does one do best when they learn there was someone with nearly the same DNA you have? He looked that someone up. So that was what Tim did next. He had spent nights looking up anything he could find, summarizing all the information he found, branching off when he found other concerning stuff and then stewed in some frustration of the incompetence of some people when discovering other facts.

In the end Tim compiled all the data he had found into a 30 slides long power point. That he had presented to his family and was awaiting their reaction. Bruce had grunted earlier and the demon brat had huffed out something in between slight 25 and 26 earlier. Jason had muttered something right at the beginning and Dick had stayed quiet the entire time, so did Cass. Steph hadn't said a thing either and Duke looked just puzzled.

"Do you even know what that means?" Demon brat finally broke the silence, causing Tim's eye to twitch before aggressively pointing to his last slide still on the presenter.

"Yes, I do know what this means. I have listed all possibilities right here if you haven't noticed. And i explained possibility three, four and six on slide-"

"Replacement. I don't think that's what the brat means." Jason cut in and Tim glared at him.

"Timmy, when was the last time you slept?" Dick carefully asked and Tim directed his glare at him.

"I believe Master Timothy hasn't slept for about 72 hours now." Alfred added in with that disapproving stare of him and time looked away stubbornly. How was the amount of sleep he got relevant right now? There was a possibility of him being a clone or someone having cloned maybe even years before he started to follow B around as a kid with a camera.

Bruce let out a sigh and Steph appeared to try to hide a chuckle leaning on Cass shoulder. "He must be lacking sleep if he doesn't see the most obvious possibility considering the time line he presented on slide 18."

"Oh so, I am not the only one thinking he is missing another obvious possibility?" Duke asked and once more Tims eye twitched. Getting fed up with his family, Tim huffed and crossed his arms, glaring at them all.

"And what is it that I am obviously missing?"

"The screenshot of the mail you put in slide 3 stated that it's not a 100% match but 89%. In addition it stated in the last line a suspected possibility of a familiar relation. I am disappointed, Drake. That you would miss something this obvious."

"What?" Tim whirled around going to the slide to reread the mail.

"Considering that I am pretty sure, we don't have any sort of cloning case here Tim." Dick started his voice now slightly laced with Humor and Tim narrowed his eyes at his older brother over his shoulder. "You just discovered that you had a twin, that we probably still go to rescue."

Tim's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He did not know what to say and before he could even catch up with what his brothers had said Alfred was already behind him pushing him towards the elevator.

"It is time for you to get some sleep Master Timothy. I am sure Master Bruce and the others will be perfectly able to handle the rest of the situation with the information you compiled. You can join them after you have rested."

[violentdeliiights]

to have and to hold [1] - inviting the devil to dance

[series masterlist]

butcher!simon riley x f!reader 2.9k words

cw: 18+ mdni, smut, pussy pronouns, pervy simon, simon takes control obviously, dry humping, very brief mention of death, emotional abuse from a parent, reader has mommy issues, ptsd alluded to, alcohol mentioned, stalking alluded to, mental health issues, excessive adjective use

<- prev. next->

♫ - songs for this chapter: death of a party - blur & sidelines - phoebe bridgers

Some days were worse than others.

Some days, the dread was so colossal that you could feel your joints aching. Cracking, splintering, fracturing. Those days where you feel like a passive puppet, your mother’s words repeating through your being and echoing on loud speaker through your ear drums as she controls your strings.

You think any man would want you? Your own father didn’t. Stupid girl.

I should’ve gotten rid of you when I had the chance. Maybe he’d still be here. Stupid girl.

You’ll never amount to anything. You need me. Stupid girl.

Stupid, stupid girl.

Even now, she haunts you. Over a year in a dark, rotting grave, and her insults still rattle around your skull like an insect stuck in a jar. Buzzing, buzzing, desperate to get out and spread its infection.

Maybe she was right- maybe you did need her.

Otherwise, why would you be here? A random club you didn’t know the name of, abandoned by the girls supposed to take care of you- “Please, we’ll never ask for anything again- it’s been soooo long since we all went out- aren’t you bored of staying inside? You’re no fun anymore, god, you’re so boring-”- with an overpriced, watered down drink in your clasp and a paw-like hand clamped around your waist.

You can’t see his face, both on account of the shitty lights that only flash a blue streak your way every now and then, and the thick black cloth that covers his whole face except his eyes. You’re too drunk to even bother asking about it- not like he’d be able to hear you over the thudding bass, the cheap speakers crackling every now and again with that ear-splitting squeal.

You can’t see his face, but you can feel him. Everywhere. His strong chin is tucked over your shoulder, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as if he’s been there for years, hibernating, resting in a peaceful slumber; carved his own space there and decided he’s never moving again. His fingers flex against your stomach, dimpling the skin on the curve of your stomach, whilst his hips settle against your backside, not grinding just swaying. As if he’s approaching a timid deer, holding out a gentle finger- an olive branch- treading lightly so as not to scare you off, wanting you to eat from the palm of his hand.

Maybe your mother was right- maybe you do need her.

Otherwise, why would you be reaching your spare hand around to hold the back of his neck? Stupid, naive girl. Don’t you know what you’ve just done? It’s too late for you now. You’ve invited the devil to dance.

– – –

“W-wait, I don’t even- ngh” His lips trailing slowly up your neck, “your name- I don’t-”

“Simon.” His lips detach from your neck for all of half a second to grunt out his name. It was more than he’d said in the club, at least, dragging you out and onto the street before you even knew what was happening. You don’t remember the walk to his flat, but you vaguely recognised the shop front below it- a butcher’s maybe?

“S-simon, I don’t do this- I mean, like, I-” You feel childish compared to this brute of a man, his huge shoulders and huge arms and huge hands, his self-assuredness and the way he walks with such confidence, never considering the looks he must get or how others perceive him.

This time, his head fully emerges from your neck, mahogany eyes narrowed, his golden lashes knitting together, “Bird, if you don’t stop moving that mouth I’ll shut you up myself.”

The sound that comes from your throat at his command makes his eyes relax once again, a smugness that you’re sure is written all over the rest of his covered face clouding over them until he rips your hands off the wall where he had pinned them previously and drags you further into the flat. Automatically, you assume he’s taking you to his bedroom until he stops by the worn leather couch in the living room, and seats himself with such force that you’re sure you hear something snap.

“Here, birdie. On m’lap.” God help you, you can’t find it in yourself to disobey, tentatively perching a knee next to his hip, sinking into the well-loved leather, and swinging your other knee over his lap until you’re hovering over his muscular thighs.

“I said, on my lap, darl.” One of his huge paws grips your left hip and forces you down onto him.

“Don’t wanna squash yo-” His head snaps back in a breathless chuckle before you even finish the sentence, eyes crinkling almost condescendingly.

“Then I’ll die a happy man.” Another hand comes to settle on your thigh, squeezing the plush skin there until it dimples in his hold, and you can’t find yourself to think about the normal insecurities- the cellulite, the way the fat on your hip rolls over the top of your thighs, god, did you even shave before you came out?- when he’s holding you. All you can think about is him. “The more of you, the better. Now be a good lass and gimme a kiss.”

He’s waiting for you to make the first move. This is on your terms- somewhat. He’s still commanding you, but he’s waiting for you to listen, giving you a wide berth; you are once again the timid deer, approached by a hunter, his rifle concealed with a gentle facade. If he gets close enough he can put you out of your misery before you even realise.

Your decision whether or not to kiss him is decided the moment one of his calloused hands reaches to fold the edge of his balaclava up to just over his nose bridge. A scarred mouth is revealed to you, a nose that looks too crooked- as if broken years ago and never properly tended to. A chunk of his lip is missing, almost looking bitten off, giving him a permanent snarl and revealing a set of off-white teeth, canines sharper and slightly yellowed.

He’s perfect.

Stupid girl.

The corner of his lips twitches at the audible gulp you let out. His snarl deepens.

The first touch of your lips to his is not like the fairytale stories other girls your age grew up on. There are no fireworks. There are no bluebirds circling your head and chirping a birdsong ballad. It is not soft and gentle.

His hands immediately cup either side of your face, long fingers threading into the downy hair behind your ears. His lips are dry and his tongue seeks your own like it is salvation, an oasis in the middle of the desert, a desperate traveller falling for a mirage.

Thick, coarse denim scratches the delicate skin on the inside of your thighs. Hips rutting up to meet yours in a frenzy, his war fractured body acting of its own accord when in contact with the gentleness of your own. Patience is not a virtue Simon possesses, you think, when his hands detach from your face to grip onto your hips, pushing them down until you’re rolling them against his own in a rhythm he’s happy with. A flush coats your whole body when you consider the fact that you haven’t even seen this man’s whole face, and yet you’re here dry humping him on his beaten couch, something you haven’t done since you were a teenager at a house party. A lost art form.

Mewls emerge from the back of your throat into his awaiting jaws everytime the bulge of his pants catches your clit, “Mmm, there she is. Those lovely noises, give ‘em to me, beauty.” Vibrations spread across your lips as Simon talks against them, barely leaving enough room for his own lips to open.

Your hands come to rest around his neck, pressing your chests together until there isn’t an inch between the two of you. Connected. Tied together. Sitting on his lap gives you a slight height advantage that Simon uses for his own gain, leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses along the skin of your chest. His lips drag with such little grace it would almost make you cringe if it wasn’t for the pure lust in his eyes, hungrily looking up at you through his skewed balaclava. A hand appears at the front of your dress, ripping both the fabric and your bra down forcefully until it sits under your chest.

Dilated pupils rapidly glance between your panting face and your breasts, “You gorgeous fuckin’ creature. Look’t these tits. Made f’me, yeah?” Without waiting for an answer, Simon groans as he latches his drooling mouth around one nipple, thumbing and pinching the other with his free hand, one still occupied with physically grinding your hips against his.

“Yeah, yes- Simon,” Incoherent babbles and moans tumble from your mouth as you tip your head towards his splotchy ceiling, not quite sure what you’re agreeing to but more than willing to do whatever it takes for him to never stop.

Stupid girl.

Wordlessly, Simon’s hand trails from the curve of your hip to snake under the hem of your dress, resting his fingers against your underwear from the back and pinning your chest even further against his relentless mouth. His lips switch to the other nipple as his thick fingers rub against you over your underwear, fingertips catching your clit on every stroke, “She’s so wet f’me. Could feel her through m’jeans, warm and wet as fuck.” His words send another wave of heat through your body, melting your brain like an ice cream cone on a humid day, helpless to the solar inferno that is the man pinned beneath you, running down the cracks of his palms and dripping from his fingers.

You can feel the fabric of your underwear sticking to you, revealing every crease and detail under the almost brutal movements of his fingers, “Won’t be needing these much longer, gorgeous. Give ‘em over.” His fingers move to the band of your knickers resting just above your backside, tugging impatiently until you awkwardly lift one knee at a time so he can take them from you. The two of you separate for a split second as he removes them, your own pupils dilating at the sight of him pocketing your underwear, “What’s yours is mine, eh darl?”

His hips never stop moving against yours, if anything feeling your bare pussy against the thick denim of his jeans spurs him on, on a mission to make you come even if it is with the metal of his zipper.

You should hate it. It should be uncomfortable and gross- painful if nothing else. But his brutality only sends a flood of arousal to both your brain and your pussy, feeling yourself begin to hurtle towards the edge faster than you’d expected, “Simon, I’m gonna- don’t stop. Please.”

“Yeah? You close, birdie? That nice? Go on, come for me. Play with your tits n’come all over me.” He grabs your hands from around your neck and places them on your chest so that both of you are grabbing and tugging at your nipples, his hands folded over your own. “Come on- wanna smell you on me for days. Wank off into your underwear to the smell of you.”

Simon’s gross words send you over the edge. He’s so blunt about his pervertedness it knocks you for six, your ears ringing and mouth drying up as your head falls forward to rest your forehead on his shoulder. A tattooed hand grips both sides of your face and twists your head. Forcing you to look up at him, his eyes are blown out with lust (not unlike your own, you imagine) and his mouth is slightly ajar on a pant, as if he was the one whos brain was just rattled by an orgasm. His grasp on your face allows him to pull you up to meet his lips, smearing them together with such little grace it tears a gasp from your lungs.

Resting his forehead against your own sweat-slicked one, Simon speaks against your lips whilst smushing them together into a pout, “Gonna give you a choice here, birdie. Either we stay here and I can eat that gorgeous cunt, or I take you to bed and stuff you so full you can’t move. What’ll it be, sweet thing?” He’s so matter of fact it makes you pause, brain struggling to tell your lips how to form enough words to answer his question.

“Second one. Please.” Simon’s smug smile deepens when he sees how fucked out you are from dry humping him on his settee, imagining the blissed out faces you’ll be making when he finally gets to stuff you full.

Strong fingers move to grip either one of your thighs just below your backside. He stands with no difficulty, making you squeak softly in surprise and rush to wrap your hands around his neck and legs around his waist. The hardwood floor of his flat groans and creaks with each of his booted footsteps, shifting to accommodate his weight.

“Thought you might. Let’s get you to bed then, eh?”

_ _ _

7 MONTHS LATER

Every so often, your brain catapults you back to that night.

The night when your inhibitions were lowered. For once, you weren’t overthinking every detail, every action, every word, every noise. How much space you took up. Whether the way you breathed would annoy the person you were with.

Even though you’d quote-on-quote ‘known’ Simon for all of an hour before he’d taken you back to his flat, you couldn’t think of any other time in your life that you’d felt so…you. So free.

As soon as you’d crept out of his flat after he’d fallen asleep, you had been shoved back to reality. An ice-cold tsunami in the face that you’d probably never see him again.

Sure, there was a small chance you’d bump into him in the supermarket or wander past the pub and catch a glimpse of him sat at the bar. But you’d have to learn to accept that that night was just that. One night.

Men like him don’t go for girls like you anyway. Weak, easily overwhelmed. Stupid.

Stupid girl.

University had meant that the memories of that night had become fewer and farther between, scattered sporadically amongst droves of random information, references, essay plans, letters from student finance, worries about how on earth you were supposed to finish your thesis on time, worries about whether your part-time minimum wage job at the charity shop was going to even touch the mounting student debt.

In short, the memory of that night and Simon only really came to you when you saw something that jogged your memory. The cafe on campus began selling skull shaped cookies for Halloween. Sometimes people would donate piles of men’s clothes for the charity shop and there would be a worn, coarse pair of jeans stuffed in the bottom of the bag. The second-hand furniture shop on the way home from uni had a cracked leather couch the exact same shade as Simon’s in the front window for months. Even the song playing in the club when you met- as shitty as it was- seemed to do the rounds on the radio and every social media site you had a profile on.

The butcher’s shop below his flat was the one place you hadn’t yet dared to venture. As much as you had accepted that there was a chance you very well could bump into him in the small village you lived in, that shop felt too definite. Like if you even made it within a 100 meter radius of the shop front, he’d come barreling out to you like your life was an episode of ‘Punk’d’, a camera crew trailing to capture him giving you a dose of brutal reality.

No man will ever want you. Stupid girl.

Every now and then you felt this strange sensation pass over you. Not like you were being watched, or someone was there. More just a crackle of energy over your skin. As if someone else knew you were there. It simultaneously felt grounding and alarming, though there was nothing you could do about it. You’d chalked it up to the mounting stress of life.

You felt like you were watching the world go by. Work and school almost came as reprieves from your own head. Sure, you had friends. Your housemates were some of your favourite people, you got along with your coursemates as much as one could, your grandparents sent text messages checking in from time to time. But there was an ache in your chest. Something solid. Something dark. Something suffocating. Blocking the passage of oxygen to your lungs and brain. You could only really liken it to being a can of soda. Shaken vigorously, everyday acting as something new coming along and violently shaking you. Pressure building throughout your entire body. Ready to burst, but the tab never being popped.

For one night, Simon had popped that tab. He’d taken you in and kept you there, relinquishing your control just enough to where it didn’t feel overwhelming to make a choice- it felt natural.

Now, you were back to that previous state. Dragging yourself through life. Slogging through long shifts with no breaks so there was no silent time with your thoughts. Turning up at university every single day because anything was better than sitting in your bedroom and thinking. Having to be inside your own head 24/7.

Being around you is exhausting. Stupid girl.

I know, mother.

Being me is exhausting.

[siph-by-induction]

FUN FACT TIME !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, when you eat carbohydrates that cannot easily be broken down (by hydrolysis*) into glucose molecules, they don't get released into glucose molecules in your small intestine as would, for example, simpler sugars like sucrose that is only two monosaccharides (single sugars) long.

This means that these carbohydrates reach your large intestine not fully broken down. So, they tend to be fermented by gut bacteria instead. This has the lovely side effect of making one fart, as well as the genuinely lovely side effect of causing gut bacteria to (A) generally be healthier and (B) produce butanoic acid salts (known as butyrates), which are really important to regulate metabolism, and also produces SCFAs and idk what they do but Wikipedia makes it sound like they're good.

This is also why fibres (which is a broad term including things like cellulose*, so non-starch carbohydrates that aren't as easy to hydrolyse) are good for you - because they are a little bit tougher to digest, so they reach your large intestine where they are fermented by gut bacteria rather than simply instantly getting broken down into glucose the second they encounter a teeny bit of amylase.

But it gets even more interesting than that!

Starches that cannot be easily broken down are called Resistant Starches, right? Resistant starches include amylose. Amylose is a long straight chain of glucose molecules, which contrasts with the other type of starch, amylopectin, which has branches.

Because of its branching, amylopectin has a high surface area to volume ratio, so it is easier to digest. Amylose has a lower surface area to volume ratio so it is roughage and is trickier to digest, so it reaches the large intestine.

Also, in plant cells, starch is often stored in granules. What do we do when we cook food? The heat causes granules to expand, start leaking, or even burst completely, thus making our food easier to digest. It is harder to digest if you have to eat through the granule first before you can even START to break down the polymers. Cooking means that often times, the starch is Literally Right There, so it makes the food much easier to digest.

Anyway, stuff that is Really easy to digest, you get the sugar all at once, so it goes into storage or you get super energetic but it doesn't give you a good lasting amount of energy like slower-releasing starches do.

This all explains... like everything that people say about how you need to eat healthy. (Except for the stupid things like that you need to cut carbs.) It explains why fibre helps digestion, why more complex carbohydrates are often healthier than simple ones like sucrose, WHY WE COOK FOOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IT'S SO COOL

Explanations for those who are confused by terminology under the cut:

*cellulose is found in cell walls and is a carbohydrate that is really tough since it forms a lattice shape. It is the stuff that makes wood so strong, and also forms part of lignin AKA tree bark.

*Basically, carbohydrates are made of single sugars that bond together by condensation. Condensation reactions are when on the end of two monomers, there is an OH group and an OH group, and then one of the OHs gets removed and another H+ off of the other OH is removed. This means both monomers are then sharing the one oxygen left, and there is a water molecule produced hence the name. Hydrolysis is the inverse of this - when a water molecule is split into OH- and H+ and then it breaks apart a polymer.

[pomefioredove]

SAW THE EVENT NOWI PULL UP

the fastest way to shut me up is to kiss me + epel please

EPEL REQUEST 🫡 I LOVE THAT GUY HE'S MY BEST FRIEND

summary: "the fastest way to shut me up is to kiss me" type of post: short fic characters: epel additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not specified to be yuu, not proofread, cute and fluffy a part of this event

It's not like you like him.

You just feel bad. You're just trying to help!

"A soft spot for him?"

Vil scoffs, gesturing to one of the wide windows of Pomefiore, which Epel is presently outside of, attacking a tree with a big stick to "vent his frustrations", as he called it.

"It's not a soft spot," you insist for the umpteenth time.

Vil rolls his eyes.

"Whatever you want to call it," he says, a clear hint of disbelief in his tone. "Oh, well. If you think you can convince him to change his socks every once in a while without throwing a tantrum, you're more than welcome to."

And with that, the housewarden leaves.

The air outside Pomefiore is perpetually crisp and clear; even breathing here is luxurious...

You stop just a few paces behind Epel, waiting for him to notice as he attacks the tree trunk with the makeshift weapon.

He's got a surprising amount of stamina for someone in a frilly shirt.

"Epel?"

He takes another swing, and the branch snaps clean in half. Huffing and puffing, he turns to look at you from over his shoulder.

"I'm not going back up there," he hisses. It's hard to take him seriously with all that bark in his hair.

"I'm not trying to take you anywhere. I just want to talk,"

Epel groans, rolling his eyes dramatically. "That's what they all say. Well, what if I don't wanna talk, huh? Didja ever think of that?"

He takes the stumpy, broken end of the stick and beats it against the trunk a few more times for good measure.

You could've guessed as much.

"Okay, fine," you huff. "I was just trying to help."

"Help who, exactly? 'Cause if you really wanted to help, you'd be 'gettin me out of this dandy dorm!"

He tosses the branch aside, letting it tumble away. Splinters of bark and stick are splattered across the ground like blood at a crime scene, making a mess out of the perfectly manicured lawn.

You grimace. "I don't appreciate your tone,"

"Wouldja... would you... just... say it?" he hisses. "I'm sick and tired of pretending like insults aren't insults. Dressing 'em up doesn't make 'em any nicer, you know."

"...That's not what I was trying to-"

"If you have something to say, say it to my face!"

Epel takes a defensive pose, putting his hands on his hips and glaring back at you, challenging you to... something.

You don't take him up on his offer. He sighs and slumps against the shredded tree.

"I'm gonna get in heaps of trouble for this," he mutters, flicking a shard of wood off his blazer. "Aren't I?"

You sit down with him. "...Maybe. Sorry,"

"Not like it's your fault. You don't make the rules... you're just better at following them,"

Some of them, you think. But this isn't the time for that.

"Stupid dorm. Stupid Vil. I hate this place. And all my uniforms are itchy," he tugs at his collar to emphasize his point.

You can't help a smile. He looks all tired now, worn out from his tirade against the Pomefiore grounds. That defiant demeanor has melted back into subtle annoyance once again.

"...You know, for someone who insists he doesn't wanna talk, you sure love complaining,"

"Ha ha," he mutters. His eyes dart between you and the dorm behind you, and he smiles. "...You know, the fastest way to shut me up is to kiss me."

"Oh?" you raise an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Epel nods solemnly, sticking to his story. "It is,"

You follow his example, turning to the dorm to check for lingering eyes, but no one's there.

"Well," you say, getting up and sitting back next to him. "I guess I'll have to test that out, huh?"

[asksythe]

Hey just read your lovely hands fanfic and the concept of the blood pool being a prison for malevolent entities barred from the cycle of reincarnation is so COOL , is it a thing implied between the lines and we western audiences lack the cultural context to recognise it ?, or is it something you came up with if so can I have permission to incorporate the concept into my own fan works?

It is a cultural thing. It's not even implied in the novel. It's just outright stated. But it's one of those hundreds of tiny cultural details that probably fly over the head of the international audience.

Remember when the Wen people came back as bloody corpses to protect Wei Ying and fought back the fierce corpses riled up by the repaired Yin Hufu?

In this part, the novel describes the events following the first Sige of the Burial Mound. After the hundred cultivator houses slaughtered these defenseless elderlies, women, and children, they threw their corpses into the blood pool, thus forever barring them from reincarnation.

The phrase the novel uses is 永不超生 (lit. to never again be reborn, to be barred from the cycle of reincarnation forever). That's not a figure of speech. The novel is being literal. The Burial Mound itself is already a prison for all kinds of undead and ghost wraiths. The blood pool, by the novel descriptions, amounts to a maximum security cell. A ghost in the Burial Mound can eventually let go of their grudge/resentment and enters the afterlife/reincarnation. But anybody thrown into the blood pool doesn't have this option.

永不超生 is commonly portrayed in Chinese culture as a punishment by the authority of the underworld. That's not a judgment that a mortal is allowed to make.

The fact that the Hundred Houses carried out 永不超生 on the Wen is a detail that speaks of both their arrogance and their awareness of their guilt.

The Hundred Houses are well aware what they did to the Wen remnants is a sin. The custom of the time is, if you profess yourself to be the righteous side and slay someone seen as 'evil/villain,' it's customary to hang their corpses up for all to see.

Remember Nie Mingjue beheading Wen Xu and hanging Wen Xu's head at the gate of Uncleam Realm for all to see? NMJ is not doing that just because he has a vendetta against the Wen. He's doing that as part of ancient customs to declare to all that 'his kill is righteous,' that he doesn't need to hide it, and that Wen Xu and the Wens are villains that need to be put down.

That's the principle. Justice has no need to hide.

But not only did the Hundred Houses hide the corpses of the Wen remnants, but they also imprisoned their souls, hoping that would keep the Wen from coming back as grudge wraiths or for the karmic cycle itself to snap back for this sin.

The Hundred Houses built up the Wen remnants to be this evil army at Wei Ying's beck and call. So they need to be put down. But the truth is that they were just a bunch of elderlies, women, and children who spent all their lives being doctors (as they belong to the Qihuang branch, with their own pacifistic philosophy).

Had the Hundred Houses performed the custom and showed their supposedly righteous kill to the world, then the truth would out. That they were either liars or stupid, and that they best be prepared to repay for their transgression on both innocent Wens and on the authority of hell itself.

And that, my friend, is why the second Burial Mound Siege ended the way it did, and why the vast majority of those same cultivators left Wei Ying alone afterward. What do you think those same cultivators think when their victims break out of the supposedly unbreakable maximum security cell to save Wei Ying (another of their victims)? And then those same Wen souls entered the afterlife?

The Western vernacular for this part is: Karma is a tenacious bitch with a long memory. It doesn't matter how much they lie about their crime and act like they are righteous or how good they think they hide the proof of their deeds. Heaven and hell itself are watching.

....Sorry, I have some strong feelings about the treatment of the Wen remnants.

That is to say, feel free to incorporate it in your works.

[laundryandtaxes]

It's insane that Columbia bent the knee in terms of cracking down on its own students and faculty for the sake of making peace with the Trump administration. For the purpose of appeasing wealthy donor alumni, it is at least entirely reasonable as a method of self preservation, if still disgusting. For the sake of appeasing an administration that hates academia in general, it's just stupid, for two major reasons. The first is that the executive branch does not control the country's purse strings, and no president has the right to withdraw funds already allocated by Congress, or to rewrite contracts in which both parties are already engaged- this is obviously quite the gamble, but I think it is clear that this Court would give them their money back because it already belonged to them and I suspect that John Roberts is physically itching right now at the chance to have his juridical legacy include preventing America from developing a king. However, it is no bigger gamble to take it to court than it is to simply cross their fingers and hope that the Trump admin backs off after appeasing them once, which leads to the second point of obvious idiocy. Now that Columbia has behaved as though the Trump admin has a legitimate right to withhold already allocated funds from them in exchange for certain concessions, it is entirely reasonable and predictable that the Trump admin could come back with a new set of demands at any time and it would be reasonable for them to expect compliance. What's to stop them from demanding, in 6 months, that Columbia eliminate its women studies courses, for instance, or eliminate certain texts from their syllabi, or even include specific texts the administration wishes to promote?

Obviously, it would have taken time for them to get their money back because the courts are slow, but the notion that they've done anything by buckling other than signal that they're entirely willing to play an entirely illegitimate ballgame for the sake of peace which is not guaranteed to last any amount of time is nonsense. It would have been a tough semester or year or several for Columbia without their allocated funds, but the fundamental problem that the institution relies on federal funds and the federal government changes very regularly will not be solved or ameliorated by simply shrugging and hoping that Trump doesn't ask for further concessions when he now has absolutely no reason not to. They're not going to be able to get around the fact that the executive branch is going to be in the hands of a party that hates them and everything that they stand for for several more years.

[tuliptired]

I have a request for egon, if you don't mind. so, in my idea, egon and reader have known each other for a while, like since the beginning of college or evwn childhood friends. reader is loud, bossy, witty, and sarcastic, but with him, she's completely different. One second, she'll be telling Peter off, and then she turns to egon and is like, "🌸💮😚Do you need anything bestie boo?☺️🌺💐" (she has the fattest most obvious crush on him, and he doesn't get it for the longest time.)

I love ur work sm pls don't die <3

I'd Love You to Want Me (The Way That I Want You)

Pairing: Egon Spengler/F!Reader

HI!!!! I'm sorry it's been so stupid long...the life monster got me, my laptop stopped working for a while, and I've been dealing with some health related things but I'M BACK!! SUMMER'S HERE!! I apologize if this isn't what you envisioned...I feel rusty in the creative department </3

thank you for your kind messages :( I read and reread them every day while I was gone, and they kept me going when I felt washed. I DO IT FOR Y'ALL!!! HAPPY EARLY GHOSTBUSTERS DAY!

better formatting on Ao3! (italics)

Summer, sometime in the 60’s. Elon had run ahead of his twin brother as they made their way down the forest trail. The twins were on a rare outing, not in search of any particular flora, but to simply explore. Miraculously, they were getting bored. Who would’ve thought the word could exist in a Spengler’s vocabulary? If Egon was a little older, he’d know that they were, in actuality, just growing older and silently ready for a life outside their antiquated, Queens home.

 Along the tree lined path, something made the young boy stop in his tracks, bent over to get a closer look into the sudden mini-cliff where the trail seemed to end.

“Go away,” a little voice called up towards him. Elon was undeterred, still more curious than friendly, but still undeterred.

Elon tilted his head, a juvenile smile on his face. “You look funny,” he put his hands on his hips. When Egon got closer, he saw you in outdoorsy clothes that were definitely not made for you. Even worse, you were covered in dirt and caked with mud around your pant legs and the ends of your sleeves. You were digging, or building, or doing something that called for you to terrorize the little patch of dirt, rocks, and grass.

You frowned. “You look funnier. And stupid.” 

Point made- most kids outside their neighborhood didn’t match with their siblings, no matter how identical, in dainty little boy’s clothes, especially not when they were supposed to be playing. “No boys allowed.”

Elon took personal offense, still in his “boys vs. girls” phase. He’d absolutely grow out of it, but Egon would never be able to decide if it was for better or for worse. Elon hopped into your clearing. “What’re you doing, anyway? I bet it’s stupid, just like you.”

The boys had just noticed the pile of branches, leaves, and flowers- little touches needed for decoration, that you stood in front of proudly. “I’m making a hide-out,” you crossed your arms, “I’m digging for supplies.” Egon was getting too hot for this. All he really wanted was to head home. 

Despite the sizable amount you’d found, Elon wasn’t satisfied with your pitiful female-gathering-ability. He shook his head and laughed patronizingly, just like his father. 

“We can find way more than you! Watch!”

Before Egon could protest, his brother was halfway across the woods, picking up whatever he saw. He caught sight of the progress you’d made in a private spot away from the beaten path, a makeshift clubhouse constructed by scrap wood dumped by the creek and discarded blankets- rudimentary, but effective. Egon’s elementary desires took over, the place looked like a kid-sized fairy garden, and he yearned to see it finished and inhabitable.

You watched on smugly as Elon tripped over himself in an attempt to prove that he was of the better sex. “Boys are idiots,” you forgot that the carbon copy of the idiot you tricked into doing grunt work for you was standing silently to the side. You stared at the ground in timid embarrassment. “Sorry.”

More silence ensued. As interested as he was in your abode in the woods, his legs were itching from prickly sweat. You must’ve been waiting for a response, an insult, a challenge like Elon’s, but he was more interested in the rocks near the makeshift door you’d craft.

You were in front of him with wildflowers of all kinds to be stuck in the wet clay and dirt that you used to bind everything together. “You can help me,” you weren’t the loudmouth girl he’d first seen covered in dirt just then, but deliberate. A caring confidence. “Our house should look pretty.”

Until school started back, he’d spend any spare time he had with you, while Elon had to prove himself to be a valuable asset for you to waste your time with. You were neighborhood friends for a long time, meeting often by chance at the park, in the woods. You were their personal bodyguard against anyone or anything scary, but mostly Egon’s, as half the time he barely registered danger. “Where’d you be without me?” You teased, telling off the older bullies that liked to corner you on the way to the candy store.

Once middleschool came, you were placed in the same classes from the jump, at your parents’ request. “The little princes,” they called the twins, “and their dragon,” you were dubbed. Egon respected your dignity in the title- if people thought you were shrewish just like they thought he was weird, then you’d be weird and mean and bossy and loud and quiet. Together. Elon could stick around, too, you decided.

You passed the time during lunch under the bleachers. “Kiss, Marry, Kill: Mary, Shelby, and Annie,” Elon grinned mischievously, hormonal and growing up to be quite the Casnova. Egon shut his book.

“Marry all 3,” he leaned back on his hands. Egon watched you heave a sigh.

“One hostage isn’t enough?” You spoke on behalf of the girls’ autonomy. “You’re too annoying to marry anyone.”

Elon wasn’t phased. “They’re all in love with me anyways. And cute. Why be selfish?” Egon was starting to wonder what his brawny, already hairy classmates wanted with his baroque brother. Girls were prizes to be displayed at this age, not valentines to be romanced. 

 “Kiss, Marry, Kill: Me, Mike, Egon."

Egon cringed internally, feeling sorry for you. Your only options were his brother, of all people, and the two freakiest boys in your grade. His attention was taken off his copy of Dracula.

“Kiss Egon, marry Egon, kill you and Mike,” you answered proudly.

“Why kill me? We have the same face!” 

“Because you’re the worst.” The bell rang, and Elon made his way back to the field, not before getting a friendly insult in.

Egon twiddled with the book's pages. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“For what?” The other boy was gone. You were your flowery self again.

It must’ve been important, if you were willing to put him in two slots. You saved him from an embarrassment that he didn’t even understand. “For not killing me.”

You giggled, taking a turn at fidgeting with the dry grass under the shade of the bleachers above you. “I’ll always marry you. Ok, Kiss, Marry, Kill: Me, Shelby, Carrie.”

Easy question, he thought. “Kiss you, marry you.” Simply returning the favor. He watched you shake your head. What’d he do?

“You hafta kill someone.”

“They shouldn’t die.”

“That’s how you play!”

“I don’t like this game.”

“Egon?”

“Hm?”

You lay back on the cool ground, arms and legs splayed out in the safety of your schoolyard hideaway. “Keep reading. You’re at my favorite part.”

College, and you both managed to stay friends. And make new ones, evident by the lived-in dorm now looking a little co-ed, shirts and socks and personal effects of all sizes and styles littering the room only meant for two. The law journal on the edge of Egon’s desk, however, was yours- and he made a personal note to not disturb it amongst his own chaos.

He sat at that desk, while you were on the floor, flashcards in hand. “What’d Goffman conceptualize in 1956?

“Responding to social cues and emotions,” a Peter with a little more hair answered confidently as he leaned against Ray’s pillow.

Ray was less sure. “A major change in attitude based on fact?”

You dropped the cards. “Can you guys stop being idiots for at least a few minutes?”

“What’s got your panties in such a twist?” Venkman asked noncommittally, leaning off the bed to collect the small bit of study material he actually had. “30 out of 60 is not my rock bottom.”

Egon watched on as you grabbed your book off of the desk, nearly sending his papers flying. It wouldn't have made much of a difference, in the hectic and impossibly small space. By now, he wasn’t phased by what he knew was vigor. At your adult age, your peers thought of you as less bossy and more of a hardass. But Egon knew better; you were just passionate in your studies, your values, grabbing his arm when you watched scary movies and crossed the street and went through large crowds. 

“My panties are perfectly fine. I’d rather get them twisted studying for my mock trial, but I’m stuck quizzing you on your own major.” You attempted to pace, trying to find the last page you were on. They all knew you were working hard in class, but the chance to attend a competition at your university was reserved for older, more experienced students. Egon found himself smiling fondly at your dedication.

He turned the chair to talk better. “You should be proud of yourself,” he said simply, though he knew you were.

Ray and Peter exchanged a look when you shrunk into your notes, fixated on your scribbles in the corner, which you treated with the reverence of actual work. “It’s not a big deal,” you laughed softly, “We’ve been doing it since grade school.” Egon can remember being taken from courtroom to courtroom across the state, there as emotional support. “I do better when you’re there,” you admitted with a flushed face. And you always won, celebrating with the sugariest dessert you could find in whatever podunk town you competed in.

Peter scoffed. “Careful with the royal we, your honor. Egon was just the waterboy.”

“If it’s nothing, why’re you in such a bad mood?” Ray asked, honestly but friendly. He knew you could get like this- they all knew. And he knew you could get like this whenever your precious mutual friend was around.

You shut the notebook with a snap, turning on your heel to leave. “It’s the most important thing in my life right now, Ray.”

“At least tell us the right answer,” Peter called after you.

“I hope you fail your exam.”

Egon caught up with you later while you were on your way back from the library. “I’m serious, when I say that this is something to be proud of.” 

You pursed your lips, arms folded as you walk across the lawn. Egon watched you grin to yourself, backlit by the warmth of the setting sun. These were his favorite moments with you, admittedly, and they felt few and far between when you both had gotten old and complicated. As much as he admired your work ethic, your pension for stirring up trouble, how often did he see this part of you when you weren’t wrapped up in work or your friends’ antics? 

“Thanks,” you finally spoke with a gentle smile, “I know you are.”

A comfortable lull as a breeze passed by, Egon’s hair that had stayed long and cherubesque since you were kids exposing his forehead as the wind blew past. You stopped in a fit of laughter, and Egon blushed sincerely. He felt boyish, and a little embarrassed, betrayed by his defining feature.

“I suppose it’s time,” he said grimly while putting it all in place again, referencing exactly what you thought he was.

“No!” You tangled your fingers in his hair as if you were protecting it. “At least, not until the trial’s over.”

“That’s interesting.” His scientific mind was always on. “Do you think my appearance will affect your performance?” 

You didn’t think twice. “Absolutely.” Your fingers took to grabbing curls and letting them bounce back. “You don’t want me to lose, right?” 

Egon didn’t mind your closeness. You’ve done this since you were little. “Is that a formal invitation to come and watch?”

Your hands found the nape of his neck, resting there. The music majors were taking advantage of the weather and practicing from across the grass. “Please.”

“Isn’t life absurd?” Ray sniffled from the evening chill while he and Peter leaned out the tiny window of the dormitory watching you and Egon head back to your room to do some prep work.

“I’ll say.” Peter tracked you all the way across the lawn, tired of your backwards way of doing practically everything. “The real answer was ‘impression management.’”

The day of the trial, you had to wait in the lobby before anything officially started, or else you’d have a meltdown in the middle of the courtroom floor. Tangibly, you had everything: files, notes, facts, every point you were to make memorized to a tea. But something big felt missing, like when you stepped out for school without a backpack or deodorant. You caught yourself in the reflection of some glass decoration in a display case. Metaphysically, you were a mess.

Egon walked through the door then, Ray and Peter tailing in behind him. After a spike in your anxiety, you calmed down, wading through spectators and participants to get to your friend. Friends, fine. 

“You don’t know how glad I am that you’re here.”

Peter held you by both shoulders. “Hope we’re not too late,” he grinned.

“Go away.”

“Good luck,” Ray smiled and wished you well as he and Peter made their way into the courtroom. 

“It’s not too crowded here?” Egon shook his head at your concern, and you realized that he looked nicer than normal today, you’d never seen that vest before. “What’s the occasion?” you teased. He had a close approximation to a smile, seeing straight through you, knowing that you knew that he knew you were still incredibly anxious. You still weren’t sure if you hated him for that near superpower, not just calling your bluff but not caring that you were bluffing in the first place. The freaks and hardasses of the world need to stick together.

In the bustle of the competition, surrounded by your strictest peers and educators, he spoke low and only for you. “Do what you always do.”

When your eyes met again, you tried to speak, but words and thought had failed you. So you didn’t. And when your hands clumsily found the stitched edges of his collar, a teammate opened the grand door to fetch you. 

Egon was able to score sometime in between jobs to change out of his flight suit and into some court appropriate attire. Thankfully, because of a specific hardass’ persistence, your district was leaning in favor of public criminal trial. He knew that this case had been hanging over your head like a rain cloud for a while now, and with his hectic schedule he wanted to make sure that he was there for you like he had been before. “Ghost-busting?” you used to tease him. “That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Members of the public stood around in the atrium of the courthouse, when their modest chat was disrupted by the ornate wooden doors flying open.

“Egon!” You beamed, running towards him. It was hard to contain his pride in you when you collided into his arms, not caring that two scholars of such distinction were acting like this in a place of order and law. You seemed to glow with the glory of winning over such a strenuous trial.

The shrewd, bossy little girl was in his arms, until the obnoxious, hardass woman he’d begun adulthood with grabbed his collar for the second time, pressing her lips to his. Whenever he started to kiss back, maybe once the persecutor excused himself from the hall, two decades of puzzle pieces finally put themselves together.

[tgmsunmontue]

Season to Taste - 38/42 WIP

Explicit Hangster - Celebrity Chef Bradley and Naval Aviator Jake Seresin who have a relationship spanning the globe before they realize how tightly bound they are to one another.

PROLOGUE/1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (interlude) 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 (interlude) 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 (interlude) 31 32 33 34 35 36 37

CHAPTER THIRTYEIGHT

                Time speeds up and drags at the same time, the way it always does for him when he’s flying and hyper focused on achieving all the goals laid out in front of him. They manage to hit the target, get up and over and then it’s an utter shit show that makes him fairly sure he’s not going to be able to cope with any fireworks for a couple of years. Then Maverick is covering him and going down and all he hears on the comms is the scramble to see a parachute and the denial to go back. Orders to return to the carrier.

                God fucking damn it. He might not like the man very much, but he does respect his skill.

                Can’t leave him exposed like that.

                Can’t have that on his conscience.

                And he’s disobeying orders to do it as well.

                Fuck this is maybe the most stupid thing he’s ever done.

                He manages to shoot the helicopter out of the sky, blows out a breath and pulls at the throttle, has a sinking feeling in his gut because he’s already out of flares and unlike him, the others are likely closer to the carrier than they are to him. Without any air cover, the sheer number of SAMs along with other bogeys in the air he’s already pulled the ejection handle when the SAM hits his jet. It doesn’t stop the blast from hitting him, propelling his body further away. He feels the heat from the explosion and hopes like hell he still has enough altitude to safely land without his body crumbling in on itself or leaving him with broken legs and incapable of doing anything.

                “Fuck. I’m so sorry baby…”

                The landing is rough, branches of trees scratching him up as he falls through them, but he doesn’t care because they assist a little in breaking his fall. A miniscule amount.

                He’s alive.

                It’s not all that matters but it’s better than so many alternatives.

                It’s a miracle. Not one of the ones Maverick had listed off, but a miracle all the same. But he’s alive and well and actually… well is probably a stretch. He’s in enemy territory with no way out. His survival training kicks in and he starts stuffing his parachute back into its bag. The material may come in handy later but he also doesn’t want to leave out a giant fucking flag to any aircraft that might be around as to his location. He pulls out an empty pouch and fills it with snow, seals it and shoves it back into a side pocket of his flight suit, knowing it’ll melt and give him something to drink soon enough.

                First things first.

                Find Maverick.

…            …            …

                He doesn’t need to look very far, because the man is running and looking at him frantically and Jake holds his hands up in supplication.

                “I’m fine. All in one piece.”

                Then Maverick unceremoniously shoves him to the ground and Jake just stares up at him.

                “What the fuck?”

                “What were you thinking!”

                “That I didn’t want you to die on my watch. Sir.”

                “I saved your life! You’re meant to be back on the carrier. Safe.”

                “Well. I’m not. I’m here…” Jake provides, clearly stating the obvious but feels like it needs to be said as he stands back up and brushes snow off himself. Maverick is frowning and Jake recognizes that look. “You got a plan old man?”

                Maverick huffs in annoyance and Jake shrugs, because he’s alive and that’s still better than he thought he’d be ten, fifteen minutes ago. He doesn’t get why the old man is angry at him, he saved his fucking life, and if he makes it out alive from this he’s probably facing disciplinary action at the bare minimum. Well, he can always work on the farm and Leo will make sure he won’t starve at least.

                If he makes it home.

                He sucks in a breath then and refuses to think about any scenario where he doesn’t make it home. It’s defeatist and it’s not his normal thought pattern, so easy enough to ignore. For now. They walk through the trees, using them as cover but also the snow is lighter and any tracks they leave are intermittent at best, although not for an experienced tracker. He can tell Maverick wants to talk, has been trying to talk to him since that first day. There is no-one else out here though, no one that Jake can use as a distraction, so he’s going to have to just grit his teeth and make nice.

                “You married Lieutenant?”

                The question surprises him and he finds his hand go to his tags where Leo’s ring sits.

                “No sir. Am engaged though.”

                “Hmm. What’s their name?”

                “Leonardo. Leo for short… Going to make him a Seresin.”

                Maverick stops walking and turns to look at him, frowning at what he’s said and Jake doesn’t have time to get in his face about any homophobia the man might have. Leo’s well rid of him if he is.

                “Uh. Is your… head feeling alright Lieutenant?”

                “I… yes sir?”

                “You did just get shot down…”

                “So did you sir.”

                “Hmm.”

…            …            …

                Ice’s face and name flash up on the screen of his phone and he swallows, already nervous because Ice doesn’t call, not without good reason. Or bad reason. It hurts to talk but if there’s bad news he will be the one that will want to break it to Bradley.

                “Bradley…”

                “Ice…”

                “You… sit down.”

                “Oh god… Jake.”

                He wasn’t sitting, but his knees give out and he hits the floor

                “And Mav.”

                “What?”

                “They… fuck… classified.”

                “Who are you going to get in trouble with?”

                “President.”

                “Oh.”

                “They’ve both been shot down…”

                .

                .

                .

                Everything is dark.

                .

                .

                .

                “Bradley… Leo… svegliati…”

                .

                .

                .

                He throws up.

                Can’t stop shaking.

                “You look like shit.”

                .

                .

                .

                “Come on, we’re going to North Island. Your zio bought us tickets…”

                .

                .

                .

                He doesn’t know what Vi gives him, but it knocks him out.

                Makes the whole world feel hazy.

                He doesn’t care.

                He’ll wake up when the nightmare is over.

                Or he just won’t wake up.

…            …            …

                Maverick is fucking insane.

                Jake’s worried about concussion and whether the man can even remember how to fly.

                Then again, if Maverick’s only lost his short term memory he probably remembers how to fly a plane older than Jake.

                Okay.

                Insane but also a man who deserves the legendary reputation he has.

                Jake wonders if Leo will forgive Maverick because he’s saved Jake’s life.

…            …            …

                “He’s alive. They’re both alive. I think your Uncle Tom wants to kill them both, but they’re alive and back on the carrier and apparently apart from some mild scrapes, sprained ankle and a little concussion they’re both fine.”

                He’s shaking again, and this time the tears are of relief, he feels like he has been put through an emotional wringer non-stop. While he cries Vi holds him and eventually he falls into an exhausted sleep.

THIRTY NINE

[siriusblack-the-third]

The Marauders: Pranks!

(in no particular order)

31st October, 1971 (First Year): the idiots somehow managed to get Peeves on their side and messed with the feast. Additives to the food had the entire castle running towards the bathrooms. The pipes were clogged for weeks afterwards. They served detention for the entirety of the duration.

31st January, 1973 (Second Year): Sirius tricked the gargoyle that protected the headmaster's study, got into his library and took several rare tomes. Dumbledore only realised when Sirius marched into his office two weeks later and dropped 14 books onto his table, announcing, "I'll be borrowing your books frequently, thank you." Just for the sheer talent of getting through his protective spells, Dumbledore allowed him to do so. However, detention of two weeks was handed out for breaking and entering.

23rd September, 1976 (Sixth Year): everyone woke up to see that the 26ft bronze dragon statue atop the fountain in the courtyard vanished in the middle of the night. No-one has seen it since. Nobody knows where it is. However, every time James or Sirius pass by the fountain, a small smirk curves over their lips. On another (completely unrelated, of course) note, James has an exquisite new pen, made of bronze and covered in a beautiful, intricate dragon motif.

13 December, 1974 (Fourth Year): the entire castle just. Floated up into the air without a warning. Exactly 77 feet off the ground for 77 minutes. It took all four of them three months to hand carve runes into the perimeter of the castle, and before that it took all of August for Sirius to come up with the right rune sequence that would stick a timer to the magic. They didn't serve detention, only because the rune sequence was such a stroke of genius— fourth year students barely knew how to use single runes in magic, let alone sequences long enough to cover a perimeter.

12th May, 1977 (Sixth Year): any time someone touched a goblet, said goblet would turn into purple butterflies. Very pretty, but very frustrating when all you wanted was a drink after a hot day. It turned out that they had mixed a transfigurative potion into the dishwashing water, and McGonagall made James write a paper about his invention. Technically, he earned his Potions mastery before he got his N.E.W.T. results.

4th February, 1976 (Fifth Year): a vicious storm cloud hung over Hogwarts starting from the 4th all the way till the full moon, making it rain sleet and hail non-stop, 24 hours a day. Everything came to a standstill, including Quidditch (James had to be persuaded for this one). Under the pretense of a month-long detention, McGonagall and Flitwick sat Sirius and James down and had them explain the thought process that went into the spellwork— weather magic not only required obscene amounts of raw power, but the steps as well were notoriously difficult to execute.

21st December, 1977 (Seventh Year): at exactly 23 minutes after eleven at night, the entire castle got wrapped up in huge, terrifying thorny branches. They crawled through the hallways, spilled through windows, blocked the doors and crept over the suits of armour. Huge roses— about two feet in diameter— bloomed all over the castle, dark haunting pink in colour. Waking up in the morning was quite a shock for people when they found out the vines had grown literally everywhere and taken over the dorm rooms. The inspiration was Disney's animated Sleeping Beauty, and Flitwick and Babbling both gave the Marauders twenty-five points each for the creativity. They did serve four months of detention, though.

.

WARNINGS

do NOT tag w*lfst*r or j*gul*s i mean it i will block you

I do not want anyone calling Sirius or James stupid

If you wanna argue with any of these, argue with the wall. These are headcanons, not reality. Chill.