#GOD I . should talk about the other three more

[harringtonfeels]

pull the pin

4.9k words | Modern coworker!Steve Harrington x fem!Reader

You and your coworker Steve have been dancing around each other for months. And now that you're finally single, it's time to make a move. (Inspired by that Deuxmoi post about Joe Keery: "the most passionate, gentle man with the dirtiest words and tongue", because it made me want to die.)

Notes: Reader has breasts and a vagina, unprotected sex/pulling out, oral sex (f receiving), piv, dirty talking, praise kink, lots of pent up emotions/sexual tension, mention of Reader's ex-boyfriend.

You've been toeing a line with Steve, playing a dangerous game of controlled cat-and-mouse. If you were asked, you'd both deny it. But the truth is, you've wanted Steve a lot longer than you should have. Caught his gaze lingering on you in meetings, hoped to God he didn't notice you staring slack-jawed while he did something as mundane as sorting the mail at the office.

You've met each other's significant others at bar crawls after work, and you never did anything you shouldn't have, or at least nothing serious or deliberate. Even when he broke up with his girlfriend a few months ago, you were a good girl and kept things above board.

Steve told you once, when he was late to work several months ago because they'd been arguing about the laundry, that he wondered if maybe they were only still together because they'd been together so long. His cheeks burned afterward, a rushed "I shouldn't have said that" coming out almost immediately, so you never talked about it again. Even after Jessica, whose desk is right beside yours, reported that he was single a few weeks later to all the girls in your department, gleefully darting her eyes in Steve's direction across the floor… Even after all that, it was just stray glances that meant more than they should have, or knocking your knee against his under the table at lunch, or choking on a gasp when he showed you something new at work and said "good girl" when you did it right on the first try. But you never made a move, and you didn't plan to.

He's your coworker, and you had a boyfriend.

Had. Had a boyfriend.

Until Noah completely blew it. You'd been on the rocks for a while - he was away at grad school, and you both struggled with the distance. And while you sat there, faithfully waiting for his phone calls and his good morning texts and denying you had any interest in sweet, handsome Steve from work, your boyfriend, as it turns out, was busy reconnecting with his high school sweetheart. Totally innocently, he insisted when you saw him interacting with her posts on Facebook. And then he removed his relationship status from his account. And then, one day, he blocked you and told you he'd deleted the account. But when you told this to helpful Jessica from work, she pulled his profile right up and turned the screen toward you, asking, "Is this him?"

And then tonight, when you were both two or three drinks deep, surrounded by your boss and coworkers, you told Steve. Just loud enough for him to hear you over the music, and just low enough that nobody else could hear, you told him you and Noah had ended things.

In any other circumstance, this might have been a neutral statement, but you saw the way he looked at you - the way his pupils expanded a little, dialed in. You don't even know what you looked like, what he might have seen in your expression, but you didn't miss the way he licked his lips, the way he leaned in just enough that you could smell the cologne on the collar of his brown, leather jacket.

You only just made it to your car when your phone lit up with a text message, all white and blue light illuminating your future transgressions. It only took one sentence for him to make his intentions clear.

I think you've got my wallet, his message read.

You both knew that wasn't true. And so the next phase, the real chase, was on. You sat in your spot in the parking lot, coming up with something plausible in case the company were to ever ask for your records. Your heart pounded in your chest in time with the rain on your windshield, and you finally sent back: Sorry, I'm already back home. Can you come and pick it up? Your follow-up text included your address.

And that brings you to now, waiting for Steve, knowing he's only a few minutes behind you. You've dashed through a quick routine - taking off your shoes and jacket, tidying the kitchen a little, and brushing your teeth again - by the time he knocks on your door.

When you open it and let him inside, your pulse races. You don't know what happens from here, how to get from Point A to Point C.

As it turns out, you don't need to know, because no sooner has he set foot into your house than he's taking your face in his hands, brown eyes burning with something both electric and dark.

You stumble backward, hands instinctually grabbing him by each side of the undone zipper of his jacket. "Steve." Your voice sounds foreign and breathy to your own ears, like someone who doesn't believe their own eyes. Like you think he might be a figment of your imagination, a dream too good to be true.

His jacket is damp from the rain, and his hair is, too, and the front door is still wide open when he rests his forehead against yours and hesitates, lips slightly parted and just a breath away from yours. His chest is still several inches away from yours, like his mind got a little bit ahead of him and now he's not sure he should be so forward. There's a lingering air of "should we do this?" in the space where a greeting should have been, but you've already made up your mind. You cradle the back of his head in your hand and pull him in. The air is thick with tension, like the thunderstorm outside has permeated the atmosphere of your house as well. And when his mouth descends on yours, that first touch is electric, so jarring and desperate that it feels like gravity's been multiplied, drawing you to him. You couldn't fight it if you tried.

Your heart hammers in your chest as he softens under your touch and tugs you in by the belt loops. You always wondered what it would be like, not just kissing Steve but to be held by him. Wondered if you'd be able to feel it in his touch, after all those stolen glances these last couple of years, the late night talks at the bar after your boss went home. Mused on whether his hands would feel as solid and sure on your skin as his thigh does when it's pressed against yours in your tiny cubicle. Well, you were right, but only partly - his touch is sure, but it's urgent, like he's thought about this every bit as much as you have. Like he needs you.

Somewhere in those first few moments, he nudges the front door shut behind him and begins guiding you backwards. One thumb slots into your belt loop, big hand wrapping around your hip as he goes.

He tastes like whiskey and honey and everything you've ever wanted. Because you've seen the way Steve treated Tamara. You've seen him hold her the way you've been dying to be held, the way he's holding you right now. If it were someone else, maybe that would bother you, the idea of him touching you like his ex-girlfriend. But this is Steve - warm, gentle, tactile Steve, and you've been dying to feel even a little bit of the warmth of his sunshine.

"Do you have any idea—" Steve pulls away, looking into your eyes as he eases you down onto the sofa. "—how fucking long I've been wanting to do that?"

Swallowing thickly, you watch as he shrugs off his jacket. As soon as it hits the floor, you pull your knees up to your chest, parting them enough for him to slot himself between them. "As long as I've wanted you?" you suggest, hands finding the buckle of his belt and dragging him closer.

You can already see him straining against the denim of his jeans, the imprint of him hard and mouthwatering. Your mind still feels a little warm and languid from the alcohol, but when you palm him through his jeans without even thinking about it first, you're moving on entirely on desire and instinct.

"Fuck, honey," he sighs, fisting one hand in your hair and pulling just enough to drag a moan from your lips. "Can I—"

He hisses when you begin unbuckling his belt. Your hands are careful as you tug his zipper down, but you look up at the sound he makes to be sure you've not hurt him. He doesn't look like he's in pain, but you ask anyway. "Is this okay?"

The way you look up at him through your lashes seems to do something to him, because his hips buck a little. "Oh my God, yeah. D'you—Fuck, where's the bedroom?"

He swipes a hand through his hair sloppily, pushing it back from his forehead, and you almost release your grasp on him, desperate to run your fingers through it yourself. When your breath hitches, it's like you can feel your lungs rattling against the cage of your ribs. "This way," you tell him, taking his hand in yours as thunder rumbles through the house. As you stand, a flash of lightning illuminates the room, a persistent flicker, thrusting you both into the light just long enough to remember that this isn't who you are in the daylight. Or, rather, that it wasn't.

It could be.

The air is alive with static electricity, and so are you, Steve's mouth only parting from yours just long enough to pull the camisole over your head. By the time you reach your bedroom, he's out of his Levi's, and you're down to your underwear.

You didn't dress up for Steve tonight, or at least not in a conspicuous way. You wore a skirt that was appropriate for work and a fitted, button-down top with a little flare at the waist - nothing super out of the ordinary. But you made up your mind this morning before leaving for work that you were going to tell him, that you were going to be prepared for the pipe dream of ending the night in Steve's bed. So it shouldn't be that jarring when Steve pulls back to observe you, gaze roving the thin material of your bra, a strappy little push-up you picked up last week. But in the lulls of the day, when you let yourself daydream about Steve's hands on your skin, exploring your new lingerie, you assumed it would maybe make him more excited, maybe signal to him just how ready you are. But you didn't expect it to be like this.

Because Steve groans at the sight of you, hands palming your breasts with reverence through the sheer fabric, and then he drops to his knees. You bury your hands in his hair, pulse racing as he presses kisses to your stomach, hands holding your hips. "You're gonna fuckin' kill me," he hums, sounding not displeased about the prospect.

Suddenly, he pulls you down by your hips, sets you down at the foot of the bed and remains on his knees, shuffling forward just a bit to close the gap.

"Steve," you gasp as he pulls one of your legs over his shoulder.

"Did you dress up just for me?" he asks, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your knee. His gaze is burnt caramel, hot where it follows the curve of your calf, on up to the juncture of your knee, and up to your thighs and beyond.

It's probably a rhetorical question, but when he's looking at you like that, you feel like you need to respond, need to tell him. "I always dress up for you," you say softly.

Your stomach tenses a little in anticipation as his big, soft hands press your thighs apart, exposing you further. "Yeah? You mean like that pretty dress you wore yesterday?"

Lightning cracks across the sky, and the room is turned electric blue as the light shines through your curtains. You nod, watching him leave another chaste kiss higher up your thigh, on the soft skin of the inside. He pulls you a little closer to the edge of the bed, easier for him to reach. His voice is low and sultry, smooth in a way you've never heard it before, as he asks, "And like that tight little skirt you wore today?"

Swallowing thickly, you nod again. You've done a lot of things for Steve tonight, whether he knows it or not. The berry scented lotion, the skirt he always seemed to notice most, the lingerie, the posturing - all of it. All of it's been for Steve.

When his nose brushes against the damp fabric of your panties, the sound you make is less a sigh and more a breath being wrenched from your lungs. It's not voluntary in the slightest. The way Steve was tearing your clothes off in the hall, you didn't expect this, didn't anticipate he'd even bother with foreplay. But maybe you just don't know Steve yet, or at least, not like that. Because everything about him screams intentionality and gentleness.

"Love it when you wear that one," he murmurs, pulling your panties to the side. He presses your thigh against the bed, opening you up as far as he can with your other leg over his shoulder. Then he presses a kiss to the juncture of your thigh and the strappy waistband of your panties, you whine a little at his touch. Something about the tone of his voice, all soft and wanting, has your hands shaking already. His breath is hot on your skin when he adds, "Oh, baby, you're so wet for me already. If I knew you needed me this bad, I would have taken care of you sooner."

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, eyes fluttering shut at the thought as he continues. Your back arches just a little when his thumb drags a slow trail up from your entrance, through your slick folds, and circles around your swollen clit. "Could have drove you home. Could've stroked this pretty pussy in the passenger seat, maybe pulled over along the way if you still couldn't wait."

It's funny how just the sound of him describing the urgency, telling you you could have had him right there in the parking lot, makes you need him so much more now, while he's taking his time. "Steve—" Your hand curls around his bicep as his thumb circles your clit again. It's too direct, just a little too much when you're already so worked up. "—please, been waiting so long—"

"Oh, I know." His tone is bordering on patronizing, leaning just slightly more toward a coo, and hearing him like that makes you feel like your brain is running on dial up. "D'you think I didn't notice how you make twice as many trips to the printer as you need to, just so you can see me?"

No, actually, you didn't think he noticed. And just as you're about to tell him as much, when he buries his face between your thighs, tongue flattening to lick a stripe up from your entrance to the swollen bud of your clitoris.

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, fingers weaving into his hair reflexively. You've pictured Steve a lot of ways; you'd be lying if you said you never imagined this. But when he flicks his tongue against your clit, it's slower, gentler than you imagined. In your head, everything was always frenzied, as desperate as you felt. But the reality of his touch is so much… gentler, slower, like he's savoring you even from the very first taste.

One-night-stands and first-times in the days of yore were always very trial and error, and obviously so. You'd have to tell your partner what you do and don't like as it's happening if not discussed in advance, either through gritted teeth when something hurt, or over laughter with a new boyfriend, or with trepidation with your first love.

Steve, you find quickly, isn't like that at all. His mouth is, first of all, absolutely sinful - hot and agile and—

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip when he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks gently, hips rising involuntarily, chasing more more more. "Oh," you gasp, eyes screwing shut at the warmth blooming in your belly. You pull just slightly at his hair, knuckles pressed against the root, and a low moan rumbles from his throat, lips vibrating slightly against your skin. The wrist of your free hand twists above your head, fingers wrapping around the railing of the headboard for something, anything to hold onto. "'S good," you whimper, "so good, Steve."

There's a lot more finesse to Steve than you would have expected, the way he tries new patterns with his tongue, skillfully shifting from one technique to the next without pause. When he does come up for air, panting, he huffs out, "Do that again."

You tug on his hair again, gentle but firm, and that's when you see it, the way his big hand flexes as he palms the bulge straining against the confines of his briefs. Just as he shifts back into flicking his tongue against your clit, up and down, so direct the pleasure's almost painful, you moan with abandon, voice breathy and a little primal. You repeat his name like a mantra, like he can save you from the heat washing over your body, careening toward your orgasm too fast and too intensely.

"That's it, honey, let me hear you," he hums. Instinctively, like your body knows you shouldn't be finishing so soon, your thighs clench around his ears, trying to distance yourself a little from the overwhelming sensation building deep inside you. But try as your body might, there's no escaping him.

Steve's hands work quickly, grabbing your hips to push you farther up the bed, and when he kneels at the foot of the bed, he presses both your thighs flat against the sheets, opening you up entirely. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide when his mouth descends on you again, just your hips bucking against his mouth and thighs trembling, completely surrendering to the pleasure just as the first wave of your orgasm breaks.

You don't even hear the thunder rolling outside, pulse pounding in your ears. "Steve, Steve—" The sounds spilling out of your mouth are completely unintelligible. There's something you were going to say, but you don't have a clue what it was, or what you're even saying now, all the consonants soft and vowels trailing as he circles his tongue around the sensitive bud of your clitoris. It's just enough stimulation to work you through it, but indirect enough to keep you from crying out from overstimulation.

Your eyes prick with tears from the intensity of it all: the searing pleasure of your orgasm, the surreal edge of Steve's very presence in your bedroom that's setting in on the comedown, the longing pull coming from behind your ribs that feels like you just need need need more of him.

As the roll of your hips slows down, Steve presses a gentle kiss to your labia and looks up at you, eyes burning with desire and shining just a little with something that looks like pride.

His hand caresses your inner thigh, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there as he murmurs, "Taste so good, honey. Even sweeter than I thought."

Nobody's ever talked to you the way Steve does, with the kind of authoritative reverence in his voice - like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on and he knows you're all his. You've had guys try and talk dirty to you before, but they always seemed to over- or under-shoot—calling you names or sounding too embarrassed to possibly mean their words. But Steve, he can talk to you like this all night if he wants. From the smoldering look in his eyes, you think he just might.

The tears gather in the corner of your eyes, but you blink them away, reaching out for him, needing him like you've never needed anyone before. There's something about this dynamic between you - tense, like a fishing line pulled tight - that feels like it could break if you say the wrong thing. You want more of that authoritative but gentle tone of his voice, and his confident, attentive ministrations. When you told Steve you were single, you thought you were taking control of the situation, that maybe you'd be the one to shove him onto your mattress and tell him exactly what you want. But you weren't prepared for this side of Steve, cocky but so, so eager, so smooth and adoring all at once.

You need him, need more of him like you need to breathe. When he shuffles forward a little, crawling up your sweat-slick body to press a kiss to your lips, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in. He chuckles lightly against your skin, and while you might have worried that this hasn't affected him at all, the bulge grinding absentmindedly against your slick, aching cunt says otherwise.

His lips are soft and slick with the taste of you, but you don't mind - in fact, you find yourself chasing his kiss feverishly, craving more. So you're a little disappointed when he pulls back just far enough that his lips ghost against yours as he asks, "Was that everything you wanted?"

"No," you say, arms tangling beneath his to wrap around his shoulderblades, hands gripping his shoulders.

His eyes crinkle just a little at the corners as he grins, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips, then another to your nose. "Oh, yeah? Was something missing?"

He's so smug, it drives you crazy, and you're about to tell him as much when he nudges his nose against the lobe of your ear, hips rolling against yours slowly, deliberately. Your response dies on your tongue, replaced with a breathy moan, your fingernails digging little half-moons into his skin.

Steve asks, "Did you know I had to get myself off in my car after we left the bar last Friday?" His hips cant against yours sharply, as though to punctuate his sentence, and your hole clenches in response, tightening around the mere idea of him. "Didn't even make it out of the parking lot, watching you move in that awful mini-skirt. Thinking how unfair it was that I couldn't bury myself in this pretty pussy because some dickhead in Missouri was wasting his shot with you."

A shiver runs down your spine at the admission, and with your eyes closed, you can see him, fist working over his cock, which you still haven't seen yet. "I want it," you find yourself babbling, seemingly no longer possessing any restraint or self-respect as you rut against his hard length. You're not sure if it's that his confidence is infectious or if you've just completely lost all your inhibitions, but suddenly, you're talking like he does, open and honest and completely without shame. "You can fuck me any way you want, Steve, I just need to feel you, please—"

"Oh, fuck." His eyes roll back in his head slightly, and his cock twitches against you, through your sheer panties, and you want him so badly you could scream. Within just a few seconds, he's completely undressed and dragging your panties down your calves before slotting himself back between your thighs like he belongs there. You wrap your legs around him again quickly, afraid to ever, ever let him go.

The flushed tip of his cock presses against you, and he laces his fingers with yours, holding your entwined hands to the mattress. "I'll be gentle, honey," he murmurs, kissing your lips.

And then he presses himself inside you with a slow, shallow roll of his hips. You expect it to sting a little - it's been a while since you've been with anyone beyond phone sex with your vibrator, and your vibrator is certainly not as girthy as Steve. But he strokes your hair, eyes shining with concern as he scans your face for signs of discomfort, and after a few shallow thrusts, he's more than halfway inside you.

"Oh, that's it, baby," he coos, gaze flickering down to where your skin meets his. "Taking me so well; I knew you would. So tight, honey, you have any idea how good you feel?"

You feel so full already that it's overwhelming, but you just open your legs up a little wider for him, craving—needing—all of him. And when you do, Steve takes the hint and realigns his hips, then slowly presses in again, taking you all the way to the hilt. You inhale deeply through your nose, trying to steady yourself, nails scraping down his back.

Pressing his lips to your hairline, he hums, "'S that okay, honey? You ready for more?"

Your stomach clenches, walls tightening around him, and you nod into the crook of his neck.

And then he rolls his hips against yours, still keeping those shallow thrusts from before, brow furrowing with pleasure. It's a slow few moments of him stretching you open, getting used to the feeling, before he lowers his hips slightly, changing the angle again. And when he does, you gasp at the sensation, the stimulation of that spot just behind your pubic bone that makes you see stars.

"Yeah? That feel good?" he hums, licking his lips. When you whimper in response, he slides one arm beneath the small of your back to support you, and then he's thrusting into you with intention, like he's chasing something. Each thrust forces a shaky breath from your lips, a little gasp at the feeling, and you take his face in both your hands, thumb brushing against his pretty cheekbone.

And then it's you who's pulling him in, kissing him slow and languid as his hips maintain a measured, steady pace. He doesn't taste like whiskey anymore, just tastes like Steve.

"Fuck, honey," he groans, burying his face in your shoulder. "I don't know how much longer I can last. You're so goddamn pretty wrapped around my cock."

You slide your hand between your bodies, fingertips finding the aching bud of your clit and rubbing circles around it in time with his thrusts. You're getting close again, can feel that tension coiling in your abdomen, easier this time after the first. When you whimper at the sensitive touch, Steve pulls back a bit, lifts one of your legs over his shoulder and begins fucking you deeper, just a little harder than before.

You're moaning now with each thrust, back arching up into him, and then suddenly, you're bucking your hips against his with abandon. Steve hisses at the sensation of your walls fluttering around him, and then suddenly, he's gripping your hips and pressing you harder into the mattress, fucking you harder and faster as he chases his release. You've only just begun to climax when his hips stutter, pace becoming more erratic, and then you're scraping your nails down his back, leaving pink, swollen trails in their wake, and he's pulling out, abruptly spilling streaks of his hot, white release on your stomach.

He's breathing hard as he comes down, but that doesn't stop him kissing you breathless as your brows knit together, fingers still working your sensitive clit.

You feel dizzy on the comedown as Steve laves messy, open-mouthed kisses against your collarbone, and after a few moments, he's reaching across to the nightstand to gather some tissues. He's gentle and attentive as he cleans you up, and you let him, watch him wipe away the evidence of his orgasm on your stomach.

Only then, when Steve lies down beside you and pulls you to his chest, does the intensity of the day settle into your bones. Eight hours at work, a couple hours at the bar, and who knows how long spent in bed with your coworker Steve Harrington.

Your coworker. You wonder what else he is to you now. A one-night stand? A friend with benefits? A lover? It's hard to say. But the patterns Steve's tracing into your skin feel nice and relaxing, and your eyes are heavy from a long, exhausting day.

As you curl deeper into his side, your eyelids flutter shut, and you ask, "Was that everything you wanted?"

You don't have to see him—you can almost hear his smirk. "Well, I wouldn't say everything," he says, then pauses. "I can think of a thing or two I'd like to try, but I'd call it a good start."

That draws a laugh out of you. So maybe not a one-night stand after all.

Then, he presses a kiss to your temple and asks, "Is it okay if I stay the night?"

"No, I'm gonna make you drive home in the pouring rain after giving me two of the best orgasms of my life," you say flatly. Now that you're listening, you can hear it, the faint patter of raindrop after raindrop falling on the roof above. When you open your eyes to smile up at him, you see he's already looking at you, brown eyes shining in the faint light from the window.

Then he lifts your chin with his finger and kisses you softly. It's not suggestive or even urgent like all the kisses before. This one is different - slower, gentler. And when you lay your head on his chest again, for the first time in a long time, you finally feel content.

[forsaken-headcanons]

Chance time ♥️

[This is my head Canon how he got forsakened]

It was a rather cold day in November

Snow softly drifting from above

Chance spent it getting ready to hang out with iTrapped

His lovely boyfriend

Around 12 pm, they meet up and go to a "fancy" bar

Three hours later, neither had drank much, just talked and bet against other people in games

ITrapped tells chance he has a special place to show them

Tells chance to leave his gun in the car

Its a forest

Untouched snow lays on the ground and in the trees

It makes a beautiful sight

ITrapped leads chance deeper in the woods and then let's chance in front

Chance looks at the serene trees

ITrapped pulls out the darkheart and moves for chance

Chance slowly turns to look at the person he trusts most

Really, the only person he has in their life

He moves on instinct

Chance didn't leave his gun in the car

ITrapped falls to the ground

Head split open

His blood spilling over chance

Chance is frozen until their hands start to shake

He almost drops the flintlock

Chance immediately regrets what he's done

He didn't-

It's not-

Why.

Why did iTrapped..

Chance can't stop himself from crying

Chance barely registers walking and getting in the car

Chance sits in the car and cries for what must have been an hour before driving home

Chance has time to register and he realizes that iTrapped never really cared for them

Never really smiled at him

It all seemed fake

Forced

Like he'd rather not be here

Chance thought iTrapped was the only person that didn't want to kill him

He was wrong

Can you blame him though?

Chance didn't have anyone else

No one

And now he's gone

Chance shouldn't be this worked up about someone that tried to kill him

Shouldn't feel horrible at the sight of blood on his suit

It's because it's ITrapped's

God why did this have to happen..?

The next day chance comes back with a van to dispose of ITrapped's body

He grabs the dark heart and puts it in the back seat

Chance has spent the last 3 days being depressed

Because not only did iTrapped never love him. He never even liked them

Because his whole plan -yes, plan- was to get close to chance, kill him and win big.

Chance went to his house and found detailed plans

What worked

What didn't

It makes chance sick

He really should be over iTrapped

But he isn't

ITrapped sticks to him like a sickness.

Poison even.

Chance grabs the dark heart

And stumbles

He has been drinking

He puts the sword in his … what do you call it.

?

The thing that holds the sword

Whatever

He walks outside

Or..

He was supposed to..

Uhh..

A cabin..?

_____

End scene

Chance has the dark heart in forsaken but he doesn't use it because it reminds him of iTrapped

I hope i can get more hcs in before it closes again lol

oh! haha! that's nice. cocks shotgun /j

AUGHFKJDFHGKJDHRK OKAY DUDE. OKAY. PEAK BUT ALSO OW 💔💔💔💔💔💔

[slytherin-pen]

You’ve Known Me All Along

pairing: Xaden x Marked!Reader

word count: 3.8k

tags: no use of y/n, 1st person, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, foster sister Imogen, set during FW

a/n: written for the Rider’s Quadrant Summer Gift Exchange for @we_were_beautiful. i hope you all enjoy! thank you to @ellebellewritesfic for beta reading and @theoppositequeens for the lovely banner!

Read on AO3

Loose strands of hair cling to my skin as I wait in line to cross the parapet. The straps of my rucksack are digging into my shoulders, and the only thing saving my skin from irritation is the fact that I’m wearing long sleeves. The humidity nearly makes me regret that decision, but I quickly remind myself why I’m not wearing a shirt better suited for the weather.

I’m marked. Labeled. Branded as the child of a traitor by a black relic that starts at my collarbone and winds down my arm.

I went back and forth on whether I should cover it up or wear it proudly like the others. Like Imogen. But I’m not as thick-skinned as she is, and we don’t know whether we’ll be together or not. I don’t know anything about what it’s been like for the others since they’ve arrived here. I don’t know who’s alive or dead. I’m walking into a wolf’s den completely blind, and because of that, I decided to hide my relic for the time being. Candidates and riders try to kill each other for the fun of it or over petty squabbles as is—I don’t need to give them any more of a reason to try to kill me.

Despite the sweltering heat of the summer morning, the wind is blowing strong enough that I’ve seen a few candidates crossing waving their arms frantically and crouching down as they're almost blown over. It’s going to rain soon. I mentally curse the gods. As if crossing this death bridge isn’t going to be hard as is.

After the line moves some more, I watch as it starts as a sprinkle, before rain begins to smack onto the stone floors of the turret and parapet, and the once clear sky turns grey and foggy, ruining any chance of visibility. I cringe as a candidate immediately tumbles over the edge.

“Well, that’s just great,” Rhiannon grumbles from in front of me. I met her on the staircase leading up to the turret. She has high cheekbones and an oval face, with dark skin and warm brown eyes, and her hair is woven into several rows of braids that end at the back of her neck. I also met Dylan—blond, muscular, and far too excited to be here. The small talk with them was a welcome distraction as we trudged up the stairs, but ever since the parapet came into view, we’ve fallen into uneasy silence.

Until now.

“If I were a superstitious woman, I’d say this is not a good sign,” I joke.

Rhiannon snorts. “No kidding.”

“Keep your negativity to yourself,” Dylan chimes in ahead of Rhiannon. “I have a promise to keep,” he says, patting his chest, the ring glinting off the chain around his neck. The ring is for the girl he plans to propose to when he graduates. I couldn’t help the burn of emotions that climbed up my throat when he first told us. It must be nice to think about a future with someone. Or a future at all. The chances of me making it out of Basgiath alive, especially once everyone finds out I’m marked, are zero to none.

“Sorry,” I mumble. I force a smile, though if Rhiannon’s face is anything to go by, it isn’t very convincing. I muster up the most encouraging tone I can while staring at my likely imminent death. “We’re going to be fine. We’re going to cross the parapet, become riders, and bond dragons.”

“That’s the spirit!” Rhiannon cheers, and Dylan shoots me a grateful smile.

To my dismay, the line shuffles forward some more. We’ve now reached the gaping hole in the wall that they call an entrance, and as more of the parapet comes into view, so do three riders. One with cut-off sleeves and a scroll writes down candidates' names as they step out onto the parapet. Another with a short mohawk speaks to Dylan, but the rain makes it too difficult to understand what he’s saying. The third one has his back toward me, but all that does is allow me to gawk unabashedly. He’s tall and sculpted like the statues put on display in the temples. His black shirt clings to broad shoulders and arms that stretch the fabric just enough to make me wonder how it hasn’t torn at the seams. His biceps curve beneath the sleeves in a way that makes my mouth go dry, especially with his arms crossed, forearms flexed like he’s barely restraining something dangerous beneath the surface.

I always knew riders had to be strong, fast, and lethal. But somehow, in all my time imagining death at the hands of dragons, enemies, or the very stones of the parapet—I never considered they’d be this attractive.

I try to shake the thought from my head, force my gaze somewhere—anywhere—else. But then he turns, and my brain comes to a halt.

He’s still him, and yet… not. The same midnight hair and dark, expressive brows. The same chiseled jawline and onyx eyes threaded with flecks of gold, like sunlight reflecting off glass. But now a diagonal scar cuts through his left brow and ends just at the curve of his cheekbone—sharp, striking, and far too handsome to make sense. He’s broader, too. All grown out of the seventeen-year-old boy I remember, and into something devastating.

He looks like a man now.

I eventually regain my senses and snap my head away from him, acting as if the stone wall around us is the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen in hopes of saving myself from any embarrassment. That plan fails spectacularly when Rhiannon turns toward me, clearly noticing the change in my behavior.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Uh—yep,” I nod, still facing the wall and avoiding her gaze. “I just, um, think it's best I don't look out there for longer than I have to, you know? Might psych myself out.”

I still can’t see her face, but I imagine her eyes narrowing as she scrutinizes me. “Sure,” she drawls. “Whatever you say.”

I sigh and mentally apologize to the gods I previously cursed, and thank them for giving me the mercy of her not pushing the subject.

My attention is snagged when Dylan says, “See you two on the other side!” over his shoulder with an excited grin, before stepping onto the parapet with his arms spread wide.

“Ready for the next one, Riorson?” the rider with cut-off sleeves asks.

I swallow and tear my gaze away from the front again. Okay, it’s definitely him. Not that I needed further evidence, but now I have it anyway. He’s not some figment of my imagination—he’s really there, only a few feet away from me. I haven’t seen him in five years.

I’m not sure how he’ll react, and maybe a small part of me is afraid to find out. It’s not that I wanted him to lay awake at night missing me—that would be weird—but if he had forgotten me completely…

I square my shoulders. It’s fine if he has. Sure, finding out one of my closest friends doesn’t remember me would hurt, but it’s fine. He’s a busy boy—man. And I’m not here for friends anyways. I’m here because I have to be, lest I want all of my friends murdered like cattle. Xaden, Imogen, and the others likely have their own groups and their own lives that they’ve created here now. If I survive Parapet and the next few months, I’ll build mine too.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. It’s something I learned from my mother as a child. I used to overthink and overreact, my emotions a wild beast that couldn’t be tamed until her soothing voice trickled into my ears. Save today’s problems for today, and send tomorrow’s problems away—her mantra still echoes in my mind.

I stomp down on the grief that slithers in, unwelcome and cold. I can’t afford to think about my mom right now. Or my dad. Or the people who work at this very college who took them from me—because if I do, instead of crossing the parapet, I might just jump off.

The back of my neck tingles, and I rub ‌it without thinking. When I glance up, Xaden is staring right at me. His brows furrowed, his dark eyes scanning my face as though he recognizes me but can’t place from where. His mouth parts, like he’s about to say something—but a scream cuts through the air.

Both of us snap our heads toward the sound just in time to see Dylan slip.

I gasp, my hand shooting to cover my mouth.

He catches himself, hooking his arms over the stone bridge as his feet kick beneath him, scrambling for purchase that isn’t there.

“Pull yourself up, Dylan!” Rhiannon shouts.

I cup my hands around my mouth and yell, “You can do it! Try to swing your leg up!”

But it’s all for naught. Dylan loses his grip on the slippery stone and falls, disappearing from view. The wind and rain muffle any sound he might make in the valley below, along with the strangled cry that slips past my lips.

I can feel Xaden’s gaze back on me, but I can’t look away from where Dylan is supposed to be. Rhiannon’s voice cuts in and out as she gives her name to the rider keeping tally at the opening to the parapet. My hands shake, and I clench them into fists to hide the signs of my fear and shock. Dylan is dead. Dylan, who has a girlfriend waiting for him to graduate so he can get down on one knee and propose to her. A girlfriend who now will be without the love of her life. Dylan wanted to be here, and now he is dead. What does that mean for someone like me? A marked one who either tries to join the Rider’s Quadrant or causes every marked one to be executed. It could be considered motivation, I suppose. But right now it feels a lot more like an omen.

Rhiannon grips both sides of the opening in the turret, then she looks over her shoulder at me. “I’ll wait for you on the other side,” she shouts over the storm. The fear in her eyes mirrors my own.

“I’ll see you on the other side,” I repeat with a nod. I don’t even try to force a smile. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

She steps out onto the parapet and begins walking. I send a quick prayer to Zinhal to spare my only surviving new friend.

“Name?” the rider at the edge asks as his partner holds a cloak over the scroll in a fruitless attempt to keep it dry.

I answer as thunder cracks above me and can barely suppress my flinch. If the rider makes any comment about my name or my family, I don’t hear it. I’ve always hated storms. They’re more tolerable now that I’m older, but sometimes, especially in moments like this, I still feel like the little girl who would run to my parents’ bedroom to sleep with them. I always feared the worst. Trees flying into our house, the wind ripping off our roof, lightning striking us and killing us instantly—the list goes on. But no matter the scenario my mind conjured, I’d decided if I was going to meet my end, I could at least face it in the arms of my parents.

A shudder runs through my body as I approach the opening. I convince myself, and hopefully everyone watching me, that it’s because of the wind.

Ahead of me, Rhiannon is making her way across, her hands out for balance. She looks like she’s a quarter of the way through, her figure becoming blurrier the farther she walks into the rain.

I close my eyes and take another deep breath. I can do this. I will do this because I’ll be damned if I give these Navarrian assholes another reason to spit on my family’s name.

I take a single step up onto the parapet and grip the stone wall as another gust of wind hits, knocking me sideways against the opening of the turret.

“And you think you’ll be able to ride a dragon?” the candidate behind me mocks.

I bite my cheek as heat rises up my cheeks. So much for not embarrassing my family’s name. I regain my balance and yank the straps of my pack tighter.

“Name?” the rider with the scroll asks again, but I know he’s not talking to me.

“Jack Barlowe,” the one behind me answers. “Remember the name. I’m going to be a wingleader one day.”

I can’t help but scoff at that. Luckily, it doesn’t seem like he could hear me over the wind.

“You’d better get going,” Xaden’s deep voice orders.

I look at him over my shoulder in confusion. I don’t remember them rushing anyone else.

“Unless you need a little motivation?” Jack taunts as he lunges toward me, arms raised.

Oh shit. He’s actually going to try to kill me already. I move instantly. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. I try to remember all the times I practiced with Imogen and the advice she gave. Our foster parents weren’t kind enough to offer us any help or hire anyone else to do it, probably hoping the quadrant would just get rid of us vermin for them. But Imogen is stubborn and resourceful. She gathered materials from around the house and the market, and built us an obstacle course to practice on. I stick my arms out and take tiny steps just like Imogen taught me to do on the balancing beam made out of pieces of plywood and stacks of stone to raise it off the ground. But with the wind, the rain, and about a two-hundred feet difference from the height of our balance beam, I’m not sure how much it’s really going to help. I squeeze my core as I lock my center of gravity, keeping my posture upright.

The stone beneath my boots tilts ever so slightly, slick with rain and worn smooth by decades of terrified footfalls. I keep my eyes locked on the stones ahead, arms outstretched. Wind tears at my braid and bites into my cheeks, and I force my body to stay still, stay balanced, stay calm. One step. Then another.

I hear panicked shouting behind me, but I don’t look back. That’s rule number one up here. Don’t look back. Don’t stop. Don’t hesitate.

But then the hair on the back of my neck raises. My instincts scream, and I can’t help myself—I glance over my shoulder.

Jack Barlowe has his back to me. Against my better judgment, I linger, watching him. My head tilts, confusion pricking at me as I try to figure out what he’s doing. He’s facing the wrong way.

Maybe he chickened out. It wouldn’t be surprising—men with that level of arrogance are often all talk, then run with their tails tucked between their legs.

I huff a quiet laugh to myself and start to turn away before I realize what Jack is doing.

The man behind him—a wiry, nervous-looking candidate with an oversized rucksack—is trembling where he stands, arms windmilling as he tries to keep balance. Jack doesn’t offer help. He grabs the candidate by the straps like he’s taking out the trash. And then he throws him.

The man screams. It cuts off so quickly it feels like a punch to the chest. One moment he’s there, struggling to regain balance, the next—gone. Swallowed whole by the valley below.

My stomach turns. My lungs seize.

Holy shit.

“You’re next!”

The words ring out like a death knell. My head snaps up, and Jack is pointing at me, eyes wild, mouth twisted into a smile so full of hate it makes my blood run cold. Then he moves.

Fast.

“Shit—” I breathe and start moving again, faster now, nearly slipping on the next stone as my boot skids against the wet surface.

The wind roars louder as I pick up speed, arms out, one quick step at a time. I tilt and wobble, the weight of my pack and the strength of the wind nearly knocking me over. I’m not even halfway yet, and Rhiannon is long gone. My breath comes in fast, short pants as I try to pick up speed without dooming myself. Why did I have to get put in front of the psycho?

“Don’t make this harder on yourself!” Jack’s voice booms behind me, closer than it should be. I risk another look. He’s chasing now and moving at an impossible speed. Like he doesn’t care if he falls, so long as he takes me with him.

I reach a broken piece of parapet where the stone dips lower, the edge crumbling just slightly. It forces me to slow—just for a second—but it’s enough. Jack lunges.

His hand brushes the back of my shirt, fingers curling into fabric.

I twist, letting the momentum carry me into a pivot. My elbow flies back and connects with his ribs. It’s a clumsy hit, but enough to make him grunt and recoil half a step.

“You bitch,” he snarls.

“Back off!” I snap, spinning forward again.

This time, I lengthen my stride. It’s the exact opposite of what Imogen taught me to do. Staying as small and tight as possible would give the best chance at balancing, but the risk of falling doesn’t matter if I let Jack catch up to me again and kill me.

My nostrils burn with every inhale, and nausea forms a ball in my throat, but I keep pushing. I can still hear Jack taunting me, but his voice sounds more distant now. My next step knocks a piece of mortar loose, and I pause as my arms windmill until I regain balance. I take a deep breath before continuing.

I can see the Rider’s Quadrant from here.

“Come on, come on,” I whisper like a prayer. My chest burns, lungs gasping for air, muscles on fire.

I bite back a sob of relief as stone rises up on both sides of me.

“You think you’ll be safe in there?” Jack’s voice is harsh…and close.

Secure on both sides by the walls, I run the last ten feet, my heart pounding as adrenaline pushes my body to its max, and his footsteps charge behind me. He lunges for my pack and misses, his hand hitting my hip as we reach the edge. I hurtle forward, jumping the twelve inches off the elevated parapet down to the courtyard, where two riders wait.

Jack roars in frustration, and the sound grips my heaving chest like a vise.

Spinning, I rip a dagger from its sheath at my ribs just as Jack skids to a halt above me on the parapet, his breath choppy and his face ruddy. Murder is etched in his narrowed, glacial blue eyes as he glares down at me…and where the tip of my dagger now indents the fabric of his breeches—against his balls.

“I think. I’ll be safe. For right. Now,” I manage between ragged breaths, my muscles trembling but my hand more than steady.

“Will you?” Jack vibrates with rage, his thick blond brows slashing down over arctic blue eyes, every line of his monstrous frame leaning my way. But he doesn’t take another step.

“It is unlawful for a rider to cause another harm. While in a quadrant formation or in the supervisory. Presence of a superior-ranking cadet,” I recite from the Codex I read and reread to fill the time after Imogen left. “As it will diminish the efficacy of the wing. And given the crowd behind us, I think it’s clear to argue that it’s a formation. Article Three, Section—”

“I don’t give a shit!” He moves, but I hold my ground, and my dagger slices through the first layer of his breeches.

“I suggest you reconsider.” I adjust my stance just in case he doesn’t. “I might slip.”

“Name?” the rider next to me drawls, as if we’re the least interesting thing she’s seen today. I glance in her direction for a millisecond. She pushes the chin-length, fire-red strands of her hair behind her ear with one hand and holds the roll with the other, watching the scene play out.

I answer curtly, keeping my eyes on my opponent.

“And what’s your name?” she asks Jack this time.

“Jack. Barlowe.” There’s no sinister little smile on his lips or playful taunts about how he’ll enjoy killing me now. There’s nothing but pure malice in his features, promising retribution.

A chill of apprehension lifts the hairs on my neck.

“Well, Jack,” the male rider on my right says slowly, scratching the trim lines of his dark goatee. He’s not wearing a cloak, and the rain soaks into the bevy of patches stitched into a worn leather jacket. “She has you by the actual balls here, in more ways than one. She’s right. Regs state that there’s nothing but respect among riders at formation. You want to kill her, you’ll have to do it in the sparring ring or on your own time. That is, if she decides to let you off the parapet. Because technically, you’re not on the grounds yet, so you are not a cadet. She is.”

“And if I decide to snap her neck the second I step down?” Jack growls, and the look in his eyes says he’ll do it.

“Then you get to meet the dragons early,” the redhead answers, her tone bland. “We don’t wait for trials around here. We just execute.”

“What’s it going to be?” the male rider asks. “You going to have Jack here start as a eunuch?”

Shit. What is it going to be? I can’t kill him, not at this angle, and slicing off his balls is only going to make him hate me more, if possible.

“Are you going to follow the rules?” I ask Jack.

My head is buzzing, and my arm feels so damned heavy, but I keep my knife on target.

“Guess I don’t have a choice.” A corner of his mouth tilts into a sneer, and his posture relaxes as he raises his hands, palms out.

I lower my dagger but keep it palmed and ready as I move sideways, toward the redhead keeping roll.

Jack steps down into the courtyard, his shoulder knocking mine as he walks by, pausing to lean in close. “You’re dead, and I’m going to be the one to kill you.”

[deepinthegroves]

shuffle the cards and read the signs..

𖦹°‧ oh,, one fell out ! what is it..?

THE FOOL (DAY 0)

〝 the embrace of new beginnings. 〞 anything about your first day in your desired reality! what will you wear? what is your schedule? who will you meet?

0800: my alarm goes off, loud and music blasting from the speakers installed around my room. i groan, pulling my blankets over my head as i use my magic to get my alarm to "shut up!", but my plans of rolling back to sleep is ruined when a giant paw comes smashing down against the side of my face. my eyes open to see a snout near my eyes, wide and panting as Rocco paws yet again, a sign that i should get out of bed.

0815: a robe wrapped over my pyjamas, i am now squatting in my living room as Rocco and Damian eat, one more enthusiastic than the other. i yawn, wet tissue in hand and ready to clean up after my darlings once they're done. luckily the other three were with my siblings or my work would have more than doubled..

0830: with my pets' breakfast done and over with, i'm soaking in the tub and mentally running through my day. first uni, then patrol, then my office.. my life is packed. still, i lift myself out and get dressed quickly, finishing up my makeup in the mirror.

0900: school starts in fifteen minutes.. and i'm still in line at my favourite pancake place across my apartment. i order my usual (a stack of pancakes with mushrooms, weird as it sounds) and have it to go, stuffing the plastic utensils into the bag.

0915: i arrive in class on time, laptop open and food half-eaten on the table. how, one may ask, when the school is very much half an hour away from my place? well, spiderman knows shortcuts, and i only slammed into one (1) building on the way so.. win ! my friends sit on either side of me, and eleanor steals a piece of my pancake,, as if she hasn't already devoured her breakfast minutes before.

1145: the 2h writing class is finally over (i say, as if this isn't a dream course i picked over all the other courses i could've enrolled into) and my friends and i head out for lunch. it's monday, which meant that the next class started at 2, so we could go further from campus to our favourite restaurant.

1305: i snuck away from eleanor and arlo mid-shopping to go stop a bank robbery – i should've known that my lunch could never be fully peaceful – and luckily, i made it back before they noticed i was fully missing. to them, i was just taking the longest shit known to man.

1400: time for directing class, and arlo has left eleanor and i to take his art class. it's interesting really, to go through the technical portions of what happens behind the camera when i've spent so many years of my life in front of it.

1630: and of all professors i could've gotten, i had the long-winded one who would not let us leave on time. i bid my goodbyes to my friends before going on patrol, checking in with the spider society.

1717: guess who i ran into? hobie brown. he was standing on a rooftop waiting for me as i swung a cat back to its owner, and i nearly fell when he called out for me. gods, his voice is way too attractive and distracting. my webs missed the building, and if not for my quick reflexes, i would've slammed into yet another building, as if i am some sort of rookie.

2030: so uh.. i just got home. and i didn't go to the office today. more work to be done at home i suppose. it's my fault really, i wanted to hang with hobie a little longer, which turned into talking for hours.. hey, at least we got dinner for gwen and i before i swung back here and he went back to his dimension.

2100: not to bore you with work details since it's just a whole lot of planning my schedule, tackling homework, editing magazine spreads, possible outfits and more planning for the next month's magazine.

2222: i could hear gwen in the hallway and i leave my room to say hi. she had just came back from the spider society, and i help heat up her dinner as she went to take a shower before returning to my work.

0000: well, it's midnight and i am pretty much done with work. i got distracted by youtube halfway but i've done what i could for the day and there's still school tomorrow so good night !

bonus: fit check !

>> back to the tarot reading..

[crossbackpoke-check]

blessed be (lorscher bienensegen) | telling the bees (wiþ ymbe)

"Bees" [remixed, abridged], Claudia Emerson // "Letter to Someone Living Fifty Years from Now" [remixed, abridged], Matthew Olzmann // "Letter to my Great, Great Grandchild" [remixed, abridged], J.P. Grasser | Len Redkole, Nina Weiss, Brian Babineau, Christian Peterson, Mitchell Leff, Dave Isaac, Megan DeRuchie

[lambilegs]

GUYSSSSS LOOK AT THE CUP MY FRIEND BOUGHT ME WHEN WE WENT OUT THIS SHIT BELONGS IN A MUSEUM LIKEEEEEE

[corviiids]

wben i finally get more than 0.2 microns of energy and make one of the multiple video essays i desperately want to make so i can yap out loud as god (never) intended

[trentcrimminallybeautiful]

i think about the whole "love that" exchange a lot.

[blizzardfluffykpop]

alright~ a few updates about everything! so this weekend I'll be seeing changkyun in chicago- so I prolly won't be posting until after I'm alive again from that 😂😅 (I am vv excited about it- I just know I'll be vv tired when I return home). Anyways, I have a few fics in the works~ one of them that is a request 🤭 I'm vv excited to work on them! But I think I'm going to change my masterlist a bit when I come back. I'm going to retire a few groups from the main masterlist and I've been debating for the past year about it... But I think I'm going to add a yearly masterlist- So it would go from most recent to the beginning of this year~

I'm also thinking about changing my pfp- I haven't been really into stray kids for uh... years- But I will be sure to make an update about that if I go thru with that too- (It may be ji changmin next 🫣🤭)

Anyways those are my few updates 🥰💖

[graham--folger]

*through gritted teeth* what the fuck do people want from a resume

[darishima]

Whose your favorite drag queen?

MY PRAYERS HAVE BEEN ANSWERED.

a lovely question. also a very complicated one. clears my throat . I HAVE A LOT OF THEM.

if i had to pick a solid number one ever, i'd probably say trixie mattel even though that's a basic af answer. i just watch her content the most, plus i listen to her music super frequently; in general she's the queen whose content i interact with the most and i love her.

my second favorite (a very close second, almost tied) is katya. again yeah a basic answer but its also a GOOD ANSWER. i started learning russian originally because of her, and like trixie i watch tons of videos she's in and listen to her music, just slightly less than trixie cause theres less to consume. love her vibes. whats wrong with her (lovingly). i wanna study her

easy number three placement is gottmik. inspired my dream to become a drag queen because i finally saw a queen on rpdr who was like me (transmasc) and i truly think she's had some of the MOST incredible runway looks in history, especially after her run on as9. she was robbed as fuck by the way, fuck the producers for setting up the season like that it was rigged. rigga morris. justice for mik and plastique. gottmik deserved to win season 13 (i love symone too dont get me wrong) and she ABSOLUTELY deserved to win as9. those fucking runways? not even top 3?? i'm going to kill myself in front of rupaul to permanently alter the trajectory of his life.

as for other like honorable mentions, all my answers are again very obvious because my favorites are the fan favorites but i love laganja estranja, adore delano, gigi goode, crystal methyd, bob the drag queen, peppermint, + more. oh and sasha colby. everyone loves sasha colby. i think my least obvious fav is ivy winters (s5) or max malanaphy (s7)

[hauntingblue]

I KNEEEEW THE MINK KNEW ABOUT RAIZOU THERE WAS NO WAAY!!!!

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

I would say that the United States, as of right now, has three main food groups (aside from junk food) and those are, Italian, Mexican, and Chinese. All of which have been Americanized here to some extent but differently in different parts of the country. I find this very funny because I have heard people from Italy be indignant about what we’ve done with the stuff (and about good restaurants too!) like, sorry if you guys weren’t creative, mixing things up a bit is great. “What about (regionally popular food)?!” I know we all have those, I haven’t heard of bitches in the south eating lefse, but that’s not my point! What was my point actually? I think I was going to say that, even if we bastardize stuff a lot, I’m super glad we have, as a country, agreed that more seasoning is good. Because if this place had been like “fuck immigrant food forever, we are eating British style” I think I would die.

This country has historically treated immigrants like shit, but we do tend to cave eventually and go like “actually,

your food is really good” a kind of shallow prize I guess, but I’m glad we actually start doing it eventually because I WILL mock British food and I WILL be sad that the only good family recipes my family has from before immigrating are all desserts. Don’t get me wrong, I love sweets, but I’m pretty sure there is a reason we stopped making other stuff

Wait, I re-read this today and realized I sound like my family is British. We are not. What even are British desserts? I bet they don’t have enough cardamom. Although lefse doesn’t have cardamom and i like a lot of things without it, my point is that their holiday and special event foods probably don’t have enough! Which wouldn’t surprise me tbh because apparently the only place that went crazy for the stuff outside of where it originated seems to have been Scandinavia for some reason. At least some maps I looked at seemed to suggest it. Which rocked me to my core

[wonder-worker]

“Edward IV was never the sole, undoubted representative of the kingship before I47I. The crowned, anointed and, most important, de facto king of nearly forty years standing, was still alive, never abdicated and was never deposed; he was free until I465 and safe thereafter so long as his heir was beyond Edward's reach ... Barnet, Tewkesbury and the prompt murder of Henry VI, the moment it was safe to do so, alone changed all this and secured Edward's de facto kingship at last. The 'first reign' was in fact the road to the throne.”

- B.P Wolffe, review of “Edward IV” by Charles Ross

[arolesbianism]

Cleaned up Juliet Loki and London's toyhouse pages a bit so that their info is more up to date, and I'm definitely going to have to do the same for the others I already typed stuff out for because man was I way too generous describing them these guys all fucking suck <3

[kkusuka]

pt. 2

your roommate was a strange man.

can you even really call him a roommate if he's only home for one week every few months? but when he is home, simon riley is a pretty good roommate.

he fixes the heater that's been broken for two months, he replaces the faucet after it drenches you for turning it on too quick, he even takes a look at your car when you mention how your breaks have been squeaking. but other than his penchant for whiskey and the color black, you really don't know much about the man you've been living with for more than a year.

he's in the military, you know that for sure. he works with a team because he tells you that you have a striking resemblance to a man names "soap"? you take that as a compliment even if he didn't really mean it to be one. he wears combat boots even when he's off, you buy him a pair for his birthday that he doesn't take off until soles wear out. but all of these are merely observations, you don't actually know anything about him.

and it's not like you don't try to find out more things about him. you search his name on google- nothing. you ask him about his social media- 'don't got any'. you never ask about family because he never brings them up. all you have is a phone number and the license plate on his beat up dodge charger.

so, getting a call in the middle of the night, three months after you'd last seen simon, about a mission taking a bad turn and simon taking a bullet for an american private. all you really manage to catch after that was the hospital's address and a room number to ask for.

you feel like you're in a trance as you pack yourself an overnight bag, then move to simon's room and just start grabbing the softest clothes you can find and a bunch of snacks from his side of the pantry, then you're off.

you didn't want to see desperate or overly worried about a man whose favorite song you don't know but you're pushing into the high 90s on your way down. and your mind isn't clear until you're standing in front of a tired looking nurse in sanrio scrubs.

"um, i need to get into room 1206?" you barely choke the words out before she's getting up to lead you, "oh! mrs. riley, they told me you were on your way."

"oh-i'm, well" and if you hadn't watch so many hospital shows where they don't let anyone but family into the room you would have just told her the truth, but you just shut your mouth, give her a tight smile, and follow her down the hallway.

the room doesn’t take long to get to, but the door is shut and you can hear the people inside talking. but the nurse doesn't even hesitate to swing the door wide open, "mr. riley, your wife is here."

and then there are four sets of eyes trained on you, but all you can look at is the hulking figure of your roommate sat up in his comically small hospital bed. and all you can muster up is a slight smile and a small wave in his direction before the bags you're holding fly straight onto the floor.

"oh, shoot- i'm sorry. i didn't know if you needed anything so i just grabbed some things from your dresser- and some of those granola bars you like, and there should be a gatorade somewhere in there. and, oh my god, i'm sorry, how are you? i came as soon as they called, and they said you got shot, and-"

"calm down, sweetheart, or yer gonna be the one that needs a hospital bed." ok, simon could still speak that was good, and he was conscious and remembered you.

"i'm sorry. i just got worried, and-" simon knew you well enough to know that you'll worry yourself to death if he lets you keep going, "nothin' to worry about, sweetheart, pull up a chair, you've 'ad stressful few hours."

you practically fell back into the chair that the man with the kindest brown eyes you've ever seen pushed towards you. and for the first time since you arrived, you took a deep, long breath. hand clasped in your lap as you take simon in.

"feeling any better, mrs. riley?"

"she's fine, garrick." 

'garrick' seems utterly unphased by your roommate's- husband's? you can address that later- tone and just continues to smile at you.

"c'mon simon, we just wannae ken 'bout the bonnie lass yer hidin' from yer pals. ye 'aven't even introduced us." you're glad the scot waited until you'd calmed down to start speaking because it took you at least 30 seconds to realize he was even talking about you.

"sweetheart these are the boys, boys this is sweetheart, now fuck off before you scare 'er away"

they didn’t seem like they were going to leave until the older man practically dragged them out saying something about the heaping loads of paperwork they had to do. so will a little wave and a cheeky smile, they were gone.

"so, um, ho-how are you feeling? they, uh, said that you got shot?"

" 'm fine, sweetheart, better knowing i've got a bird at home who'll come runnin' cause she thinks 'm hurt, yeah wife?"

yeah, maybe you'll let the mrs. riley thing go on for a little bit longer.

idk i just really like the idea of simon just picking someone random and being like 'yeah this is it, you're mine now' and they have literally no idea