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siriusleee · 4 months ago

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beating, twice

↳ 3.8k words

↳ simon has a new heart

↳ author's note: this has been sitting in my google docs since december of last year. so i'm posting it now because i've become stuck and can't figure anything else out with it

The mountains had never appealed to Simon; he preferred the asphalt jungle of London; the glittering beetle eye concrete of New York City. Easier to disappear into, the pulsating feel of the crowds giving him a sense of anonymity. But at discharge, the doctor's told him to take it easy - to enjoy retirement.

"You're not exactly a young man anymore Mr. Riley," the military doctor said, a silver wedding ring glittering on the back of her clipboard. "You're being medically discharged - you need a plan to keep yourself healthy."

A new identity. A retirement account. A generous do-over to a life filled with one time only regrets. His heart had been grafted over with a piece from a soldier who died in the same blast that nearly killed Simon. He'd told the doctor when he woke up that he could feel it squeezing his heart, but the doctor told Simon that it was just psychosomatic - he knew there was a new piece to his heart and so he felt it.

It took a year of rehab before they finally got tired of him, and another six of bureaucratic hell before the paperwork was finally processed.

The relocation specialists asked him where he wanted to live - Simon didn't know what to say. He'd been all over the world, and yet the name of a singular town couldn't crawl towards his lips.

"You can just point at the map," the specialists had said, fingers twirling a pen. "Some guys do that." So that's what he did - the clock ticking in his ears growing louder and louder as he stood, stupidly, staring at the map on the wall. He tried to count the seconds. How many had passed? Two minutes? Three? His eyes scanned the map, looking for places that he hadn't been to before, places that didn't leave a bad taste in his mouth.

And then he spotted it - a little dot on the map nestled in the Black Hills. No where he'd even been before, or nowhere he had a memory of. But that graft on his heart squeezed when he saw the name, and before he could think, he was tapping the map with his fingernail.

"Alright - I'll have you a place in a week."

The compulsion to walk starts the moment the last box is moved in; the pile of boxes pathetically small in the little house the military bought for him. Or maybe it was once a safe house - Simon didn't know and he didn't care. The walls are faded and the porch sagging, but it's a fresh coat of paint on the water stains that have plagued him. Simon can sense the neighbors peering out at him from behind their curtains; they twitch back into place when Simon steps out onto the porch, the wood moaning beneath the weight of his boots. The sky threatens to spit snow onto him; the first snowfall of the year comin' soon the movers had quipped to him. Simon hadn't replied, just grunted as he passed over the two hundred dollars he owed for moving everything in.

The air bites at his exposed face. When was the last time he was exposed like this? When was the last time he was allowed to show his face like this? Something like self-consciousness presses against him, making it hard to breathe until he tugs his hood over his head and he can breathe again.

The grass crunches beneath his feet, curled brown to protect itself from the oncoming storm. He doesn't look at where he's going, just lets his feet take him where they want to go as the sun slips beneath the treetops. The town falls to sleep around him as his boots carve patterns into the concrete.

The music stops him short. It's entirely out of place on the starlit street - the notes tripping over one another to spill out onto the asphalt with a gentleness that rolls through the darkness. It makes him sick to his stomach with something he can't place, some feeling on the edge of his tongue that he hasn't felt since Johnny's funeral, since he heard gunshots and saw the way Price's hand shook as he shook the hand of Johnny's mother. The absence of something he refuses to name. He's sure he's never heard it before, but it pulls him back to sand beneath his boots and to the hum of Blackhawks above him.

The street is devoid of life; light spills out of the windows and onto the streets, little jewels that hang onto the rough and cracked concrete of the sidewalk. The music is faint- a radio turned down so a conversation can be heard. The entire street is frozen with him, the little flurries that were attempting to collect on the street cracks hang heavy in the air, breathing with him.

Simon doesn't know how long he stands there, hands in the pocket of his jacket and letting the music wash over him. But it stops eventually, and the entire street lets go of the breath it's been holding; the flurries start to fall again, faster to make up for their pause with Simon.

It suddenly occurs to him that he must look like a fucking freak, standing there on the sidewalk, David beneath Michelangelo's hands. It takes every bit of strength in his body to keep his boots moving, moving away from the last notes that linger and swirl around him.

He walks all night, finally falling into the bed with no sheets when the sun starts to peak back out.

He gets a job as a mechanic. His references - names all made up and cell phone numbers that lead forgotten CIA workers whose only job is to answer and read a script- give him the best recommendations, and the old man running the garage doesn't really need Simon to know how to do anything other than change spark plugs and change the oil. The man looks Simon up and down, and Simon catches the POW-MIA embroidered on the man's hat, and that's that. There's something that passes between the two of them that neither of them speak about, but they recognize it in each other's eyes. He starts the next Monday.

He doesn't need the money. Between all the years of hazard pay that wasn't eaten away at by daycare fees or wedding bands, he has a small fortune to practice spending, but he needs the distraction from the walls that should be holding up his military honors, but instead hold blank emptiness. He hasn't been able to unpack anything. He just digs through each box when he needs something, slicing his hands against the knives and sharpened memories.

He walks his path ad nauseum. Each night there's a new symphony that washes over the little town. He tried, more than once, to not be a fucking creep and stand in the middle of the street listening for ten, twenty, thirty minutes. But even across town he could still hear the music creeping its way through the buildings and beneath the cars.

It stalked him beneath the street lamps until he was pulled back towards the street, trying to figure out which house the sound was coming from.

The snow is thick on the ground, being pounded flat each night by his boots by the time he discovers which house it's coming from. The curtains are pulled back, light spilling further out onto the street than usual. The window is pushed open and the music doesn't pour out, but rushes over itself angrily. He finds himself drifting towards the open window - the music is a siren song to him. He knows it. He knows.

He knows this song. He doesn't know how he knows it, he just knows that it pulls on his grafted heart in a way that's painful.

She plays with the kind of look a person has after years of practice. Simon recognizes it as the same one he has when he cleans his gun - the look you have when you don't need to fully pay attention to what you're doing because your body knows it by memory. The song ends abruptly - the last note wrong. It stops Simon in his tracks - 15 yards from her window. He suddenly panics, thinking she's going to look at and see him standing there. She must have stopped playing because she finally caught the stalker who's been standing on her street each night.

But she doesn't.

Instead she stands, and reaches across to slam the window shut. The house shutters from her anger, and she pulls the curtains closed. A moment later the sliver of light that was left is extinguished and Simon knows then, he needs to move.

He's getting too comfortable. He spends too many nights outside her house listening to her play - too many nights getting closer to the window until he's found that he can stand right on the sidewalk and see her through her curtain when it's closed.

He learns the pattern of each song by heart until one night when he passes by and the street is silent. There's no light in her windows - he immediately thinks the worst. The gun at his waist feels a thousand pounds; he reaches back to grab it as he walks up her steps.

The front door is cracked open, and his heart jumps to his throat.

Each room is empty - nothing seemingly misplaced. When he clears the final room, his shoulders sag, his gun finds its place back in its holster. He suddenly feels like creep being alone in her house.

Her.

He doesn't even know her name, and he's standing in her living room. A decrepit calico cat meows angrily when he walks by the couch, and then bounds out from its hiding spot beneath the couch to rub against his leg - completely unafraid of Simon.

The place is empty - almost depressingly so. It mirrors his own house, no relics of family or friends. The only thing that looks used regularly is the piano. He runs his hands across the top, and it spooks him.

He leaves, making sure the cat is left sleeping on the couch and the front door is shut tight.

He finally figures out her name when he sees her standing in her driveway, kicking the shit out of the passenger side of her car.

Hands tucked tightly in his pocket, he stops a respectable distance away before speaking.

"Car trouble?"

She jumps, swinging around to face him. Her face is closed, guarded from him as she takes in his face and he wishes he had his mask back - wishes it wasn't strange to wear a mask out in the civilian word, wishes -

"Yeah it won't start; the piece of shit."

Simon keeps his spot on the sidewalk as he speaks, worried that if he moves towards her, she'll move away.

"I work at the shop in town if you want me to give it a look."

She's shrewd; she looks at him like she's waiting on him to say something else, and he knows she's used to men hitting on her. But he can also tell she's desperate, and he can see the argument inside herself as she debates letting him look at her car.

"I'd like that."

Her starter is completely fried, and he tells her that. She kicks the tire, but this time all the fight is removed from it, and it's a pathetic kick.

"Thank you for telling me," she says as if the words are bitter on her tongue.

"I can fix it for you this weekend if you want."

"I can't afford it. And I'm not sleeping with you to pay for it."

Simon snorts in spite of himself.

"I'll get a recycled part - don't worry about it."

The argument inside herself is written all over her face, and even when she reaches out to shake his grease stained hand and tells him her name, the fight is still written across the wrinkles in her face.

It's still there when she hands her phone to him, tells him to put his number in and to text her when he's on his way back over.

"I can't afford this, you know."

Simon can barely hear her as she speaks over the engine, her words crawling between the houses and housing of the innards of her car to reach straight up to him.

"You can pay me later."

"I just told you I can't afford this."

Simon's mind lingers on the emptiness of her house that he'd seen the week before - he knew better than he wanted to how little she had at the moment. But he can't let her know that, can't let her know that he's traced the inside of her house while she was gone.

When he's satisfied with the noise of the engine, he slams the hood shut. She's leaning against the driver door, her breath fogging around her - it crosses Simon's mind that he could corner her right here, tell her what repayment he wants. but he's not a fucking freak.

He's not.

So instead he wipes the grease and dirt from his hands onto his jeans where it mixes with the grease and dirt from work and mirrors her lean.

"Cook me dinner?"

The hint of a smile starts to creep on her face, but she bites it back. She picks at an invisible piece of lint on the sleeve of her sweater before she answers.

"You want me to cook dinner for you? How do you know I can cook?"

"I'll take my chances."

She chews on her chapped lips before sighing, boots kicking at her tire.

"Come by tonight, alright."

He doesn't own anything fucking nice. He's pushed all his clothes around - in the back corner his dress blues hang sadly, and everything else has a grease stain on it.

"This is ridiculous," he growls to himself, annoyed with everything all of a sudden. He reaches into his back pocket to his phone. He's just going to fucking cancel. This is fucking stupid. This is-

She's sent a picture. He doesn't know what he's going to see when he unlocks his phone, but a little piece of him has some hopes. It's a chicken in the oven, surrounded by oranges like something out of a magazine his mother would have flipped through in the grocery line.

Hope this is enough to repay you :)

"Fuck," he says to his pants that hang limply, and they say nothing back to him.

He chooses the jeans with the least amount of stains.

She's wearing a skirt with a slit dangerously high when she opens the door.

You shouldn't wear that around the wrong men, he wants to tell her, but he is the wrong man, and he knows that, but she doesn't. He doesn't want to be the first person to tell her that about him.

His repaired heart knows the curves of her - somehow he knows that if he were to run his hand up the part of her thigh the slit is showing, there's going to be a scar there, he knows -

"Are you alright?"

"'Course. The smell stopped me."

"That bad, huh?"

"Terrible."

She wears a hint of a smile as she steps to the side to let him in; he catches a whiff of her perfume, vanilla and tobacco and whiskey, and he's got the sudden urge to lick the base of her neck. He holds himself back, hands held behind his back as he follows her through the living room, past the piano, and into the kitchen.

The scruffy cat comes out of the shadows to intertwine around his ankles like they're old friends. A pot boils on the stove and the chicken is on the side, steam pouring off the golden skin.

It scares Simon how at ease he feels in her kitchen, how the kitchen table's chair is so comfortable to him. She's tense - he can read it in the tightness of her shoulders, in the way she taps her nails against the counter.

Simon's heart beats too fast watching her flash around the kitchen and nearly jumps out of him when she places a plate in front of him.

It feels familiar in a way that terrifies him.

He's like a stray dog - she fed him once, and he keeps coming back. She only complains once.

"I'm a teacher, you know. I don't make enough money to keep feeding a big man like you."

Simon buys her groceries after that, his own refrigerator growing empty as he spends more dinners at her house. He knows they both feel it - they both feel how fucking weird it is that they can orbit each other so easily despite knowing nothing about each other.

He reads in the evenings. She doesn't have much, but she has more books than one person should, and she plays the piano and he pretends not to know the pieces. He pretends that he hasn't stood outside her house night after night committing each song to memory.

If she finds it suspicious that he hums along too fast, picks up the melody too fast, she doesn't mention it.

"I was married once," she says, like it's a dirty secret. She taps her fingers against the glass of her beer, a sharp staccato that increases in speed like it's her heart.

Simon doesn't say anything, just takes a drink of his own beer to quell the storm that's conjured in his chest. Married once? He doesn't know what he's supposed to feel, but it can't be this, can't be this anger that suddenly starts beating against the architecture of himself, the anger that unhooks something in his blood.

"It wasn't very long," she continues, the rhythm of her ring getting faster, "We only were married for a year before we divorced."

Simon's beer hits the countertop with a little too much force.

"Why'd you divorce?" He doesn't mean for it to sound so eager, so fucking needy, but if she hears the edge to his voice she doesn't say. He needs to know what led to the destruction of her first marriage, so he doesn't make the same mistake with her.

"We were kids, you know. We shouldn't have gotten married to begin with, but neither of us had anyone else. And there was no one there to tell us it was a bad idea."

"Where's he at now?"

"He's dead."

Her ring stops tapping.

"He died in a bomb blast almost two years ago. He was in the army, and he was deployed. There was nothing left of him for them to ship back to me. I didn't even know that he listed me as his family."

Simon's mouth is suddenly dry, and he feels like he's going to choke. She's still not looking at him, her eyes are still trained on the red neon sign behind the bar, so she misses the way he presses his hands into the bar to keep them from shaking.

"I just thought I should tell you," she says, half turning in her chair to finally look at him.

The ground beneath him has shifted, he's off tilt and he doesn't know what to say. I might have his heart in my fucking chest and that's why I feel this way about you.

"Can you take me home, please?"

There's a million things he wants to say, a million ways he wants to take that request. He swishes them around in his mouth with the last of his beer.

"'Course, love."

The two beers are nothing to him, but she's a different story. She stumbles on the ice in the parking lot, and steadies herself on his elbow. She doesn't let go until he opens the passenger door of his truck for her and he helps her climb in. Her foot bounces as he pulls out of the parking lot. It's a three minute drive back to her place, four for him to put the truck into park.

He expects her to unbuckle, to climb out. But her hands don't inch towards the buckle. She seems to steel herself for what she's going to say next, and he's waiting on her to tell him that she noticed how weird he's been - she doesn't want him to come back.

"Do you want to fuck?" She asks suddenly, and the abruptness of it takes Simon off guard.

"What?"

"Do you want to fuck?"

Simon's hands grip the steering wheel so hard he's surprised it doesn't shatter beneath his grip. He waits just a moment too long, and she scoffs, unbuckles the seatbelt and has her hand in the door handle before he can react.

He reaches across to grab the handle from her, keeping her from opening the door. She won't look him in the eye, instead pushing roughly on the door to try and shake it loose from his grip.

"I didn't say no." The gentleness in his voice shocks him, but it's not enough to get her to look at him.

"You didn't say yes either."

She breaks the door from his grip and slides out, her skirt hiking up high enough that he catches the edge of her curves.

His stolen heart beats, trying to escape his chest as she disappears inside - to get the fuck out from behind the steering wheel, to knock on her door and explain that his timing is bad, he doesn't know what to say and when he's supposed to say it. He tells himself he's going to leave when the light from her bedroom turns off - he just wants to make sure that she's safely asleep before he leaves.

But the light doesn't go out.

His watch creeps past midnight before the front door opens again. The nightgown she has on makes his hands sweat - it peeks out below the heavy jacket she's thrown on top. She veers towards the passenger door and when she climbs in, Simon's hands start to shake at the amount of thigh that flashes him.

"Why don't you leave?"

"I wanted to make sure you were safely asleep."

"You saw me walk into my house."

"You never know."

And she doesn't ever know. She doesn't know what kind of horrors could be around each door. Simon wants to explain that to her - explain what he's seen to her, but he doesn't know how to do that. He doesn't even know how to broach the subject of the million things that he should be telling her.

"Why didn't you want to have sex with me?" She asks in a small voice that Simon hates, and he hates himself for being the reason she sounds like that.

"I didn't say I didn't want to."

"Then why didn't you say yes?"

"I don't want to just fuck you."

Her knee bounces nervously.

"Alright. We can do the other stuff."

He almost tells her, more than once, about the heart that beats in his chest. Once, when he had her folded over the piano, and again, when she tangled their legs together in her bed and the ancient cat was purring on his chest.

He's too cowardly.

#my fics #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #ghost cod x reader #ghost #simon riley x you #cod x reader #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #cod mwii #mw2 #ghost mw2 #cod ghost #zombie au

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starset21 · 28 days ago

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It Feels Like Death, Max |MV1|

Pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

Summery: Max’s girlfriend feels like she’s dying (it’s just a bad headache and waiting for meds to kick in isn’t fun)

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.

A/N: enjoy this oneshot inspired by how I felt last night haha

The headache came out of nowhere.

One minute you were fine — scrolling aimlessly on your phone, sipping water, waiting for Max to get back from the simulator — and the next, a dull ache bloomed behind your eyes and spiraled into something sharp and blinding.

Now, lying motionless in the dim bedroom, it felt like your entire skull was pulsing with every heartbeat. You’d managed to swallow two painkillers with trembling fingers and crawl under the covers, but they hadn’t kicked in yet, and time was moving like molasses.

The door creaked open.

“Schatje?” Max’s voice floated through the fog of pain, quieter than usual — which told you instantly he knew something was wrong.

“In here,” you croaked. Or at least you thought you did. The words felt thick in your throat.

Max appeared in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the hallway light. When he saw you curled into a fetal position, half-buried in his duvet like a wounded animal, his brows pulled together.

“Hey.” He padded in, crossing the room in a few strides, and crouched by the bed. His hand went instinctively to your forehead. “What’s wrong?”

“Headache,” you whispered. “Bad. Like, biblical bad.”

“You take anything?”

“Yeah. Just... waiting. Feels like it’s never going to kick in. Am I warm?”

He placed a hand on your forehead feeling for temperature but shakes his head. You groan. He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “Poor thing. You want me to shut the blinds tighter?”

“They’re already closed. The sun’s just being rude.”

He smirked at that. “Alright. Let me grab you some water.”

You didn’t protest — didn’t have the energy to — and a moment later you heard the familiar sound of a bottle cap unscrewing. He set it down beside you with a gentle thunk, and then climbed onto the bed next to you, moving slowly like he was trying not to disturb a wild animal.

He settled behind you, an arm sneaking under your side, then wrapping around your waist as he pulled you gently into his chest.

“I’m dying,” you mumbled into the pillow. “This is how it ends.”

Max laughed quietly against your hair. “It’s a headache. You’re not dying.”

“Easy for you to say. Your brain isn’t trying to claw its way out of your skull.”

He stroked your arm gently, his voice amused but soft. “If you die, I’ll have to retire. No point racing without you cheering for me.”

You huffed. “Dramatic.”

“Says the girl who just declared death because of a migraine.”

“Touché.”

Silence settled over you for a minute. The pain was still there, brutal and unrelenting, but Max’s presence helped dull the edge of it — just a little. He was warm. Solid. Familiar.

You felt his fingers trace slow, aimless patterns across the back of your hand.

“I hate this,” you said quietly.

“I know.”

“I was gonna make dinner.”

“I ordered Thai. Extra spring rolls.”

You smiled faintly. “I love you.”

“I know,” he said again, lips brushing against your shoulder. “I love you too.”

Your eyes fluttered closed. The pain was still there — but it was starting to fade, just slightly, in that subtle, promising way that told you the meds were kicking in. Relief still felt like a faraway promise, but now it was a reachable one.

You woke up slowly, the edges of the migraine faded to a dull throb that was no longer consuming every thought. Max was still beside you, scrolling through his phone with one arm tucked under your shoulders.

“How long was I out?” you asked, voice raspy.

“Hour and a half,” he said, glancing down. “You snored. Very delicately. Like a little gremlin.”

You groaned. “Please don’t start calling me Gremlin now.”

“No promises,” he teased, brushing a strand of hair off your face. “How’s the pain?”

“Better. Like, manageable. No more hallucinations of my own funeral.”

“Pity,” he deadpanned. “I had the playlist ready and everything.”

You rolled your eyes and tried to sit up and winced. He helped you, propping pillows behind your back like it was second nature. Then he kissed your forehead, the most reassuring thing in the world, and walked off to grab your food.

When he returned, you were already smiling weakly at the smell.

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for being the best person alive.”

He grinned as he handed you a spring roll. “Well, someone’s gotta be. You were too busy dying.”

You tossed a napkin at him — and for the first time that day, it didn’t feel like the world was ending.

#starset writes #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #max verstappen #f1 x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #f1 x you #mv1 x reader #mv33 x reader #mv33 imagine #max verstappen imagine

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colleendoran · 1 year ago

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Great Big Good Omens Graphic Novel Update

AKA A Visit From Bildad the Shuhite.

The past year or so has been one long visit from this guy, whereupon he smiteth my goats and burneth my crops, woe unto the woeful cartoonist.

Gaze upon the horror of Bildad the Shuhite.

You kind of have to be a Good Omens fan to get this joke, but trust me, it's hilarious.

Anyway, as a long time Good Omens novel fan, you may imagine how thrilled I was to get picked to adapt the graphic novel.

Go me!

This is quite a task, I have to say, especially since I was originally going to just draw (and color) it, but I ended up writing the adaptation as well. Tricky to fit a 400 page novel into a 160-ish page graphic novel, especially when so much of the humor is dependent on the language, and not necessarily on the visuals.

Not complainin', just sayin'.

Anyway, I started out the gate like a herd of turtles, because right away I got COVID which knocked me on my butt.

And COVID brain fog? That's a thing. I already struggle with brain fog due to autoimmune disease, and COVID made it worse.

Not complainin' just sayin'.

This set a few of the assignments on my plate back, which pushed starting Good Omens back.

But hey, big fat lead time! No worries!

Then my computer crawled toward the grave.

My trusty MAC Pro Tower was nearly 15 years old when its sturdy heart ground to a near-halt with daily crashes. I finally got around to doing some diagnostics; some of its little brain actions were at 5% functionality. I had no reliable backups.

There are so many issues with getting a new computer when you haven't had a new computer or peripherals in nearly fifteen years and all of your software, including your Photoshop program is fifteen years old.

At the time, I was still on rural internet...which means dial-up speed.

Whatever you have for internet in the city, roll that clock back to about 2001.

That's what I had. I not only had to replace almost all of my hardware but I had to load and update all programs at dial-up speed.

Welcome to my gigabyte hell.

The entire process of replacing the equipment and programs took weeks and then I had to relearn all the software.

All of this was super expensive in terms of money and time cost.

But I was not daunted! Nosirree!

I still had a huge lead time! I can do anything! I have an iron will!

And boy, howdy, I was going to need it.

At about the same time, a big fatcat quadrillionaire client who had hired me years ago to develop a big, major transmedia project for which I was paid almost entirely in stock, went bankrupt leaving everyone holding the bag, and taking a huge chunk of my future retirement fund with it.

I wrote a very snarky almost hilarious Patreon post about it, but am not entirely in a position to speak freely because I don't want to get sued. Even though I had to go to court over it, (and I had to do that over Zoom at dial-up speed,) I'm pretty sure I'll never get anything out of this drama, and neither will anyone else involved, except millionaire dude and his buddies who all walked away with huge multi-million dollar bonuses weeks before they declared bankruptcy, all the while claiming they would not declare bankruptcy.

Even the accountant got $250,000 a month to shut down the business, while creators got nothing.

That in itself was enough drama for the year, but we were only at February by that point, and with all those months left, 2023 had a lot more to throw at me.

Fresh from my return from my Society of Illustrators show, and a lovely time at MOCCA, it was time to face practical medical issues, health updates, screening, and the like. I did my adult duty and then went back to work hoping for no news, but still had a weird feeling there would be news.

I know everyone says that, but I mean it. I had a bad feeling.

Then there was news.

I was called back for tests and more tests. This took weeks. The ubiquitous biopsy looked, even to me staring at the screen in real time, like bad news.

It also hurt like a mofo after the anesthesia wore off. I wasn't expecting that.

Then I got the official bad news.

Cancer which runs in my family finally got me. Frankly, I was surprised I didn't get it sooner.

Stage 0, and treatment would likely be fast and complication-free. Face the peril, get it over with, and get back to work.

I requested surgery months in the future so I could finish Good Omens first, but my doc convinced me the risk of waiting was too great. Get it done now.

"You're really healthy," my doc said. Despite an auto-immune issue which plagues me, I am way healthier than the average schmoe of late middle age. She informed me I would not even need any chemo or radiation if I took care of this now.

So I canceled my appearance at San Diego Comic Con. I did not inform the Good Omens team of my issues right away, thinking this would not interfere with my work schedule, but I did contact my agent to inform her of the issue. I also contacted a lawyer to rewrite my will and make sure the team had access to my digital files in case there were complications.

Then I got back to work, and hoped for the best.

Eff this guy.

Before I could even plant my carcass on the surgery table, I got a massive case of ocular shingles.

I didn't even know there was such a thing.

There I was, minding my own business. I go to bed one night with a scratchy eye, and by 4 PM the next day, I was in the emergency room being told if I didn't get immediate specialist treatment, I was in big trouble.

I got transferred to another hospital and got all the scary details, with the extra horrid news that I could not possibly have cancer surgery until I was free of shingles, and if I did not follow a rather brutal treatment procedure - which meant super-painful eye drops every half hour, twenty-four hours a day and daily hospital treatment - I could lose the eye entirely, or be blinded, or best case scenario, get permanent eye damage.

What was even funnier (yeah, hilarity) is the drops are so toxic if you don't use the medication just right, you can go blind anyway.

Hi Ho.

Ulcer is on the right. That big green blob.

I had just finished telling my cancer surgeon I did not even really care about getting cancer, was happy it was just stage zero, had no issues with scarring, wanted no reconstruction, all I cared about was my work.

Just cut it out and get me back to work.

And now I wondered if I was going to lose my ability to work anyway.

Shingles often accompanies cancer because of the stress on the immune system, and yeah, it's not pretty. This is me looking like all heck after I started to get better.

The first couple of weeks were pretty demoralizing as I expected a straight trajectory to wellness. But it was up and down all the way.

Some days I could not see out of either eye at all. The swelling was so bad that I had to reach around to my good eye to prop the lid open. Light sensitivity made seeing out of either eye almost impossible. Outdoors, even with sunglasses, I had to be led around by the hand.

I had an amazing doctor. I meticulously followed his instructions, and I think he was surprised I did. The treatment is really difficult, and if you don't do it just right no matter how painful it gets, you will be sorry.

To my amazement, after about a month, my doctor informed me I had no vision loss in the eye at all. "This never happens," he said.

I'd spent a couple of weeks there trying to learn to draw in the near-dark with one eye, and in the end, I got all my sight back.

I could no longer wear contact lenses (I don't really wear them anyway, unless I'm going to the movies,) would need hard core sun protection for awhile, and the neuralgia and sun sensitivity were likely to linger. But I could get back to work.

I have never been more grateful in my life.

Neuralgia sucks, by the way, I'm still dealing with it months later.

Anyway, I decided to finally go ahead and tell the Good Omens team what was going on, especially since this was all happening around the time the Kickstarter was gearing up.

Now that I was sure I'd passed the eye peril, and my surgery for Stage 0 was going to be no big deal, I figured all was a go. I was still pretty uncomfortable and weak, and my ideal deadline was blown, but with the book not coming out for more than a year, all would be OK. I quit a bunch of jobs I had lined up to start after Good Omens, since the project was going to run far longer than I'd planned.

Everybody on the team was super-nice, and I was pretty optimistic at this time. But work was going pretty slow during, as you may imagine.

But again...lots of lead time still left, go me.

Then I finally got my surgery.

Which was not as happy an experience as I had been hoping for.

My family said the doc came out of the operating room looking like she'd been pulled backwards through a pipe, She informed them the tumor which looked tiny on the scan was "...huge and her insides are a mess."

Which was super not fun news.

Eff this guy.

The tumor was hiding behind some dense tissue and cysts. After more tests, it was determined I'd need another surgery and was going to have to get further treatments after all.

The biopsy had been really painful, but the discomfort was gone after about a week, so no biggee. The second surgery was, weirdly, not as painful as the biopsy, but the fatigue was big time.

By then, the Good Omens Kickstarter had about run its course, and the record-breaker was both gratifying and a source of immense social pressure.

I'd already turned most of my social media over to an assistant, and I'm glad I did.

But the next surgery was what really kicked me on my keister.

All in all, they took out an area the size of a baseball. It was hard to move and wiped me out for weeks and weeks. I could not take care of myself. I'd begun losing hair by this time anyway, and finally just lopped it off since it was too heavy for me to care for myself. The cut hides the bald spots pretty well.

After about a month, I got the go-ahead to travel to my show at the San Diego Comic Con Museum (which is running until the first week of April, BTW). I was very happy I had enough energy to do it. But as soon as I got back, I had to return to treatment.

Since I live way out in the country, going into the city to various hospitals and pharmacies was a real challenge. I made more than 100 trips last year, and a drive to the compounding pharmacy which produced the specialist eye medicine I could not get anywhere else was six hours alone.

Naturally, I wasn't getting anything done during this time.

But at least my main hospital is super swank.

The oncology treatment went smoothly, until it didn't. The feels don't hit you until the end. By then I was flattened.

So flattened that I was too weak to control myself, fell over, and smashed my face into some equipment.

Nearly tore off my damn nostril.

Eff this guy.

Anyway, it was a bad year.

Here's what went right.

I have a good health insurance policy. The final tally on my health care costs ended up being about $150,000. I paid about 18% of that, including insurance. I had a high deductible and some experimental medicine insurance didn't cover. I had savings, enough to cover the months I wasn't working, and my Patreon is also very supportive. So you didn't see me running a Gofundme or anything.

Thanks to everyone who ever bought one of my books.

No, none of that money was Good Omens Kickstarter money. I won't get most of my pay on that for months, which is just as well because it kept my taxes lower last year when I needed a break.

So, yay.

My nose is nearly healed. I opted out of plastic surgery, and it just sealed up by itself. I'll never be ready for my closeup, but who the hell cares.

I got to ring the bell.

I had a very, VERY hard time getting back to work, especially with regard to focus and concentration. My work hours dropped by over 2/3. I was so fractured and weak, time kept slipping away while I sat in the studio like a zombie. Most of the last six months were a wash.

I assumed focus issues were due (in part) to stress, so sought counseling. This seemed like a good idea at first, but when the counselor asked me to detail my issues with anxiety, I spent two weeks doing just that and getting way more anxious, which was not helpful.

After that I went EFF THIS NOISE, I want practical tools, not touchy feelies (no judgment on people who need touchy-feelies, I need a pragmatic solution and I need it now,) so tried using the body doubling focus group technique for concentration and deep work.

Within two weeks, I returned to normal work hours.

I got rural broadband, jumping me from dial up speed to 1 GB per second.

It's a miracle.

Massive doses of Vitamin D3 and K2. Yay.

The new computer works great.

The Kickstarter did so well, we got to expand the graphic novel to 200 pages. Double yay.

I'm running late, but everyone on the Good Omens team is super supportive. I don't know if I am going to make the book late or not, but if I do, well, it surely wasn't on purpose, and it won't be super late anyway. I still have months of lead time left.

I used to be something of a social media addict, but now I hardly ever even look at it, haven't been directly on some sites in over a year, and no longer miss it. It used to seem important and now doesn't.

More time for real life.

While I think the last year aged me about twenty years, I actually like me better with short hair. I'm keeping it.

OK. Rough year.

Not complainin', just sayin'.

Back to work on The Book.

And only a day left to vote for Good Omens, Neil Gaiman, and Sandman in the Comicscene Awards. Thanks.

#good omens graphic novel #good omens #terry pratchett #neil gaiman #dunmanifestin

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ghostgirl-22 · 6 months ago

Note

Art getting GANGBANGED💜

This made me giggle when you sent it anon, I won’t lie <3 Then I thought oh god now I have to write it. So here you are. I am so sorry for this. I don’t know what this is (it’s quite nonsensical). Honestly, feel like I flew too close to the sun. I need to retire from writing smut and start writing an older Art living peacefully by the sea. (Decide if that makes you want to read it or run away) But I digress…

CW: 18+ !NSFW! EXPLICIT bimbofication, feminization, objectification, D/s vibes if you squint, there can be the perception of CNC but I promise you everyone really wants this, especially blondie, but please avoid if things like gangbangs trigger you. Can feel a bit AU…let’s be generous and say canon drift…

Your reference is this post about a negligée (an impossible word to spell btw so watch me fuck it up repeatedly along with all my other spelling and grammar mistakes).

—-

It’s a game of truth or dare. That’s how the whole thing happens.

Regular and completely normal Friday night. Patrick’s visiting Stanford. The girls team is at an away game, traveling back tomorrow and the boys just finished a tournament playing the same team here and Art sends him a text.

Hanging out with friends probably gonna play video games, you should come and bring drinks.

And then 10 minutes later: I think my roommate wants to fuck me lol

Patrick has to laugh because this is actually the kind of stupid thing that could only happen to Art.

Art is already dizzy and flirty when Patrick arrives at his dorm with the alcohol. His cheeks are already coloring, his eyes are dilated. And it’s no wonder because he’s already getting way too much attention. There are three other boys in the bedroom with him, his roommate Carter who Patrick could tell, so very obviously wanted to fuck Art since he first met him. But it’s worse now ever since he woke up once in the middle of night and heard Patrick doing it.

And then two others Patrick doesn’t know but Art calls them Jamie and Max, “friends” from the Stanford tennis team. Patrick clocks them right away as having the same desire to fuck Art that Carter has.

That kind of male attention makes Art go silly. At this point Art doesn’t even need a drink. He’s half lost, giggling at things that aren’t even funny just because some cute boy is touching his knee, pinching his cheek, calling him pretty. Patrick’s hard immediately.

It’s truth or dare, Carter’s idea, and Patrick’s probably drinking too much. The game gets nasty pretty quickly. Art can’t sit still, he’s on his hands and knees when Max says “I dare you to kiss me.” Can’t stop himself when Jamie dares him to do it again, but with tongue. He’s in his t-shirt and boxers, ass sticking out as he crawls over Patrick’s lap to kiss Jamie. Carter’s adjusting himself, mouth open, staring at it. Patrick thinks once or twice about letting them pass him around. Shit like this is usually foreplay for him but right now he’s feeling so buzzed he might just want to see how deep this rabbit hole goes.

He’s horny as fuck, but his brain doesn’t actually break until Art’s roommate says, “Truth or Dare, roomie, is it true you stole your ex-girlfriend's lingerie?"

“I didn’t steal it,” Art hiccups, he’s distracted because Max runs his fingers through Art’s hair on his way back to the circle, with a new drink which he hands to Art. He cups Arts cheek, fingertips brush against his lips. Art’s whining “stop it,” but Patrick sees the way he follows the touch. Art doesn’t even notice it when Patrick takes the drink out of his hand, because he’s dangerously close to spilling it everywhere. He’s not even drunk, barely even tipsy and still just so empty headed.

Carter goes to Art’s Stanford issued dresser and pulls out this thing from the first drawer. Barely a thing. A pink little slip of a thing. “What’s this?”

“She let me have it,” Art says, voice pitched too high. He’s sitting on his knees, hands pressed between his thighs.

”Why?” Carter asks, like he knows something they don’t know. Patrick thinks he likes him the least.

“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone,” Art says, it’s too whiny and playful.

Patrick’s mildly annoyed now, “Share with the class,” he says. He doesn’t really want Art keeping secrets with roommates that aren’t him.

Art goes all compliant and he’s squirming on the floor as he looks at Patrick, “She said it looked better on me.”

Both Max and Jamie start snickering.

Patrick thinks of himself as a genius. He generally thinks he’s the smartest person in the room most of the time, but this has to be one of the smartest things he’s ever said or done ever. In ever. “Okay…I dare you to try it on.”

“You want me too?” Art asks, glassy eyed, as he gazes at Patrick.

Patrick grabs at his t-shirt and he doesn’t even have to pull. Art just gravitates towards him, closing his eyes, parting his lips instinctively and Patrick thinks he’s in love with him. Like one day he’ll probably marry him, move him into a house with a white picket fence and fuck him so full of come that… etcetera etcetera. The American dream.

“Yeah, put it on sweetie.” Patrick says gently. “Call me when you’re done… I want to see it first.”

Art licks his lips and opens his eyes again before he stumbles to his feet. He tries to take it from Carter but Carter hides it behind his back which means Art’s got to reach around him, touch him, play with him. When Art manages to get it away he’s already blushing. He goes in the bathroom, telling them no one better laugh. And Patrick needs a cigarette. Needs to run a marathon or climb a mountain for all the pent up energy inside him right now.

“You his boyfriend or something?” Max asks, curiously.

“Or something,” Patrick says. Truth is Art only started putting out after he found out Tashi was. And as long as Patrick has wanted to fuck Art he’s never really stopped to think about why Art chose now. Patrick isn’t picky. He’s not picky at all. He’ll fuck Art, he’ll fuck Tashi, he’d fuck them both at the same time if they wanted it.

“Can you share?” Carter asks.

Patrick shrugs, “I think I have been.”

“No I mean really share,” Carter says and he stares at the bathroom door.

Patrick smirks. “I think I need another drink.”

He can hear Art calling for him and when he taps the door to let himself in he’s pretty sure that’s the moment— the exact moment— his brain fully and completely short circuits. From that point forward he’s actually an entirely different person.

“It’s just too…” Art whines, unable to think. He’s sitting on the toilet lid bouncing his leg. The blush goes everywhere. Down his chest to the pink lacy teddy. It fits like a glove. It’s hugging his waist, see through sheer fabric over his chest embroidered with with some kind of threading that would barely hide his tits if he had any. Patrick can clearly see his nipples, taut and erect through the sheer fabric. It’s not the only part of him that’s erect. The equally sheer lace panties underneath the negligée are straining to keep him contained and he’s fucking soaking the lace with precum, so wet, Patrick thinks, leaking through his panties like a fucking girl.

Patrick thinks he’s gonna fuck him right there. Pull him on his lap and go fucking crazy.

“Patrick I—I wanna— I need—“ he stammers, helpless. He’s gone full, if I only had a brain.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Patrick says, swallowing thickly. “I know what you need. Come here.”

Art’s still bouncing his leg, he’s got pretty legs, soft and smooth and toned and so long. Still in his nearly knee high white socks. Fucking slut. Patrick guides him to his feet, and immediately Art’s wrapping his arms around Patrick. Patrick can feel the way he’s starting to rub himself along Patrick’s thigh. The wet hot heat of him. Patrick shoves Art up against the wall to stop him and he takes a deep breath, coming to the distant realization that he’s actually shivering. “Can you hear me?” Patrick asks, probably trying to calm himself down more than anything else.

Art nods.

“You hear my voice?”

“Mmhm. Patrick—- Patrick please I need—“

“I know. You need to be fucked, don’t you baby?” Patrick’s not sure what he’s saying but Art just moans. “Fuck. You don’t even care who fucking does it. You’d let anybody in right now.” Patrick continues.

Art is nodding his head. ”Mm, yes Patrick please, please, please—” he groans, begging, pleading. For one terrifying minute Patrick thinks he’s gonna get on his knees in that slutty little slip and break Patrick forever. His eyes are all glassy and wet and he’s trying to get friction, attention, something, his blonde curls falling into his eyes.

“Oh fuck it, come on,” Patrick says and he opens the door. Art walks timidly into the bedroom. Patrick stays a second longer to look for the lube under the counter and finds a box of unopened condoms too. The second he stayed was too long. Carter’s already got Art pressed up against the wall, tongue in his mouth, Jamie’s got his hands inside the fabric of the negligée, rubbing his nipples like he’s got a full set of tits or something. Max is watching, touching himself, idly over his boxers.

The whole time Art’s moaning helplessly moving his hips. Needy like he’s in heat. Patrick makes them wear a condom if they want him. And holy fuck do they want him.

Patrick starts it first on the bed, pulls Art on his lap just to get him wet, get him loose. He’s careful about it. Art’s so horny he’s trying to lose it quickly so Patrick has to grab onto him, slow him down. Even him out.

“Fuck,” Art’s whining, mindlessly. “Fuck, Patrick it’s so big. It’s so big. It’s so fucking… much.”

Patrick’s rubbing his tummy through the fabric, he’s flexed so tight, barely breathing. Patrick moves up to brush his nipples and he moans.

“Hey gorgeous, you wanna try this?” Max whispers, pressing his cock to Art’s lips. “I dare you.”

Art doesn’t need the dare. He takes it in his mouth eagerly. Patrick can feel him squeezing, clenching, grinding as he sucks on it… can feel the overwhelming heat of his tight little body. Patrick grips him tighter to steady him. “Take your time,” Patrick whispers.

He’s taking so much in his mouth. Max starts groaning, “Oh fuck. Yeah, take your time gorgeous, holy shit.”

Patrick kisses on his throat where he’s swallowing and tries to coax him off. If he stays inside much longer he’s going to lose his mind and that’s the last thing he needs right now. They need at least one working brain between them.

Art’s breathing heavy when he opens his mouth, drool spilling everywhere. Patrick pushes him to get up and Carter grabs him next. He pushes him on the bed on his hands and knees and goes to town, so eager he barely lasts. As Carter’s fucking him Art is licking Jamie’s cock, and then swallowing on Max’s, occassionally both at the same time. Patrick is sitting on the other twin bed, trying his best not to lose it untouched for how fucking hot this is. Art is so far gone Patrick wonders if he even realizes how much of a fucking mess he is.

He’s got it all over him, hands, tongues, cock. They’re all kissing, touching, putting fingers in his hair, in his mouth, in his ass. Jamie and Carter both fighting to get a turn. Jamie fucking him till he’s coming, hot sticky ropes of it dripping, dripping slowly from his soaked panties onto the bed. He’s overstimulated taking Max, but he doesn’t stop. He’s pushing back on it, moaning in a way that sounds like he’s vacillating between pleasure and pain.

Carter starts kissing him and eventually Arts just moaning into his mouth.

“You’re so goddamn pretty,” Jamie’s cooing, jerking himself. “Gonna make me wanna nut again, fuck.”

Art’s making pleasure sounds only now. His cock filling up again just a few minutes before Max is finishing inside him.

“Shit, that felt so fucking good,” Max breathes. Art looks around dizzy as Max pulls out and starts tying the condom off. And then Carter’s on him, kissing him again, so he sits up and crawls into Carter’s arms so he can be held. But Patrick grabs him by the waist.

“My turn, come here, princess,” Patrick says, teasingly, pulling him back onto the second bed. His bed.

“Patrick—I think I— I need to—“ Art’s climbing onto him all doe eyed and wet, wet lips, wet eyes, wet with sweat and come and lube. The lingerie falling off one shoulder and his pretty pink nipple just exposed. Patrick nibbles at it gently.

“Patrick,” Art whines.

“You wanna come?” Patrick asks softly. His voice doesn’t sound like his own. He pulls Art onto his lap and eases himself inside and Art’s moving right away. He feels looser than Patrick’s ever felt him before but he’s still so nice and warm, and too fucking tight for him. He’s not ever to be trusted alone with boys, Patrick decides. Not boys like this at least. He just barely gets Art over the finish line when he’s losing it. It’s not even 5 minutes and he’s losing it. Does it raw just to spill it all inside him. If Patrick had something to prove he might be embarrassed but he is the one holding onto Art in the end, soothing him. Calming him down as he comes back to reality and in that reality Art is his…even if Patrick is more than willing to share when Art needs it.

When the other boys have left and Carter’s in the shower and they’re finally alone together Art is mostly back to himself. They’re eating leftover pizza and watching Sports Center. Art is devouring his, probably starving after using all of that energy. Patrick tangles his fingers into Art's hair, it’s still a little damp from the shower.

“Truth or dare,” Patrick says

“Truth,” Art says, his mouth half full.

Patrick sighs. “I don’t know what that was but you’re fucking beautiful.”

Art turns to look at Patrick with a little smirk, still chewing. “I know.”

“And you can’t ever do that when I’m not there.”

“I know,” Art says again.

“So I’m keeping the lingerie.”

Art shrugs, “I know.”

“Okay know it all,” Patrick gazes back at him and then takes the rest of the pizza crust out of his hand, smiling as he takes a bite. “Good.”

#art donaldson #patrick zweig #challengers fic #challengers smut #art x patrick #artrick

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sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth · 3 months ago

Text

SPN masterlist ⏐ My AO3

Smut one shots

═ I don't know why I bite ═ Angsty, dysfunctional smut with a hopeful end. 6.9k words

═ Please ═ Brat!Dean put in place, begging, crawling. 2.5k words

═ Filled ═ Bit of breeding kink when you and Dean run out of condoms. 1.3k words

═ High ═ You and Dean get magically roofied by Rowena. 2.3k words

═ Text ═ Sexting and phone sex while Dean's away from the bunker. 1.3k words

═ Dream ═ Consensual somnophilia. 1.2k words

═ Payback ═ Revenge sex and cheating. 2k words

═ We're so bad together (I think I was made for you) ═ Role playing, strangers at the bar and a fluffy ending. 5.2k words

═ Ad hoc dry humping fic I wrote that has no title ═ You hump Dean's ass. Dean being a lil sub. 2.1k words

═ The Swayze method ═ Dean as a ghost, dubious touching but everyone's into it. 1.2k words

═ One of the girls ═ Dean fantasized about you when you dress up as a sex worker for a case. 3.7k words

═ Way up high ═ You and Dean join the mile high club. 2.8k words

═ Tomorrow ═ Angsty exes to lovers in the Apocalypse. 1.9k words

═ Hurt ═ Desperate post-hunt sex, hurt/comfort. 1.7k words

═ Should have cleaned the pipes ═ Threat to life, Dean being a dick, power play. 8.7k words.

Fluff one shots

═ But at night I'd have these wonderful dreams ═ Dean tells you about his retirement plans. 948 words

═ Clutter ═ "Girly stuff" and Dean being a cute grump. 910 words

═ Saved from a bug ═ Dean being a hero and lots of flirting. 554 words

═ A day with the Fitzgeralds ═ Dean's dad potential and family planning. 2.9k words

═ Green's my color ═ Fake dating & fancy dress up. 6.8k words

Other one shots

═ A den of arms and a waste of time ═ Dean & reader's strange relationship. No smut but sexual content. Some angst. 2k words

Series

═ Mark of Dean series masterlist ═ Dean bears the mark of Cain. Age gap, unhealthy relationship. 3 part series, finished.

═ Task master master list ═ Sexy games with Dean and the chronicle of a blossoming relationship. 3 part series, finished.

═ Monday you can fall apart masterlist ═ Slow burn, sad romance, going from pre-series to season 15. 34k words, finished.

#supernatural #spn #fanfic #dean winchester #fanfiction #spn fanfic #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader

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agendabymooner · 6 months ago

Text

SOMETHING TO TRY !! LEWIS H. X FEM!READER X JENSON B. (18+)

summary: after abu dhabi 2016, lewis wanted to try something by being kind. though. "kind" was quite a vague word.

content warning: smut under the cut (minors dni!), explicit language, mfm, spitroast, hints of cuckolding?, jenson's retirement celebration if they didn't bs us and if his last entrance wasn't monaco 2017, lewis doesn't care he was beaten by nico rosberg with equal machinery bc he's horny

note: happy new year!

something sinful (smut) masterlist

a - n masterlist // o - z masterlist

if you’d like to get on one of my taglists, check this post out

lewis knew he should be grieving over his loss against nico in the championship contention. he should have.

but one of his friends, jenson, was retiring as well. he couldn’t not celebrate that.

and lewis was told to be the… generous friend. generous friend who thought of his friends well enough to know what they wanted to celebrate anything.

and lewis knew what jenson wanted.

so after the race in abu dhabi, he sent a text to jenson. a simple one that led to curiosity and action.

‘marriott. suite 2244. be there’

jenson never was one for surprises. and he should have just gone straight to the nightclub instead, but he wanted to see what trick lewis had up his sleeve tonight.

and thus, he hopped into the mclaren and drove to marriott. his heart was thumping with anticipation and curiosity. he’d be so pissed if lewis called him for fuckall. he swore he’d—

as soon as he knocked on the door, he was met with lewis’ sly smile. “come in, mate,” lewis stepped aside for his fellow briton. jenson merely looked at him weirdly as if he was asking, ‘what the fuck are you up to now?’

then jenson saw her. he swallowed the lump of his throat, his gaze slowly darting down to her divine figure.

her breasts were accentuated in the skimpy slip dress she wore. it was a shame they even called it a dress, it was barely covering her.

still…

jenson had never seen someone so fucking beautiful before. not until now.

“baby,” jenson almost jumped when lewis called for her, “give him my gift, yeah?”

gift? what lewis meant was her crawling on her knees towards jenson, peering up at him as a glint of excitement and lust filled her half-lidded eyes.

like a contagious disease, that lust infected jenson. terribly.

“my word,” jenson muttered softly, his eyes looking down at her on her knees. “do you do this everyday, doll?”

“no,” she giggled softly, her manicured nails tracing the thighs beneath jenson’s strained pants and eventually reaching for the buckle of his belt. “you’d be the first. you mind?”

“please,” jenson murmured, his mouth practically salivating when she began to unbuckle his belt. “little minx.”

the in-between of her thighs throbbed at the two words jenson used on her, her hands itching to grab beneath his fabrics already.

lewis approached the pair and stood behind her, his hand reaching the back of her head and grabbing a handful of her hair.

“you know what to do, yes?” lewis asked, leaving jenson to wonder how lewis and his partner had agreed on this. nobody just willingly shared their girlfriends like that, and it would take a good fucking while for their girlfriends to join in on the fun.

but lewis didn’t seem to mind.

“yeah.” “good girl. suck his cock, baby.”

and she didn’t seem to mind either.

whatever this position was, jenson was loving it.

“fuck,” jenson writhed, his large hands practically leaving imprints on her hips as his cock pistoned in and out of her drenched pussy. “that good, yeah? you like being fucked by two cocks?”

her voice was muffled, her mouth preoccupied by lewis’ dick. both holes were preoccupied by one briton and another and her brain was beginning to fog after being fucked in between for a while now.

“naughty girl,” smack. jenson continued to fuck himself into her. “naughty naughty girl. you’ve never been fucked like this before, haven’t you?”

lewis pulled himself out of her mouth, lifting her chin and patting her cheek. “answer him, don’t be rude,” lewis commanded, smirking at the sight of her drool falling out of her mouth.

“yes- never been,” she stammered stupidly, her brain acting as if she was a pathetic thing to be toyed around.

“yeah? look at you, you look so cock drunk,” jenson laughed, driving himself to her g spot and hearing her cry and scream in desire and need for him. “oh~ my god~! jesus, darling, you cry like an angel needing saving.”

“pretty sexy, huh?” lewis chuckled darkly, stroking his cock with his free hand while caressing her face with love as if she wasn’t being actively plowed by his former teammate.

lewis was never this generous before. and from the look of her enjoyment, he was certain that this would happen again.

probably not with the same person, but only on certain occasions.

she’d had to be patient and something grand would have to happen first before she could stick another dick in her needy holes and her mouth.

♡ moony’s reminder 🅶 (general): @hiraethrhapsody @avaleineandafryingpan @enhacolor @roseandtulips @woweewoowa @magnummagnussen @happy-nico @architect-2015 @hiireadstuff @biancathecool @scorpiomindfuck @stinkyjax @youdontknowmeshh @hyneyedfiz @decafmickey @lightdragonrayne @marknolee @xylinasdiary @anotherblackreader @bloodyymaryyy @flowerpetalk

♡ moony’s reminder 🅴 (explicit edition): @glitterf1 @savrose129 @maxillness @bigsimperika @xoscar03 @acina27

#lewis hamilton #jenson button #lewis hamilton smut #jenson button smut #f1 smut #formula one imagine #♛ something multiplied ⎯ poly!f1 smut #lh44 #jb22 #formula one smut #jb22 x reader #lh44 x reader

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celestiamour · 2 months ago

Text

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ bitterly sweet taste ]❜

ft. thomas lawrence x f! reader — conclave

╰₊✧ he says it’s the last time he’ll see you, but it never is┊1k words

contains: more plot than smut!! sacrilege (broken vows of celibacy), sex work, age gap (unspecified but legal ofc he’s just ancient), guilt, unprotected piv, thomas is a guilt-ridden pathetic old man and i want to fuck him

➤ author's note: i was gonna post the benitez fic first but there’s gonna be a delay on that once because i still don’t really know what i’m doing so have this lawrence fic and then a tedesco one sometime next week i love these old men so much

thomas lawrence is trapped in a constant, grueling cycle of temporary pleasure in exchange for eternal shame. he doesn’t remember when it started, but it doesn’t really matter when he can’t see the end in sight. his main excuse is the stress he’s under, struggling with the faith that makes up his entire identity and considering retiring from his position as dean of the cardinals. although the holy father won’t allow him to. his words echoed in his mind, “some are chosen to be shepherds, and others are needed to manage the farm.”

he hesitates before picking up the phone to call you, knowing the exact sequence of events that will unfold once he does. he could end it right here, do the virtuous thing, and pray for closure rather than indulging in earthly desires as a temporary solution to his problems, but he never does, and his request to see you is whispered.

as he waits for you, he’s conscience-stricken over what’s to come, but there’s no one to blame but himself.

you’re gorgeous as always, an example of lust come to life with those sultry eyes and soft lips. most importantly though, you know how to keep quiet and respect the deals you make. you promised you would never say a word, and you’ve been honorable about it ever since. you don’t even charge him any more than you would for a usual customer. he’s certain that if he were unlucky, he would find himself being blackmailed by you, asking him to wire tens of thousands of dollars to your account in exchange for silence knowing he’d gegrudingly oblige since the church didn’t need any more sex scandals than it already had.

you kiss him first, you always do, gently with both hands cradling his face as you pull him towards you. if you leave him to make the first move, you would be waiting all night before eventually leaving without doing the job you were called to do.

he falters for a second, but soon melts into your touch. he so starved for affection from another, the poor thing. it’s almost embarrassing how much he needs you, yearning for a younger thing like you, but you truthfully don’t mind it. it’s almost cute actually.

feeling the warmth of your skin against his and the weight of your body crawling into his lap is enough to send him spiraling, throwing all of the morals he’s held his entire life out the window as his large hands grab the plush of your thighs. he holds onto you like you would disappear at any moment, almost as if he was scared you would escape from his grasp and reveal what was going on with a single whisper. he doesn’t trust you, yet he has no choice but to do so.

the layers between you slip off, and it always makes you sigh at all the clothing clergymen wear on the daily. do they not get hot? it’s fine, you have plenty of experience when it comes to removing the religious garments of men and women alike.

there’s a war going on in his mind when you lay yourself down for him, one between his vocation and his need for you. it’s his last chance to back out, but when his icy eyes met yours full of want, he caved like he always does. the closest thing to heaven he’ll ever feel is the embrace of your velvety walls around his cock, the sound of your gasp when he sinks into you, and the way you call out his name like a prayer, “thomas, thomas, thomas.”

he’s slow, careful, as if too much pleasure at once would break him. he’s not used to this, he doesn’t think he ever will be, not when he’s already at this age and trained to keep his mind above the carnal appetites of the body. he lost his first time with you in a desperate last-minute resort to alleviate all of the pressures on his shoulders, and his last time ever will also be with you if it ever comes soon. it’s wrong, so very wrong, but the constant push and pull that brings him makes him feel like it’s worth it at the moment.

when he finally snaps back to reality with your shared climax, he feels an overwhelming wave of guilt wash over him. he shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t be behaving like an animal to relieve himself of his stress and succumbing to lust as if he had no restraint. restraint is all he knows, all he’s ever known, he’s the dean of cardinals for crying out loud. everyone knows thomas lawrence to be disciplined and reverent, an image of holiness and composure, and example for the rest of his peers as someone who was chosen by the pope himself to manage them. he could only imagine the scandal that would break out if it was discovered what he was doing in secret, how he’s no better than anyone else and just another sinner hiding within the walls of the church.

he runs a warm, wet towel across your skin to soothe any aches he might have left on your body, as if he even had it in him to treat you as roughly as another client, the tips of his fingers barely ghosting over your flesh as if he was scared to touch you unlike how he was mere minutes before. his regret hangs heavy in the air along with the sinful smell of sweat and sex.

“this must never happen again.” he speaks sternly and autocratically, allowing you to see a glimpse of the noble cardinal he is rather than the pathetically desperate man you usually see, although it seems like he’s talking more to himself than he is to you. his tone is so confident that you almost believe that he means it this time.

only for a second though, you know it’s far from the last time. it will only be a week or two before you’ll receive another phone call from him for another secret rendezvous. he’s only a human before he is a holy man, after all.

#📜. her works #thomas lawrence #thomas lawrence x reader #thomas lawrence smut #conclave #conclave x reader #conclave smut #hierophilia

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sinkovia · 1 year ago

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-`♡´- ANON ASK -`♡´-

Anon requested that the ask be posted after the fic.

Pairings: SImon Riley x GN!Reader

Warnings: Angst.

As the days passed by, your once perfect relationship with Simon began to fracture. It seemed as though the idyllic days you once shared were slipping away, replaced by a constant tension that hung heavy in the air.

The source of the arguments seems to stem from your "nagging," as Simon puts it. But to you, it's an expression of love and fear - a desperate attempt to hold onto something precious in a world where loss and danger lurk around every corner.

From the beginning, you both understood the risks in your line of work, but it's only recently that the reality of those risks has begun to weigh heavily on your heart.

You've voiced your fears to Simon, your desire to retire together and find solace in a life far removed from the dangers of combat. But each time you broach the subject, Simon's reaction is the same - cold, defensive, and laced with hurtful words that cut deep. It's a cycle that plays out time and time again: he pushes you away with his sharp words, only to come crawling back the next day, remorseful and apologetic.

In those moments of reconciliation, he speaks to you with tenderness and warmth, promising that he's always careful on missions and that this is the life he wants. He reassures you that perhaps, in a few years' time, he could think about settling down. And each time, you find yourself giving in, desperate to believe that his words hold truth.

But as the fear and dread of losing him creep back in, the same arguments resurface, and the cycle repeats itself endlessly, leaving you trapped in a loop of hope and despair.

The tension in your life reaches a boiling point when you're summoned to the briefing room, where Captain Price lays out the details of a harrowing mission. Your heart sinks as you realize the gravity of the task at hand - infiltrating the heart of Makarov's forces, your fluency in Russian making you the only person who could do it. It's a suicide mission, with slim chances of success and even slimmer chances of survival.

As Captain Price outlines the high-risk, high-reward nature of the operation, your mind races with conflicting emotions. On one hand, success could mean a significant blow to Makarov's forces, potentially saving countless lives and shifting the tide of the war. On the other hand, the thought of risking your life - and potentially throwing away any chance of a future with Simon - fills you with fear.

You weigh the options carefully, torn between duty and personal desire. The stakes couldn't be higher, and the choice before you feels like a cruel test of loyalty and sacrifice. As you leave the briefing room, the weight of the decision hangs heavy on your shoulders, uncertainty clouding your thoughts as you grapple with the choice before you.

You step into your shared apartment, the weight of the impending conversation heavy on your shoulders. Simon is seated on the couch, absorbed in the television. With a heavy sigh, you make your way over and take a seat next to him, steeling yourself for what's to come.

"We need to talk, Si,"

Simon sighs and reaches to turn off the TV, a resigned expression crossing his features. "Here we go again," he mutters under his breath.

Your heart sinks at his dismissive tone, but you push forward nonetheless. “Price gave me a solo mission,” you watch his reaction closely.

Simon quirks a brow but remains silent, prompting you to continue. “He wants me to infiltrate Makarov's forces,”

“Sounds risky,” Simon comments, his tone neutral as he leans back on the couch, crossing his arms. You take a deep breath, "It's a suicide mission," you confess, locking eyes with him, searching for any sign of understanding or concern.

Silence hangs in the air as you wait for his response, “When do you leave?” he asks, his response devoid of the emotion you had hoped for.

Does he even hear you? Does he even care?

“Did you hear what I said? It’s a suicide mission. Do you even care Simon?” you press, desperation creeping into your voice.

Simon releases a frustrated breath, irritation evident in his demeanor. “Of course, I fucking care, y/n. But like I've said a million times before, we chose this profession. We know the risks that come with our job. Any of our missions could easily turn into a suicide mission.”

Your heart sinks at his callous response, the weight of his words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “And if I died on a mission, would you be okay with that? With living without me? With going on with life without me?!” you challenge, tears welling in your eyes.

“Seeing how you're always fucking nagging me, yeah, maybe I’d be okay with that!” Simon's harsh words cut through you like a knife, leaving you reeling in disbelief.

Your lip quivers, and you shake your head, unable to comprehend the cruelty of his words. “You're being mean. You don’t mean that Si, I know you don’t,” you protest, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I do. I mean every fucking word,” Simon retorts, his voice rising in anger. “Do you know how easy it would be to find someone else who will give me what I want? I can never get peace when you're around. We are done, y/n. Don't bother coming home after your mission.”

The finality of his words crushes you, leaving you speechless and broken. With tears streaming down your face, you cover your mouth with your hand, muffling the sobs that threaten to escape. Simon turns on his heel and storms out of the apartment, leaving you alone in the wake of his harsh words.

With a heavy heart, you rise from the couch and make your way to your room, your mind consumed by the weight of the decision ahead. As you gather the necessities for the mission, a wave of despair washes over you.

If Simon wasn't in your life, what else did you have to live for? There had been multiple missions you had turned down in the past, knowing they were nothing but one-way trips. But now, without Simon by your side, there was nothing holding you back.

Stepping into Price’s office, you steel yourself for the conversation ahead. You inform him of your decision to go through with the mission, his surprise is evident, but he and Laswell offer words of encouragement, instilling in you a sense of hope. With your skills as an infiltrator and your Russian background, they assure you that you stand a fighting chance. After all, who would suspect one of their own?

Despite the uncertainty and the weight of the task ahead, a glimmer of hope begins to flicker within you. Within a matter of hours, you find yourself on a plane headed to Russia, the gravity of your decision weighing heavily on your mind. Simon however remains oblivious to your departure, unaware of the path you've chosen.

Back at home, he returns that night with your favorite takeout and a bouquet of flowers, his heart heavy with remorse and determination. With each step, he replays his apology in his head, rehearsing the words he's been meaning to say. He knows he's messed up, and he's desperate to make things right. He wants to change, to be a better man for you.

Simon's mind swirls with thoughts of seeking therapy, of learning to control his temper and his sharp tongue. He knows he's hurt you deeply with his words, words he never truly meant. He loves you more than anything, and he's willing to do whatever it takes to prove it. But as he steps into the house, the atmosphere is heavy with silence. The air feels cold and unwelcoming.

“Y/n?” He calls out for you, his voice tinged with concern, but there's no response.

Worry gnaws at him as he wanders through the darkened rooms, searching for any sign of you. Finally, he enters the bedroom, and his heart sinks as he sees a note lying on the bed, illuminated by the faint light filtering in through the window. With trembling hands, he picks up the note, his heart pounding in his chest as he reads your words.

Simon,

By the time you read this, I'll be on a plane to Russia. I've made the decision to go through with it, despite the risks, and I wanted you to know why.

I've heard your words echoing in my mind, the ones about finding someone else who will give you what you want, about never getting peace when I'm around. And so, I've decided to honor your wishes. Once I finish this mission, I'll find my own place, and you won't have to deal with my constant nagging anymore. Your life will finally be at peace, just as you've always wanted.

I want you to know that I've always turned down these types of missions in the past. This isn't the first time Price has offered them to me. But if I had known sooner that you didn't care whether I went on them or not, I would have gone sooner. I'm sorry for making your life so miserable, for not realizing sooner that I was the problem.

I hope that you find peace now, Simon. I hope that you find someone who can give you what you want, someone who can make you happy. You deserve that much, at least.

Take care of yourself.

Yours always, Y/n

With each word, his heart sinks deeper, the weight of your words bearing down on him with crushing force. Tears blur his vision as he reads your farewell, your words cutting through him like a knife. The realization of the pain he's caused you hits him like a tidal wave, leaving him gasping for air as guilt gnaws at his conscience.

When he reaches the part where you promise to honor his wish and stay out of his life after your mission, Simon's heart shatters into a million pieces. The thought of you willingly walking away from him, all because of his own hurtful words and actions, is almost too much to bear.

He crumples the letter in his trembling hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs as he struggles to come to terms with the magnitude of his mistakes. The weight of regret hangs heavy in the air as he realizes the depth of the love he's lost, the love he may never have the chance to regain if you don’t come back from the mission.

The suicide mission.

In that moment, he breaks down completely, the full weight of his actions crashing over him like a tidal wave. Seeing how much he's hurt you, how much he's pushed you away to point that you accepted the mission, shatters him to his core.

With each tear that falls, Simon's resolve crumbles, replaced by a deep and profound sense of regret. He wishes he could turn back time, take back the hurtful words he's spoken, and hold you close, promising to never let you go. But it's too late now, and all he can do is sit in silence, praying to a higher form to keep you safe, to let you come back to him alive.

The next day, Simon walked into Price’s office, his heart heavy with worry and anticipation. He needed to know more about your mission, to find any shred of information that could ease his growing anxiety.

Price informed Simon that you had landed in Russia in the early morning hours. However, he delivered the news that communication would be sparse for at least a month. They had scheduled calls planned for updates on the mission status, but they would have to wait until the designated time for you to radio in.

Simon listened intently, understanding the protocol, but inside, fear and dread gnawed at him. The thought of you out there, alone and potentially in danger, filled him with a sense of helplessness.

As the first month passed, Simon waited patiently in the room with Price, every passing minute feeling like an eternity. But as the hours stretched on, there was no sign of communication from you. No Morse code, no call, no comm. Just silence.

Panic began to set in as Simon grappled with the uncertainty of your situation. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease, the nagging worry that something had gone terribly wrong. But Price remained steadfast in his confidence, assuring Simon that these things happened often, that perhaps you hadn't found the right opportunity to relay a message.

Despite Price's reassurances, Simon couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that gripped him. With each passing day, his fear for your safety only grew stronger, overshadowing any hope he tried to hold onto. But he knew he had to stay strong, to keep faith that you would return safely from your mission.

Month after month passed, and still, there was no word from you. Simon waited patiently by the phone in the comms room center, his heart heavy with worry and uncertainty. He refused to give up on you, clinging to the hope that you would come back to him, despite Price declaring you M.I.A.

Even as Price tried to reason with him, pointing out that none of your mission objectives had been completed in the time you had been gone, Simon remained steadfast in his belief that you were still out there, somewhere, fighting to return to him.

Even as the years passed Simon couldn't bring himself to accept the possibility that you might truly be gone, vanished from his life and the world forever. The thought of living in a world without you was unbearable, and Simon couldn't bear to entertain it.

The last words he had spoken to you echoed in his mind, haunting him with their cruelty. How could he have been so callous, so blind to the pain he was causing you?

Was this fate's cruel work, forcing him to confront the consequences of his actions? Was this punishment for his harsh words, for pushing you away when he should have pulled you close? Was this what he truly wanted, to be left alone in a world without you?

But even in the depths of his despair, Simon clung to a sliver of hope, refusing to let go of the belief that you would come back to him. He would wait for you, for as long as it took, holding onto the hope that one day, you would return to him and his world would be whole again.

Anon Ask- simon x reader but they are both in the military and reader gets assigned on a suicide mission but has a choice to go or not. reader and simon fight and then they decide to go. feel free not to do this no pressure!!! but if you will dont post the ask until after to make it a little angsty surprise!

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whisperingmidnights · 17 days ago

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39. Falling into someone’s arms with my fav feysandove, pretty pleaseeee 💗💗💗

My looooove hiiiiiii 💕 you're heeeeere. Post-CS fluff combined with silver fox!Rhys floating around has given me ideas.

From this list

Having all of the children out of the house for the night is a rare occasion. Even more rare that Mor asks Feyre to join her at Rita's without extending an invitation to the rest of us. Not that Rhys minds, I think. After the servants left or retired for the evening, he was more than content to crawl into bed next to me and read over my shoulder.

"You could get your own book," I tease as he pulls my braid back over my shoulder, baring my neck for his lips to explore. He hums against my skin, pulling at the sleeve of my nightgown until it slips from my shoulder.

"Yours is much more interesting."

"You're not even reading it."

"Oh, I'm getting more than enough information about the plot from all of the thoughts you send down the bond."

"Oh," I mutter, flushing as I begin to close the book. A large, brown hand lands in the center of it, and I look over to find those violet eyes focused intensely on my face.

"Did I say to stop?"

"No."

"Let me in," he murmurs, removing his hand from the pages to slide it beneath the comforter. The hem of my dress slides up my thighs as those eager fingers dive between them. "Let me see what your lovely imagination conjures while you enjoy your book. I promise to be good."

"Good," I laugh, leaning up to ghost my lips over his as I settle back against the pillows. The silver at his temples shines in the golden candlelight, and the shadows along his jaw make him look more like the rake from my book than I'd like to admit. "It doesn't feel like you're worried about being very good at all, Rhysand."

"On the contrary, my dove. Every day, I think of exactly how many ways I can be good to you-" his fingers falter against the gusset of my panties as we hear stumbling footsteps in the sitting room, followed by high pitched humming and giggles as something glass definitely shatters. My mate sits up, brows creasing in concern as I sit back with a sigh, my book dropping into my lap. "Feyre?"

The bedroom door opens, revealing our mate in all her drunken glory. The shoes she left with this evening are nowhere to be seen, and that thin, sparkly dress inches higher with every faltering step. Her makeup is smudged and her hair is a mess, and I don't think she's ever looked more beautiful.

"Have fun with Mor?" Rhys asks, sitting up next to me with a teasing grin. I miss the feeling of his hands on me, but I can't bring myself to blame Feyre for her abominable timing. It's better, safer, that she's home with us in a state like this. She dances her way over to Rhysand's side of the bed, her movements loose and a little uncoordinated.

"So much fun," she agrees, bright-eyed and flushed. "But I missed you both. Smells like I interrupted- oh!"

Her toes catches the upturned corner of the rug and she pitches forward, hurtling towards the corner of the nightstand. Luckily, Rhys still moves fairly quickly, catching her before her temple can connect with the wood and hauling her into bed between us. I scoot over with a sigh, waving away his apologetic look as I roll out to go scrounge up a glass of water and some bread.

#talk to me #ask game #feysand x reader #cs related

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coffee-and-cake · 2 months ago

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Mama Megatronus pt 1: The Prime and the sparkling

this post has been stuck in my mind so I’m making a new AU enjoy~

It isn’t unheard of for Megatronus Prime to spend his free time in solitude. When he isn’t training, attending meetings, and going into battle he retires to his room and just stays there.

He doesn’t socialize with the people of cybertron much despite many attempts. He simply nods along to whatever they are saying and makes an excuse to leave the conversation. It happenes with his fellow primes as well.

Megatronus isn’t a social mech he is a war commander and a soldier. He makes battle plans and follows through on them. He fights to protect the planet because that is what he is good at and having people look at him and grow hopeful of their safety sets his spark ablaze.

But…

He has his failures, he has lost many good soldiers to the Quintessons. His worst failure though was when a civilian town was nearly wiped out due to an ambush.

Megatrnous remembers arriving only to see nothing but carnage. Mechs, femme, younglings, and Sparklings. None were spared from the attack no matter how hard his army searched.

Megatronus had nearly given up hope that there were any survivors. Until he hears a faint chirp from underneath the rubble of a house. Megatronus nearly flings the structure into space to get to the person underneath.

What he finds is a body, long cold and devoid of color. But curled protectively around something a red a blue speck?

Leaning down and reaching a servo out Megatronus is startled by a sharp spitting hiss as the speck tries to puff up to intimidate the prime.

It takes the Primes processor a moment that the speck was actually a newborn sparkling only a couple of solar cycles old. The fact it was alive was a miracle.

Reaching out his servo again, slowly this time, the sparkling sniffed at it for a moment before clumsily crawling into the primes palm. The little sparkling was barely the size of Megatronus’s index finger.

The prime had never seen a newborn sparkling before. Any sparkling he had seen was at a far distance. To see one so close up and to even hold one was a foreign experience.

Bringing the sparkling up to optic level he saw two tiny blue optics squinting back at him. The Sparklings tiny servos tried to reach for the primes mask and whined when it couldn’t reach it.

Something in Megatronus’s processor whirled to life and a flurry of new feelings over took him as he stared at the sparkling. He had felt protectiveness before but never to such a degree.

When one of the high guard had approached him to examine the sparkling the prime had covered the sparkling with his other servo and snarled at mech who quickly jumped back in fear.

Megatronus called everyone to return to iacon as they had found the only survivor and they needed to be looked over by a medic. The prime made sure to keep a tight but gentle hold on the little mech.

But once back in iacon and given a proper look over by a medic (Megatronus lightly growling whenever the medic pokes at the sparkling) the medic says “despite everything the sparkling is just stressed it’s a miracle there’s no physical damage although he is a bit small for age and frame type. I can have someone come by to pick him up and take him the iacon orphanage later today-“

“No.” The prime states

Before the medic can ask what Megatronus means the prime has already scooped up the sparkling and left the hospital. When he finally meets with his fellow primes they are all quite shocked by the sparkling comfortably napping in Megatronus’s open palm. Even more shocked when said prime declares it is his now.

The other 12 primes are quick to try and deter Megatronus from raising the sparkling some more honest then others.

“You still have the war to focus on.”

“You know nothing of Sparklings how do you intend to raise him?”

“You’re not really good with small delicate things brother.”

The only support he gets is from Solus, alpha trion, and Prima. All of who congratulate the prime on his new sparkling.

When Megatronus puts the sparkling down for his first night he leans down to the tiny sparkling.

“I won’t let anything harm you, my little Orion Pax.”

(Was gonna add more baby Orion but this post is getting a little long so I’ll save it for a part two.)

#coffee speaks #transformers #transformers one #random #rambles #orion pax #fanfic ideas #optimus prime #megatronus #megatronus prime #Mama Megatronus AU

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bakudekuficlibrary · 10 months ago

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BakuDeku Post-War Chronicles: Teacher Midoriya Izuku & Pro Hero Bakugou Katsuki

1 Series, 28 Works.

C'mon...Deku by fairykats ( T | 16,283 | 9/9 )

Izuku looks at the clock on the wall. He still has half an hour left of his lunch break. Usually, he’s joined by one of his coworkers, but they're apparently busy today, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He pulls out his phone, because he’s not about to break down in the middle of the school day. He opens YouTube and starts up what might possibly be his favorite non-quirk analysis video on the internet: “60 minutes of Pro Hero Dynamight Yelling at randoms, pt. 6."

Or: the fix-it fic you didn't know you needed after MHA's final chapter.

The In-Betweens by Mister_awesomesauce ( G | 6,355 | 1/1)

Izuku and Katsuki are (not-so) respectable twenty-five year olds making their way in the world after the war ended. Sometimes, in the in-betweens of their busy lives, they find time for each other.

( If those in-betweens tend to involve copious amounts of soju and confessions that they will both remember to forget in the morning, then they wouldn't dare change a thing about it. )

Side by Side by daniartonline ( T | 10,210 | 1/1 )

“Well,” he says at last, mumbling slightly, “You could always teach.” Izuku immediately straightens in his seat, his attention shifting purposefully back toward Katsuki as a surprised, “What?” escapes his lips. Katsuki narrows his eyes, surprised that Izuku hasn’t already thought of it himself. As if he hasn’t been following in the man’s footsteps his entire life. As if he didn’t visit his house every weekend. “Like All Might did. After he retired.”

Katsuki offers Izuku a much-needed lifeline, but little does he know all the sacrifices Katsuki's been making to keep him by his side.

Count to Infinity by socksasgloves ( T | 87,244 | 24/24 )

Former hero course student, Izuku Midoriya, is Quirkless once more and has adjusted to life as a U.A. teacher well. His closest relationship is with his childhood friend, Katsuki Bakugou, a well-off Pro Hero who has stuck by his side all these years. Despite both of them living comfortably, Bakugou has been keeping a big secret from his friend: his own plan to get his number one rival back in the field.

Or: What happened between Deku and Kacchan in the 8-year time gap.

You Gave Me Purpose, Kacchan by wowschreave ( T | 42,004 | 22/22 )

UA Teacher Izuku x Pro Hero Katsuki; basically a fic about the eight-year gap!

This is a journey about two heroes as they navigate their paths post-war and fall in love.

All I Need is You by lurethegalaxy ( E | 4,757 | 1/1 )

The energy in the room is absolutely electric as Kacchan's pants fall to the floor, revealing long lines of beautiful skin, all the way up to a perfectly hard and flushed—

“No underwear?” Izuku asks on a punched-out breath.

“I missed you,” is all Kacchan says in explanation, petulant and impatient.

----

In which Katsuki surprises Izuku with a visit, says he's celebrating something, but refuses to tell Izuku what. So Izuku finds a better use for that mouth, instead.

how i long for our trysts by nikkiRA ( E | 2,164 | 1/1 )

Most nights the only thing he has the energy for is crawling into bed beside Izuku and falling immediately to sleep. It’s why they’re taking such a risk and doing this here.

That and because it’s hot. Sneaking away to fuck like they were teenagers again. That and Izuku’s suit. Katsuki has a Thing for Izuku’s suit, how nicely it contours to his body, how strong he looks in it. Anytime Izuku got dressed up, all Katsuki could focus on was how much he wanted to undress him.

Eight years and counting by silverynight ( T |. 3,650 | 1/1 )

"For young Midoriya?"

All Might already knows it's for Izuku, but the question is not exactly about that and Katsuki is perfectly aware of it; he can see it in the soft smile of Izuku's mentor, he can see it in the way his blue eyes shine with knowledge.

Katsuki blushes, but he doesn't look away from the former symbol of peace. He's not that middle schooler hot-heated kid anymore. He's done hiding his feelings behind anger and he's not ashamed about what he feels for Izuku. He's pretty sure All Might knows about that, he's probably waiting for a confirmation.

Katsuki nods, blush spreading down his neck.

"It'll take years to make something like that."

"I'm aware."

"Bakugou, I know you want to kill someone with your knees, please, just not my students." by Shellrazorr ( T | 4,139 | 1/1 )

He did this out of affection, really. His teaching habits were leaning too far into “throwing caution into the wind” rather than “cool laid back teacher who was only strict if you pushed.” And he really didn’t want to get fired.

So here he was, his saving grace, Katsuki Bakugou. He was smart with kids, even if he didn’t act like it. He’d know what to do.

I really should’ve gotten my bachelors in education. I think this is totally illegal.

Or: Bakugou helps Midoriya with a class, and quickly learns his students are idiots.

Everything Stays by Melon_Cauli ( T | 34,628 | 7/7 )

They were different after the war. Everyone in Class 2-A was.

Even if they tried to pretend the opposite, slipping into old habits felt like a cheap facade, especially when the proof of their change was displayed so clearly for the world to see. Their bodies littered in darkening bruises, broken bones, and scars mapped across their skin; some worse than others, their quirks permanently impaired by jumping into battle far too soon, far too young.

There were just some questions that a 16-year-old should never have to answer: How do you deal with losing a part of yourself that had been there all your life? How do you clean off the blood on your hands paid in the price of incompetence?

— or Bakugou Katsuki and Midoriya Izuku navigate a life after the war, and a life with each other.

you're all i need by wiltedcyclamen ( M | 12,408+ | 3/? )

A walk home goes wrong.

The Blame Game by lettersinpetals ( T | 46,862 | 20/20 )

Six years after settling into his life as a teacher in U.A., Izuku’s life is upended once more when All Might gives him a superpowered suit. With the elation comes anxiety, and Izuku finds himself hesitating to return to active hero duty… so he doesn’t. Even after All Might makes the announcement to the public. Even after his friends leave eager voice messages.

And then Izuku is snowballed into accepting a ‘special role’ in a brand new reality TV show, which will star the most famous class of U.A. — theirs. For just one night, all of them will be placed in a cabin and there’s only one rule: no quirks allowed.

It will be the first time that Izuku and Katsuki will be seeing each other in six years. Surely, everything they’ve left unsaid can hold still for at least one more night, right?

Kacchan vs the Internet by palavering ( T | 34,546+ | 11/? )

Katsuki figures out he’s in love with his childhood best friend, sworn rival, and hero partner with the help of the internet.

r/AmItheAsshole • Posted by u/BoomBoomGod 8 hours ago AITA for punching my best friend for implying that I’m in love and acting like a sugar daddy to my other (childhood) best friend?

Featuring:

/HeroDeku /HeroDynamight /AITA /NoStupidQuestions /offmychest TikTok, Twitter, Discord, Texting, and Class 1-A.

Pro-hero Dynamight x Teacher Deku Works by heartpartsix ( Not Rated | 12,192+ | 6 Works )

An unsorted collection of all my Pro-Hero Dynamight x Teacher Deku works.

CURRENTLY PUBLISHED: 1. In the doorway 2. Dynamight 3. Fall into me 4. For you 5. As long as you need me 6. Waste

by the watershed by passengerside ( T | 4,940 | 1/1 )

Katsuki is the number three Pro Hero who deals with citywide emergencies on the regular, but it’s this self-sacrificial reckless little asshole that constantly has him flirting with another heart attack. Cardiac rehab kicked his ass for two years, and it still never covered how to deal with Deku. “Dynamight-san,” Izuku says slowly, "I uh, didn't call anyone in." "Yeah. I noticed."

izuku fights a battle alone, and katsuki reacts accordingly

Crazy by Exultasaurus ( M | 1,026 | 1/1 )

I actually cannot get them out of my head, so here's a cute little 1k short story about pro hero Bakugou and Midoriya Sensei the night of getting his new hero suit. Izuku gets a bit too excited about a new offer and well...you'll read the rest.

Untitled No. 430 by Cloudsu ( T | 2,548 | 1/1 )

In the grand scheme of things, this was not the way Izuku wanted his life to go. He never wanted this for himself, never saw himself from the sidelines, even when that's the only thing that seemed realistic. Despite all that, he's happy. He's got his Kacchan, got his kids, and all his amazing friends. But, one little question dropped from familiar lips makes the delicate house of cards he's been building crash down.

“Do you ever get angry, Izuku?"

bidding on love by omontz ( T | 3,320 | 1/1 )

Izuku engages in a bidding war for a special limited-edition gold Dynamight standee. Unfortunately for him, dekusdumbbf is out to ruin his life.

all my emotions feel like explosions (when you are around) by tiffaniesblews ( T | 4,207 | 1/1 )

He really could not think of a time in his life that didn’t include Midoriya Izuku.

OR: Bakugou pines for 4200 words.

Tired by ZhoRex ( T | 1,574 | 1/1 )

Izuku Midoriya was beyond tired. Not just physically tired—though that was very real given he hadn’t slept in four days—but mentally tired. He had papers to grade, lessons to prepare, villains to track down, and… his boyfriend.

Inspired by a fanart.

Bakugo is not very subtle when it comes to Izuku. Izuku is so done with him.

Also Kirishima is the best wingman.

Friends with Benefits by Multihappydayz ( E | 2,679 | 1/1 )

Izuku felt like he had a sign plastered to his back that read, "I'm sleeping with pro-hero Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight!"

Adult Money, Adult Problems by MJBunnyLuv ( G | 2,220 | 1/1 )

Since becoming a teacher at UA, Izuku has struggled with one thing…budgeting. In fact, he makes more money as a teacher than he did as a pro hero for those two years after graduation. And that’s a problem. Not because he can afford a nicer apartment or help out his mom – those are both good things! But because now he has extra income and it all goes to his growing collection of Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight merch.

Series Part 82 of BKDK Drabbles

Embers by UglyGreenJacket ( T | 3,078 | 1/1 )

Izuku stands in the hallway, his gaze unseeing. He’s soaked from head to toe, even though a closed umbrella is clutched in his hand, and there’s a look on his face that will haunt Katsuki well beyond that night. A look that says he’s lost something that can never be replaced.

“Izuku?” Katsuki asks in a tone far gentler than most will ever hear from him, afraid that if he speaks too loudly, Izuku might bolt.

Izuku’s eyes focus at the sound of Katsuki’s voice and his mouth opens. His jaw works like he can’t quite fathom what he’s about to say. “Kacchan,” he says, “It’s gone. T-the last of the embers…they’re–they’re gone.”

Teachers Pet by Fallendarkangel13 ( E | 5,294 | 1/1 )

TAKES PLACE AFTER MHA 430!!

Conflicting work schedules would always be the bane of Izuku’s and Katsuki’s existence. It’d been too many patrolling night shifts or early-morning class prep for either of them to find the time to care for each other as intimately as they used to. It went from hardcore, hour long lovemaking to quick touches and too short orgasms in the span of three months as Izuku returned back to teaching after the summer break and could no longer accommodate Katsuki's frantic pro-hero schedule.

Katsuki intended to change that.

Or: Katsuki wants his hot teacher of a boyfriend to fuck him after seeing how he reacts to being called "sensei" and dresses in his old UA uniform to make it happen

lets be still by ladyofsnails ( Not Rated | 3,490 | 1/1)

Izuku just stared at him for a second, still unable to think of anything to say. He had had so much in his head on the way over, all day today, since the very second All Might gave him that mechanical briefcase and said that “Young Bakugou” had led the fundraising efforts. But now, starting Katsuki in the eyes, standing on his front step, Izuku Midoriya was entirely speechless. It was impossible. The world he was living in was impossible.

“Izuku…,” Katsuki said slowly. “What’s up?”

Series Part 26 of snail has dkbk brainrot

The Snaps from the Same Little Breaks in Your Soul by potatopie (T | 16,078 | 1/1 )

"Seeing the way you two are with each other, it helped me realize what I was missing from my own relationship. Let’s just say you’ve raised the bar considerably. I don’t want to be with someone unless they look at me the way you both look at each other.”

She’s confused when Bakugou’s and Midoriya’s faces both pale while Shinso starts snickering and Kirishima’s eyebrows go up cartoonishly.

“I-I what do you - we’re not” Midoriya is now stammering and blushing, looking to Bakugou who just looks down silently.

The one where Katsuki is such a good boyfriend to Izuku that someone sees this and is inspired to dump their own shitty boyfriend. Even though he's not actually Izuku's boyfriend.

AKA

The post-canon fic where Izuku is a teacher at U.A. and Katsuki still takes care of him.

Series Part 1 of Post-Canon BKDK

Midoriya-sensei's boyfriend by silverynight ( T | 2,106 | 1/1 )

"Midoriya-sensei?"

"Yes?"

"Is pro hero Dynamight your boyfriend?"

Izuku wishes he didn't blush that often because it makes it look like he's lying. He gets those questions a lot, but hasn't gotten used to them.

"No."

"Are you dating a pro hero?"

"No."

"Is he your husband then?"

"No." Izuku holds himself back from covering his red face with both arms like he did in high-school when he was too flustered. "Ka–I mean, Dynamight-san and I are friends. There's nothing else to it."

see you at home by marsbarrss ( T | 4,976 | 1/1 )

“Deku, you dumbass, you forgot your lunch again,” he grumbles, pushing the wrapped lunch box into his hands. The floral print flashes up at him. “Ah, Kacchan, you don’t have to make me lunch, seriously!” Izuku flounders, but he accepts the offering anyway. He sort of has to, or else Katsuki will flip his shit. “I can just eat at home…” The class immediately erupts in chatter, jumping to question both men about their relationship.

Five times Katsuki disrupted Izuku at work, and one time Izuku disrupts Katsuki at work.

Carpe Diem, Baby by NoBinoDino ( G | 6,490 | 1/1 )

Before anyone can move, an explosion is set off right next to Kouta’s head. He ducks, rolls, and then whips a hand out to pour water over the leftover flames.

“Okay, what the actual fuck is wrong with Deku-sensei?!” he hears Ueda shout from somewhere behind him.

He looks up, curious, only to be met with another explosion, this time directly in front of him.

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit, that’s fucking Dynamight!”

[Or: UA first year Kouta and his classmates must face off against pro hero Bakugou Katsuki. Spoiler alert; he's kind of an asshole]

I'm just a girl, and this is just our collective bakudeku brat summer. post-war duo has taken over my brain chemistry so here ya go!

(if y'all have any favorites not on here, lemme know so I can add 'em to the list!)

also, been re-formatting the blog to fix broken hyperlinks and give things a good refresh. not much will change, bUT I may be adding pages for doujinshi/zine info, merch/small artist info, bkdk song-of-the-week, etc etc (if you nerds are into that kinda thing;p)

~Gabs ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

#BakuDeku #KatsuDeku #BNHA #bkdkfl masterlist #long post #curator gabs #g: cc #g: aged #g: future #au: teacher

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neontokyoo · 10 months ago

Note

(nsfw or not) Halsin (elf form) in heat from bear mating season and dry humps or ferally takes tav? (consented obviously)

Pairing: Halsin x Fem!Tav

Genre: smut

Summary: Halsin’s animalistic behavior is too much to bear

Warnings: I’m unable to write rough sex while keeping Halsin in character, rough animalistic sex, this wasn’t proofread because I’m tired and more focused on getting this posted before I forget about it and never do it.

Like this post? Join my community!

It was that time of year. Halsin couldn’t stand being around anyone right now. All the different smells in the air were making him fucking crazy. Despite not being an actual bear, the Druid found his bear from becoming a part of him over the past few years. The more time he spends in his bear form, the less control he has over the bear in certain situations. And this was one of those situations.

Running the grove was incredibly hard today. Usually mating season wasn’t a huge pain in his ass. Sure, he was always horny and more sensitive than normal, but usually he was able to handle it on his own. This year, however, was different. Maybe it was because of the new adventurer who had been staying at the grove for a while, while they planned their next move. That sounded about right. Ever since Tav showed up, he’s found it much harder to control the beast within him. He hasn’t been this turned on in over a century.

Halsin let out a frustrated groan as he felt his arousal getting stronger. His cock was rock-hard by now and his pants were painfully tight. How the fuck was he supposed to be in charge here if everyone was looking at him like he just crawled out of hell? Obviously, the tension was visible. In several ways. The way he walked like he had a stick up his ass, the way he was grabbing onto everything when he had to sit down, his grip so tight that his knuckles were changing to a ghostly white color. Everyone could tell something was wrong with him, but nobody said a thing.

It got to the point where his only options were to either talk to Tav about his current situation, or retire to his room for the night and fix it himself. And he found the first option to be too embarrassing. So, the elf went back to his room and began to undo his pants. Gods, just undoing the zipper felt much more comfortable than his cock straining against his pants.

But of course right when he was about to take care of his problem, there was a knock on the door. Halsin groaned out of frustration as he quickly put his pants back on and straightened himself up before opening the door. His body tensed as he saw her waiting on the other side. He wasn’t sure if he could hold back much longer now that she was so close to him.

Tav gave him a concerned look, opening her mouth to speak before he harshly grabbed the girl by her wrist and pinned her to the wall of his room, finally burying his nose in the crook of their neck.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice even trembling. “I’m sorry, my love… I don’t know what’s happening right now.”

“Halsin, what’s going on?” Tav arched her back, a soft moan escaping her lips. She couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. She wanted to pull away, but her body craved the connection, the intimacy.

Halsin's breathing grew heavier, and he pulled his face from her neck, his eyes flashing green with hunger. "I need you, Tav," he whispered hoarsely, his voice no longer the calm and sweet one she had grown accustomed to. "Please let me have you. I’m sorry, I’m not myself right now.”

Tav hesitated for a moment, her eyes locked with his, before nodding. She bit her lip, the anticipation making her body tremble. Halsin wasted no time as he quickly undid her armor, his fingertips brushing against her dampness. Tav shivered as another small moan escaped her lips. She knew exactly what was happening, and maybe Halsin wasn’t the only one acting like a bitch in heat. Her own arousal betrayed her.

"So wet for me," Halsin breathed, his voice thick with lust. He pulled his hand away, continuing to undress her until she was completely exposed before him, then swiftly unbuckled his trousers, freeing his throbbing cock. Tav's eyes widened at the sight, her arousal intensifying.

Of course, she and Halsin have been flirting back and forth with each other for a while now, occasionally teasing each other and stealing glances. But she never would have thought she’d be able to have him. Nor did she think it would happen like this.

Halsin hoisted Tav onto the table, spreading her legs wide enough to expose her glistening heat. He positioned himself between them, his cock nudging against her entrance. Tav's hands clenched sage green tablecloth, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. “Halsin…. Please….”

Halsin's eyes flashed with a primal hunger as he took in the sight of Tav's naked body spread out before him on the table. The scent of her arousal filled the air, driving him wild with desire. He couldn't hold back any longer. With a low growl, he thrust his hips forward, burying himself deep inside her tight, wet heat.

"Fuck, Tav," he grunted, his voice strained with pleasure. "You feel so good. So fucking perfect."

Tav cried out, her back arching off the table as she was filled completely by Halsin's thick, hard cock. It stretched her walls deliciously, sending sparks of pleasure racing through her body. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The new position made the girl let out a loud, pornographic moan as the elf continued to pound into her, hitting her most sensitive areas while also grinding against her clit.

“Halsin…. Fuck-“

Halsin's hands gripped Tav's hips tightly, his body moving in a primal rhythm as he continued to fuck her. His thrusts grew harder and faster, his muscles straining with each powerful movement. Tav's moans grew louder and more desperate, her nails digging into his back.

Tav's words cut off as the elf's lips crashed onto hers, his tongue invading her mouth in a passionate kiss. Halsin's cock throbbed within her, his animalistic hunger for her not abating. He continued to pound into her, their bodies slapping together in a wet, rhythmic symphony.

Usually, Halsin wouldn’t be so rough if it wasn’t for his animalistic desires that were taking over him. There was just something about Tav that made her absolutely intoxicating, making it incredibly hard for Halsin to control himself.

Tav's mind was spinning, the intensity of the moment overwhelming her. She could feel her orgasm building with each thrust, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter within her until it was nearly unbearable. She could feel Halsin's own climax approaching as well, his thrusts becoming more frantic, his grunts more desperate.

With a final, powerful thrust, Halsin's body tensed, his cock pulsing deep within her. Wave after wave of his seed filled Tav, the sensation pushing her over the edge. Her own orgasm crashed through her, her inner walls gripping Halsin tightly as she cried out his name.

Halsin's body shuddered as he continued to fill her, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Slowly, he pulled out of her, his cock leaving a trail of cum as it slipped from her slick walls. Tav lay there, panting, her body trembling from the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Halsin leaned down to kiss her forehead, his breathing finally starting to even out. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, his voice soft and gentle once more. "But I needed that."

Tav looked up at him, a small smile playing on her lips. "Don't be sorry, Halsin," she whispered, her voice thick with contentment. "I needed it too."

The two of them stayed there for a moment, basking in the afterglow of their passionate encounter. Halsin helped Tav down from the table, wrapping a blanket around her shivering form. They shared a tender kiss, the tension between them dissipating.

#halsin #bg3 fanart #baldurs gate #bg3 #halsin silverbough #halsin x tav #halsin bg3 #halsin x reader #baldurs gate 3 #tav #bg3 headcanons #bg3 tav #bg3 spoilers #baldursgate #baldurs gate tav #baldur's gate #halsin smut

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daisynik7 · 2 years ago

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hello it's me again not sure if it's alright to request one more (literally just ignore this if not) and its also not y2k but i'd like to request work song by hozier for nanami especially "no grave can hold my body down, i'd crawl home to her" angst with a happy ending during/post shibuya (no dying please) and reader is also a healer like shoko

thank you so much and congrats again 🫶🏼

Work Song

No grave can hold my body down, I’ll crawl home to her

Pairing: Nanami x f!reader

Word Count: ~1.6k

cw: mentions of d*ath, bl*od, burn injuries, canon-divergent, set in the canon-universe during the Shibuya Incident Arc, MAJOR spoilers up to Shibuya Arc, angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship, happy ending

Summary: You’re a healer working with Shoko inside the medical tent at Shibuya Station while Nanami, your boyfriend, is in the line of fire for the battle ahead. After an especially life-threatening attack, Nanami, on the brink, runs into an old friend, who helps guide him back home.

Author’s Note: @75songs thank you so much for sending in another request for the y2k karaoke party, always appreciate your love and support! I ADORE this song and have honestly always thought it was perfect for Nanami. I am an anime only and am not caught up with season 2 yet, so I didn’t want to read too much into what exactly happens during this arc, so some of the details may be inaccurate, just a heads up. This one got me in my feelings. I will forever hold a grudge against Gege for what they did to Nanami. Anyways, likes, reblogs, and/or comments are always appreciated! Thanks so much for reading! Divider by @/saradika.

October 31st. Maybe in another timeline, another reality, you and Nanami would be celebrating Halloween tonight, passing colorful candies and decadent chocolates to kids going door-to-door across the neighborhood. You’d force him to dress up in a silly costume, one that matches yours, despite his reluctance at first. Deep down, you know he likes this; domestic bliss, especially with you. The idea that the two of you could live a peaceful life together, away from the dangerous world of curses and Jujutsu sorcery. You discuss it constantly, dream about it, strive for it. A few more years, he says, and he’ll retire. There’s still more work to be done, people to be saved.

You’re inside the medical tent beside Shoko, helping her set up the cots, anticipating injured sorcerers to arrive soon with the battle underway. Masamichi Yaga, Jujutsu High’s principal, stands guard outside, determined to keep the medical team, especially Shoko, safe from any posing threats. There’s no way to know what’s happening until people start arriving, in need of medical attention. You’re a healer too, but not nearly as skilled as Shoko, your mentor. Still, she encourages you to join them tonight, needing all the help they can get.

“Are you feeling okay?” she asks, setting up the last bed. Observant as ever, she notices your quiet demeanor.

You nod, giving her a weak, unconvincing smile. “Yeah.”

“Nanami is going to be fine,” she assures you, sensing the root of your anxiety. “When this is all done, the two of you should take a vacation together.”

Relaxing a bit, you reply, “We already have our trip to Malaysia planned in a few months.”

She smiles kindly. “There you go. Something to look forward to.”

Her words ease some of the tension, but there’s dread settling in the pit of your stomach, and it won’t go away until you see Nanami again in one piece.

The waiting game finally ends as soon as the first wounded sorcerer shows up in the tent, initiating nonstop chaos. You assist Shoko diligently, making sure everything is prepared for her to perform her Reverse Cursed Technique for those who need it, and patching up those who don’t, with less severe injuries. You’re constantly on the lookout to see a familiar face, trying to get an update on what’s happening out there. None comes, until you see Kiyotaka Ijichi limping towards the entrance, blood spread across his shirt. You and Shoko rush towards him, carrying him over your shoulders, leading him to an empty cot, gently laying him down.

Shoko, showing panic on her face for the first time all night, inspects him carefully. “Ijichi, can you hear me?” She’s always had a soft spot for him, often telling you how endearing she finds him, always a nervous wreck in front of her. Seeing him like this is surely jarring, even for her, who’s as tough as nails.

He nods weakly, mumbling something incoherent, blood sputtering from his mouth. You remove the shattered glasses from his eyes, wiping his lips with gauze. Shoko starts to work on him, directing you to check on the other patients. Before you can follow orders, you feel his weak grip on your wrist. You turn to face him, focused on his lips as he quietly utters, “Nanami.”

Your ears perk up at the mention of your boyfriend’s name, leaning in closer to hear the rest of what he has to say, taking his time through labored breaths. “He…saved…me…”

You do your best to keep your composure, nodding at him silently, blinking away the tears welling in your eyes. Unsure how to respond, you leave them, going to the other side of the tent to check on the remaining sorcerers.

With everyone else in stable condition, you take a minute outside the tent to sob into your hands, praying that Nanami is still alive. Unaware of your surroundings, you’re startled when Yaga approaches, his large figure sitting beside you. “You alright?”

You wipe away your sniffles on your sleeve. “Just…nervous.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, sighing. “Yeah, I get it. But Nanami is one of our strongest sorcerers. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

Again, more words of comfort, but not enough to ease the nervous flutter in your belly. Yaga recognizes this and adds, “Nanami would fight through the fires of hell instead of letting himself die. Not because he wants to live for himself. But because he wants to live for you.”

You face him now, processing his statement. He chuckles, lifting his sunglasses to meet your gaze. “That man has never been so smitten in his life. He’d crawl out his grave just to be with you, I guarantee it.”

~~~

The last thing Nanami remembers is desperately wishing he was in Malaysia with you instead of at Shibuya Station right now. He wakes up, sitting in one of the seats on the platform. It’s eerily quiet with no one in sight. The distinct sounds of trains on the rails or the hustle and bustle of people moving along is strangely absent, and it occurs to Nanami that this may be a dream.

He's sure of it when he feels a nudge to his side, turning to face Yu Haibara sitting next to him. There’s a warm smile on his boyish face, dressed in his Jujutsu High uniform, exactly as he was many years ago when Nanami last saw him, alive and well. The same bright, earnest eyes he remembers vividly of his best friend. He swallows hard, an uneasy feeling surrounding him. Is he seeing a ghost? Or is this the afterlife?

Haibara laughs, and Nanami is snapped out of his reverie and taken immediately back to 2006, when he first met his friend during orientation. He can’t help but grin, happy to see him still so lively. “Well, aren’t you going to greet your old friend, Nanami?”

Nanami does, hugging him, astonished to feel him in his arms almost like a real person. Almost. “What are you doing here?”

“Just came to visit you, that’s all.”

Nanami lets him go, studying him carefully, looking for any signs of decay. When he spots none, he asks him, “Am I dead?”

Haibara shakes his head. “Not quite. But you’re pretty damn close.”

“I am?”

“Yeah. So you better hurry and get home quick.” Haibara points towards the railings, now illuminated at one end by a blinding flash of light. “Yuji’s waiting for you.”

“Itadori? How do you know – “

Haibara then says your name with a big smile. “Yeah, I know her too. They’re all waiting for you, Nanami. You don’t want to keep them waiting any longer, do you?”

It takes a while for Nanami to get up, and when he does, he’s off balance, legs wobbly, body unsteady. Haibara helps him, offering his shoulder, the two of them walking slowly towards the light. “I really like her, you know. Your girlfriend.”

“You do?” Nanami asks, hobbling beside him.

“Yeah. She’s really nice, really pretty, and she eats a lot, especially with you,” he chuckles. “You know how much I like that.”

“Yeah I do.”

“And I’m a good judge of character, so I think she’s perfect for you. If that means anything,” he says, proudly.

“It does. It means a lot.” They’re near the edge of the platform now and Nanami will have to hop down to reach the end of the tunnel.

“Are you going to marry her soon?” Haibara asks, pausing just before the edge.

Nanami nods, grinning. “I’m planning to propose during our vacation in Malaysia.”

“Good. Good.”

He’s tempted to stay longer, wanting a few more moments with his friend, but he knows that time is ticking. He hugs him again, squeezing him tight. “Take care, Haibara.”

“You too, Nanami. I’ll be looking out for you.”

His chest constricts, jumping off the platform, landing roughly on the railings, blinking away the tears in his eyes. It’s sweltering now, the light emitting an intense heat from within. He gives Haibara one last glance, cherishing the happy expression on his face as he waves goodbye to him before walking into the light.

Seconds later, Nanami wakes up with a gasp of breath, vision blurred, a droning pounding beating against his ear drums. It soon fades and only Yuji’s panicked voice yelling from behind him is heard. He’s being dragged by the armpits, away from the battle. Smoke radiates from his entire form, and he can barely move. In fact, he can barely feel anything at all.

They reach the medical tent, Itadori yelling for help the whole way. Yaga is the first to reach them, his usual calm demeanor wavering at the sight of Nanami, body half-burned from the explosion. They carrying him delicately inside, resting him on the only empty cot left. He wants to close his eyes; he’s so exhausted, and sleep is the only thing to bring him peace right now. That, or you.

As if his prayers were heard, you appear at his side, truly a vision, even while you sob for him, holding his mangled hand in yours, begging for him to stay with you. He can die happy now, seeing your face, knowing that you’re here, alive, heart beating, surviving. Can he do the same? Can he survive this? All he knows is that he’s trying with every fiber he has left in his being. He won’t leave you, not like this. Not without experiencing life on the outside with you.

It’s in this moment that he vows to endure. Even if he has to crawl out of his grave to do it, he’s determined to be with you again.

~~~

November 1st. Maybe in another timeline, another reality, Nanami is gone. Not in this one, though. Instead, you sit beside him, healed and in one piece thanks to Shoko, fingers laced with his, careful not to squeeze too tightly. Yuji and Ino are at his other side, talking animatedly about how amazing Nanami was the entire fight, and all he can do is lay there, smiling. Happy to be alive. Happy to be with you.

#nanami kento #kento nanami #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #kento nanami x reader #kento nanami x you #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami fluff #nanami kento fluff #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk spoilers #jujutsu kaisen spoilers #jujutsu kaisen x reader #y2k karaoke event #milestone event

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