#from smolder to silly in three point five

[sainz100]

a dramatic reading by Carlos Sainz | x

[fishwithtitz]

The Five Times I Hooked Up with Mary Goore (and the One Time I Couldn’t) - Chapter 2

Summary: From beside me, I heard what sounded like a mix between a groan and a low breath. My brain told me to keep looking ahead, to ignore him, to wait until the movie was done and I was feeling better before finding Des and asking for somewhere to crash for the night. My impulsivity got the best of me and I slowly cast my eyes in Mary's direction. His eyes were slightly larger, the flickering light of the screen reflecting off the olive hue of his irises, and his bottom lip was just barely caught between his teeth. He clearly felt my stare because his head pivoted in my direction. His gaze was nearly smoldering.

Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI

Mary Goore x OFC / 8.5k words

Warnings: language, graphic description of oral sex, graphic depiction of manual stimulation, recreational drug use, alcohol, light gore

ao3 link

Chapter Two: Hook-up #2: The Den

Five hours. Five long, arduous hours of measuring, mixing, cooking, cooling, trimming, crumb-coating, frosting, and piping. I was almost certain that I had inhaled flour or powdered sugar at some point as my nose felt gritty and raw on the inside, but I tried my best to pay it no mind. I was on a mission.

It had been a few weeks since the house show at Thomas’ place (and the subsequent tonguelashing from Mary on the weather-torn roof), and I’d had done my best to try to write it off as the once-in-a-lifetime experience that I’d tried to originally pacify my nerves with. 

It turned out that Thomas and Des had hit it off at the party, in more ways than one. I couldn’t say that I was necessarily surprised; Des was charming, alluring, and very persuasive when she wanted to be. Ever since she’d locked eyes on Thomas at the smoky bar downtown a couple of months ago, she’d known she had to have him, and to her credit, she’d accomplished it in record time. And honestly, I was happy for my friend. It had been a while since I’d seen Des so happy and free spirited while in the arms of someone she was so blatantly enamored with. However, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just a tad bit jealous of Thomas and the hold he’d captured on Desiree. 

Routinely, weekends had been spent just the two of us together - Doll and Des - curled up on my worn couch watching trash TV or engaging in parallel play as we sent videos back and forth that had us laughing so hard that we were covered in equal parts tears, mascara, and snot. Takeout or a drunken “do” meal (as I grew up calling them) of randomly delicious ingredients thrown together and cooked often followed, and both of us banked more memories than we could count of bonding through the sillied, domestic tasks we enjoyed together. 

Not the past few weekends, though.

I got it, believe me, I did, but after the third night in a row that I’d been blown off for either a bar or a bedroom, I couldn’t help but be a little bit worn down at my best friend’s new love interest. To avoid being the ever-dreaded third-wheel, I denied Desiree’s kind offers of accompanying them out or to Thomas’ house, which unfortunately meant many nights of movies alone and crappy blue-box mac eaten straight out of the pot.

So when Des came begging for me to use my baking talents to make Thomas a custom cake for his 30th birthday (Puss in Boots eyes and all), I didn’t even hesitate to agree to the task. I missed my friend, and although I wasn’t looking forward to slaving over the black-metal themed confectionary after finishing a particularly grueling shift at work, I was happy to do this for her. “Besides,” Des had said, “it will give you a chance to do something you enjoy and live a little.”

So, here I was: my grandmother’s old apron tied haphazardly across my curved waist, melted chocolate and white icing smeared across my forearms and the backs of my hands, and the tip of my tongue perched between my lips in concentration as I finished piping the intricate Baphomet head and pentacle on top of the three-layer cake. I glanced up at the microwave clock and felt my stomach drop deep in my guts. The party was in a little over an hour, and I still had to pack up the cake, shower, and make myself look at least semi-decent before heading over. Taking a step back, I admired my work. It wasn’t perfect, but I knew that if I kept fussing with it I’d inevitably fuck it up, so I dusted my hands off with a sigh and left the kitchen to hurry through a shower and makeup routine.

After a way-too-quick rinse and a blow-dry of my hair in record time, I futzed through my closet to try to find something acceptable to wear. It was warm out, so I opted for a dark-printed swing dress and a pair of worn, black sneakers. As always, I lived by the motto of “comfort before style,” and I was fresh out of fucks to give.

I ran my curling wand through the long tresses of burgundy hair that hung down my back and framed my face before putting on a light face of makeup. It was too warm to wear anything heavy, and despite my annoyance of my freckled cheeks, I didn’t want to spend the evening wiping flesh-toned grease from my face every time I felt a sweat droplet dripping down my jawline. Simplistic it was, then.

I fastened my weathered St. Peter’s Cross necklace to rest on my decolletage and gave myself a quick once over before hustling into the kitchen to pack up the cake. After finding a cardboard box, some saran wrap, and multiple crumpled up balls of newspaper stuffed around the cake, I was off. 

 🜏🜏🜏

“Doll, you’re here!” Desiree swung open the front door with a cheshire-like grin, beckoning me in with the wave of her hand. I smiled at my friend, feeling genuine happiness for her excitement of both the party and for us finally getting to see each other. Awkwardly, I stepped into the home and followed her through the short hallway to the garage. “I want the cake to be a surprise,” she said in a low, nearly-whispered voice, ushering me out towards the outdoor fridge. 

We set the cake on a lower shelf, still hidden by the recycled box I’d used to transport it in. She took a quick glance at the hand-drawn decoration on top and her eyes went wide before she all but pounced on me in a tight hug. 

“It’s fantastic!” she squealed, holding me firmly before pulling back to look at me properly. “Doll, I can’t thank you enough. It’s so fucking rad. He’s going to love it.” 

I flashed my own warm smile in response and chuckled. “Of course, Des. If he’s important to you, he’s important to me.”

We headed back into the house and Des led me out to the back patio, motioning towards a cooler propped against the sliding glass door as she stepped onto the eroded deck. I grabbed a random beer from the red and white Igloo and sat down in a nearby plastic chair, crossing my legs as I twisted the top off the bottle. 

“Happy Birthday, Thomas,” I said as I leaned over, clinking the tip of my bottle against his own. At this point, Des had slid into the seat next to him, resting her head on his shoulder as she absorbed herself into the conversation happening around us. 

“Thanks, Dahlia. Glad you could make it,” He replied as he tipped his bottle towards me in salute and took a swig, smiling politely before turning back to the chat we’d interrupted. I looked around and noticed that this party was definitely much smaller than the last one I’d attended here. There were only about ten other people, most of them acquaintances or friends from the music scene, and I recognized a few of them as Thomas’ band mates. 

Leaning back in my chair, I took a long sip of my beer and allowed the warm air of the evening to envelop me. I had to admit, this was nice. It’d been a while since I’d been around friends with no expectations or masks to wear. I could just be me. I could enjoy the banter between the boys of which Metallica album was most iconic (and why according to Johnny, it was definitely Master of Puppets, because “zero skips,” of course), or how Mark was told by a coworker that it was “gay to wash your butthole” and how he found it completely fucked that one, he didn’t wash his ass, two, his coworker was homophobic, and three, Mark finally knew where the smell in the stock room was coming from. At some point during the story, Johnny had lit a cigarette which was now dangling dangerously from his lips, ash falling onto his jeans pocket as Mark animatedly told the tale. Suddenly, he patted the ashen pocket and his eyes went wide. 

“Oh shit! I forgot to give you your birthday present!” Johnny fished a square (and slightly smushed) package from inside his pocket. It was wrapped in what looked like an old titty magazine, but I couldn’t be completely sure from my distance away from him on the patio. He leaned forward and plopped it into Thomas’ lap with a grin. “Happy 30th, dude,” he beamed with a salacious smile. “You’re officially a senior citizen.”

“30’s still young!” he defended with a glare, thumbs inching under the duct tape holding the wrapping together. 

A snort was heard from beside him, and Greg, one of the guitarists from his band, muttered something to the effect of, “Yeah, for trees,” under his breath, which earned an even harder scowl from Thomas. 

Thomas ripped the wrapping off and turned the slightly smashed box over in his hand. “Heat?” he questioned as he squinted at the brand on the box. He shook it a little and gave the parcel a quick sniff. “...is this a box of chocolates?’ His eyes looked at Johnny questioningly, but his lips were curved into a curious smile.

“Yup!” Johnny replied as he took another drag from his cigarette. “They’re kind of a present for the both of you.” He motioned to both Thomas and Des as he spoke, smoke rising from his hand.

“Are they spicy or some shit?” Thomas asked as he tried to read over the back of the box, picking at the plastic wrap covering. 

“You could say that…” Johnny grinned, ashing the cigarette and taking another drag. “I figured that since you’re so old now, you might need some help getting your dick to work.”

I had been mid drink of my half-downed bottle of beer at his comment, and I found myself snorting as I swallowed, immediately causing the fizzy liquid to seep its way into my lungs. I coughed loudly, which luckily covered my laughter. Des and I both leaned over to get a better look, and I glanced at the small print at the bottom of the box:

“The high-quality chocolate that uses natural ingredients to increase your pleasure and boost your sex performance.”

“Are these aphrodisiacs?!” Des yelled out incredulously, eyes wide as she stared at Johnny.

All of my efforts to hold back my laughter were gone as I tilted my head back and dissolved into uncontrollable giggles. I couldn’t even formulate what Des was screaming at Johnny (although I knew it was likely something hilariously angry and defensive), and I beamed at the ridiculousness of the situation. I hadn’t laughed so hard in weeks, and it felt good to let go a little. Though, I’d never admit to Des that she was right…I’d never hear the end of it, especially now.

The conversation was cut off by a pounding on the door followed by three succinct doorbell rings. Des shot up out of her seat, yelling “pizza!” as she ran toward the door, tapping my knee on the way out as if to nonverbally ask for help. I grunted and rolled my eyes, begrudgingly getting myself out of the chair as I followed her. She must have ordered a ton of food if she needed two people to carry it out back, I thought.

Des swung open the front door and her look of excitement slightly fell, but she kept her smile in greeting. “Oh, hey Mary,” I heard from my place behind her. 

Mary? I thought to myself. I felt my stomach somersault in my gut and I unknowingly bit at my bottom lip. 

I hadn’t really seen Mary since the house show a few weeks back. Sure, he and Thomas had probably hung out, and if Thomas was socializing with anyone these past few weeks, Des had to have been there, too. However, she never mentioned anything to me. Then again, it would make sense that she hadn’t — I had never let her in on my evening hanging out with Mary (only that we had talked on the patio that night), and I definitely didn’t tell her about his shitty beer slushies and the eventual redemption arc of his head between my legs. 

“...Do you need some help with that?” Des questioned as she moved aside, watching as Mary balanced at least three giant packs of beer while stepping through the threshold. The heavy boxes made the muscles in his arms appear permanently flexed, each limb framed by the cut-off sleeves of what was once a short-sleeve Morbid Angel tee. He was deceptively strong, and images of those arms curled around my legs as he dipped his face between my thighs ramparted my mind. I couldn’t help but watch as he moved swiftly through the house and out onto the patio.

“Nah, I’m good,” Mary grunted as he hurriedly beelined for the back door, pushing the crack of the door opening to the side with his foot as he slipped through with his contribution to the party. I subconsciously licked my lips and followed Des as she made her way back out to the patio with a sigh. Apparently, she’d really been looking forward to pizza. 

The patio crowd cheered as Mary appeared and Thomas got up to help him empty a couple of the boxes of beer into the cooler. I slipped into my seat quietly, almost hoping to avoid his notice, yet watched as his hands smoothed out the cans of Keystone in the ice to ensure they fit when the lid was dropped. 

He must have felt me staring, because his eyes shifted up towards me, quickly locking on mine. I felt my heart rate begin to staccato in my caged chest and I did my best to keep my face fairly stoic, though I knew it was futile. Those eyes like spring, of sage and straw, glued me into place. 

“Hey,” he said, ever nonchalant as he finished organizing the brews and secured the lid. I looked down briefly, trying to mimic his cool behavior, and then flashed him a small, polite smile. 

“Hi,” I replied quietly. 

Mary took a seat on the other side of the patio (it was the only empty seat available) and struck up a conversation with a couple of the guys and their girlfriends that were nearby. I tried my best to engage myself in the exchange happening between Thomas and Chassie (another mutual friend of ours), but my mind was swimming with snapshots of my evening with Mary. I mentally shook it off, likening my response to my all-too-often loneliness and trying to focus on celebrating Thomas’ milestone birthday.

Not long after, pizza came, and we hovered both in the kitchen and the patio as we listened to Sabbath playing over the speakers and shot the shit with one another. The more beer I drank and pizza I ate, the more I loosened up, and I found myself reconnecting with some of the old friends I used to see at various venues around town. Mary weaved in and out of the conversations, but I did my best to pay him just as much mind as anyone else. He didn’t seem phased by me, and surely, I wasn’t phased by him, either. 

I heard the door to the garage slam, and Des’ voice echoed through the kitchen landing. “Move it, out of the way, come on,” she said as she weaved through the couple blobs of congregated bodies, the cake box obstructing her face enough that she had to peer out from the side to see. I met her at the kitchen counter and helped her to unsheath the cake from the box, gingerly peeling the plastic wrap from it. 

“Oh, god damn it,” she exclaimed as she stared at the top of the cake. I felt my stomach drop with fear that I had messed something up, but it was quickly abated when she continued her sentence. “I fucking forgot candles.”

Mark, who was unknowingly standing behind us, fished through his pocket before brandishing a cigarette. He held it between his lips and lit it before plopping it dead-center into the cake, the smoking stick appearing as if it was perched in Baphomet’s mouth. I let out another chuckle and Des shrugged. 

Mark moved to help Des carry the cake, but she slapped his hand away playfully in an act of defiance and likely in worry that his drunk ass would immediately drop it on the floor. Though somewhat heavier than she expected, she slowly glided across the open kitchen and into the dining area. Chassie noticed and yelled out “Hey, cake’s lit!” and waved a few people in (Thomas amongst them) from outside to the dated dining table. 

A raucous chorus of “Happy Birthday” rang through the room as Des set the pitifully smoking cake in front of a now front-and-center Thomas. I could tell he was trying his hardest to hide his smile, but as he looked at Des with softened eyes, it was obvious how touched he was at the personalized gesture. The moment was immediately broken when one of the guys belted into his own rendition of the song, singing, “Happy Birthday to you, you’re older than poo. If you were a horse you’d be made into glue!” which earned deep laughter from the majority of the room. 

The cake was a three-layer round cake coated in thick chocolate frosting. A bright white Baphomet stared ominously from the center of a pentacle, while swirling piping lined the borders and edges. Thomas took a moment to study the cake, shaking his head in mock-annoyance at the song. As he went to blow out the “candle,” he stopped just short of the cake, eyebrow cocked, and slowly removed the smoking (and now ashen) cigarette from the middle of Baphomet’s lips. Mark took it from his fingertips and inhaled before licking the chocolate off the filter with a shrug. 

The cake was cut quickly by Des and passed out on whatever dinnerware Thomas had laying around the house. It didn’t take long for only crumbs to remain on the cake board — a badge of honor that I took with silent pride. 

After everyone enjoyed their cake, additional pizza, and sweaty cans of beer, Mark sidled into the kitchen to stealthily pour himself a shot of vodka and a chaser of soda. The bottle of soda that he’d found hidden in the fridge had been nearly empty, and as he drained it, realization lit his face. “Shit, Tommy, there’s one more present we forgot to give you!” he yelled out as he grabbed the bottle and ran out to the patio. 

Empty two-liter bottle in one hand and a bag of bud that he had fished out of his pocket in the other, he looked at the crowd on the deck with a grin. 

“Anyone up for grav hits?”

🜏🜏🜏

A small group of people crowded around the stained tub in Thomas’ spare bathroom — one sitting on the closed toilet lid clothed in a fluffy cover, and two others leaning up against the side wall. I sat on top of the builder-grade countertop, legs crossed, a shiver dancing against my skin at the feeling of the cold formica on the backs of my thighs. 

Mark sat on one side of the tub’s edge while he fashioned some tin foil to place over the top of the mouthpiece of the cut-off soda bottle. Thomas sat across from him watching intently while his hands clasped onto the bag of pungent flower. Only a handful of us had been interested in the present Mark brought for Thomas ( Des had decided to stay out on the patio with the rest of the crew). I didn’t mind — the bathroom was small and it already felt pretty cramped with the amount of willing participants. Plus, I saw this as opportune bonding time for Thomas and I.

My eyes studied Mark’s fingers absently as he pricked holes into the tin foil and began to load the bowl with a mixture of shake and bud, packing it almost fastidiously, his movements careful as to not drop it into the water-filled bathtub. After he was satisfied with his work, he proudly  handed the makeshift contraption to Thomas and extracted a BIC lighter out of his jeans. “Want to do the honors, birthday boy?” he asked as he handed him the light.

Thomas sank down to his knees and crouched over the tub, lowering the sliced bottle into the water so that only the top third was left unsubmerged. He held onto the threads of the mouthpiece as he flicked the lighter with a quick flit. The flame etched the surface of the weed, leaves and flower petals curling into charcoaled darkness as smoke began to simmer and swirl in the bottle's thick body. Thomas focused on making sure the bottom of the bottle's cut-off edge remained submerged but that there was enough room inside to collect as much smoke as possible.

When he was satisfied, he removed the flimsy silver bowl and handed it to Mark quickly before fixing his mouth over the neck, inhaling deeply as he pushed the bottle down into the water. The thick haze slurped into his lungs almost instantaneously and he all but shot up, the plastic bottle bottom dripping as his face contorted into discomfort. He let out a series of coughs before grinning wide at Mark. 

"Forgot how hard that shit hits-" he started, head shooting to the side when the door bolted open and almost hit the man standing behind it. 

"Oh fuck, sorry," I heard, and I lifted my legs from their dangling position over the bathroom vanity to hug my chest, hoping to avoid getting smacked by limb, body, or door. 

Mary slipped into the bathroom, his golden hair stringing into his eyes as he turned to fasten the door shut again. He stood awkwardly in front of the threshold as he realized there wasn't much room in the bathroom for him to stand. Thomas reached up and opened the small window above the shower to filter out some of the smoke before inching his way past the person on the closed toilet and the few against the wall. 

"I'm gonna find Des. Thanks for this, man," he reached across and clasped his hand with Mark's in gratitude, grasping into the handshake tightly before slipping past Mary and out the door. 

I sat awkwardly on the countertop, doing my best to keep my legs folded and out of the way while still ensuring my dress covered my crotch and ass. I could feel the cold metal faucet pressing into my back and my butt felt like it was about to slip into the basin of the sink. 

Over the next ten or so minutes, I watched from my uncomfortable position as a few more people in the bathroom each took their hits, most of them leaving directly afterwards to find some air in a less-cramped space. Eventually, only myself, Mary, Mark, and the guy sitting on the john (who I’d learned was named Jesse) remained. Mark gestured to me as he dumped the ash from the foil into the clear water of the tub and began to fill the bowl again. 

I hopped from the counter, smoothing the skirt of my dress as I slipped past Mary and toilet man, eyes straight ahead to avoid any contact. As I knelt in front of the tub, I felt the cool tile lick at my knees and the heels of my feet dig into my bottom. Mark handed me the bottle and lighter. 

I could feel Mary’s stare from behind me, and while I’d like to say he was decent enough to keep his eyes above the belt, I was certain he had snuck a glance at my ass as I flicked the wheel of the lighter. Shaking the perverse thoughts that bombarded my head, I pulled the aluminum from the bong and lowered my head, lips dancing across the mouthpiece as I inhaled deeply and fully while expertly submerging the bottle. 

It was as if I licked a fiery raincloud. The smoke hung heavy in the alveoli of my lungs, pricking at the blood vessels and sacs, and I closed my eyes to keep them from watering. I rose up and exhaled, my hand softly pushing the 2-liter to Mark as I turned and gently pushed past Mary to exit. My head was swimming and I was doing everything in my power not to cough. I didn’t want to make a complete ass out of myself. Unfortunately, that also meant I was holding my breath. 

I could hear the dull thud of the music playing through the speakers outdoors and unremarkable chatter punctuated the beat. I didn’t even recognize the feeling of my feet against the Pergo as I padded down the hallway and across the landing, down the carpeted steps, and right into the den, sinking onto the worn plaid couch with another weighted exhale. My head was spinning and my stomach wasn’t far behind. Maybe smoking after a handful of beers wasn’t my smartest choice. 

Eventually, I lowered my forehead to the armrest of the couch and closed my eyes, lifting my legs up to curl under me as I soaked in the cool quietude of the empty den. I sat there for what my mind registered as an eternity. The calm doused my speeding heart and helped me to keep the heavy reams of impending panic from erupting in my chest. 

I melted into the firm side of the couch, brow bone melding with the scratchy plaid material, and reached an arm out to ground myself against the side table. I'm not sure how much time passed —it could have been a few minutes or nearly a half hour— but my body was lulled into a calmer, settled state when I heard the slap of a remote against something firm followed by some quieted curses. The click of plastic buttons on the TV console tickled my ears. 

Within seconds, sound from the TV began to ring out in the quiet den, the volume loud enough to hear over the buzz outside but quiet enough as not to startle me. I felt the couch slump next to me and the scent of cigarettes, weed, leather, and musk whooshed into my nostrils from the movement. I craned my head up to look at the man next to me. I'm not sure why. I already knew it was Mary.

"Assholes found lawn darts in the shed outside and decided to set up teams. Fuck if I’m gonna get stabbed," He started, bringing a bottle of water to his lips. My eyes trailed his form. His legs were crossed at the ankles, boots perched on top of the coffee table in front of us, and at some point during the night he had put on his leather jacket. He looked over at me and his demeanor changed from one of kind indifference to one of concern. "...you good?" he asked, turning to face me.  

"Mmph," I mumbled, trying my best to sit up straighter against the pillowy back of the couch. I licked my dry lips and realized for the first time just how cottony my mouth felt. "Too high."

Mary let out a soft chuckle and the nerves that I had spent time pushing down into my belly threatened to peek through again at the warm sound of his voice. “Not surprised," he said with a shrug, eyes flickering to the movie on the screen before falling back on me, "I’ve never seen a chick take a hit like that before. You’re a pro.”

I wanted to argue with him. In a much more sober state, I would have denied his compliment and told him that getting the spins from smoking bud was not the sign of a pro, but at the moment, all that came out of me was the sentence "I am liquid garbage." I licked my dry lips again and inwardly groaned at the Sahara that was my mouth.

“It’ll pass.” Mary reached over and handed me the water bottle he had been drinking. I smiled, recalling the last time he'd shared his beer with me weeks ago out on the patio, and I took a couple of swigs. Capping the bottle, I handed it back to him, sinking a little further back into the couch as I began to watch the scene unfolding on the screen. 

"What movie is this?" I asked after a beat, bringing my legs to cross in front of me as I snuggled into the pillows resting against the arm of the sofa. 

Mary murmured his response, clearly focused on the film, and I didn't quite hear what he said. Or, if I did, I didn't recognize it. It looked like an older film (something I confirmed when I glanced across the room and saw the VHS cover thrown on the floor next to the TV console) and the quality led me to believe it was likely an indie film or B-movie. That seemed to track from what I knew about Mary. 

We sat there for a while in a comfortable silence as the movie played in front of us. The lights of the den were off, but the incandescent kitchen lights shown in from the hallway, which paired with the glow of the TV made the details of the room fairly visible. We watched as the characters on the screen sculked down a dark alleyway, not a care in the world, and from my horror trope knowledge I knew that the action was about to start. 

From my left, I heard the crinkling of a wrapper and the distinctive clunking noise of something bitten. Another wrapper crinkled and Mary brushed my arm with his own, his hand coming out in front of me. 

"Here, eat something," he said as he handed me what looked like a square of chocolate. I felt my stomach tumble a little at the thought of something sweet, and I made a gruff noise in response, shaking my head a little. 

Mary shook the chocolate slightly as if to double down. "It'll make you feel better. Settle your stomach." 

I all but rolled my eyes as I grabbed onto the candy and muttered a noise of thanks. Typically, I'd argue with him that sugar was the antithesis of a sour stomach remedy, but his sweetness and ever-present thoughtfulness won me over. I snapped the chocolate with my teeth and as it melted on my tongue, I sank a little further into the couch cushions. It was good — a little more bitter than I expected, citrus-y, and not nearly as rich as I had worried about. Damn it, I hated when he was right. 

Before I knew it, I had downed the whole square. Unbeknownst to me, Mary had watched with side-eyes and already had another square ready for me when I'd finished, which I accepted gratefully.

We remained like that, mere inches between us as we snacked on square after square of dark chocolate until barely any remained, absorbing the scenes of the movie unfolding before us. I felt warm and heavy and full in the sanctity of the cozy sunken room and the party outside lived far from the boundaries of my mind. Glancing at the table, I looked to see if I could find a wrapper or box to mentally note the brand of chocolate to buy it later, and I noticed a familiar smashed box laying open on the surface. Within seconds, the recognizable panic rose in my chest. 

"Mary," I started cautiously, staring at the box, "where did you get those?"

I saw Mary shrug out of the corner of my eye. "They were in the kitchen."

I swallowed harshly. "So...you just…took them?" I said slowly, hoping to clarify that he hadn't taken what I thought he had. After all, Mary had shown up late. He wouldn't have known what they were.

This time, Mary turned his head to look at me straight on. The look on his face was relaxed and seemingly unbothered. "The box was all damaged so I assumed someone would throw them away. And Thomas is more of a Hershey guy," he reasoned. 

At that moment, my heart fell out of my ass — partially because we had just eaten Thomas' entire birthday gift, but more so because of what we had eaten. 

My face must have been a clear tell, because the long-haired man in front of me cocked his head in confusion. "Mary, those were, uh..." I tried to choose my words carefully despite the haze in my mind, "...those were fucking chocolates."

He laughed and looked at me with eyebrows raised and eyes wide, a look of ridiculing understanding on his face. "I know they were chocolates," he said with another mocking chuckle.

I grunted in frustration. "No, they were FUCKING chocolates!" I sighed and ran my hand through my long hair, tilting my head back as I searched for the right words. "God damn it, Mary, chocolates for fucking. Sex chocolates!" I looked over at him, my grey eyes widened a little in irritation, and studied his face for his response. 

He shrugged, fucking shrugged, and leaned back a little further into the couch. "That shit is all marketing BS," he waved his hand and settled back in to watch the movie. I was certain he didn't notice me glaring daggers at him. 

Despite my frustration, I followed suit and decided to distract myself with the film. I couldn't really decipher the plot (which I mostly attributed to my intoxication), but I began to deduce that it was some sort of slasher film riddled with horror cliches and gore.   

My suspicions were quickly confirmed when the movie cut to an intimate scene between two of the side characters. As they moved against each other in the dark, clothing half-ripped off, lips trailing skin, and almost pornographic moans permeated the screen, I felt my stomach tighten. I wasn't typically the kind of person to be affected by sex scenes in movies or TV, but for whatever reason, I felt a rush of heat flood my abdomen and pull at my navel. 

Shadows moved behind the preoccupied couple on the screen and I tried my best to focus on the horror element of the plotline. The murderer is in the room and is waiting for the opportune time to strike, I told myself in prediction, willing my eyes to study any and every small detail in the movie to keep the tugging at my core from building. 

I licked my lips and let out a quiet breath, hoping to God that Mary didn't hear me. Anger started to prick at my gut. Was this a placebo effect? A side effect of weed and alcohol? Or were those chocolates the real deal? Regardless, I pulled my knees to my chest and did my best to not allow the movie to bother me (one way or another).

From beside me, I heard what sounded like a mix between a groan and a low breath. My brain told me to keep looking ahead, to ignore him, to wait until the movie was done and I was feeling better before finding Des and asking for somewhere to crash for the night. My impulsivity got the best of me and I slowly cast my eyes in Mary's direction. His eyes were slightly larger, the flickering light of the screen reflecting off the olive hue of his irises, and his bottom lip was just barely caught between his teeth. 

He clearly felt my stare because his head pivoted in my direction. His gaze was nearly smoldering. I licked my lips, the wet sounds and moans of the TV punctuating our focus on one another, and I felt the air grow thick with tension that was practically palpable. My fixed stare drifted downward to look at his bitten lip and I shuddered as I noticed the reddened teeth mark against the soft flesh.

I don't know what overcame me. Suddenly I was lurching forward, my legs bent below me as I pushed into him, hand resting on the worn fabric of the band shirt below the jacket, knees brushing the fabric of his jeans. Our faces were inches apart and I could see the stubble outlining his chin and cheeks. His hand snaked up between us and grasped the back of my neck, and before I knew it, he pulled me into him with such force that I nearly lost my balance. 

My lips crashed against his for the first time ever, and through the fog in my brain and body, I noted their firmness, how they were slightly chapped but still velvety as they moved against mine. I shifted to lift a leg over his lap and straddled him, both hands resting against him as his own free hand came to slot against the curve of my waist. The fabric of my dress floated around our conjoined laps and I tilted my head to the side to deepen our locked lips.

Mary groaned and the hand on my neck traveled down my back and over my ass before gripping onto the other side of my waist. With both hands, he held me firmly and pulled me down into his crotch. I could feel the rough jean fabric scraping against my inner thighs and seat of my panties. I let out a whimper.  

Heat soared through my groin and had I been clear-headed, I would have laughed at the aptly-named chocolates, but I was too distracted by Mary's noises and his guitar-calloused fingertips now brushing up my thighs and oh god did he smell good (all leather, spice, cigarette, and earth). I felt my dress flutter up to the crease between my legs and pelvis and his hands came to cup around my backside. I let out a wanton moan into his mouth and he pushed his tongue against my lips, parting them as he ground himself into me. 

Had we been completely alone in the house (or at least in a more secluded space), I couldn’t promise myself that I would have had any restraint against Mary completely taking me right there on the old sofa. However, a moment of worry panged at my core and I separated from him slightly, mere centimeters between us as we both breathed heavily. 

“Aren’t you worried about getting caught?” I stumbled out, lips brushing against his own as I spoke. 

Mary grunted in reply and pulled me in against him deeper. “Everyone is distracted outside," he murmured against my jawbone as he pressed slow, tantalizing kisses that flowed down to my neck. I tilted my head further to the side and fluttered my eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of his body pressed against my own, fingertips digging into the tines of his zippered jacket. His lips ghosted a sensitive spot on the curve of my neck and I felt electricity swim across my skin. 

"I don't fuck people I don't know," I breathed out, feeling my own hips move against his now as if betraying my own words. 

He let out a noise that registered somewhere between a groan and an "mmm" before detaching from my neck. One of his hands reached up to brush some rogue strands of hair that had fallen into my eyes, tucking them behind my ear as he brought our faces close together. "I guess we'll have to get to know each other better, then," he rumbled out, voice low as his thumb pressed into my jaw and pulled our lips together again. 

The lights of the movie flickered behind us and screams from the victims of the story percussed our heavy makeout. I paid them no mind, but after the third scream and the sploshing sound of what I assumed to be blood, I could have sworn that Mary's kisses became more heated. 

His hand trailed from my jaw and down to squeeze at my breast through the thin fabric of my swing dress, which earned him a moan from me in response, before he traced his fingertips down to the skirt gathered at my waist. He dipped his fingers low between the heat of my legs, swiping them once, twice up the crotch of my panties to feel the wetness gathered there. I felt him smirk against my lips and his nimble fingers pushed the damp cotton aside to graze my pussy. I let out a whimper into his mouth and he took this as permission to go a little further, stroking along either side of my inner folds with his pointer and middle fingers. 

The muscles of my legs quivered at the sensation and I moaned a little into his mouth again, my tongue licking against his own almost lewdly as he rubbed his hand against me. He broke the kiss just barely, squeezing his fingers on either side of my clit. "Did you want me to stop?" he purred out as he languidly stroked. 

"Please," I choked out, the tenseness of weeks without physical touch bubbling up in my abdomen and throat. 

He began to remove his hand teasingly. "Please what? Stop?" he asked as he bit softly on my bottom lip. 

I tugged my lip back from his teeth and opened my eyes to look at him imploringly. "Please don't stop," I practically begged before leaning back into his touch. He slammed our mouths together again and began moving his fingers with more speed and intensity, rubbing me up and down but being careful to never directly touch my most delicate spot. His teasing had me dripping for him, and right when I felt my frustration about to run over, he dipped his hand lower and slipped inside of me smoothly. 

I let out a noise of complete pleasure against him, our lips breaking apart, and rested my forehead against his as my eyelids squeezed together. His free hand rocked me against him and he added another finger before curling them into me, pushing and stroking and prodding at my g-spot expertly. 

"Mary..." I moaned breathily, and he grunted out in response as he leaned down to lick a stripe from my collarbone to my ear. Goosebumps pebbled my skin and I ground my hips into his hand, unknowingly pushing it into his swelling cock. 

"I've been staring at you in that dress all night," he purred into my ear. The movements of his fingers began to speed up and I reached down between us to rub at my clit, but he beat me to the punch, his thumb reaching up to massage it at a teasingly slow speed. "How your tits were pushed up against your knees as you sat on the bathroom counter," he took in a sharp breath and I felt his inhale prickle the curve of my ear, "The way your ass looked bent over the bathtub, lips around that bottle. Fuck, I wanted that to be my cock."

I could feel the outline of his hardness pressing against me through his jeans, and images of his leaking cock being pressed between my lips made my gut flutter with need. I brought my fist up to my mouth and bit into it, groaning loudly and hoping that it was at least somewhat muffled. The desire pooling in the pit of my abdomen was threatening to break through, the dam nearly cracking, and I could feel each nerve of my pussy jolting with fiery synapses, just waiting to explode. 

My head tilted back and I looked down at Mary through half-lidded, lust-drunk eyes. "Mary, I'm—"

He cut off my whine, his voice gravelly as he spoke. "I want you to cum on my fingers, babydoll. Just like you came on my tongue." 

I felt the fire rage inside me and it was as if I lost complete control of my body. My hips writhed into him and my hand reached up to grab onto his shoulder for support, fingernails digging roughly into the leather of the battle jacket as I let out a noise of complete rapture. His hand on my hip darted up and quickly covered my mouth as he continued to fuck me with his fingers. 

"Shhh, you didn’t want them to hear us, remember?" His eyes pierced into mine, pupils wide and blown with desire, and he watched every minute movement of my face as I came around him. Despite his sultry reminder, I keened against his hand, his skin tasting salty against my tongue and lips with each little noise. He pulsed me through my orgasm and circled my sensitive nub with increasing gentleness as I came down in his arms.

After a moment, he slipped out of me and brought his soaked fingers to his lips before making a show of sucking my slick from them. "You taste just as good as I remember," he breathed out with a smirk. I let out a shuddering breath, closed my eyes, and rested my forehead against his once more, our hair tangling in a mess of golden brown and mahogany tresses. I felt his dick pulse beneath me. 

My mind shot back to our time together on the roof, and as I sat nearly puddled against him on his lap, I realized that I had yet to return any of his favors. With shaky knees, I pushed myself from him (earning me a brief look of concern) before I slid down his lap and onto the floor in front of him. The worry melted from his face as his eyebrows rose, and a grin stretched across his lips. 

My hands slithered down the black denim of his thighs, ghosting the skin of the ripped knees, and I grabbed his shins to push them open. Settling between them, I reached forward to push his bullet belt up and pull at the button on his pants. It popped open with minimal effort and I gripped my hands onto the meat of his thighs as I leaned my face directly over his crotch. Taking the zipper in my teeth, I wrenched it down smoothly. The heat of his groin flushed against my cheeks and even without looking, I could tell he wasn't wearing boxers.

He quickly pulled his pants down from his hips to his knees and his cock sprung out, nearly hitting me in the face. While he was no Owen Gray, it was longer and thicker than I had imagined given his height, and I knew that it would be difficult to take him completely. Grasping onto the base, I flittered my eyes up to him and peered at his face through thick lashes as I licked the tip lightly.

Mary let out his own series of aroused noises and his hands grasped at the couch cushions below him. I smirked and knelt a little closer, back curving to highlight the swell of my ass as I took the tip into my mouth and sucked sparingly before letting it go with a pop. Mary whined at the loss of my mouth and I let out a small laugh, enjoying returning some of the teasing he'd put me through, before I grabbed the base and licked from his balls to his frenulum. 

The dialogue from the TV just barely drowned out his heavy breathing and I surprised him by taking him into my mouth as deeply as I could without gagging, hand still squeezing around the base as I began to bob up and down. By now, the spinning nausea and hazy headspace was gone and I was feeling the more positive effects of the gravity hit, so I slid my other hand down to cup his balls as I took him a little more deeply into my mouth. 

One of Mary's hands came to thread through my hair, grasping the burgundy locks with a tight grip as he helped guide me up and down his shaft. I pressed the tip of my tongue against the vein on the underside of his cock and he groaned out, lips spilling out the words "Fuck, just like that” as his hips quaked beneath me. 

I continued to move my head against him, alternating licking and sucking, hollowing my cheeks and pulling lightly at his balls. I could tell he was close when his moans became louder and his arm started to tremble. Speeding up my ministrations, I looked back up into his eyes to see them closed, his head tilted against the back of the couch, and he started to jerk his hips up roughly into me. I relaxed my throat and stilted the gagging feeling the best I could, tears pricking my eyes as I let him fuck my face. 

The tip of his cock hit the back of my throat and he let out a guttural noise, his other hand coming to grab onto my head as he thrust into my mouth. "Ungh, fuck, babydoll, you're gonna make me cum," he growled, and even with my recent orgasm, I felt wetness instantly pool in my already soaked underwear. 

Seconds later, his hips spasmed into my face and he came roughly into my mouth. His salty spend pooled on my tongue and I swallowed around his cock before slowly sliding off with an audible "pop". A bead of cum dribbled down my lips and I wiped it with the pad of my thumb, popping the digit in my mouth to lap at it slowly while locking eyes with Mary.

He looked at me half-lidded, completely enthralled as I nearly devoured every drop of him, and I leaned back a little while shooting him pleased smile. 

"I couldn't let you go through life without experiencing one of my blowjobs at least once," I said, nearly echoing his words from weeks prior. He instantly recognized this and laughed, one of his hands moving from my head to trace his thumb over the swell of my bottom lip. 

"I don’t know what it is about you, dollface," he whispered. My heart leapt again at the nickname he'd assigned me and I hummed as I leaned into his touch before slinking up to sit next to him. I rested my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes. I could hear the clink of his belt as he carefully tucked himself back into his jeans, the sound of his zipper whirring briefly through the heated air. 

His arm came to snake around my waist and we sat there in a comfortable silence, film credits dancing on the screen. I heard the sliding glass door open from the kitchen and footsteps clatter against the fake laminate flooring, but I didn't move from Mary's grasp. I was too tired (and too satiated) to care. 

After a while, I felt his lips press onto my forehead and I opened my eyes again to look at him. He motioned towards the last chocolate square on the coffee table with a subtle flick of his head, a smile carved into his face, and broke the quiet. 

“...you gonna eat that?”

[teklarn]

I NEED A PART TWO FOR BAUKGOU’S AWKWARD CONFESSION!!

𝓫𝓻𝓾𝓽𝓪𝓵 - 𝓴. 𝓫𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓰𝓸𝓾 𝓹𝓽. 2

character(s): katsuki bakugou x fem!reader

a/n: k the first one kinda blew up and i've been on tumblr for like a week and it made me rly happy receiving the requests ty <33 thank u for all the reblogs too !! this is a bit later than i hoped it would come out b/c half of the original fic was deleted by accident, but i’m on summer break until sept 5 so hopefully i’ll still update frequently. 

𝕣𝕖𝕓𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕤 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕝𝕪 𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕!

summary: bakugou finds he’s rejecting his feelings for you in fear of becoming weak, however he just can’t seem to ignore you. 

genre: lil angsty, fluffy at the end

warnings: cursing, one-sided pining, gave reader a quirk, the fighting scene is bs i cannot write action scenes at all im so sorry lol,  second hand embarrassment for our dearest dynamight :(

word count: 2507

pls don't mind any typos! i try to edit to the best of my ability but i tend to type fast and i might miss a few or a lot of things. 

- - -

read part one here my loves !!

you found yourself bored, cheeks puffing out as you swirled around the drink in your glass cup, sitting across from midoriya. he was muttering again, which you’d always found cute, however you weren’t listening this time at all. 

part of the reason you’d rejected bakugou was due to the fact midoriya had requested your attention first, and not as friends. if you’d told bakugou that, it would just wound his delicate ego on top of the fact that you truly had no interest in him whatsoever. 

at the moment, though, he was the only thing on your mind. there was no sudden spark of attraction you’d felt when he’d confessed. of course, anyone would find it flattering that the katsuki bakugou found you attractive. his standards were higher than the clouds. 

at the moment, it felt like something was blocking your chest from feeling something for him, however you couldn’t pinpoint what it was. 

“—it was amazing, right, y/n? y/n?” 

your eyes flickered up to meet the emerald, wide-eyed eyes of your friend. you contemplated lying, but it was no use. shaking your head softly and pursing your lips, you set your drink down. “i’m sorry, midoriya. i’m just kind of...out of it, i guess you could say?” 

he cocked his head to the side. “’out of it’?” he repeated. 

“yeah,” you sighed, head pounding. 

“is everything alright? maybe today isn’t the best time for this.” 

“yeah,” you agreed. “maybe.” 

“do you want to go back to the dorms?” 

you nodded, massaging your temples. “yeah, yeah let’s go home.” 

midoriya let out a soft chuckle through his nose, smiling. “alright.” he offered his hand, and you gladly let him heave you up. 

“i’m sorry about this. honestly, midoriya, i enjoy your company, i really do. but i never assumed you’d catch feelings for me too—” 

“too?” he blinked. the two of you continued on your way back to Heights Alliance. 

you gulped. “yeah, there’s—” 

“are you saying you caught feelings for me, as well?”

your eyes fell blank, lips parting in question. “no, uh. you know what? never mind.” you giggled gently in hopes the two of you would laugh it off without another thought. perhaps you should keep you and bakugou’s quiet interaction to yourself. midoriya and bakugou were already rivals enough. 

- 

the following week was agonizing in many ways. sitting beside bakugou guaranteed that you would get strange, judgmental looks. it never guaranteed his stolen glances. when you’d catch him staring, his cheeks would flare up, and you swore he had smoke puffing out his ears. 

each time, he looked as if he would explode. what can you expect from a guy like him? 

it was easy to assume you’d just pissed him off, though. you weren’t the type of person to tell everyone you’d been asked out, but you needed to speak to someone about it. the thought had been nagging you, stuck at the back of your mind but just on the tip of your tongue. 

you even found that you were distancing yourself from midoriya, who, after asking you out, had insisted you begin calling him izuku. over everyone else, you’d choose him to speak to about the matter, but ever since you’d discovered he had feelings all along, it was strange being around him. 

you viewed him differently. he shot you glimmering smiles and blushed softly when you said his first name. 

“y/n?” 

you twisted around to see mina rocking on her heels behind you. “yes?” 

“are you okay? you seem...how do i put this.” she tapped a pink finger against her lips. “off. you seem off. is everything alright?” 

your brows raised. “oh, yeah. i’m good. thanks for checking in.” 

“is there anything you want to talk about?” she adjusted her hero costume. you and the rest of the girls were currently changing for another training exercise. 

yaoyorozu fixed her hero costume. “i don’t mean to impose on anything, but i have to agree with mina, y/n. of course, there’s no pressure to tell us anything. you’re under no obligation to unless you need and want to talk to someone, but we’re here if you need us, okay?” 

you nodded, smiling softly. “thanks you guys.” 

- 

it was the same training as before, however you were able to select a partner of your own. being that there were 21 students in the class, there was always ought to be a group of three, or one person left out. you’d come into yuuei out of pure luck, as some like to put it. 

you’d found it offensive they’d assumed it was that and not your own pure skill. it’d taken a while to re-convince yourself that you were worthy of being in the class, even if you were usually the odd one out. 

most students had already bonded by the time you arrived here, so finding a partner wasn’t always easy. once you and midoriya had gotten close, you two did most things together, however at the moment, you weren’t quite feeling it. 

surprisingly, your eyes caught bakugou standing alone, eyes scanning the room for a partner. kirishima must have partnered up with another friend, then. it was always them together. 

unfortunately, you weren’t quick enough to avoid either of them. bakugou was already trotting up to you, eyes locked on your figure just as midoriya began jogging to your side. 

in perfect unison, they asked, “be my partner?” (in two very different tones, of course.) 

you blinked between them, about to answer when aizawa came up behind you three. 

“are you guys in the group of three?” your teacher deadpanned. 

your shoulders slumped. “yeah, i guess so.” 

“get to work. you’ve already wasted five minutes standing around.” 

you nodded politely. “yes, sensei.” 

you swallowed. bakugou’s crimson gaze was pinning you in your spot, and midoriya’s lips thinned with a lack of enthusiasm when bakugou looked back at him. 

“get to work, you three,” aizawa repeated, walking away. 

“i can take on both of you.” bakugou cracked his knuckles. 

you clenched your fists. “we already know you’re at the top of the class, bakugou. there’s no need to rub it in our faces.” 

he averted his eyes, cheeks flushing red. it was like a sad, silly way of letting you know you won this fight. 

“i’ll go against you two,” you said, adjusting your hero costume. 

midoriya’s eyes widened. “what? y/n, but—” 

“but i’m not strong enough?” you finished for him. you knew where they ranked in strength, and while yours was just as powerful, if you let one thing slip, your arrows would disappear and you’d be dust. “that’s exactly my point, you two are practically at the top of the class with your quirks.” 

“tch, don’t hold back,” bakugou said, readying himself. 

“don’t go easy on me,” you mocked. 

“y/n, do you really think this is a good idea—” before izuku could finish, you and bakugou launched yourselves at one another. 

you charged forwards. an arrow flew from your hand, twisting its way right through the smoke of an explosion. when it cleared, bakugou was nowhere to be seen. 

a gasp fell from your lips as you turned around just a little too late. your ears rang terribly as your back collided with the ground. 

izuku cried out. green lightning flashed, and he was at your side in a moment. “kacchan!”

you groaned, sitting up. bakugou cut through the smoke with an arm. “fight me, damned nerd. there aren’t any pauses in a real fight.” 

you wriggled yourself away from midoriya. “midoriya, you’re my enemy in this.” 

“bu—” 

“no buts. fight me. and don’t hold back.” 

midoriya noted the determination in your eyes and stood, giving you a sure nod. you were back on your feet in a second. bakugou flew in the air and came crashing down just as fast as he conjured a blast in his right hand. 

attacking wasn’t your best option right now. you were smart enough to know that. an arrow appeared flat at your back and pulled you from where bakugou was targeting. 

cement flew into the air. 

that blast could have wounded you badly. possibly killed you, if he’d hit the right spots. 

in the air, you examined their zealous features. midoriya’s brows were furrowed in that determined smolder. 

bakugou, as always, looked angry. as expected, he charged first, shooting himself into the air. his foot nearly collided with your face, missing my barely an inch. you took your shot, revealing the arrow you’d hidden behind your back. the tip collided with his chest. 

you left the arrow to complete its command and stick your blonde opponent to the wall and trap him there while you went after midoriya. 

while he bested you in strength, you did the same to him when it came to speed. you dodged his punches like they were weak attempts at hitting a ball in a park. 

you grinned. in a battle of strength and speed, whoever landed the first hit would win. there was no question. 

twisting in the air, you allowed the ball of your foot to shove midoriya to the ground. he cried out as his face was crushed into the cement. 

it was perfect timing, as bakugou ripped free of your hold, the arrow keeping him in one spot dissolving into air as soon as its purpose was lost. 

your head whipped around to see him charging for you. 

your fingers curled. the headache pounding at your temples was beginning to get hard to ignore. 

bakugou launched himself at you, spinning in the air like a missile. he really wasn’t going to howitzer you...right? 

when he didn’t slow down, you threw your body to the right, the attack just barely missing your leg. it scorched a bit of your thigh. a groan fell from your lips as you cupped the area around the burn, shuddering with pain. 

bakugou’s chest was puffed proudly as he marched up to you, hands cracking with excited explosions. 

he pulled back his right arm, ready to spark up another fight as midoriya recollected himself. you bit your lip to hide the fact you were quivering. 

it was sudden, but bakugou paused when he saw your hand fly up. 

“give me a minute...” you gasped out, skin still sizzling. 

“y/n! are you alright?” 

you didn’t respond. midoriya smacked his friend’s arm. “kacchan! what’re you thinking?”

“midoriya, i’m fine. don’t stress over it.” you limped to your feet, rejecting the extended hand from your green-haired friend. “i’ll just go see recovery girl.” 

“do you need—” 

you smacked midoriya’s hand away, a little bit more rude than you intended it to be. “i’ll be...fine.” you offered a weak smile to hopefully make up for your tiny outburst. 

although you could see in his eyes he wanted to help, midoriya nodded and stood by, hand falling back to his side. you clutched around the patch of burned skin. the sting had faded a bit, however there was a soreness to the wound that felt like a constant stabbing to your leg. 

you swallowed the pain down, marching towards the exit with determination and a bit of a limp.

you looked back to see midoriya had gone off to tell mr. aizawa what was going on. your teacher nodded, understandingly. 

there were a few worried glances and offers for help in the hall, but you’d neglected them all and found yourself relieved to see recovery girl in her office, typing away. 

she turned as the door opened. “please knock beforehand next time—oh, dear. y/n? are you alright?” 

you gave a tense nod. “mhm. just got a bit banged up in training today.” 

the old woman pursed her lips, smile lines becoming evident. “i see.” she led you to the small cot reserved for patients such as yourself and directed you to sit down. 

she examined the bruise. “it’s fairly bad. what happened?” 

you made a gesture to the door. “i was brawling with bakugou and things got...intense.” 

“that boy has quite an extreme side to him, as i’ve come to notice.” 

“mhm,” you agreed. 

“unfortunately, y/n, i have no ointments to be able to treat this properly.” 

you nodded sheepishly before the old woman smooched your cheek. a soft green glow radiated around you. 

when she pulled back, she said, “now, your body will be trying to catch up on the healing process. that’s what my quirk does. speed up recoveries. since it’s sped up, you’ll require some rest, preferably sleep. i’ll make sure your teachers know you’re excused for the rest of the day, sound good?” 

“yes, thank you recovery girl.” 

she pushed herself out of her rolling chair and left the room, smiling at you.

your eyes fluttered shut not long after that. 

- 

the sun was gone when you woke up, the hallway light flickering off. 

“good, you’re awake.” 

you looked to the left. you cried out, gathering the white sheets around yourself despite being completely clothed. “bakugou! what the hell? you stalker! you creep!” 

bakugou took the slap you gave him on his arm. it was light, and didn’t do much damage. 

“what...what do you want?” 

even in the dark, you could tell bakugou’s cheeks were burning red. “about...about the other day. i wanted to talk to you about it.” 

your chest fluttered in unwanted hope. “there’s nothing to talk about.” 

“dammit, y/n, i wish there wasn’t anything to talk about. you’re insufferable and annoying and i can’t stand being around you because no matter what’s going on, you make my chest feel all funny. it’s stupid, and i can’t take my eyes off of you.” 

heat rushed to your cheeks. “i’m flattered, really. but i-” 

“i’m not asking you to reciprocate my shitty feelings. if anything, it’s better if you don’t.” 

“bakugou, i wasn’t...” you paused. 

“you what?” he snapped, voice soft despite his tone. 

“i was going to say that ever since you...ever since you asked me out, i’ve been conflicted about my own feelings.” 

“the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“i’m not sure if i like you back or not, bakugou. but hearing you say all this...makes me want to give it a shot. sort of. also, why the hell are you watching me sleep?” 

bakugou swept hair from his eyes. “don’t go and try to change the subject on me, dumbass.” 

you gulped. 

“so what’re you saying?” 

“i’m saying,” you started, “i’m saying that maybe i want to go out on that date with you.” 

“say it again.” 

“what?” you looked up, his eyes boring into yours. 

“i said i want you to say it again. tell me you want to go out on a date with me.” 

it startled you how sure he was when he knew what you wanted, too. this was unlike the last attempt to ask you out. 

“katsuki bakugou, i want to go on a date with you.” 

he grinned. “where to?”

[fett-djarin]

Anything

this bitch done YEET

anyway this is Boba Fett x f!Reader! I had this idea kicking around for awhile and shit finally came together and i was able to get it done!

Rating: 18+

Length: 4.1k

Warnings/Tags: SMUT, canon-typical violence (not in the smut), PiV intercourse, unprotected sex, fingering, riding, throne sex come get yalls juice, multiple orgasms, creampie, spanking, slight cockwarming?, pet names, swearing

NSFW BELOW THE CUT!

Boba Fett was an enigma. He intimidated you, intrigued you--but he didn’t scare you. Boba could be violent, occasionally cruel, but only to those who had earned his ire. You had nothing to fear.

You still remember the day he stormed into Jabba’s palace, a wrathful spectre on a mission. You had been afraid you would be caught in the crossfire, an exchange of possession through violence. But then your chains were blasted apart, scum of men dying around you instead of finding your own demise. Instead of fleeing like the other girls, you dove towards a dropped blaster and levelled it at one of the smugglers putting up a fight. This particular one had been a thorn in your side for a long time. You’d be lying if you said you felt no satisfaction watching him fall lifeless from your well-placed blaster bolt.

“Nice shot,” the woman--Fennec, you had come to learn--commented. You had turned in a panic, pointing the blaster in her direction, her own rifle coming up in an instant, aimed squarely at your head.

“Easy, girl,” the Mandalorian--Boba--had said. “We have no interest in fighting you.”

“If you mean to sell me again,” you spat, “it would be easier to kill me now.” Your fingers flexed on the blaster, and you tried to steady your shaking hands. Fennec’s aim hadn’t faltered.

“Stand down, Shand,” Fett directed the sharpshooter, who immediately lowered her weapon. He then addressed you again. “I don’t deal in flesh.” You slowly dropped your arm. “What’s your name, girl?”

That had been...a few standard months ago, now. Boba ran his syndicate under a tight fist. He had no use for slaves, and had told you you were free, even offered you credits to return home. Some of the others took his offer. You had opted to stay--your birth planet had nothing to offer you, and you did not want to try your luck as a newly freed woman with nothing to your name on Tatooine. You didn’t even have a name, really. You were called something different each time you moved; your birthname was no longer you. That person had died long ago.

“Call me anything,” you had told Boba. “I don’t mind.”

He thought for a minute, and then decided. “Mayen.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you. The gruff, seemingly serious man had a sense of humor. Mayen--Mando’a for ‘anything.’ His lips quirked in a sly smirk. You liked it. Mayen it was.

“You know Mando’a?” He had asked.

“I’ve picked up things here and there,” you smiled in return.

He later on told you that you could pick your own name, you had no obligation to go by the silly pun he called you. But you had a sense of humor, and actually liked how it sounded. It was a new beginning. You decided you would keep it.

You knew quite a few languages, or bits and pieces you heard over the years. Boba had hired you as a translator, and you accompanied him to meetings with traders, smugglers, and pirates. He didn’t allow any of them to harass you. If they so much as leered in your direction, they tended to lose a few fingers or teeth, either by your hand or his. At Boba’s insistence, you now carried a blaster and a vibroblade. Fennec had been showing you how to properly aim and shoot so you could better protect yourself. He had gifted you the vibroblade as part of your payment.

Yes, Boba Fett was a hard man, but you appreciated his kindness.

His scars added to his imposing figure, and you often found yourself wondering about their origin. What he must have gone through for his skin to be marked so. You also wondered about how stupid some people could be--Mandalorians were legendary warriors, and Boba Fett had some infamy connected to his name, yet fools still picked fights they were destined to lose. His armor impressed you--and the dark stare of the T-visor when he looked your way always had something low and warm stirring in your belly.

It didn’t help that sometimes he would watch while you practiced with your blade. Your heart thundered in your ears the first time he came up behind you, chest to your back, and moved your arms into the correct defensive position. His boot also nudged your stance wider, centering your weight. It’s part of training, you told yourself. You prayed he didn’t notice the heat in your face or the way you refused to look at him. Stars, if you turned your head you could kiss him--

What could you say? He was a handsome man.

Occasionally he offered to spar with you, which was laughable. The first time you had outright refused. “I don’t want to die, thanks,” you said.

“You’re gonna have to face people bigger and stronger than you sometimes, princess,” he said the endearment mockingly.

“Most people aren’t Boba Fett.”

“You’re right about that. Still, come on, show me what you’ve learned.”

Your first fight ended miserably in about three seconds. You gave him a pointed look that said I-told-you-so, and he just shrugged. “Not bad for your first time.” Sparring became regular.

“You’re quicker than me. Use that to your advantage, stay out of my reach. Strike and retreat.”

“Arms up, but keep ‘em close--protect your body.”

“Stagger your stance, distribute your weight. Make it harder for people to knock you down.”

“Move with confidence--this is not the time to falter.”

His words of advice came with each session and stuck. After a few weeks, you could hold your own for a minute against Fett. Then five minutes. Then your sparring was like a coordinated, aggressive dance, blades flashing and deflected, ducking, dodging, weaving, spinning around each other. Once, you had even managed to disarm him, knocking the blade from his hand--you both froze in stunned surprise before Boba recovered and had you pinned to the floor in an instant.

“Very good.” He said from his place atop your legs, pride curling darkly through his voice. “But next time, press the advantage. You freeze, you die.” Now you froze for an entirely different reason--his weight on top of you caused something hot and wanting to smolder in you, his thumb gently stroking the hollow of your throat making your breath hitch. And then he was off you, pulling you back to your feet with ease.

You still couldn’t beat him--you don’t think you would ever be capable of that. The best bounty hunter in the galaxy against you? You much prefer being on his good side.

Boba had just returned from a recent bounty hunt alongside a fellow Mandalorian, having left you and Fennec at the palace. You had been helping her sort through the datalogs and contraband left behind from the previous occupants when he appeared, moving surprisingly silent for such a broad, imposing man.

“Mayen,” he called you, and you looked at him over your shoulder, having been preoccupied cataloguing the contents of the crate in front of you. He was still in his armor, adding to his bulk. The green-painted beskar gave nothing away. “I’ve got a meeting. You’ll be needed. Fennec, I sent you scouting information on the next bounty.”

You nodded, and with your acknowledgment, he turned and strode back towards the throne room. Fennec stood, brushing sand off her pants. “Careful,” Fennec warned. “Keep your blaster close. You never know how these meetings will turn out.” She patted you on the shoulder.

“Got it,” you said, adjusting your tunic so she could see the holster on your hip. It would be the first time she wasn’t there alongside you while Boba arranged deals with crime lords. Sometimes Boba would go in alone, or the both of you would attend. “Trained by the best.”

She cracked a smile at that. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to track down our next target.” She exited the storage room opposite of the way Boba went.

You gathered yourself, then followed after Boba. Entering the throne room was daunting, as the traders he was meeting with were already there and turned to stare. A few of them openly looked you up and down. Your eyes were fixed solely on Boba lounging on the throne, legs spread, seemingly completely at ease and exuding power. You strode past the group of men come to bargain, refusing to look away from the void of Boba's visor that tracked your movement. One of them muttered something as you passed that you couldn't make out, but it had not sounded pleasant. You took your place at Boba's side.

"Boba Fett, the legendary bounty hunter back from the dead," a wiry human man stepped forward, rubbing his hands together. His grin was more of a baring of teeth. "Now that you run this joint, I have a few propositions to consider--"

Since he was speaking Basic, you have to admit, you tuned out. You watched the two Twi’leks that had accompanied him, who kept throwing glances your way, murmuring to themselves. Something about them put you on edge. Of course, you never trusted the people who came to do business with Boba, but you liked this group even less.

You translated for a Rodian bounty hunter when it was his turn to speak. You noticed the Twi'leks and the first human had been getting antsy, shifting from foot to foot and continuing to eye you and Boba. The Twi'leks had never come forward. They spelled trouble. You were tense the entire time, but they reached an agreement and left without trouble.

Boba on the throne was a sight. Your mind wandered, wondering what it would be like to sit on his lap, straddle his strong thighs. You shook your head to clear it as Boba cleared his throat, drawing your attention.

"Go get some rest, little one." And with that, you were dismissed.

You touched yourself thinking of him that night. Imagining it was his fingers instead of yours bringing you to your peak. You bit your fist as you came, muffling your moans and preventing you from calling his name out into the night.

The next day, he had gone out once again. When he returned, you noted his armor had some new scratches, some of the fresh green paint chipped away. He beckoned you forward with a wave, following him to the throne room. He sat with a heavy sigh. You stood before him, waiting for his direction, when he removed his helmet and set it aside. There was a new cut on his cheek, dried blood sticking to his skin.

"You're hurt," you said, stepping forward. Boba grunted noncommittally in response, reaching into a pouch on his belt and pulling out a small container of bacta.

"Use this," his voice was gravelly and he tossed the container to you. He...wanted you to put the bacta on him? Your pulse kicked up. But you would do as he asked.

You unscrewed the lid, swiping your finger through the gel. "What happened?" You asked as you spread it as gently as you could over the cut.

"Those hunters from yesterday," he sighed. "Thought they could catch me unaware out in the dunes. Their last mistake." He chuckled. "This was really the only hit I took," he gestured to the cut along his cheek. You had finished spreading the bacta, but your hand still lingered. You were entranced, being this close to him. Your thumb mindlessly caressed his cheekbone.

"Mayen," he said your name. You met his eyes, the heat in his gaze taking you by surprise. He always had fire and fight in him, but this wasn't like that. It was wanting. Boba grasped your wrist of the hand that still held his face, his other coming up to cup the back of your head.

Then you were kissing him.

You don't know if you leaned down or if he pulled you down or if he leaned up or if it even mattered, all you cared about was his rough lips against yours. When you gasped into it, he took the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. Boba's kisses were all consuming, overwhelming--he demanded all of you, and wouldn't accept any less.

He leaned back, bringing you with him so you had no choice but to straddle his lap or be pulled off-balance. You settled along his thighs, sighing as you could now grind your center against his stiffening member. He nipped your bottom lip, breaking away to press kisses down your throat.

“Tell me, sweetheart…” he murmured, worrying a mark into the delicate skin of your neck.

You whined, rolling your hips against his. His hands clamped down like durasteel around your hips, stilling you. “Tell me. We stop if you say so.”

“I want you, Boba,” you gasped, and he rewarded you with another hickey sucked into your neck. He guided your hips back into a slow grind, thrusting up against you. The layers of clothes between you dulled the sensation, but warm waves of pleasure still radiated through you. You cradled his jaw, bringing his lips back to yours, before trailing your palms down his chest. You pawed at his chestplate and robes, making him chuckle.

“Eager, aren’t we?” he teased you lightly. You squeaked when he pinched your ass. “Take this off, princess.” His hands slid up under your tunic, running up and down your sides before caressing your breasts.

You lifted your arms, helping him slide your shirt over your head. Instinctively, your arms came down to cover yourself, but Boba tutted at you. “Don’t get shy on me now, mesh’la. Let me see you.” He murmured in your ear before lightly nipping the lobe, sending shivers down your spine. He encouraged you to put your hands back on his chest. You whined against him, need building in your core as he undid your bindings and continued to guide your hips in a deep grind.

Boba’s fingers crept along the waistband of your pants before diving inside. You moaned as they landed on your clit. “This wet already? Someone’s a needy little thing.” You felt your face heat at his teasing accompanied by his rough fingers circling your clit built you up even more. You hid your face in his shoulder, grinding against his hand for more of that raw pleasure. Boba suddenly pressed hard against your clit in a tight circle, making you cry out loudly and grip his robes for dear life.

“Boba, please,” you whined, lips tracing his throat, his jaw, wherever you could reach. You brought your own hand down to cup him through his pants, running your hand along his bulge. He cursed lightly in your ear as you gently squeezed him.

“Up,” he said, patting your ass. You stood, taking the opportunity to shimmy out of your pants and panties. He lounged back against the throne, taking in your form. You didn’t cover yourself this time. “Good girl. Come here.” You stepped between his spread knees and he took you by the elbow, pulling you down and turning you so your back was pressed to his chest and your legs were spread by his own. His touch returned to your clit, sliding through your slick folds to tease your entrance. You pressed your ass back against his hardness and he groaned.

His arm banded around your waist as he finally slid a finger into your dripping entrance. You gasped, head falling back to rest on his shoulder. When he introduced a second one, you began to squirm. The stretch was so good as his fingers slid within you, curling and pressing into that perfect spot that sent you soaring. You were practically riding his hand, your hips circling as his fingers moved faster and faster.

“Oh,” you gasped as he added a third, legs trembling. Your hand shot to his where it was locked around your middle, holding you against him, while your other curled up and back, turning his head so you could kiss him. Boba found that spot in you that made you clench tight around him and zeroed in with deadly precision. You felt him grin smugly against your lips as your breathing stuttered. “Boba!”

“Look at you, so desperate for my fingers. Squeezin’ me so tight, sweetheart, can’t wait to feel you around my cock.”

You found yourself teetering at the edge of release. You turned your head, burying your nose in Boba’s neck. “Please, Boba, g’nna cum, please--” you gasped out. It was a good thing he held you to him, else you would have been bucking off his lap.

“Cum on my fingers, cyar’ika.”

Your mouth opened in a silent moan as you tipped over the edge of orgasm, cumming hard around Boba’s fingers. Your cunt flooded with wetness, the lewd sound of his fingers thrusting into you becoming even wetter. If he hadn’t been holding you to his chest you would have doubled over with the devastating pulses of pleasure rocking through you from your center. He continued working you through it until you whined, pushing at his hand that still moved between your thighs, need building up in you again.

Boba brought his fingers up to his mouth and you moaned at the sight of him sucking and licking them clean of your arousal. “Taste so sweet,” he said. “Open.” You opened your mouth, and he slid his fingers inside. Obediently, you sucked on them, swirling your tongue around his fingers like you would his cock. Boba groaned. "Dirty girl."

He withdrew his fingers from your mouth and you begged. "Want your cock, please, Boba--please fuck me, please--"

"Hush, needy pet. You'll get what you want." He bit your neck, the sharp pinpricks fading into a warm buzz that made you squirm, wiggling your hips on his lap. Boba reached down between you two and shifted himself out of his robes, sliding his cock against your soaked folds. You looked down and Maker, he was thick. You were suddenly glad he made you take three fingers--you hoped you would be able to take his cock.

He rutted against you, his cock sliding through your folds and pulling breathless little gasps from you each time his head nudged your clit. Each slick drag of him against your lips coated his cock in your wetness. Boba evidently grew tired of teasing you, because he urged you up and took hold of the base of his cock, guiding it to your dripping entrance. You moaned at the feeling of his thick tip splitting you open, sinking down the first inch.

Boba's hand came around to rub little circles on your clit, making you jerk against him, his other hand caging you in by your hip. Slowly, he encouraged you to sit back on his lap, the thick drag and push of his cock working inch-by-inch deeper into you. Stars, you felt him in your fucking guts. Your thighs trembled, and when your ass touched his lap you nearly sobbed from how full you felt.

"Look at that," he murmured into your hair. "Takin' me so well, princess. Feels fucking good, doesn't it?" You clenched around him at his words, making him choke off a moan. He rubbed your clit a tick faster just to feel you spasm around him again and he laughed at your high gasp of pleasure.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, it was too good--that ache, the raw sparks shooting down your legs and up your spine. Shifting the slightest bit pushed him right up something devastating inside you and you couldn't stop the wrecked moan that tore from your throat. Boba gave an experimental thrust and you nearly shrieked and lurched off of him, if he hadn't grabbed a hold of your hips and held you on his lap. You babbled senselessly, too overwhelmed as every ridge of his cock pressed your walls just right. "B-Boba, Boba, move, please--"

His big hand slapped your inner thigh and this time you did wail, the hot sting fading into a pleasant, buzzing warmth. His fingers dug in to the soft flesh hard enough that you knew there would be bruises in the shape of his fingers come morning. Then he lifted you slightly off him, cock sliding only a few inches out, before pulling you down in time with a thrust upwards, burying himself in you with a deep grind. You let out a choked moan, stars bursting behind your eyelids.

"Ride," he demanded. Your breath hitched as you scrambled for purchase, hands going to his strong thighs for support. It was sort of an awkward position, your feet barely touching the floor, requiring you to go on your tiptoes to pull a few inches off his cock. Boba's thick fingers cupped your pussy in a V shape, so every time you rose and fell they rolled against your clit. You couldn't tell if you wanted to push your hips back away or forward for more stimulation.

He slapped your other thigh this time, rubbing to soothe the sting, encouraging you to bounce on his cock faster. Your breath was coming in high, moaning pants as each drop of your hips buried him deep inside you, reaching places you never had and lighting up your nerves like a star gone supernova. Paired with his touch teasing your clit with every thrust, you weren't going to last long.

Boba's hands on your hips guided you faster, rougher--each downstroke hitting deep and holding you there for a second just to feel how full, how stuffed your pussy was of him. His thrusts up as you dropped down allowed his cock to hit your g-spot dead on, over and over. You felt yourself rhythmically clenching around him, heard his groans as your cunt strangled his cock, and you were so close to cumming again. The feeling coiled up at the base of your spine, the pleasure winding tighter and higher and ready to burst.

And then--then Boba hooked his hands under your knees, pulling your legs up so all your weight rested on where he was buried in you, and he slipped another inch further inside. You couldn't stop the sob of pleasure as he held you like this, open for him to take, and he set a punishing pace. The dull slap of skin-on-skin paired with the wet gush of your arousal around him, dripping down his balls and onto the throne, made your head tip back onto his shoulder and wrenched moan after moan out of you.

You were talking, babbling nonsense--begging, pleading for him to make you cum again. Boba tilted his hips just right and you keened as it pushed his cock right against the soft spot along your walls. Each thrust shoved you closer to the edge right until that coil inside you snapped. Your legs shook and your pussy clamped down so hard around Boba's cock that it stunted him to short, shallow thrusts as you rode it out. You distantly heard him groaning, praising you, telling you good girl, good fuckin' girl--you were spasming around him, each jolt of pleasure like a white-hot knife radiating from your core to your toes. Boba kept fucking you through it and you nearly begged him to stop--it was too much, the bite of overstimulation burning your nerves--when he pulled you down, fucking into you as deep as he could and he came with a groan of your name, cock throbbing as his release coated your walls.

Somehow, you ended up turned, face buried in his neck and legs wrapped around his waist as you trembled and caught your breath. His hands trailed up and down your spine and thighs in soothing motions as you came back down. You sighed and cuddled closer to him, the hard beskar plating cold against your bare skin, but it felt good on your overheated body.

"Made quite a mess on me, sweetheart," he said, deep voice rumbling in his chest under your ear. You just mmm'd and clung closer to him while he chuckled. It was true. Your arousal coated your thighs, dripped down onto the throne, soaked Boba's cock where it was still buried in you. Boba pulled his robe around you and stood, supporting you with his hands under your thighs. "Come on, little one, let's go to bed." You closed your eyes as he made his way out of the throne room and through the palace. He didn't drop you off in your bedroom, instead taking you to his and laying you in the spacious bed before stripping off his armor and joining you.

[nbrook29]

Kiss or Slap

Sander doesn’t remember when exactly their group made the riverside near the Scheldt their new hangout spot, but he couldn’t be more grateful for it as a cold breeze washes over his overheated body, providing a momentary relief against the scorching heat falling from the sky. It’s probably why the park is fuller than it usually is on Thursday afternoons, packed with people spread on their picnic blankets, searching for a bit of shadow under the big trees and desperately craving a bit of wind. 

It’s so hot he doesn’t even feel like sketching, preferring to just lie on the grass without moving a single muscle, and dying in peace. Even the enticing smell of cinnamon rolls that Noor brought with her isn’t enough for him to reach out and take one from the basket, the action requiring too much movement on his part.

“Guys, come on, we have to start or we’ll never get it done! Sander, get your lazy ass up.” He grunts when he feels Leon’s merciless fingers jabbing him in the ribs.

“Can’t we wait until it gets a little less hot?”

“No, cause that’s not happening in the nearest future and we need new content,” Nathan butts in, followed by Noor, which makes Sander officially outvoted. So he heaves a deep sigh, puts his shirt back on and ruffles his hair to make himself more presentable, rolling his eyes at Noor’s appreciative whistling.

“Someone’s gonna snatch himself a bunch of kisses today with that smoldering look,” she teases, pretending to give him a once over.

“Is that your way of telling me you want one for yourself, sweetheart?” He’s immensely proud of himself when her entire face scrunches up in disgust.

“Eww, no, feels like incest at this point.” Which is kinda true given the fact they’ve known each other since kindergarten and became best friends making sand castles. He fires an obnoxious wink at her, fully anticipating a shove which comes as expected within seconds, with Noor calling him a creep in between laughter.

“Who should we start with? Senne? Wanna go first?” Sander watches as Leon takes out his camera equipment and checks the settings as the rest collects their things.

“I guess, yeah. And then Nathan after me?”

“I’m not doing it, man, you know Britt, she’s gonna flip out.”

“Be a good reason to break up with her,” Sander mutters under his breath, not really feeling apologetic when Nathan shoots him a glare. It would be a long time coming, and honestly, Sander can’t wait for that moment to come. Just being in her presence gives him chills, she’s that much of a horrible person. A few years ago, he read something about alternate universes and sometimes when he looks at her he can’t help but think there’s a history there with the two of them, in a past life or something. At least it would explain that weird energy between them.

If it’s true, he feels very sorry for that Sander. 

He roots for him to run far away from said devil’s spawn.

“I can go next, I don’t have the ball and chain,” Noor says innocently, but she’s smirking over Nathan’s shoulder at Sander who pretends to high five her in their shared hatred for Britt.

“Yeah, us lonely birds will sacrifice ourselves and take the hit for the wellbeing of our channel,” Sander laments playfully, making Senne snort.

“Dude, you’re on your own by your own choice.”

“And pickiness. Don’t forget pickiness,” Noor adds smugly.

Sander huffs in protest. “I’m not picky! I just...” He cuts off because he’s not about to just explain it all now.

“Just what?”

“Specific about what I want.”

Brown curls, brown eyes, shortish, lean, pierced ear, cute giggle, elegant hands and a smile brighter than the sun. 

To be exact.

“Yeah. That’s picky.”

“Whatever,” he replies grumpily, and decides to ignore Noor’s knowing look. Sometimes he feels like she has a sixth sense and can read him like a book. Or she’s just less oblivious than the boys in their friend group. That’s a totally possible option too.

Thankfully, she doesn’t push him further (she’s awesome like that), though Sander has a feeling she’s gonna grill him later when they’re alone. For now, she checks her lipstick in her phone as they all briefly plan the video.

Not like there’s that much to plan; a few days ago, they decided to shoot a kiss or slap challenge for their YouTube channel because it had been wildly requested by their viewers.

Sander still doesn’t quite know how he became a part of a YouTube channel in the first place, always considering himself to be a bit more, well, sophisticated than that? But Leon was into it from the beginning and made them all participate in exchange for free beer, until one day one of their videos blew up.

If you can call getting 100k views on one video blowing up. 

Anyway, they got semi-popular amongst Flemish teens and even managed to snatch a sponsorship with Mentos (however small the offer was) that paid actual money. And he had just managed to move out of his family house so any money coming his way he welcomed with no questions asked. 

So they’ve kept shooting silly challenges slash anything else that’s a trend at a given time and have been able to cover their art supply needs with what little they earned. And, though Sander refused to admit it in the beginning, it’s actually kinda fun. It’s definitely better than his part time job at Pull&Bear where he has to deal with obnoxious customers on an almost daily basis.

They record a short introduction near the river, quickly going over the rules and explaining that the three of them will be competing in who gets more kisses versus slaps. 

“Hey, you know what, this is actually unfair cause you both can kiss anybody,” Senne points out all of a sudden, receiving four pairs of unimpressed glances.

“No one’s stopping you from getting kisses from boys too, dude,” Sander is quick to shut him up, shit-eating grin on his face as he gives him his first (light) slap to the cheek. 

They follow Senne around the park with a camera as he turns on his charm and smiles sweetly at the girls he chooses for the challenge, doing surprisingly well on the first few attempts. But when they venture deeper into the park and he tries his luck with college girls, he gets 5 slaps in the row to the rest of the group’s utter delight. In the end, his results are a blow to his pride and even Sander feels sorry for him, giving him a pat on the back while trying to hold his laughter in at Senne’s grumpy face.

Noor does much better, naturally, as her upbeat personality and a wide smile have always made boys and girls turn their heads. She gets a kiss after kiss, blush after blush, and two phone numbers in the process. Senne argues again that it’s unfair because no one’s gonna slap a girl anyway, but Leon just calls him a sore loser while Noor shamelessly flirts in French with another girl right in front of the camera.

Sander’s very proud.

Taking a quick sip of water, he gives Leon a thumbs up and starts his round, coming over to three blond girls chilling near the skateboarding ramps, trying very hard not to come off as creepy and clarifying the kiss part being only a cheek kiss. The girls erupt in giggles, but they all grant him a light kiss. One of them tries to flirt with him after, but he shoots her down before she can get too into it.

“Such a heartbreaker, you,” Noor coos at Sander’s pained face when they all walk away.

“That’s you, and you actually enjoy it,” he quips back, sticking his tongue at her.

“I do not, shut up!”

Fifteen minutes and fourteen kisses later he’s officially in the lead, sealing his victory with a kiss number fifteen he receives from a cute redhead. He’s gloating in Senne’s bemused face about nobody choosing to slap him when he stops in his tracks.

It’s the proof of his hopeless infatuation that he’d recognize that laugh everywhere.

He looks around for its source, but he comes up short. Then, his eyes focus on the skatepark area and his heart starts beating faster.

Because it feels like a sign. Like the universe is giving him a chance to finally do something. Make a move.

“Hey, can we shoot one more try?” He asks the guys, trying to sound casual while glancing furtively in the direction of brown curls.

“You’ve already won, but I guess?”

Nobody questions him about his reasons, they just follow him to the ramp.

And he’s so fucking nervous. 

It’s incredible, really, how he generally has no problems talking to people he’s interested in, conversation flowing without him even trying, gaining easy smiles and appreciative looks wherever he goes, some natural confidence to him. 

But that boy. That boy is something else.

He makes him question everything he says, makes his palms sweat and makes his deep hidden shyness come onto the surface.

Sander saw him for the first time during Open Day at the Academie in may, strolling casually through the hallway with his friend, completely oblivious to the turmoil he was causing to Sander’s heart.

That was the day Sander saw an angel. 

Fate placed him on his path again sooner than he could’ve hoped, the boy participating in a 2 week film course at his school only several days after he saw him for the first time. And he tried so hard to convince himself to talk to him over that time, but he only managed a few smiles while passing him by in the hallway. 

That and that one stupid joke he said to him while they were waiting in line at the cafeteria that makes him cringe in despair just thinking about it. Seriously, it’s like his entire cool evaporates when he’s near him.

But, the boy laughed at it. So maybe it wasn’t as horrible as Sander is making it to be. Or he was just being nice. 

Robbe. 

Robbe, who he’s been crushing on ever since that fateful day in may.

Robbe, who was at the same party he was last weekend.

Robbe, who he talked to at that party and managed to calm his nerves enough to be charming and funny.

Robbe, who giggled, blushed and bit his lip at Sander’s dumb jokes that evening.

Robbe, who slipped through his fingers because Sander blacked out soon after.

He almost never drinks, but that one night he did, celebrating the beginning of summer break, and not realizing his usual abstinence meant he was now officially a lightweight. What an awful timing.

Robbe doesn’t notice him right away, having his back turned to him while talking animatedly to his friends. Taking a deep breath and plastering a smile to his face to hide his nervousness, he approaches them.

“Hey guys, got a second?”

He notices the recognition in Robbe’s face right away, and Sander shoots him a quiet “hi” when his eyes meet his, an unsure smile blooming on his face.

“Hey, what’s up?” One of the boys nods at the camera.

“I’m Sander, and we’re shooting a video for our YouTube channel, the kiss or slap challenge,” he quickly explains, the boys’ faces lighting up.

“Hey, we have a channel too! I’m Moyo, this is Jens, Aaron, and Robbe.” Moyo reaches out to bump his fist with him and damn, Sander has to find that channel if Robbe is a part of it.

Jens levels him with a look. “So, you want us to kiss you or slap you?” 

“Pretty much, yeah?” Sander chuckles because he’s aware it’s ridiculous, but he’s a man on a mission here, give him a break.

“I think Robbe should represent all of us, don’t you think so?” Moyo proposes, tongue in his cheek as he checks with the rest of his friends. Sander catches the death glare Robbe sends the boy before looking back at him and crossing his arms, looking a bit out of place. And, fuck, the last thing Sander wants is to make him uncomfortable.

So he asks softly, “you’re in?” and waits for agonizing five seconds as Robbe watches him, eyes narrowed, before his features smooth out and he smiles at him.

“Sure, why not.”

Relieved, Sander lets out a chuckle and tries to keep his cool. “Okay then - kiss or slap?”

Robbe squints against the sun and makes him wait another few seconds before he answers, but Sander’s not worried because there’s a soft smile on his face and obviously his angel wouldn’t-

“Slap.”

Wait, what.

He can hear his friends bursting in laughter at this unexpected turn of events while Sander can only stare in shock because how could he miscalculate the situation this much?

Gulping, confused and heartbroken, he asks, “you’re sure?”, to which Robbe nods with a poorly hidden glee.

“But you have to close your eyes cause I can’t hit you while you're looking at me.”

Heaving a deep sigh and trying to save a face despite the humiliation flooding his body, he nods and closes his eyes, steeling himself for it.

But it never comes.

Suddenly, he feels a hand cupping his cheek and he flinches a little, but then soft lips touch his in a kiss so gentle he blinks his eyes open, not knowing what’s happening.

“That was payback for you promising to call me and not keeping your word,” Robbe whispers against his lips before leaning away, something sad and wistful passing through his face. Sander is left completely dumbfounded, ignoring the hollering from the two groups as his eyes fleet all over Robbe’s face.

It’s difficult for him to collect his thoughts because holy fuck, Robbe has just kissed him and he’s internally freaking out. He finally manages to get his bearings when the remnants of a smile slip off Robbe’s lips.

“I-, Robbe, you have no idea how much I wanted to call you, but I don’t have your number.”

“I gave it to you. At the party?” He doesn’t look like he believes a word Sander is saying.

“Um, I kinda blacked out and don’t remember much after like one-ish?”

“You saved it though, I saw you typing it in,” Robbe argues again, but this time he doesn’t look so sure. “Wait, what’s your number?”

Sander watches him entering digit after digit before hitting call. He fully expects a plain number to appear on his screen, eyes widening when he sees what pops up instead.

zk bambieys 🥺🦌👁️💘🧡💖💞 calling

“Fuck, you did give me your number.” He’s not fast enough to hide his screen from Robbe, but he can't even feel embarrassment once he notices the frown disappeared from his face.

“Bambi eyes?” There's a teasing note in his voice, but his pink cheeks sell him out.

Sander scratches his head. "I was very drunk, you can't hold it against me. Also, your eyes are really beautiful," he clarifies, winking when Robbe laughs at his shameless flirting. "Hey, I tried to find you on instagram, but nothing came up. I was really hoping we're gonna bump into each other again. Sorry for being a dumbass and not realizing I had your number this entire time?”

“It’s okay.” Robbe shoves his hand into the pockets of his jeans, swaying on his heels. Sander decides to put them both out of their misery and take the initiative.

“So if I asked you out, would you say yes?”

It looks like Robbe’s about to nod, but then he bites his lip, an almost cheeky smile directed at him. “I guess you have to call me to find out.” And then he gets on his skateboard and casually skates away to the nearest ramp, pulling a surprised laugh out of Sander.

If he was intrigued before, now he’s totally smitten with this wonder of a boy, because damn. 

Their friends finally seem to regain their voices and speak over each other at what just happened, but Sander doesn’t pay them any attention, just takes out his phone again and pressing the call button. 

Watching as Robbe comes to a full stop at the top of the ramp, he cocks his head with a grin and waits until he picks up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Sander.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Robbe laughs into the speaker.

“Will you go out with me?”

He meets his eyes across the skatepark as Robbe makes him wait again.

Then, with a smile so radiant it overshadows the sun, the boy finally gives him his answer.

“Yes.”

[ghost-in-the-hella]

If you're still doing prompts, 73 for Amberpricefield?

Another "better late than never" kiss prompt fill. The prompt was "Height Difference Kisses Where One Person Has To Bend Down And The Other Is On Their Tippy Toes." Enjoy!

---

Technically, only one of Max’s girlfriends is tall. The kind of tall where Chloe’s always the designated grocery shopping partner because she can reach the top shelves without having to bother a stranger. The kind of tall where even if Max is wearing shoes and Chloe isn’t, Max still has to go up on tippy toes to kiss her properly.

Rachel’s only an inch taller than Max is, so it really isn’t fair that Max should constantly have to go up on tippy toes to kiss her, too. But Rachel likes wearing heels and Max lacks both the inclination and the coordination to wear such things, and so between Chloe’s natural height and Rachel’s shoe collection Max is stuck with a permanent crick in her neck.

She doesn’t mind, really. Chloe’s always been tall and Max has always been at least a little in love with her, so she always suspected she was in for a lifetime of straining to reach her partner’s lips.

It’s just that sometimes she’d like to be on the same level as her girlfriends. To not have to go up on her toes, to not have to strain her neck, to be able to simply look at them instead of up to them.

“What’s up with the pouty face?” Rachel strokes an affectionate hand through Max’s short hair. She looks concerned. Even leaning as she is against the back of the couch Max is sitting on, Max still has to look up a little to meet her eyes.

Her pout deepens, and she immediately feels guilty for pouting when she’s just received a sweet kiss on the cheek from one of the most beautiful women she’s ever met. Why should it matter if the kiss came from above? “Nothing, sorry. Just… lost in thought.”

Rachel stands up straight and frowns down at her thoughtfully. “You sure everything’s okay?” Jesus, she’s towering. It feels like she’s a million miles away. Max strains to look over the back of the couch and groans audibly. “Something wrong with my shoes?”

“No, just… five inch heels? In the house?”

Rachel flips her hair over one shoulder. “Yeah, so? It’s good practice for the runway. Plus they make my calves look killer.” She gives a little half-turn and okay, sure, she’s got a point there. “Looking good on the outside makes me feel good on the inside.” She gives a little shrug that to an outsider would look casually dismissive but Max knows her well enough to read it for the defensive gesture that it is. “I’m allowed to dress however I’m comfortable in my own home, aren’t I? I mean, you don’t see me telling you you can’t wear your Pikachu boxers around the house.”

Max gets up and pulls Rachel down into a hug. “I didn’t mean it in a judgemental way; I’m sorry. Of course you can wear whatever you want. I’m just feeling insecure; that’s all.”

“Because of my shoes?” Rachel asks in genuine confusion as she squeezes Max back.

“I mean, in a way, sort of.” The truth is embarrassing, but it doesn’t take much for Rachel to drag it out of her. A light touch here, a reassuring squeeze there, and Max spills her guts.

“Hmmmm…” Rachel trails a finger along Max’s jaw as she contemplates. “I have an idea.” She kicks off her shoes, bringing herself down to Max’s level.

“You don’t have to--”

“Shush. Now, go stand on the couch.”

Max blinks at her in confusion, but a playful swat to her backside has her climbing up on the couch and standing unsteadily on the soft cushions. Rachel holds her hands to help her balance. “N-now what?”

“Now you bend down and kiss me, of course.” Rachel smiles up at her coyly, and oh. So this is what it’s like to have Rachel Amber looking up at you. It’s a good thing Rachel’s holding onto her, because her knees are buckling at the smoldering look in Rachel’s hooded eyes.

Max bends down and Rachel goes up on tiptoes to meet her. It feels strange to lean down into a kiss instead of craning up into it, but she’ll be damned if it isn’t a wonderful strangeness.

“How was that?” Rachel asks as they part, teasing the hairs at the nape of Max’s neck and still giving her that sultry look that makes Max wish she were lying on a bed instead of standing on a couch.

“Different,” Max says, “but nice. Really, really nice.”

“Good,” Rachel says with a smile, and she goes up on her toes again.

Max is so focused on kissing the hell out of Rachel that she doesn’t register the sound of footsteps padding into the room. “Huh. Not really what I expected to see going on in the middle of the living room, but I’m not about to complain.”

Rachel and Max pull apart, giggling. Max wobbles dangerously and Rachel presses a hand against her side to steady her. “C’mere, Beanpole,” Rachel beckons with a playful toss of her head. “We’re running a simulation.”

Chloe chuckles but doesn’t hesitate, reaching out a hand just in time to keep Max on her feet. “Oh, yeah? What’re we simulating?”

“What it’s like to be the tall person in a kiss. Or, Max is, anyway.”

Chloe takes a second to process that, then shrugs. “Whatever. I’m game.”

Rachel steps back and wraps her arms around Chloe’s waist, resting her head against her back as Chloe goes up on her toes. “This is hella fuckin’ weird,” Chloe laughs. “I haven’t tiptoed in years. Not since we got our own place.”

“Because you’re tall as fuck,” Rachel reminds her. “Poor Max has to do it all the time.” She pinches Chloe’s hip. “So suck it up, Buttercup. Be the short one for a change.”

Max reaches down - down! - to cup Chloe’s face in her hand. Fair blue eyes gaze up at her expectantly, sparkling with amusement and affection. She smooths her thumb over the faint blush tinging Chloe’s cheeks. She knows she should feel silly - she’s standing on the couch for fuck’s sake, barely keeping her balance and looming over her girlfriends by several feet - but instead she feels a kind of awe. Chloe leans up as high as she can, straining on her toes, and tilts her head back like surrender, her eyes fluttering sweetly closed.

“What’re you waiting for, Mega Max? Kiss the girl.”

Max carefully bends down and kisses Chloe for all she’s worth.

The kiss only lasts about ten seconds before Max finally loses her balance for good and the three of them end up in a jumble of slightly bruised limbs on the couch. It’s completely worth it.

[aethersea]

May I request 41 - First Kiss and 94 - Hair Brushing/Braiding for the Leverage OT3, please? (Also extra bonus points if you give Eliot beads in his hair like in The Ice Man Job, because we didn't get NEARLY enough of that in the show) Thank you!

I cannot believe I wrote this whole thing out and then never published it. I’m so sorry, it’s been at least twenty-four years since you sent in this ask, please accept my humble apologies and also this ficlet.

However, this prompt is just pure fluff, and I hate to tell you this but I am not a fluff writer. I just can’t pull off that unadulterated sweetness. I am in this fandom for the shenanigans, first, last and foremost! So this fic is now a 5+1 of Eliot and Parker trying to seduce Hardison.

1. Parker thinks they need to give him gifts, so she goes through her stash and picks out the largest, fanciest jewel she’s ever stolen. Then she realizes: Hardison likes stories. He spends hours giving their aliases histories and pets and allergies and favorite foods, he can get a whole sordid history of jealousy and betrayal from a single corporate email chain, and Parker knows for a cold fact that he writes little stories with his online friends about being wizards together.

She goes through her stash again and picks out the most cursed thing she’s ever stolen.

It’s a jeweled statuette, almost as tall as her forearm, made of gold and studded with precious and semi-precious stones. Mysterious deaths have befallen five separate owners of this thing. Its base is dented from the time it was used to bludgeon Owner Number Three to death. The tiny rubies it has for eyes follow you across the room.

Parker puts a bow on it and leaves it in Hardison’s room while he’s sleeping. He wakes up to this horrible little statue watching him from his bedside table.

He texts the group chat, Hey did anyone put an evil little gold guy in my bedroom last night? But Parker chickens out and says nothing (drunkenly betting Eliot that she can seduce Hardison is one thing, but admitting that she likes him is something else altogether). Everyone else texts back variations on “nope.” (Except Sophie, who just sends back a string of heart eyes emojis and a wikipedia link. She loves cursed artifacts.) So Hardison puts the statue away in a closet somewhere and figures he’ll deal with it later.

Parker is mildly offended that he put her gift in a closet. She goes into his room the next night and puts it back on the bedside table, where it clearly belongs.

This goes on for a week. Hardison puts the statue in a desk drawer, then in one of the cabinets in the office downstairs, then in the dumpster down the street. Every day he wakes up to those glittering red eyes watching him sleep. He’s asked his internet buddies if anyone knows a good exorcist. Hardison doesn’t really believe in curses, but also? What the fuck. What the fuck.

~

2. Eliot assumes the drunken bet will be forgotten by morning. What kind of world would it be if people always followed through on promises they made while they could barely stay vertical? So he spends the morning nursing his hangover and cleaning his knives. Cleaning guns is no good while hungover—all the snaps and clicks of popping things in and out of place sound like actual gunfire when you’re hungover, it’s a nightmare—but knives are quiet and have no moving parts. Buffing and polishing them is soothingly repetitive work, and every once in a while he can throw one at one of the dartboards on the walls and reassure himself that his reflexes are still sound even after that much tequila.

It’s only when he gets Hardison’s text about the golden statuette that magically appeared in his room overnight that Eliot realizes Parker’s actually going for it. After some internal debate about whether he’s going to stoop to this or not, Eliot decides what the hell and starts making plans.

Eliot agrees that gifts are the way to go, but not stolen gifts. Not things. Anyone can give a thing. Proper wooing is about giving experiences.

Eliot plans for three days. On the fourth day, he and Hardison have their irregularly scheduled monthly coffee date, and Eliot texts him beforehand to say he wants to do it at the brewpub this time. Hardison arrives to find a deceptively simple meal: basic country fare perfected through years of experimentation, made with the best ingredients Eliot can get his hands on. And Eliot, after all, is still a retrieval specialist. There’s very little in the world he can’t get his hands on.

And yet the night ends and somehow he has not gotten his hands on Hardison.

This is just not right. Eliot knows how to deploy a smolder, okay, Tangled reference aside he is damn good at flirting and he knows the looks he’s giving Hardison are clear as day. It’d be one thing if Hardison had turned him down, or if he’d been uneasily unwilling, or even if his eyes had widened slightly in suppressed panic and he’d abruptly found a reason to leave. Eliot can take rejection, bet or no, and he’d have bowed out graciously without a fuss. But this was much, much worse.

Hardison didn’t even notice he was flirting.

He’s going to have to up his game.

~

3. “How do you seduce people?” Parker asks bluntly, turning up at Sophie’s door just past midnight.

Sophie, despite the hour, is utterly delighted by the question.

This goes as well as you would expect.

~

4. Eliot’s taken a lot of dates to sports games. Hardison may prefer sparkly elves with purple lightning magic to a decent MMA fight, but baseball is the American pastime. Eliot gets them perfect seats, hot dogs from the best vendor in the stadium, even chilled beer that he smuggles in without letting it get warm. It’s going to be a perfect game.

And it is. At first. Hardison, it turns out, has a lot of opinions about baseball. What he does not have is an understanding of the rules. They’re not even into the second inning by the time Eliot finally snaps and starts arguing with him about it.

They make it all the way to the fifth inning before Eliot realizes that Hardison’s basing his complaints off the rules of a game from a Star Wars novel.

They’re at the bottom of the eighth before Eliot will speak to him again.

~

5. Eliot and Parker are drunk again. This is not intentional. They didn’t even mean to come to this bar, but the smoothie place with the fried oreos that Eliot had brought Parker here to try was playing such incredibly bad music that they’d ordered the oreos to go and fled. The bar was just the coziest looking place on the block, and of course they’d ordered drinks to avoid being rude––Eliot had entertained himself for a few minutes scouring the menu for something that would pair well with fried oreos and popcorn chicken.

And now they’re drunk. The conversation has, perhaps inevitably, turned to the ongoing bet.

“I tried everything!” Parker wails. “I laughed at every joke, I touched my hair constantly, I got him talking about things he likes.” She thunks her forehead on the bar. “All that happened is now I know the complete history of orcs in western literature.”

“Hardison wouldn’t know flirting if it pinched him on the ass,” Eliot grumbles.

Parker slaps his arm. “No pinching Hardison!”

“I’m not going to—I don’t pinch people!”

Parker’s ignoring him. Eliot pouts and takes another sip of his drink. He’s not entirely sure what this one is––it’s blue and kind of fizzy, that’s all he can say for sure. Parker took over the drinks menu several glasses ago, and she’s been picking them based on what has the most fun name to say. Eliot’s pretty sure the alcohol content’s been doubling with each order.

“Eliot,” Parker slurs, “we need to work together.”

“What?”

Parker lifts her head from the bar and frowns at him, the way she does when she’s figured out the obvious solution and is just waiting for everyone else to get on the same page. It’s adorable. It’s always adorable, but right now her eyes are wide and slightly unfocused from the alcohol and she’s listing sideways a little, almost as if she’s unbalanced, and it is the most adorable thing Eliot has ever seen. Parker’s never unbalanced, but some part of Eliot’s fuzzy brain thinks she’s about to fall on top of him and cannot wait to catch her.

“You can’t seduce Hardison,” Parker points out. Eliot is drunk enough to get offended by this, but too drunk to get out a complaint before she continues, “I can’t seduce Hardison. But if we work together, the two of us can definitely seduce Hardison. Together.”

Eliot stares at her. Then he takes another sip of his fizzy blue drink. Later, when questioned, he will blame his next words on that drink.

“Worth a shot.”

They take Hardison to a movie. They research for three weeks beforehand. They find the best movie theater in town, with the nicest seats, the biggest screens, and concession snacks that Hardison likes, and they buy tickets for the midnight premiere of the superhero movie that Hardison hasn’t shut up about for the past month. Parker even hacks into the theater’s computers in a last-minute fit of nerves and cross-references the credit cards with drivers’ licenses to make sure the people sitting in front of them won’t be too tall.

Parker witnesses a kidnapping in the parking lot while the boys are getting popcorn. They don’t even stay long enough to catch the commercials.

~

+ 1. “Hey Eliot,” Hardison says during movie night, a little over a week later. “Remember the Ice Man Job?”

Eliot groans. “I try not to.”

Hardison throws a piece of popcorn at his face. “Shut up. Remember how you did your hair for that one? With the little—those little beads on, like, a braid?”

Eliot shoots Hardison a suspicious glance. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Teach me how to do that.”

Eliot shoots Hardison another, more deliberate look, this one pointedly directed at Hardison’s complete lack of braidable locks.

Hardison rolls his eyes as if that’s a silly detail to get hung up on and leans forward to dig around in one of the boxes he has under his coffee table. He emerges with a ziplock bag of plastic beads in no time flat and hands it triumphantly to Eliot. Then he yanks a few cushions out from behind Parker, who’s sitting on his other side, and puts them on the floor in front of him. “Sit here?” he asks Parker, patting the cushion pile.

Parker takes a moment to consider being offended at having her cushions stolen, but curiosity gets the better of her and she just plops down between Hardison’s legs, grabbing the bowl of popcorn as she goes, and waits.

Hardison lifts her hair with sudden gentleness, drawing it over her shoulders and letting it fall down her back in a golden wave. His fingers brush against her neck. Parker shivers. Eliot is distantly aware that he’s gone perfectly still, focused with a hunter’s intensity on Hardison’s dark, graceful fingers carding through Parker’s hair.

Hardison leans back, hands on his knees, and Eliot breathes again. “Well?” Hardison looks over at Eliot, a tiny smirk of challenge on his lips. “Show me how it’s done.”

Eliot is suddenly, brutally aware of how close they are. Hardison’s couch is obscenely comfortable, which is half the reason movie nights are at Hardison’s in the first place, but it is not large. Their thighs are touching. Hardison leans away, to give Eliot access to Parker’s hair, and he’s still so close that Eliot would barely have to reach out a hand to—

Eliot ruthlessly shoves that thought down into the dark where it belongs. He dealt with this, he dealt with this years ago, and accepting Parker’s stupid bet doesn’t mean he’s forgotten the way Hardison and Parker look at each other. It just means he doesn’t mind losing for a good cause.

So he keeps his tone steady and his fingers brisk as he shows Hardison how to braid the clunky plastic beads into Parker’s hair, and if he flushes with heat when their hands brush each other, well, nobody has to know. He’s been trained to withstand eight different schools of torture. It won’t show on his face. His voice never once falters.

Parker has had no such training. Her lips have parted, and her breathing is shallow. She’s staring glassy-eyed at the TV. Hardison can’t see her face, sitting behind her, but Eliot watches her carefully, worried that they need to call this off. Parker’s not used to intimacy, to closeness that means something, and for all the three of them have spent half their movie nights literally on top of each other, this is something else. This has weight.

Eliot puts a hand on her shoulder, pressing down just enough that Parker startles and cants a glance over at him. Eliot raises his eyebrows in question, and Parker glares back: don’t you fucking dare. Eliot backs off. Hardison, frowning in concentration as he threads a wisp of Parker’s hair through a green bead, graciously pretends he didn’t see the exchange.

Hardison gets the hang of the beading fairly quickly, and Eliot shows him a few different techniques. He’s almost managed to convince himself that nothing is actually happening when Hardison says, conversationally, “You two are really bad at this.”

Eliot glowers his confusion. “At movie night? You started this, if you wanted to actually watch Alien then you shouldn’t have—”

Hardison’s smile is soft, but Eliot decides for his own safety to focus on the laughter at its edge. “No, at this.” And then he slides his hand onto Parker’s neck, caresses her cheek, and isn’t the slightest bit surprised when she gasps.

Parker whips around, and there’s hurt on her face but it dies in the glow of Hardison’s gentle, unteasing smile. Hardison pulls her up with the lightest of touches, and she goes, eyes fixed on his like salvation.

They kiss sweet and slow, and Eliot’s heart twists in his chest and he can’t breathe. He needs to leave now before he shatters in half, but if he moves then they will look at him, and he would rather never breathe again than meet their eyes right now.

Hardison breaks off the kiss, gazing at Parker with something just this side of wonder, and then he does look at Eliot. Eliot flinches. He opens his mouth to…say something, make some joke or hasty excuse and scramble out the door, but Hardison raises a hand to Eliot’s face, slides his long fingers to cup Eliot’s neck, and pulls him forward, as gently as he did Parker.

It’s a chaste kiss, no more than a soft press of lips, because Eliot is too stunned to respond and Hardison doesn’t push. It lasts a long time. A whole era of change happens in the span of that kiss, as everything Eliot thought he knew tears out of place and then settles, gingerly, into a new understanding.

Hardison pulls away, his hand still warm on the back of Eliot’s neck. His smile is pure sunshine. Eliot finds himself smiling back, helpless.

Hardison’s grin turns smug. “And that,” he says, looking between Eliot and Parker, “is how you do it. Y’all are disasters, honestly, I can’t believe two master criminals working together couldn’t manage a single real date—”

Eliot heaves a deep sigh and drags Hardison into a headlock, pinning his arms when he flails. Parker surges to her knees and starts tickling him mercilessly.

They don’t finish the movie.

[yannasunflower]

Chapter One | Kuroo x Reader | Zombie!AU

Rating: M Warnings: gore, violence, zombies, a fair amount of angst. still not sure about smut, but we'll see. characters have been aged up, but not all of them. eventual character death. Genre: angst/hurt/comfort, romance, survival-is-all-we-have Pairings: Kuroo x Reader Word count: 2.8k

i decided to actually expand this and make it a full story. not sure how long it'll be, guessing around 5 chapters. please reblog, like, comment, show some love! will be cross posting to AO3 as well!

Chapter One

There was a time, not so long ago, you would have killed to have a man on his knees before you just like this. But this man is bloody and bruised and the rancid scent of rotting flesh is heavy in your mouth. You resist the urge to spit. The unnatural corpse to your right was once a person. A man, you think faintly. Who may have once had a family. A home.

It’s been months now, but it’s still a fight to push the images of sun-drenched gardens and trips to the grocery store away.

The gun you have pressed to his temple is doing its job well. He is meek, eyes darting across the tile floor blankly. The way his shirt hangs from his tall frame and his wrists tremble make you lower the gun. This is a man who hasn’t eaten a meal in days. And his dirty clothes are covered in dry blood, none of it fresh. He managed to avoid getting bitten before your people swooped in. The sight of Daichi wrangling a nighstalker off someone is almost comical compared to his everyday activities – going on jogs and reading a book.

The stranger finally looks up at you and his dark, dark eyes are too dull. They are framed by a face that was once handsome, traces of good humor and vivacity still embedded in the lines around his mouth and eyes. Black hair forms almost a halo around him, the thick waves obviously in need of washing and trimming.

“Daichi,” you call and the man steps forward, baseball bat slung across his broad shoulders. “Get the man a snack. We’re taking him with us.”

Daichi nods, a question in his eyes that you ignore as you turn away, issuing orders. You sweep the shelves with your eyes, trying to find something of value. A forgotten box of cold medicine is swept into your bag without a second thought. A can of chicken noodle soup falls in after it. You hear the man huff a silent thanks as Daichi heaves him to his feet.

Heave might be too strong a word. The man looks thin enough for wind to blow through. You swallow, hard.

“Do you mind coming with us?” you hear Daichi murmur to him, always the graceful one, unable to keep the motherly concern out of his voice. The man must shake his head because Daichi sighs with relief. “Don’t mind the Captain. She’s got a lot on her mind.”

His conspiratorial tone makes your skin prickle. You turn just enough to shoot Daichi a venomous glare. He cheerfully ignores it.

“What’s your name?” you think to ask, turning fully to face him once more.

The man offers a weak smile. His lips tremble and his face wrinkles uncomfortably.

“Kuroo. Kuroo Tetsurou,” he answers. There’s a beat. You realize five seconds too late he’s expecting you to announce your name.

You remember your name, for a moment. It brings with it memories of fresh air and your parents, singing a silly birthday song to you, glee lighting their faces. A lurch in your gut nearly makes the world spin. You turn away from Kuroo again, hair framing your face.

“Just call me Captain, or Cap. Either will do,” you reply, far too nonchalantly and much too late. “We can offer a place to stay and some food, at least. Protection from the nightstalkers.”

You can’t see the look on his face and you wonder how long it’s been since he’s slept easily, deeply. His black eyes are too sunken to tell.

“It’s not much, but it’s something,” you admit.

Daichi huffs.

“She’s being modest,” he assures Kuroo. “We have running water and a water heater, as well as enough people to keep guards on rotation, and electricity and beds.”

“It sounds,” the man, Kuroo’s, voice grates, like it hasn’t been used in weeks. You realize it probably hasn’t. “It sounds too good to be true.”

Daichi laughs his big, booming laugh and someone, Sugawara you think, hisses at him to shut up. Daichi grins at the silver haired main, whose golden eyes are spitting venom at him, pointing gleefully at Kuroo as he says, “The poor man hasn’t slept on a bed for who knows how long, let him have a little joy.”

“You were the one laughing loud enough for every nightstalker in five blocks to hear you.”

That shuts Daichi up with an apologetic wince, although he still shoots Kuroo a wink.

“Let’s get you a granola bar and some water before we start moving,” Daichi whispers. Kiyoko steps from the shadows, more liquid than solid, more shade than human. Her glasses flash in the faint light and she is a cat, lithe and silent. She says nothing, just slings Kuroo’s arm around her shoulder and places a steadying hand on his chest. If Kuroo is surprised by the slender woman’s strength, he doesn’t show it.

She catches your eye and you see approval there, which warms your chest. Kiyoko has the best instincts in the group. She’s also your only nurse – if she doesn’t think the emaciated man will take up too many resources, you’re inclined to trust her. Her seal of approval settles the twinge in your gut, the one that screams to protect the people at the Pit at all costs.

Up from the ground, you realize with a jolt that Kuroo is taller than you thought, at least a full head taller than you. And you sense, in the same instant, that he is turning his eyes towards you, and that you are still looking at him.

You glance away, spying a pack of batteries in the back corner of a shelf. With a triumphant grin, you shove them in your pack. A lucky find. You make a mental note to thank Suga for suggesting the group drop in here. Trust him to be worried about their toothpaste supply at just the right time.

His fretting is the most likely reason Kuroo is still alive.

After the group, a small scouting party with just four people, packs as much as they can, you pull your mask back up over your mouth. The black cloth serves a few practical reasons: the smell of rotting flesh is much less likely to make you sick, and the color is useful. Nightstalkers have awful vision — it’s why scouting during a full moon can be dangerous and you are thanking the stars that the sky is dark and the moon nearly absent. Kuroo is in no condition to travel, which means you’ll have to move slowly. More slowly than you’d like.

His own dark clothing receives a nod of approval from Daichi, who supports half his weight still.

You watch as your group lifts their own masks, Kiyoko thinking to offer Kuroo one. A familiar thrall runs down your spine. You run through the route in your mind. Flashlights click off and for a moment, you stand, breathing in the taste of fear, growing thicker every moment.

“To the Pit,” you murmur.

“For the Pit,” Suga answers and the rest repeat it. The terror abates.

Outside, the air is cool, no bite to it, the fresh March night almost pleasant enough to forget for a brief second. But the smell of the nightstalkers chases after it and the illusion isn’t even fully formed before it dies. Your chest heaves.

The walk through the city is uneventful. The nighstalkers are thin in the city now, partially culled by the survivors who skulk the streets. Signs of human life are small, but everywhere. Fresh cigarettes, a pile of nightstalker corpses still smoldering. A child’s truck, lights still flashing. Your chest tightens again.

You take only a few seconds to leave a strip of yellow cloth tied to a signpost. Below it, you leave a smaller strip, this one purple, and scrawl Kuroo’s name on it as well as you can in the dark. With a knife, you cut off the old blue one that had been left a week ago and shove it into your pocket. The color blue used to be your favorite and now, seeing it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

There are two other survivor groups that you know of in the city. With an array of color coded messages, your three groups communicate important information. Yellow for all is quiet, red for in need of emergency supplies. Blue for the death of a human.

It’s a courtesy to let them know you’ve taken in another survivor, but you know if you don’t try to show the other packs a little bit of trust, the system Daichi and Kiyoko came up with won’t do anything to help your people.

You’ll be damned if you ever let another group into the Pit without a blindfold and ropes on their wrists, however. They showed you the same hospitality when you were in desperate need of medicine three weeks ago. Sometimes, you still feel the ropes around your wrist. Iwaizumi, Oikawa’s sturdy second, had been gentle about it, but it still chafed.

Out of the city, your entire group breathes a little easier. You do a quick head count, feet never slowing on the dirt path. The Pit isn’t far, just a few miles outside the city limits. Still, the lights don’t reach here, and you are too afraid to click on a flashlight or speak out loud. You keep your ears straining for any noise at all. Nighstalkers aren’t the only danger out here, outside the uneasy truce that exists in the city limits.

Kiyoko is still helping Daichi support Kuroo’s weight; as you watch, Suga slips to her side and taps her elbow, taking over for her. She relinquishes gratefully, stepping away to walk beside you.

Kiyoko rolls her shoulder and you lean over to rub it for a moment with your fingers. She flashes you a grateful smile. You still remember the night she got the injury – she had saved your life and nearly lost her arm in the process.

It only takes half an hour filled with Kuroo’s gasping breaths and the quiet footsteps of your crew for the guard towers to come into view. Someone flashes their light three times, the signal, and two shadowy figures pull the gate open. You can see the two figures perched in the parallel watchtowers peering down at the group curiously. They’ve kept their lamps low, as instructed, and you make a mental note to praise them in the morning.

They left with four and came back with five, which is a welcome change, you think.

Kuroo’s eyes are wide, mouth open.

“A prison,” you see him mouth and Daichi shoots you an amused glance.

It’s not pretty, especially at night, with its gray stone walls and barbed wire. But it’s fortified and in the day, you can see the beginnings of your garden just starting to break the earth and the children being taught by a patient Suga to help.

Tanaka lifts the pack from your shoulders, dipping his head in greeting to Kiyoko. Yamaguchi is already at Suga’s side, lifting both his and Daichi’s pack to his back, murmuring in hushed tones.

“A stray?” he asks in a quiet, crackling voice with one eyebrow raised, facing toward Kuroo, who is still staring in wonder at the tall stone walls.

You watch Daichi offer him water, explaining the watchtowers, the gate. His hand gestures in the direction of the gardens, Suga struggling to look proud and humble at the same time. Kuroo’s eyes are gleaming and you look away.

“Even strays deserve a bed to sleep on at night,” you murmur.

“If people hear we’re taking in –,”

You cut him off quickly, growling, “Who’s going to spread the word? You? We couldn’t just leave him there to die, Tanaka.”

There’s only a moment of silence, Tanaka’s dark eyes roving over your face before he backs down with a single nod.

“Grab Noya and get him to the showers and a cot,” you order, brushing past him. Kiyoko lingers, waiting to fall into step beside you again. “And see if Cook has any hot meals to spare.”

You feel more than see Tanaka approaching Kuroo, Suga and Daichi introducing everybody. Your entire group shuffles through the entrance, following you down the hallways to the cafeteria where they will drop their packs off before finding their friends or families.

Kuroo is still staring hard enough to pierce the walls and you hide a smile.

“Tanaka will show you where to shower and then bring you back here for some food,” you tell him. His eyes snap to you and you have to look away from them again, unable to keep looking at those dark holes. “After that, you can get some sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

You don’t give anyone a chance to respond. The worn heels of your boots hardly make a sound against the polished floor. The cafeteria is deserted at this time of night, when most people are in their cells. Kiyoko trails after you, Daichi just one step behind her.

“Daichi, get me an itemized list of everything we got tonight. I need to do inventory in the morning with Ukai and Takeda, let them know for me.”

He nods, hesitating where the hall branches off toward his own cell.

You wait. Daichi sometimes needs a moment to gather his thoughts, or maybe his courage. His lean, strong body doesn’t shift nervously, however. He looks thoughtful.

“Kuroo mentioned he was a doctor in the before. And a chemist,” he finally explains. You can physically feel Kiyoko come to attention next to you. Her body thrums with tension.

The information takes a second to sink in. The little boy with a bad cough in cell block B and his younger sister with a fever dance before you.

“He needs to get his strength back before going on any forages,” you point out, frowning. Daichi nods.

“Just thought you should know,” he answers easily, waving as he strides toward his cot.

Kiyoko follows you all the way to your cell. She leans against the cement wall as you light a lantern, keeping the light low, before sinking to sit on your cot. She folds her arms over her chest.

“Kuroo could give us a list of medicine to get,” she points out, voice barely above a whisper. You nod, lacing your fingers together and resting your chin on them.

Your mind is already churning with the information, only a slight congratulatory tone to your thoughts. A doctor is invaluable, a prize worth risking one journey home for. A chemist, too…

“I’m hoping he can help us grow our own herbs, as well,” you murmur. “Eventually, the medicine will run out at the stores.”

Kiyoko’s eyes narrow.

“There’s something else,” she challenges you, mildly but directly. Just her style.

You spare her a grin, shaking your head as you pull your hair from its ponytail.

“Can’t let me get away with anything,” you hum, waving her off, a dismissal. Because Kiyoko is Kiyoko, she doesn’t ask questions. She hovers at the entrance to your room, eyes flickering from you to the small window on the other side of the hall.

“You can lean on us, you know,” she says before she’s gone, always needing the last word, always right.

The pillow is a cloud beneath your head as you collapse, barely reaching out to extinguish the lamp before your eyes fall shut. But sleep doesn’t come easily. Your thoughts race, plummeting towards one inevitable conclusion. Kuroo’s face can’t be shaken, his sad eyes burned into the back of your eye lids.

But with his face comes the possibilities. You hadn’t lied to Kiyoko. Growing your own herbs, knowing how to properly use them, will be invaluable. A true asset.

Yet, the gleaming ideas don’t stop coming, the ways you could protect your people now. You can see them, laid out before you, like a map. Your fingers twitch, itching to pick them up, examine them all one by one. You almost can’t stop yourself from just considering what this could mean.

There is one person these people trust to make the hard decisions, the difficult, life and death ones. The quiet sounds of them sleeping, breathing, living, they surround you. Your heart beats in time to the little girl’s cough in cell block B. With every hitch of her brother’s chest, your own heart stutters. Thinking of their little faces is almost enough to make your eyes open again.

These are the people who are depending on you. Children, sick people, even more people who have nothing to live for anymore. Time is wearing them all down, you can tell.

The pressure doesn’t make your shoulders droop. Your back remains unbent, your stride unbroken as you mentally explore all avenues of thought.

The moon is low in the sky before you finally let yourself drift off, three plans beginning to form in the back of your mind.

[storyofpetals]

@oflockharted​ says: “  it doesn’t always have to be you, you know?  your shoulders aren’t the only ones that can bear the weight of the world.  ”  //hello!

( more prompts for your feels. )

☆ ━━━The party is resting at an inn within the quaint town of Kalm--but while everyone else sleeps within plush beds for what must feel like the first time in forever Cloud is wide awake, cataloguing all of their equipment, Materia, and food over and over again, playing out every possible what if in his head that could drain their supplies faster, and then he finds he has to start over because by day three they are already dead in his head--

Maybe if Aerith would actually ‘wait’ when I said wait--if Barret would stop pushing himself all the time--shit, Red eats a lot--

As the worries grow incessant and loud in his mind, he grows frustrated, his anxiety making his skin feel tight, as if the boiling emotions inside of him are going to rip through it too easily, leave him bleeding out on the carpet...

How the hell did I get here?

It’s at least 1AM at this point--the grandfather clock tucked into a corner of the room is a grating reminder as it chimes at the hour, melodically confirming the end is coming and Cloud feels like he’s the only one standing in its way--then he hears the shuffle of feet pad into the room...

He knows it’s Tifa, he’s keenly aware whenever she enters a room he resides in too--there’s that crackling that comes alive in his head at her so near, as if he can smell the smoke of their lies--though he doesn’t know why they burn like this...

Cloud turns from the dining table where he laid each piece of equipment out on its glossy surface, every item and weapon and Materia placed precisely, eerily organized just so. Tifa approaches these trinkets, reaches out her fingers to graze over a Potion glimmering dully from the lamps turned on around the room, despite the lighting being so dim.

He watches her closely as she regards these little things splayed out on the table, lined in rows and columns and spread apart the same set of inches where space would allow. Cloud could be meticulous, but when did it become madness?

Tifa has been quiet ever since Cloud told the party about what happened in Nibelheim five years ago--at least, the fragmented bits he could still stand to recall and not break apart entirely. Tifa stared at him as he spoke, as if she was watching a horror movie play out in the flesh... something felt wrong as he told them what he knew--like he was lying to them, but how could that be? That’s exactly what he remembers, down to the bloodied bodies scattered around their hometown, every marred face he could name then--

But she has something to say now among the shadows clinging to the walls: “It doesn’t always have to be you, you know?”

And he hears the flames in her tone, like smoldering embers trying to spark alive again.

“Your shoulders aren’t the only ones that can bear the weight of the world,” she whispers this, but to him the words are loud, SCREAMING.

He stares at her, his constant anxiety spinning her words just so, an anger simmering beneath his bones. 

“So,” he mutters defiantly. “You’re gonna be the one to take out Sephiroth then?”

It’s sarcastic, they both know who has to step up before that madman, the only one that has the means to his end--the only one with this cursed Mako pumping through his veins... it seems silly to deny this, because it’s his biggest fear and coldest truth.

He softens then, suddenly, realizing how mean the memories make him when they are right on the surface, swirling around the room like ash.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, putting a shaking hand to latch onto the back of a chair to hide his trembling fingertips. “I dunno Tifa, the closer we get to him--the more I wonder, can I do this? Sephiroth... he’s powerful, he isn’t like a normal person... he’s more than just a SOLDIER, he was always more than that...”

The way he speaks about Sephiroth still sounds bizarrely awed, but Cloud is smart enough to look scared. He looks like he did when he was twelve, after the other boys beat him up because Cloud tirelessly provoked them all the time, his expression broken, his blue eyes just the same as they would have been then: wide, seeking, dejected--but the Mako that glows within his irises ruin the effect, as it was never there before all this.

“He destroyed our entire village...” Cloud whispers this, so soft it could be missed. His tone is heavy, as if he’s suffocating from his next truth: “I was there that day and I couldn’t stop him--what changes anything this time?” 

He stares at Tifa, wondering if she has an answer for him that won’t be meaningless, bittersweet declarations set out into the room merely to fill the aching silence stretching between them. Cloud never talks about Nibelheim usually, but after the horrific tale he was forced to tell, those memories are flickering at his heels... burning him alive. 

[arabian-bloodstream]

Love and Lust

There has been some thought that the depiction of the sex between Arya and Gendry was just that of Arya wanting to see what it was all about or even just horny lust. While those were both clearly aspects of what happened, I think anyone seeing either of those things as the only interpretation of their love scene—because, yes, it was a love scene—missed out on quite a few key things not only in that scene but in their interaction earlier in the episode.

I also think that all of their interaction in this episode—including the lustier aspect of their lovemaking—made it fairly clear that, no, Gendry is not going to being dying in the upcoming battle. Read on…

The first episode established their attraction to one another with the flirting calling back to their shared history. This episode upped the ante with the attraction by adding a dose of lust, but deepened it by showing both the trust and ease they still share with one another that we know neither would easily share with others due to what’s happened to them in the intervening years.

There was a reminder of their history again (she remembered that he's a smith’s apprentice), he told her about beyond the wall, she called him out on glossing it over and made him tell her the truth. They were completely real with one another.

Arya showed Gendry her skill with a knife and her knowledge of death, making it clear how skilled a fighter she is, not hiding who she really is. Gendry told her that he was Robert Baratheon’s son, what Melisandre had done to him (in so many words) and his sexual history. That’s a lot of private, vulnerable information to share. And yet both did it easily. (Well, OK, Gendry was a bit cutely flustered with his last bit of share.)

There was so much stuff that the episode’s writer Bryan Cogman got in their two scenes... so much about their history, their trust in one another, their feelings, and how much set-up for what's to come to. All of that? Was showing how strong the foundation this relationship has.

I will circle back to some of these points later with regards to Gendry’s future, but first, let me tackle their other scenes. I mentioned at the top that their sex scene was a love scene and not just about horny lust or Arya wanting to try sex. And going into detail about that first scene was part of laying that down. But the second scene before the love scene as well goes into that.

It’s obvious with regards to Gendry that it is not just lust. The boy is completely gone for her. We saw that in the first scene after she threw the dragon glass knives and then said she wanted her weapon again and walked away, Gendry—unlike most sane people—looked completely awestruck and watched her walk away with hearts in his eyes. He’s completely lovestruck.

Also, in this second scene, after Arya made it clear that she wanted to have sex, Gendry’s said her name all soft and breathily. He didn’t pull away, he didn’t resist, he said her name and you could read exactly what he was saying in that exhalation of her name and by the expression on his face. He was saying: ‘Girl, you know I love you, but I'm not sure we should do this because I want to treasure you and treat you right, you know—’ But then she kissed him and he was like 'OK, fuck it, I'm having some SEX with milady! YEAH!'

And another so not just lust for Gendry, although this was more in between the lines. They wouldn’t have all but made the guy pretty much this close to a virgin. I mean… seriously. Honestly, I figured Gendry being practically a virgin would be fanon. I can’t believe that they basically made it canon. The guy was off of the show for three years—looking like that, fine as all hell—and they canonically had him actually say he only had sex with three women?! Bronn was literally with three women at the same time in the previous episode. I mean, yeah. Arya Stark is his fucking OTP. That essentially was the show’s shorthand way of saying so.  

Finally, anyone saying that this love scene was just lust was not paying attention to the last five to ten seconds. The final shot of Gendry before she comes down for the kiss he's just looking at her with complete and utter love in his gaze. Joe Dempsie played that like Gendry just completely adores Arya.... total heart eyes there.

So, you know that had to have been the direction, in the script, the plan… not lust… but love. And there is this comparison shot from Jon and Daenerys’ first-time making love where she is looking up at Jon with love and it is LITERALLY the exact same framing. LITERALLY.

From a directing point of view that is really telling. Jon and Daenerys are supposed to be this great love and there you have literally an IDENTICAL shot of Gendry and Arya. What these two shared in this episode was a lusty love scene, not just a sex scene. You can feel lust and love at the same time.

And, yeah, it was love for Arya too. She just didn’t quite realize it. But look at her face as she’s leaning down to kiss him. It’s dark and we don’t get the best angle because it’s a close-up, but there’s a softness there you can see. Which leads us to that final scene. She’s not numb; she’s not dissatisfied. She’s freaking the ever-loving fuck out.

She was feeling all kinds of hot, hot lust for him sure, and then she opened herself up to the feels and suddenly it was hitting her, she might die, *he* might die. And it was gonna hurt. A LOT. She’d already lost him once and it was going to be a helluva lot worse now because she’d re-opened herself up to him a lot more now. And in the past, Gendry hadn’t allowed himself to open himself up to her, but now… this time he had. They were open to each other and now they could very well both lose each other. She was shaken to the core. That was what we saw from her in the final scene.

A few additional thoughts…

- I loved the parallels beginning each of their scenes. Gendry doing his thing and then there was Arya watching him silently in the first scene. In the second, Arya doing her thing, Gendry watching her.

- Speaking of Arya watching Gendry in that first scene, damn, she was all but licking her lips…

- And then that little eyebrow raise she gave him when he first saw her and that smoldering look he sent back her way in return.... SO HOT!

- Joe Dempsie and Maisie Williams have such great chemistry. Damn, that scene was so fucking hot.

- Hah, it was funny. Silly Gendry, he was trying to assert some kind of dominance at one point, reaching out to wrap his hand around Arya’s head while they were kissing.... and boom within like two seconds, she shoved him onto the bags, LMAO. Nope, Gendry, she's the dominant.... always.

- Aww, but she let him take off his own pants. She was in complete command from beginning to end, but still gave him his own agency. She's so sweet.  It was definitely mutual all around.

- Speaking of… after Arya said that, the way he was so quickly untying those laces, LMAO.

- I did love that Arya just shoved him down (and, yes, it did remind me of when she did it when he kept calling her “Milady” back in season 02).

OK, circling back to Gendry’s future like I said I would… a lot that happened in this episode between these two actually made me more strongly believe that Gendry will *not* be dying any time soon. Why?

1.) Arya’s commentary about knowing death. 2.) Her knife-throwing kills. 3.) The focus on her scars, and then Gendry focusing on her scars. 4.) Gendry bringing up her wanting him to come to Winterfell. 5.) The fact that despite all of the set-up and the obvious love from Gendry’s side, Arya went into it just wanting his hot body to give her some loving. 6.) Gendry telling her he’s Robert Baratheon’s bastard. 7.) Arya’s realizing that she’s scared out of her ever-loving mind of losing Gendry (because, yeah, I’m sure that’s what the final scene meant).

In other words, there was SO MUCH SET-UP for more of their love story to flourish to come. Not to mention that Gendry still has more weapons to make, the Baratheon line is not going to die out. GRRM had three Baratheon bastards in the books and yet D&D only brought ONE to the show. I highly doubt it was just so that Arya could lose her virginity to him. If it was to have an “emotional impact” on her when he died… she would have been the one all “heart eyes emoji” during the love scene as opposed to Gendry.

Also, Joe Dempsie is wearing a Baratheon-style costume in the behind-the-scenes video for episode 01 while sitting on the set of a sunny climate and I doubt that Michelle Clapton would have created that for funsies.

Ergo, Gendry is not dying.

Thank you for coming to my Gendrya-themed Ted Talk.

[roxannarambles]

Fleeting Fireflies: Chapter Two

Title: Fleeting Fireflies

Author: Roxanna Rambles

Genre: Moomin/Deltarune Crossover, Snufmin

Rating: PG (depictions of mild violence)

Summary:

Snufkin and Moomin go out for a simple day at the beach. What they don’t expect is that they will end up on an adventure so grand, it will rival anything in Moominpapa’s memoirs.  

Or,

What if Suzy and Kris didn’t go to the supply closet that day in search of chalk? Would the lost prince of a dim kingdom ever find his champions?

Previous Chapters: Prologue  Chapter One

Next Chapters: Chapter Three  Chapter Four  Chapter Five

Notes: This story was written so that you do not need to know anything about Deltarune to enjoy this fic. However, you probably need to be at least a little familiar with the characters of Moominvalley to enjoy the story.

———————————————————————————

Chapter Two

"Good morning, Moomintroll!"

Moomin grumbled as Snufkin nudged him awake in a far too-cheerful voice.

"Jus' five more minutes . . ."

Snufkin nudged him again.

"C'mon, lazybutt, we gotta start the day sometime. Places to explore, things to do."

Moomin rolled over and gave a big yawn, stretching. As he blinked awake, the starry sky above greeted his eyes.

"Uhh? Snuf . . . it's still the middle of the night."

Snufkin smiled at him, but something about it looked a little strained.

"About that . . . it actually really is morning."

Moomin sat into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes.

"What're you talking about?"

If Snufkin was joking around, it wasn't an especially witty joke.

"Didn't you notice your last shift of keeping watch was still terribly dark?"

Moomin glanced around, still feeling slow and woozy from sleep. He hadn't noticed much of anything during his last watch because he'd simply been struggling to keep from falling asleep.

"Ummm. Maybe? I dunno."

Snufkin sat down beside him.

"Moomin. I know this is hard to believe, but around nine hours have passed since we went to bed, near as I can tell."

Moomin stared at Snufkin. He didn't seem to be joking.

"Snufkin, that's silly. How could it still be dark then?"

His friend leaned with his back against the fluffy bed of grass Moomin had made.

"Just another mystery about this place. That's about all I can give for an answer. But look over there."

Moomin followed to where Snufkin pointed, up in the sky. It was the moon, fairly low in the sky, at around three-quarters full.

"Well, it's the moon."

Moomin wasn't sure why that was so noteworthy, but he was in a way glad to see it; at least the moon still rose in the sky in this odd land.

"Notice anything different about it?"

Moomin stared at the moon, wondering what he meant. It looked pretty normal to him. It was around three-quarters the last night he'd seen it, after all. It shined gentle silver light, and . . . hmmm.

"Does it . . . is the moon's face gone, Snufkin?"

Or, perhaps not gone, exactly, but very different. Moomin always thought the moon seemed to have a face, with two eyes and a wide open mouth, but none of that was showing up on the moon right now. The large splotches of lighter and darker spaces were gone, replaced with simply a lot of very even speckling and a single dark little spot in the upper-left hand side.

"Mm-hmm. It sure is."

Moomin gazed a bit longer at the strange sight, then turned to Snufkin.

"So are you telling me that the sun never rises in this place, and the moon has lost its face?"

At this point, he probably should be getting used to these bizarre revelations, but he really hadn't. It just seemed too fantastical to be real. A land without sun?

"That's what seems to be the case."

Moomin slumped, sighing, his mind reeling. Where could they have gone to escape even the sun's reach?

"I have some good news, though," Snufkin said, rising and moving over toward their smoldering campfire. He returned and placed several star-shaped objects right in front of him.

"I found some fruit for breakfast! Give it a try."

Moomin picked up one of the fruits; it was large, around the size of a grapefruit, and it had a smooth skin. He couldn't quite tell whether the fruit was red or black-- its color seemed to change depending on the direction he was looking at it, and it almost seemed to glow. Speckled evenly across the surface of its skin was very pretty glittering, and as he moved the fruit around the glittering sparkled and shined.

"Wow, Snufkin. These look really beautiful."

He sniffed the fruit, and it had a pleasant, sweet scent. It was almost a shame to eat it, but Moomin was admittedly very hungry. He took a large bite. The skin broke easily and his teeth sunk into a very soft fruit, around the texture of a pear, and the bright, sweet taste poured over his senses. After gulping it down, he exclaimed,

"It's delicious! It-- it's strange, but I swear it tastes just like marshmallows!"

Snufkin grinned, looking very pleased that Moomin approved.

"Eat your fill, there's plenty growing on the tree I found."

Snufkin snapped his fingers, adding,

"Right, that reminds me! I have another good piece of news."

Distracted from chomping on the star-shaped fruit, Moomin glanced up.

"Hmm?"

Snufkin opened his hands in a happy gesture,

"We didn't die from mushroom poisoning!"

Moomin snorted.

"Snufkin."

"What? That's very good news. It means what we had last night is safe to eat. I'm going to forage a little up for later on."

So Snufkin filled his pockets with mushrooms while Moomin finished breakfast, and then they carefully doused the remains of their campfire. Moomin found himself feeling quite chipper, despite the fact that the sun hadn't risen and they were lost in an unknown wonderland.

"It's a shame we have to drag these things around, but that shield sure has been coming in handy," Moomin noted, picking up his purple sword again.

"It is a bit of a pain, you're right. Hopefully we find the owners soon."

They started out walking along the bank of the creek. Moomin tried to see how far along the creek went, but eventually it was obscured up ahead by all the grass and trees.

"Where d'you think the creek leads to, anyway?"

Snufkin adjusted his blue hat and shrugged.

"Only one way to find out. If we're lucky, though, we can find some fish. Mushroom and fruits are very good, but we might want some protein eventually."

Moomin thought a few minutes about what kinds of fish might live in this land.

"What if this sort of place doesn't even have fish?"

Snufkin had used his scarf to loop around the handle of the shield as a crude sort of sling, and was carrying the shield on his back like a pack.

"Well, we could always try and catch the bugs around here, in that case."

Moomin balked.

"Bugs?! You can't be serious."

"Why not? They can be very healthy to eat, you know."

Moomin eyed Snufkin, but his friend maintained a serious expression.

"I'll just . . . hope we find some fish."

As they walked along the creek, Moomin studied the water for critters of any sort. It was a little hard to see in the darkness, but at least with the moon now up, it brightened things up slightly more. The steady sound of the creek and their crunching through the underbrush reminded Moomin of many springs spent walking along the river in Moominvalley. It wasn't hard to pretend they were back there now, on a warm spring night, just going out for a stroll together. As long as he didn't let his gaze wander too far to the sides, where the strange black shadows loomed, or dwell too much on the colors of the foliage, that is.

For a time, that worked quite well. The two chattered about this and that as they walked, as if they were back home again; Moomin told Snufkin about how, a few days ago, Little My had climbed a tree and thrown buckeyes at Sniff until he'd curled in a ball and started crying; Snufkin told Moomin about an old tale about a pirate he'd heard from the locals during one of his travels. The illusion of their peaceful walk, however, was shattered when the pair eventually pushed past a patch of grass and ran right smack into a pair of snake people.

It seemed they had accidentally stumbled across the creatures while they'd been lounging by the creek, in fact; one of them had its robes off, in fact, and had been wading in the water. The snakes hissed in surprise and scrambled in sheer panic, grabbing up their weapons.

"Y-you! Uh, stop right there!"

"Halt! The royal guard commands you to halt!!"

Moomin and Snufkin froze in their tracks, watching the flustered snakes. One of the creatures cried,

"Good! S-stay halted!"

"I'm terribly sorry," Moomin answered them awkwardly,

"We didn't mean to startle you."

The second snake-- the one sans robe-- shouted back,

"You didn't startle us!!"

The first snake raised its blade, which started to glow a bright white.

"Right! You just fell into our clever trap, that's all!"

Moomin raised a brow. The snake ignored this and shouted,

"Now prepare to fight!!"

His friend also lifted his tiny, glowing blade and shouted,

"Yeah! En garde!"

Moomin exchanged a look with Snufkin. Then he sized up the two snakes.

With a sudden stabbing motion, he stuck his sword firmly into the ground and crossed his arms, glowering at the snake creatures.

"Don't be ridiculous. Now's not the time for joking around."

The two snake people looked at him with dumbfounded expressions. Then they looked back and forth between Moomin and Snufkin.

Moomin spoke in a stern tone,

"And just what do you two think you're doing, anyway? You're on duty and you're just playing in the creek! If the King hears about this, he'll have your tails!"

The snakes' eyes widened at the mention of the king and the naked snake squealed.

"Wh-whaaat? Who ARE you?"

Moomin puffed his chest, booming,

"Who am I?!"

He flicked his tail and laughed.

"Who am I?!"

He glanced to Snufkin. In a low voice, he muttered,

"Who am I, Snufkin?"

"Uhm, you're the King's new aide, of course! Sir."

Moomin looked back to the snake people and nodded vigorously,

"Right. Exactly. The King's new aide. I'm out here checking on you all, as a matter of a fact."

Moomin scowled a little and added,

"I'm surprised you haven't heard."

The snake still in robes spoke in an anxious whine,

"I-it was all Noor's fault, sir, I swear. He's the one who wanted to mess around--"

"Silence!" Moomin snapped,

"You're both acting disgraceful for members of the royal guard!"

The creatures both cowered. Lashing his tail, Moomin continued,

"Give me . . . one good reason I shouldn't report you both right now."

"Oh, please, sir. We were only here a moment."

"We were still patrolling our sector, it's true."

"Hmmmmmm."

Still with his arms crossed and wearing a scowl, Moomin pretended to consider it. In truth, he was stalling for time. He wasn't exactly sure what to do now that he'd gotten this far.

"If I might interrupt, Sir Moomin," Snufkin said calmly from beside him.

"Ah, of course, Snufkin. Go ahead."

"Perhaps we should inform these two about the King's orders for them to return to the castle?"

Moomin nodded curtly.

"Yes. Very well."

Moomin turned to the snake creatures.

"You . . .two! I've decided to have mercy. I will not inform the King of your misconduct. But, you must return to the castle immediately. King's orders."

The snakes looked somewhat confused. Meekly, the clothed snake asked,

"Why does he wish us to return to the castle?"

Moomin glared.

"That isn't important! What matters is that's what he's ordered!"

The snakes bobbed their heads and said,

"Of course, sir."

"Very sorry, sir. We'll go at once."

"Good. Leave our sight!"

The snakes scrambled to leave, but Snufkin called after them.

"Wait a moment!"

They froze and looked back at him, panic on their faces.

"Just so we know, which route back to the castle do you plan to take?"

The naked snake-- the poor fellow hadn't even stopped to grab his discarded robes-- answered,

"U-uh. Just. The usual? The, the path through Central Fields."

Snufkin nodded.

"All right. You can go."

The creatures didn't waste any time getting out of there, sliding through the tall grass and disappearing. Moomin and Snufkin waited several moments, and then Snufkin said,

"Good job, Moomin."

Moomin let out a breath.

"I wasn't sure if they'd buy it."

"It looks like they're headed to the path we were using earlier. Apparently it eventually leads to their castle."

Moomin plucked up his sword from the ground.

"Should we go back to the path then?"

"For the time being, I'd say. We can always return to the creek later."

The two friends pushed their way through the tall grass and eventually relocated the path without too much trouble. Moomin was reluctant to leave the creek behind, which had a relaxing, almost comforting presence. It felt rather out-in-the-open and exposed walking along the trail, but he was curious about the castle.

"What do you suppose the castle is like?" he asked, dragging the tip of his sword along the grass as they walked.

"Very well guarded, if what we've seen so far is any indication."

That was probably true.

"So if what we've seen so far is any indication, they're not likely to welcome us very well, either."

Snufkin looked as cool and collected as ever, replying,

"True, but we'll figure things out."

Moomin sighed, wishing he was as confidant as his friend was. Snufkin seemed to read his mind, although he wasn't even looking at him. He said,

"Like you did just now, convincing those fellows to leave us alone."

The troll wasn't entirely convinced that wasn't just luck, but all the same, it was a nice thought that he'd done well.

Their walk slipped back into a companionable silence for some time, as they followed the path through the grassy valley. There was still a gentle breeze, and it carried a soft, sweet scent; it was a pleasant companion on their trek. After around fifteen or twenty minutes, the creek cut across their path, and there was a small bridge leading over it. Moomin ran up to it, his heart skipping a beat at the sight. It reminded him of the little bridge very near his house, where he and Snufkin always sat and talked.

Once he reached the small bridge and hung his head over to look at the water, he realized something. As the creek crossed over them and flowed off to his left, it then vanished into the dark shadows. Moomin hasn't even realized the looming darkness had closed in so closely to both sides of them. He stared for a bit, trying to see the exact moment the water was eaten away by the blackness. There was something chilling about the sight.

"Moomin. Over there."

Beyond the bridge and further down the path, there seemed a tall stone pillar and another ivy-covered wall. Moomin and Snufkin made their way over.

"Another puzzle, you think?" Moomin asked, touching the stone pillar. It was covered in the boxy blue ivy and at its peak, there was a bright white point of light. Moomin peered up at it; it was a strange sort of light source that didn't really look like flame or anything. It almost seemed to be produced by magic.

"Definitely. There's a door here," Snufkin reported, standing by the wall.  

Moomin joined him, eyeing the door. It looked very old and heavy, like the last one, but unlike the other door, it lacked those strange symbols. Instead, it was entirely blank. It stood in the middle of the old wall, with the light from the pillar cast upon it.

There was something else, though; at Moomin's feet, near the wall, was a box. Well, to be more precise, it looked like a large wooden chest.

"What's this?"

Moomin hefted the chest lid open, which was surprisingly weighty, exposing its interior. It would have been fibbing to claim he didn't at least partially expect some sort of treasure in it. Instead, Moomin found a chest full of . . . blocks. He picked a few up. Wooden building blocks. The sort he played with when he was a small child.

"Blocks?"

Moomin handed a block to Snufkin.

"Yes. A lot of them. It's odd."

Snufkin looked them over briefly, and then returned his attention to the wall.

"There's more writing here," he said, brushing away the ivy leaves that were attempting to consume the words etched into the wall. He leaned in and read out loud slowly.

"Ebb turns to flow

Sun turns to moon

Each has their counterpart

As does the Rune."

Moomin had seated himself in front of the chest and had taken out some of the blocks. He looked up.

"Eh? Read it again, Snufkin."

Snufkin repeated the riddle. Moomin scratched his head.

"The first part's simple enough, I guess, but what's 'the Rune'?"

Snufkin looked thoughtful.

"Well, a rune is an ancient symbol of some kind. Often used in divination."

Moomin stacked a few of the blocks as he pondered.

"I haven't seen any symbols around here, except that one that's on your shield."

Snufkin pulled the shield from his back and studied the markings for a moment. Moomin asked,

"Do you suppose the rhyme means that symbol?"

Snufkin glanced about at the wall.

"Maybe. The last door had this symbol on it. This door is blank."

"Hmm, that's true."

Snufkin came over to sit beside Moomin and leaned his head in one hand.

"Ebb and flow, sun and moon. Each has their counterpart."

He watched Moomin building with the blocks.

"So what's the Rune's counterpart?"

"Um. A counterpart? So, opposites, right?"

"It seems so."

Moomin picked the shield up and looked at it closely.

"Like . . . it's a circle and three triangles. So maybe one triangle and three circles."

Snuf hummed in thought.

"Or, this," Moomin said, turning the shield upside-down.

"It's kinda opposite now?"

Snufkin took the shield back and studied it some more.

"Where does that leave us, though? What do we do with its opposite?"

Moomin shrugged. They fell quiet for a while as they puzzled over things. Moomin continued to play around with the blocks until he'd created a miniature castle. Eventually, Snufkin said,

"The blocks must have a purpose in all this."

They were just plain wooden blocks; most of them square and rectangular blocks, with a few arch-shapes Moomin used for the center castle walls, and a few triangular blocks that Moomin had used for the castle spires.

"I thought maybe making a castle might help somehow. I don't know."

Snuf nodded.

"It's good to play around with ideas and try different things."

Snufkin stared steadily at the castle. Then he looked back to the shield for a while longer. His expression seemed to grow increasingly tense. It took Moomin a while to realize, but Snufkin looked absolutely stumped. It was such a rare sight, Moomin couldn't help but marvel at it a little. Even Snufkin sometimes didn't know what to do.

Snufkin let out an irritated sigh and sort of slumped.

"I'm sorry, Moomin. I'm usually a bit better with these sorts of things."

He sounded so unhappy with himself. Moomin got to his feet and said,

"You musn't blame yourself, Snufkin. It's a very silly riddle."

At a loss, Moomin looked around, wanting to make some headway, at least for Snufkin's sake. If he could, he simply would have walked around the blasted wall-- but the perfectly black shadows were on either side of the walls and he didn't dare go anywhere near them. Without any other ideas, he wandered over to the stone pillar with the bright light, wondering if it related to their puzzle in any way. He touched the pillar, feeling around for any symbols or etched writings or heck, secret switches or anything. He stared up at the light, still unsure how it was made.

"It's a very odd light, isn't it, Snufkin?"

Snufkin made a mildly interested 'hmm' at that, clearly still lost in unhappy thoughts. Moomin swished his tail.

"Snufkin. What do you think it's made of? Magic, maybe?"

Snufkin turned away from Moomin, adjusting so that he was slumped more comfortably, and mumbled.

"Maybe. Hard to say."

Moomin flattened his ears a little, annoyed. He needed Snufkin's help, he couldn't just mope about. He began to move back over to Snufkin and say as much;

"Snufkin, you can't just--"

"--wait, Moomin. Stop right there."

Moomin froze in place. He frowned.

"What?"

Snufkin was still facing away from Moomin and toward the wall, but he spoke in a clear voice;

"Go back to where you were."

Moomin was mystified but took a few steps back toward the light pillar.

"Here?"

Snufkin got to his feet. He looked excited.

"Look."

He was pointing at the wall. Honestly, Moomin didn't see anything unusual.

"Look at what?"

Snufkin grinned. He quickly walked over to the wall with the door, then pointed again.

"You see? It's your counterpart."

Moomin squinted.

"Snufkin, it's just a wall! Where??"

Snufkin pointed emphatically.

"There!! Right there!"

Moomin shouted,

"Snufkin!"

His friend chuckled.

"Your shadow, Moomin."

Moomin stared. It . . . was technically true; his shadow cast large upon the wall as he stood in the light. And it . . . was a counterpart, of sorts.

He crossed his arms.

"Ok, I guess so. But we want the Rune's counterpart, don't we?"

Snufkin nodded. He picked up a couple blocks.

"I have an idea."

He came over to a point between the light pillar and the wall, and began stacking blocks. At the peak of one stack, he placed one of the triangular blocks. It cast its long shadow upon the wall, over the door. He repeated the process for a second block tower, and then carefully aligned a third tower, slightly shorter and in between, to cast a third triangle shadow. The pattern did seem to correspond beautifully with the strange symbol on their shield.

The thing was, those were only the triangles. Moomin came over to look into the chest full of blocks.

"Are there any circles, though, Snuf?"

Snufkin sighed and shook his head.

"Unfortunately, no. That's the problem."

With some careful stacking and playing around, they were both able to arrange the arch-shaped blocks to look like the pair of wings in the 'Rune' symbol. However, that still didn't solve the problem of no round blocks. They looked around the immediate area for something they might use in substitution, but there was little else around.

"Can we use me? I'm rather round."

Snufkin laughed affectionately.

"I'm afraid your shadow would be too large."

Moomin sighed, as that was probably true. He thought about the shield momentarily, but it was decidedly shield-shaped and not round. Besides, it was probably too large as well. Moomin was about to suggest searching further away for something when suddenly Snufkin reached into the pile of blocks and grabbed up one of the triangular ones.

"Hold on, I've been foolish!"

Moomin cast him a curious gaze.

"Snufkin, that's a triangle."

Snufkin reached up with his triangular block, aligning its shadow above the others, lining up just right so it matched the rest of the Rune pattern.

"No it isn't," he said, and then turned the block so that its bottom faced them. The block was, of course, a pyramid shape-- and it had a rounded base. When Snufkin turned it, its shadow transformed from a triangle to a circle.

All at once, there was a deep rumbling, something Moomin could practically feel through the ground, and the heavy stone door, with the complete shadow Rune cast over it, slid down and open.

Moomin stared a moment and then cheered exuberantly.

"Snufkin, you did it!"

His friend warmly replied,

"We did it. I might have given up if not for you."

The two friends quickly gathered up their sword and shield and made their way through the door, not wanting to give it a chance to close. The path on the other side looked much the same as before, but still, it felt like a grand accomplishment.

"We may be in trouble if these riddles get much more complicated than they already are."

"Well," Snufkin mused,

"Let's just hope we don't run into any more trouble for the day."

The words had hardly left Snufkin's mouth when there was a sudden shout.

"You! Stop right there, the both of you!"

Only a few feet from the door they'd just opened, the pair stopped walking. From the grass to their sides, there came a rustling, and then one of the robed snake people appeared.

Moomin groaned. Snufkin quietly muttered,

"Sorry, Moomin, I didn't mean to jinx it."

Several more snake people popped out from the grass-- two, three, then four. Five total. They circled Snufkin and Moomin, glaring with their bright, creepy eyes. Moomin felt very uneasy. This was not like before. That was just a pair of meek goofballs. These looked serious. Moomin doubted he could talk them down like the others.

Still, he could give it a shot.

Gathering up his courage, he held his sword in a threatening stance and shouted out,

"And just who are you to give us orders?"

The laughter of the first snake that had appeared was a black and ugly sound.

"Such a preoccupation with names, you Lightners. Very well. I am Commander Nassak. And by the will of our great and glorious King, I order you to halt."

Moomin recognized that voice. It was the snake from yesterday-- could he really call it yesterday if it was only ever night in this world? In any case, it was the snake from before, the leader of the group that had harassed them. It seemed he'd added to the size of his group since then.

"Tell me, how did you two manage to get by the door puzzle? That was meant to keep scum like you out."

Moomin lashed his tail angrily and held his threatening posture.

"Maybe we're not who you think we are."

The snake snorted at him.

"I'm not falling for that one again. You're no innocent civilian."

Snufkin, with his shield carefully raised, chimed in calmly;

"We never claimed to be citizens, only that we're travelers."

"Please. Spare us your charades."

The snake, Nassak, gestured to the others. All around them, the snakes lifted their tiny blades and they began to glow, powering up for attack.

Tensely, Moomin flicked his gaze about to each of the snake people. Conflict seemed inevitable at this point. They couldn't exactly run away like before.

"We've done nothing to harm anyone, so why--"

"FIRE!"

The snakes unleashed their first volley of diamond-shaped magic bullets, slicing through the air from multiple directions. Snufkin grabbed Moomin's wrist and twirled them about in a circle, blocking them both with his shield and avoiding all the hits. Moomin heard the commander snake snarl in rage and whip his own weapon in the air; using his purple sword, Moomin slashed and deflected the bullets rushing at him.

The commander barked,

"Dresden, Cora, attack pattern diamond cutter! Nizam, Noor, diamond release!"

Moomin was mystified over what he was talking about, but their foes responded immediately, powering up their swords and swinging them again. White-hot bullets slashed at them from the sides but also began raining down from above. Snufkin slid to Moomin's side, lifting the shield like an umbrella to try and block for the both of them, but suddenly jerked and cried out in pain as some of the bullets struck him in the back.

"Snufkin!"

Moomin pulled Snufkin by the arm and tried to block the diagonal bullets with his sword, protecting Snufkin, but his guarding wasn't perfect and he felt the hot pricks of the magic peppering at him. The snakes kept sliding and moving about, circling them as they attacked, and it was getting hard to predict their movements. There was a very brief pause as they powered their weapons for attack again, and Moomin heard the commander shout.

"Everyone! Diamond release, now!"

The sky was filled with a vicious rain, bullets pouring down upon them. Snufkin lifted his shield as an umbrella again, leaning into Moomin to maximize coverage, wincing as the bullets splashed around them. With such a downpour there wasn't much to do--

But then the commander swung his blade and shot a rapid volley straight at them.

Moomin cried out and tried to block with his sword, but the awful diamonds flitted right past and found their mark, burying into Snufkin's chest and face. Snufkin's cry of pain was right in Moomin's ears, ringing in his eardrums. Moomin held onto Snufkin, desperate to shield him. He saw the burn marks etched into Snufkin.

He turned to the snake commander, a newfound rage glinting in his green-blue eyes.

Then he launched himself directly at the snake, screaming in fury, swinging his purple sword.

The commander tried to jump out of the way, but Moomin grabbed onto him before he could slip away and pinned him down, then he slashed with his weapon, the air whipping at the attacks, deep ugly lines cutting into the snake's skin. The snake cried out in pain.

Moomin kept swinging.

At some point, he felt Snufkin grabbing him, pulling at him, trying to stop him. Snuf managed to get Moomin's sword away from him, but Moomin was still seething down at the snake he had pinned.

"Moomin. Moomin, stop. I'm ok, Moomin."

It took time, but eventually Snufkin's words reached him. He blinked. He stared down at the snake. It was writhing in pain, covered in marks, whimpering.

Moomin stood up abruptly and took a step back. His face fell into an expression of horror.

"Ah--I-- oh, Snufkin."

Moomin felt his eyes begin to well in tears. He realized the other snake people had been looking on in horror at the scene, having halted their attacks. He turned to them.

"I . . . I'm sorry."

His tears spilled over. The other snakes didn't say anything, just moved to their commander's side. They helped him up quickly and began to hobble away. Moomin could scarcely even watch, and he turned away, tears running down his cheeks.

After a moment, he felt a gentle touch at his face. He looked up into the kind eyes of his friend.

"Snufkin," he mumbled, sniffing and wiping at his face in shame.

"Moomin," Snufkin intoned gently. At that, Moomin sobbed, and he buried his face into Snufkin's shoulders, hugging him and crying.

For a few solid minutes, Moomin just hugged Snufkin and cried, while Snufkin made soothing sounds, rubbing his back.

Eventually, Moomin stood shakily, and he said in a small voice,

"Snufkin . . . do you . . . think they'll be alright?"

Snufkin nodded, hand still on Moomin's back in comfort.

"His friends will take care of him."

Moomin thought back to his strikes, the swings he'd put his full force into. He felt a little queasy.

"H-how? I . . ."

Snufkin squeezed his shoulder.

"I don't think they're like us. Their bodies are a bit sturdier than ours. The . . . wounds didn't look fatal. I'm sure of it."

Moomin looked at him, letting Snufkin's confidant eyes convince him. It was a comfort, but the thought that if had they been any other type of more fragile creatures . . . well. That was not a comforting train of thought.

Moomin swallowed and said,

"I just, when I saw how hurt you were . . . "

He trailed off, and gingerly reached out, brushing his fingers on Snufkin's face. The burn marks were etched across his cheek, drawing painful-looking wounds, and trailed down across his chest, too, burned through his clothes. It was a horrible thing to look at.

"It's ok, Moomin. Nothing vital was hit. I'll recover fine."

Moomin could feel the sting of tears again, but he pushed it back. Instead, he fell quiet, his throat feeling as though it had a painful lump. For a minute or two he stood there, trying to think of what to say. He really had no idea.

Ultimately, he settled for,

"I feel terrible."

Snufkin squeezed his shoulder again.

"I know. Violence feels that way."

Moomin looked up at him, gratitude in his eyes that Snufkin seemed to understand. How did he do that? He always seemed to understand things.

"I didn't even know that I could ever . . . that I could ever hurt anybody."

He rubbed at his face and added,

"Ugh, and you're here comforting me when I should be doing that for you, when you're the one hurt."

He glanced up and said,

"I'm a terrible person."

"No," Snufkin said firmly, so firmly that it startled Moomin.

"You're not. You saw me hurt, you wanted to protect me. That's natural. That's good."

"But . . ."

Snufkin gently nudged Moomin, trying to coax him into moving.

"Come on. Let's return to the creek. It'll give us a chance to rest."

Moomin allowed Snufkin to guide him along. He was not paying much attention, still lost in his thoughts, but at some point they ended up at the creek again. Moomin sat at its edge and dangled his feet off into the water. With his head in both hands, he stared down into the water.

"We should get that cleaned up," Snufkin murmured, touching Moomin's arm. Moomin looked up in confusion. Only then did he notice his arm was peppered in blistering marks from the magic bullets.

"Oh. I didn't even notice. You're much worse off than me, Snufkin."

Snufkin sat down beside Moomin.

"I look way worse than I feel. Try not to worry yourself too much over it."

Moomin gazed back down into the water. He could see their reflections looking back up at them; Moomin's peachy-orange fur, Snufkin's dark blue clothing interrupted by the scorch marks. Moomin thought of how they'd solved the puzzle with their shadow counterparts, and idly wondered if reflections were a counterpart of sorts as well.

"Still feeling bad?" Snufkin asked, voice gentle and soothing. Moomin nodded silently.

He saw Snufkin's reflection pull out his harmonica. Without a word, he began to play.

The tune was immediately familiar. It was Moomin's favorite song, and no doubt the reason Snufkin had chosen it. Moomin sighed, grumpy at first, not really wanting to feel better. Why should he listen to such a lovely tune? But as the bright, playful melody unfolded, Moomin closed his eyes and sighed again.

It was impossible, really, to not enjoy Snufkin's music when he played. It was full of more spirit and life than anything else Moomin had ever heard. So, he listened to him play, the sound echoing along the creek in a pleasant way, and Moomin felt a warmth glowing in his chest. He marveled over the feeling. It wasn't uncommon to feel this way when listening to Snufkin play, but somehow it was even stronger than usual, a tingling, glowing warmth that crawled up his arms and down his legs and through to his tail. Lost in the sensation, he startled when Snufkin stopped playing and tapped his shoulder lightly.

"Ah. What is it?"

Snufkin pointed. At . . . Moomin? His arm, specifically. Moomin looked at it.

"What are you . . . w-wait."

The burn marks and ugly blisters on Moomin's arm were completely gone.

"What?!"

He touched his arm and rubbed it up and down. He squeezed it. It felt completely healthy.

"Snufkin, how . . .?"

"I honestly don't know," Snufkin said, looking fascinated.

"While I was playing, I saw your wounds just . . . healing on their own. As if by magic."

Moomin stared at his own arm, amazed. He looked up to Snufkin.

"I was just thinking about your music and how nice it always makes me feel, and I . . . gosh, Snufkin, I think you healed me!"

Snufkin almost seemed shy at the thought.

"You think so?"

Moomin gestured broadly.

"This place is so strange, and it's obviously full of magic. Who knows, maybe you're tapping into some innate magical power because you're here!"

Snufkin toyed with the harmonica in his hands.

"Perhaps it was just coincidence, though."

Moomin touched Snufkin's face, saying,

"Try to do it again, maybe you can heal yourself too."

Snufkin seemed wary of the idea, but he closed his eyes and obliged, picking the tune back up again. Moomin watched carefully. After a minute or two, though, he hadn't noticed any changes.

"Hmm. I wonder why it isn't working for you."

Snufkin shrugged.

"It may have been coincidental after all."

Moomin frowned. He didn't believe so.

"What were you thinking when you played the song just now?"

Snufkin fiddled idly with his harmonica.

"Well, not much. Just wondering if it would work."

"And what were you thinking when you played before that?"

Snufkin shrugged again.

"Just . . . how much I wanted you to feel better."

Moomin nodded.

"Right. Play again, but this time think about feeling better. About feeling good. Ok?"

"All right," Snufkin said, looking mildly amused but also curious. He closed his eyes and played again. This time, the notes seemed to bounce and sway lighter than before-- playful and cheery, and downright exuberant. Moomin's tail swished along with the song helplessly. Nothing else seemed to change, though. Just as Moomin felt as though they should call it quits, he sucked in a breath.

The awful marks on Snufkin's chest began to glow.

As Snufkin continued to play, his chest grew brighter and brighter, a white, magical light. Not long after, the marks etched across his face did the same. Moomin stared, absolutely fascinated. After around a minute, the glow began to slowly fade. Snufkin let his song come to a bouncy halt, and then, blip! The light stopped. His face was unscarred and normal-- his chest as well, looking pink and healthy under the tears in his clothes. He was healed.

"Snuf, you did it! Oh my gosh, that was amazing!"

Snufkin looked down at himself, rubbing his tattered smock.

"I'll be. I've never seen anything like this. Magical healing."

Moomin clapped his paws happily.

"How wonderful. I'm so glad you're all better now!"

Snufkin smiled beautifully, which was thankfully no longer marred by the burn marks.

"I'm glad you feel better too."

The two were exhausted after their ordeal, so it was decided that now was the perfect time to make a meal and rest. Snufkin built a cooking fire, boiled some water to purify so they could drink, and then set about making some stew. Moomin was curious, so Snufkin taught him a little about handling unfamiliar mushrooms and what common signs of toxicity were, and then showed him how he made something palatable with limited ingredients. The stew was a little tastier this time, as they used more mushrooms and flowers and allowed it to simmer quite a bit. Still not as lovely without the fish, but it wasn't bad.

After eating, Moomin waded into the creek to generally mess about. Nearby, Snufkin was sorting through a little pile of sticks.

"Moomin," his friend said after a while,

"Would you mind if I whittled some wood?"

Moomin raised one brow.

"Why would I mind?"

Snufkin looked hesitant. But then he spoke directly;

"A little while back, when we ran into trouble, one of those fellows dropped their blade in the chaos and I nicked it, thinking it might be handy."

Moomin's ears drooped at the mention of before.

"Oh."

He thought about it a moment. Then he said,

"Of course, go right ahead. It was good thinking, Snufkin."

So Snufkin drew the small blade from his pocket. It was an odd little thing, with a squat, almost diamond-shaped blade only a few inches long, and a nice, large handle; hardly more than a pocket knife. The blade was a normal silvery metal color-- it only seemed to glow white when the creatures had used their magic. Moomin wondered how it worked.

Snufkin didn't seem concerned with those deeper questions and was content in the moment with just using it to whittle wood. It appeared to work just fine for that task. After watching him a bit, Moomin went back to wading through the creek. He was just shuffling about idly and looking for flat rocks to skip over the water, but then a flash of bright pink caught his eye. Moomin stared into the water and poked cautiously in with a paw, then saw the pink flash again-- a little fish darting by.

Excited, he told Snufkin about it. It had only been a small thing, hardly more than a fry, but it was still a good sign.

"Good job, Moomin," Snufkin said.

"Perhaps I should switch to making a fishing rod. We're bound to find something larger later on."

Moomin looked down near Snufkin's feet, noticing he'd been whittling the sticks into wooden spoons.

"Can you really do that? Make an entire fishing rod, I mean."

Snufkin nodded.

"It would be pretty primitive, but it's possible. Flexible greenwood for the pole, plant fibers to weave for the line . . . the hook would be the hardest around here."

Moomin sat down in the grass beside Snufkin.

"I see."

Snufkin was busy buffing and smoothing the spoon he was working on with a rough rock. Moomin watched his expert crafting. After a spell, Snufkin asked,

"Do you feel more rested now?"

Moomin sort of shrugged and flitted his tail. He wasn't exactly tired, not physically at least.

Snufkin followed up his question with another.

"Do you want to walk more today?"

Moomin looked up at the sky as he pondered. Honestly, he felt done with walking for quite a while.

Sighing, he said,

"Can you even really call it today if there's no sun?"

Snufkin smiled faintly and said,

"Fair enough. But the moon's movement shows that around eight hours have passed since we woke. Almost a full day's worth of time, though not quite."

Moomin thought about walking more, and he thought about possibly running into more snake people along the way. He grimaced, unsure how to respond, but Snufkin interrupted his train of thought.

"How about this. I think we've done enough traveling for now, don't you? I've got an idea for an important project."

Moomin perked up a little, curious.

"You mean a fishing rod?"

Snufkin set down the spoon he'd finished sanding and polishing and gave him an enigmatic smile.

"No, we can worry about fishing a bit later. For now, we'll need a lot of long plant fibers. I think the grass around here should do nicely."

Moomin suspected Snufkin was being mysterious about the project for no good reason other than to intrigue him, but he was interested anyway. So they carefully harvested patches of grass before Snufkin sat down and taught Moomin how to weave the grass strands together. The task was essentially braiding rope, and Moomin found it actually kind of relaxing. The strands were braided together into little pieces of rope, and then those pieces were braided in with other pieces to create an even thicker length of rope.

After they'd made a large amount of rope, Snufkin started weaving the pieces of rope in a far more complicated shape. Moomin stopped helping as he had no clue what Snufkin was doing anymore. It looked like he was trying to play cat's cradle. Gradually, though, the tangle of ropes took shape, and he'd ended up making a sack-shaped bag made of tight rope mesh. He attached rope handles to the sides so the bag could be worn on the back. Then he placed the wood spoons inside and explained that they could carry important things now, like fruits they find and other foods and all the other survival tools.

Moomin thought the bag was very impressive, and it had been actually fun to make. He hadn't even realized Snufkin could create such things, although it wasn't surprising. He asked if they should make a second bag.

"Actually, I had another idea for the leftover rope," Snufkin had said.

Next then, Snufkin took the tiny blade he'd been using to help whittle and cut grass. He measured its size and wound rope about it. Then he fashioned a very nice little sheath for the tiny blade, fitting it snugly into place. It even had a little loop of rope to tie it about and keep it from slipping out.

When he was done, he slipped the sheathed knife into the bag. Moomin thought it was an absolute marvel of ingenuity. They still had a lot of leftover rope, though, as the knife sheath hadn't taken up all that much to begin with.

"Tell me what you think," Snufkin said when Moomin had pointed that out.

"I could make another sheath, this time for the sword. Would you like that?"

Moomin balked. He'd been trying not to think about it, but now he looked over to where they'd left the sword laying in the grass. It . . . well.

Part of Moomin wanted to just leave that thing where it was laying right now, and never see it again. He hated the thought of carrying it with them any further, let alone possibly using it again.

But another part of Moomin was terrified of the thought of Snufkin getting hurt again, and he couldn't exactly justify throwing away his only source of defense against hostile people, either. What if he was helpless to protect Snufkin?

The whole thing made Moomin's stomach knot up. Snufkin seemed to see the dilemma he was going through, settling a hand on him. Gently, Snufkin said,

"The nice thing about a scabbard is you never have to draw the sword if you don't want to."

Moomin looked to Snufkin, the anguish plain in his green-blue eyes. In a quiet mumble, he said,

"What if . . . what if I hurt somebody?"

Snufkin looked at him for a little bit, then sighed softly.

"I believe that nine times out of ten, there's always some other way to deal with problems, if you look hard enough to find it. But when it's that tenth time . . . well . . . some people may leave you with few alternatives. I'm not going to lie and say those times don't ever exist."

Snufkin reached out again and squeezed Moomin's shoulder.

"But Moomin, I trust you to be able to handle that kind of choice. Even if your choice is to never draw a weapon during that tenth time."

Moomin glanced away. After a few moments, he said quietly,

"Let's make the scabbard."

The process was not too complicated. After Snufkin created the scabbard itself, he measured some rope for Moomin's waist and attached the scabbard, allowing it to be worn like a belt. It fit comfortably without pinching but didn't slide about.

By the time they'd finished making it, they were both feeling tired. The moon had set in the eternally-dark sky, and a new, colder breeze had begun to stir in the valley. They rekindled the coals of their fire, snacked on a bit more stew-- using their new spoons instead of awkwardly scooping with stones-- and then laid out a bed of grass to sleep upon.

Snufkin had the official first watch again, as he'd preferred it, but Moomin wasn't quite ready to fall asleep right away. He instead lay on his back, arms tucked under his head, gazing up at the sky with Snufkin. There were so many different points of light, all in such a swirl overhead. It made him think about how they too were just tiny points of light in the dark.

He shivered a little and curled his tail around Snufkin, not wanting to feel too alone out here. Snufkin glanced down from his survey of the sky.

"You cold?"

Moomin nodded.

"A little."

There was a sharp, nipping breeze cutting through the area. Even through Moomin's coat, it was a little chilly.

Snufkin picked a stick up and poked the nearby dwindling fire, then shifted a little, leaning further against Moomin, sharing his warmth.

"Better? I can fetch more wood if you'd like."

Moomin nuzzled his face against his side and said,

"This is fine."

Moomin was finally feeling drowsy, so he let his exhaustion slowly claim him. Closing his eyes and breathing the scent of campfire and Snufkin's smock, he drifted off to sleep.

[chiseler]

ZOOT SUIT KILLERS

Joseph Annunziata,

On November 20 1942, a Brooklyn jury returned guilty verdicts on a pair of Williamsburg teens, 16-year-old Neil Simonelli and 18-year-old Joseph Annunziata, for the murder of Irwin Goodman, their math teacher at William J. Gaynor High School. The two of them had never much liked Goodman, a 36-year-old father of two. When he reported them to the principal for smoking in the boys' room, they walked eight blocks to Simonelli's home, where they picked up a pistol, then back to the school. They confronted Goodman and got into a scuffle with him. The gun, which Annunziata was holding, went off, perhaps accidentally, fatally shooting Goodman through the back. Because the jury entertained a doubt that the shooting was premeditated, they convicted the boys of murder in the second degree. The pair went off to Sing Sing together to begin sentences of 20 years to life. Had the verdict been first-degree murder, they could have been the youngest New Yorkers ever executed. 

The city's newspapers, from the New York Times to the Brooklyn Eagle, provided extensive coverage of the case, and there was commentary in national magazines like Time. What fascinated them all, beyond the crime itself, was the boys' lifestyle and attire: uniformly, the press described Simonelli and Annunciate as "jitterbugs," "Zoot Suit Youths" and "Zoot Suit Killers."

 Neil Simonelli

Whether or not anyone in the press had actually seen Simonelli and Annunziata wearing zoot suits was a moot point. By 1942, "zoot suit" was a metonym for "juvenile delinquent." What the black leather jacket and the hoodie were to later generations, the zoot suit was to the war years. 

When the zoot suit first appeared it was mostly associated with black youths and the jitterbug in neighborhoods like Harlem. It consisted of an outrageously outsized jacket, with superwide padded shoulders, that hung down to the knees and the fingertips. The pants were exaggerated as well, ballooning and deeply pleated, then pegged tight at the ankles. A broad-brimmed or porkpie hat, pointed or platform shoes, a long watch chain, and a variety of tie styles completed the ensemble. 

At first it was seen as a rather comical and harmless style, just another example of young people going to silly sartorial extremes. It began to look more sinister amid increasing worries about what life in wartime was doing to America's families and children. 

The Depression and Dust Bowl 1930s had already wreaked havoc on the American family, turning millions into homeless migrants, splitting off husbands who went on the bum seeking any work they could find, forcing some mothers and daughters into prostitution, and enticing some young men into lives of crime and gangsterism. The war brought new dislocations and disorder. Some 15 million Americans were uprooted again, trekking across the country seeking defense work. Many moved more than once during the war, and few returned to their point of origin after it. 

From 1940 well into 1943, the Selective Service exempted fathers with dependent children. But with the military's ever-expanding need for manpower, fathers eventually began to be drafted. The government started sending monthly checks to servicemen's families in 1942, but in expensive cities like New York it often wasn't enough to run a household. By 1944, more than a million servicemen's wives had taken jobs. 

Kids were working too. In the Depression years, new legislation against child labor had been enacted, largely to prevent kids from taking scarce jobs away from adult males. Now, as labor shortages grew more severe, many states and localities rolled back those restrictions. As a result, by 1944 high school enrollment had fallen 25%, while the employment of youths 14 to 18 had more than doubled. An estimated 2 million high schoolers had dropped out to take jobs, and many planned not to go back to school. 

The impact of all this on kids' lives could be profound. They might lose their father for the duration, or forever. They might follow their parents from one defense job to another, always the new kids in the neighborhood and at school. If they stayed in school, whether dad was gone and mom worked or both parents worked, kids now found themselves with lots of free, unsupervised time. If they dropped out and took jobs, they had cash in their pockets to spend any way they wanted. 

And they were growing up in wartime. Teenage boys too young to be sent to fight knew that in a year or two or three they might well be. In the meantime they wanted to look and feel as manly as their fathers and older brothers in uniform. According to law enforcement, teenage gang activity and street fighting escalated, and the violence grew more serious; where teen gangs had formerly used fists and clubs, they now wielded zip guns and flick-knives, sometimes inflicting deadly harm. Teenage girls as well as boys took to drinking, smoking, and sexual pickups, in full eat-drink-and-be-merry mode. Adults labeled it "war degeneracy." It's no coincidence that the terms "youth culture" and "teenager" (or "teen-ager") were also coined in this period. They were something new, a generation of latchkey kids, army brats, war orphans.

The story of Simonelli and Annunziata neatly encapsulated what was seen as a broader trend. Youth crime figures in the first full year of the war were so disturbing, J. Edgar Hoover said, that a "counter-offensive" was necessary to prevent "a breakdown on our home front." He told a graduating class at the FBI Academy, "Something has happened to our moral fibers when the nation's youths under voting age accounted for 15 per cent of all murders, 35 per cent of all robberies, 58 per cent of all car thefts and 50 per cent of all burglaries." Later studies showed that nationwide juvenile delinquency arrests rose 72 per cent during the war. In Brooklyn, it was 100 per cent. 

By 1942, the year of Simonelli and Annunziata, the zoot was identified as much with this behavior as with lindy-hopping and jitterbugging. That year, the War Production Board actually declared the zoot suit unpatriotic, because it was a waste of material in a time of rationing. The wide, pleated skirts girls wore for jitterbugging (and showing off their underwear) were denounced on the same grounds.

In 1943, one in five arrests was of someone under 18. But that year offered clear evidence that at least some of those arrests were the result of harassment and bias as much as bad behavior. That June, white sailors and soldiers in Los Angeles went on a rampage, attacking Mexican American teens all over the city. The "pachucos" fought back, and a week of rioting followed. The national press, against all evidence that the white servicemen had instigated a race riot, chose to call it a "zoot suit riot." 

A new raft of stories followed, as journalists competed to define what the zoot was, what it meant, who wore it, and who invented it. Claimants to the latter ranged from a busboy in Atlanta to tailors in Memphis, Chicago, and L.A. The New Yorker, not surprisingly, decided that it started in Gotham. "With some friendly cooperation from the editors of the Amsterdam News, an uptown newspaper published by and for colored people, we got in touch with Lew Eisenstein, proprietor of Lew's Pants Store, on 125th Street," a "Talk of the Town" piece called "Zoot Lore" explained that June. Supposedly Lew's wife first pegged some loose pants in 1934, and the rest of the zoot suit followed in due course. Lew took credit for adding the long watch chain. Their claims were, of course, disputed by others. 

The zoot suit would live on past the war, mostly worn by black and Hispanic men, though the influence of its wide shoulders and voluminous pants could be discerned in all men's suits in the early 1950s. Concerns about juvenile delinquency also continued after the war, rising to a level of national panic in the 1950s.

The story of the zoot suit killers lived on in its own way. In 1947, Irving Shulman's pulp novel The Amboy Dukes, set in wartime Brooklyn, was a shock sensation, selling five million copies even as it was banned in some locales for its sex and violence. Schulman, who was from Brooklyn himself and spent the war years writing for the War Department in Washington, clearly used Simonelli and Annunziata as the models for his lead characters Frank Goldfarb and Benny Semmel. They're a pair of juvenile delinquents in Jewish Brownsville, products of its "ugly gray and red tenements, tombstones of disease, unrest and smoldering violence… It was as if nothing bright would ever shine on Amboy Street." While their parents do defense work, Frank and Benny hook school almost constantly to hang out with their gang, the Amboy Dukes. They make money selling counterfeit gas ration coupons on the black market, and spend it on liquor, marijuana, zip guns and whores. They too accidentally shoot and kill a teacher in a scuffle, and come to a worse end for it than their real-life models.

Lurid yet relentlessly downbeat, The Amboy Dukes both looked back to the worst of wartime New York and ahead to 1950s juvenile delinquent tales like Blackboard Jungle and Shulman's own Rebel Without a Cause. (He would also write a novelization of West Side Story.) After the scandal kicked up by its first appearance, later editions dialed back the sex and violence and, interestingly, deracinated the two anti-heroes by giving them less Jewish-sounding surnames. In 1949 it was adapted for the film City Across the River. 

by John Strausbaugh

[spellcastersjudgement]

Scoopshipping #33 (I love the way you write those two. Their interactions are so satisfying? Like what Carly notices about Jack and the dumb shit Jack says. I love it so I have to ask for more)

ahhhhh stop youre making me blush!!! 

i am always here to provide scoop needs ask away :D

#33: a forceful kiss

The general rule was that one heard Carly Carmine long before she was seen, be it the clicking of her camera or her laughter. Jack had once thought it was obnoxious that she was always talking, preferred to tune out her ramblings or attempt to shut her down with remarks that made most people never want to speak to him again, but he underestimated how persistent she could be. At first it was annoying, just another journalist looking for their fifteen minutes, but after she’d decided to change the subject of her blog from dueling to politics and was no longer by his side constantly, he began to miss her, much to his own distaste. A few months later he got a girlfriend (or rather, she got him since she was the one that formally defined the relationship) and now the thought of not hearing her voice made him ungodly levels of disappointed. 

Carly left early, long before the sun was up, to head down to the station and get ready for the morning news. Jack almost never saw her before she left, too heavy a sleeper to be woken by her wriggling out from his embrace. The earliest he ever saw her was the early afternoon if she could slip out of preparing for the next day’s program to collapse on the couch, and that was only if he had taken a break from training long enough to stop home for lunch. 

Today, though, there was no distraction. It was almost six o’clock in the morning, the sun not even awake yet, apparently not interested in warming up the December air. Jack didn’t mind the cold, but it was inconvenient that when he arrived at the track to train it was in half-darkness, making him wish his duel runner had headlights. Carly always left before the sun was up, her show beginning at five, right when masochists–morning people, really, but Jack liked his sleep and could never imagine his alarm going off before nine–were waking up for their long commutes. He felt off-balance as he sat up in bed, grunting as his back popped, rubbing his eyes, cursing himself for not being able to fall back asleep. 

He wasn’t quite sure why he was up anyway, and that made him smolder as he stood up, the cold air biting his exposed arms. Carly radiated too much heat for him to wear more weather-appropriate pajamas, which was great when she was here but made for a very uncomfortable walk to where his robe was thrown over the back of a chair. Being warm made his mood improve only by a fraction. 

Jack had walked down the stairs multiple times a day, but right now the way his feet fell against the wood, echoing in the vaulted ceilings annoyed him. If he hadn’t had multiple noise complaints from neighbors regarding his screams at inanimate objects he would’ve yelled at the stairs. It was too quiet, it was cold, it was dark. If he was going to be awake early he should’ve at least been able to see his girlfriend before he left. Now he was alone in the house and Mina wouldn’t be here until nine to make him coffee–not that he was incapable of using the espresso machine, just Mina and Carly had both agreed it was best he stay away from it when he broke the last one for not foaming his milk correctly. 

It had been his fault, he realized now. He wasn’t holding the frothing pitcher correctly, and even though Mina had told him as such, he’d punched it anyway. 

His assistant would have to forgive him for breaking the rule this time. Mina had firsthand knowledge of how he was without coffee, and if the headache set in it would be an even worse morning for him, which would inevitably ruin everyone else’s day. Jack would explain that his recent discovery of a thing called ‘consideration’ had driven him to caffeinate himself, saving his staff from lots of yelling and whining later. 

Standing in the kitchen, Jack wondered when making coffee had become so complicated. When he and Yusei were growing up they’d stirred instant packets into water they���d nuked in the microwave. Now Yusei had graduated to a coffee pot, which was not nearly as high quality as the stuff Jack’s machine produced, but he would be lying if he didn’t miss the simplicity. Now he had to grind the beans, pack them in to the portafilter, get the milk–ugh, too much. He would never have to deal with this nonsense if he were still asleep. 

It was nonsense to have to uncross his arms, which he felt made him appear truly angry with his predicament, but he was once again dangerously close to bitching at whatever he looked at next to fill the silence. The fridge blasted him with cold and he muttered obscenities at the light making him screw his eyes shut. Carly always bought that free-range grass-fed organic milk that came in a carton and made him feel like he was back in middle school flinging chicken nuggets at Yusei and Crow. 

It was skim milk. Water, essentially. Unreal. Someone was getting screamed at for this later. 

Lining up his supplies, he felt like a surgeon. He had half a mind to say “nurse” and hold his hand out expectantly. Of course, there was no one else in the house to play along with him. 

Carly would do it. They always did silly things like that, things Jack would never admit to because he had a reputation. Now he would just have to imagine it. Or not, as the grinder made him jump, the sound breaking the oppressive silence but ruining his thoughts of Carly. At least it smelled nice, perking him up the slightest bit as he packed in the finely-ground beans, attaching it to the machine, putting the shot glass (it had a formal name but Jack could never think of it any other way) under the spout, hoping that whatever setting he switched the machine to wouldn’t make the thing blow up. Milk was next, and by god if he didn’t get this right and lost his mind and broke it again–he could already hear Mina chewing him out. 

That wouldn’t happen, not this time. Though he was annoyed his girlfriend drank the watery mess masquerading as milk, he would not allow that to get him bitched at by his assistant, at least not for this. 

Did the steam wand have to be so squeaky and loud and–ugh, awful. He was glaring at the bubbles forming on the milk, thinking about being up, being cold, feeling lonely in this huge house without another person, without Carly. 

He was veering into dangerously sentimental territory, and when Jack Atlas got sentimental he ended up embarrassing himself. 

“Holy–god fuck–shit!” he cried, the metal of the pitcher burning his palm. Dropping it on the counter with minimal spilling, the steam was whistling through the wand no longer muffled by milk, and he stared at it, holding his hand under the faucet, nice and livid, wanting to wrench the thin silver rod off the machine. 

He did not do that, he wouldn’t do that. Turning various knobs until the noises stopped and the lights on the machine turned off, he dumped the espresso in the first cup he saw, which was actually a cup that Akiza had given Carly, the two of their smiling faces looking up at him, mocking his anger. His girlfriend would most likely key his motorcycle if he ruined the cup and take pictures of the tears dripping down his face so he vowed to be careful with it as he poured the milk in, not even bothering to make the foam look pretty like Mina did. 

Cleaning up the machine sounded like too much work. The clock read a quarter past six and he wasn’t due at the track until ten. This was the only situation where he would ever complain about having a later start to the day. Sipping the coffee and grimacing at his impatience for it was burning his tongue and aggravating him more. He sunk down on the couch, the black surface of the television reflecting his scowl back at him. Quiet again. 

He sat there for about two minutes, nothing but the slurping of his coffee to keep him company, before he realized he was a fucking idiot. 

The remote sat by his right hand, the television right in front of him, where with a click of the button he could have Carly in front of him, hear her voice, see her smile. He couldn’t believe himself. He blamed it on the fact he’d barely got a quarter of the way down the cup. 

Flicking on the television, Jack jumped at the obscenely loud volume. They’d been playing video games last night, had forgotten to turn down the volume evidently, and he was paying for it now. It wasn’t the right channel, meaning he once again had to lift his arm and move his fingers to click the ‘3,’ a travesty. When would they create televisions that could read his mind and switch the channel itself? 

It was the weather, not Carly, yet another thing to add to why this morning was shit. Jack could do this man’s job, and probably be more entertaining. Cold, that was the forecast. They could say it in one word and switch back to the Carly. 

Jack was about three seconds away from throwing the remote at the screen when he finally got what he’d been suffering through the weather report for. 

“Thank you for that, James,” Carly’s voice made Jack’s mood instantly improve, like the sun was shining directly into the living room. He never cared for the way they did her makeup or hair, felt like it made her look too stiff and pale. Originally the producers had thrown a fit that she dyed her hair green, but she had raised a ruckus worthy of Jack Atlas himself to keep it. They got their revenge by not letting her wear it down, instead pulling it up into a tight bun that aged her about ten years. 

Despite the hair and makeup department’s best attempts to make his girlfriend seem to be a cookie cutter version of every news anchor out there, her energy made Jack wish he could listen to updates about the recent congressional elections all day. His eyes slid shut. Her voice, the way she gesticulated, hands waving in the air to emphasize her point, sometimes accidentally bumping the co-host in the shoulder, the way she’d fidget with her glasses while waiting for an interviewee to answer her question–all of it comforted him. 

And it made him intensely angry. 

Shooting up off the couch, coffee in hand, Jack Atlas thundered up the stairs. He’d never gotten dressed so quickly in his life, jeans and a sweater, the simplest of outfits that he normally detested, and he only took small comfort in the fact they were both designer and perfectly tailored to his body. He set the coffee down momentarily to put in his earrings and pull on his boots. This would be the closest the Master of Faster would ever get to ‘bumming it,’ and if he weren’t thrumming with rage he would have the decency to be angry at himself. 

Back down the stairs, holding the coffee far away from him so it wouldn’t slosh onto the cream-colored sweater because that would be an absolutely horrendous thing. He was already disgracing himself for the purposes of going down to the news station, no need to add insult to injury. 

Living in the heart of a city usually meant uncomfortable levels of noise and constant streams of tourists, but Jack could understand the positives when he only had to drive five minutes to the station (it was really a ten minute drive but he had no regard for speed limits or road signs). 

The short drive over, Jack’s fingers gripped the steering wheel, the other bringing coffee to his lips, eyes glaring over the rim of the cup. This had been a spectacularly unfair morning. Awake too early, cold, having to make his own coffee–all bullshit. The worst part, the part that made him want to start throwing things just to hear them shatter, was that he’d had to suffer through all of this without Carly. He was not going to be shafted like this. 

There weren’t any open parking spaces in front of the station, so Jack pulled into the fire lane and hoped a police officer would ticket him just so he had someone to yell at. Opening the door, he sped up the stairs, shouldering an intern out of the way, voices growing louder. 

Carly. He could hear Carly, long before he saw her as usual. 

Jack had only been here a handful of times, mostly to bring his girlfriend something she’d forgotten, like the one time she’d forgotten her glasses on the nightstand and called him, frantic, on a commercial break. He remembered enough to open the door that would lead him to where she was, though it seemed like her voice was coming from all around him, blaring through speakers, and though not unpleasant it did make locating her difficult. 

“Hey, you can’t–” 

Jack glared at the camera man as he passed, ignoring the illuminated “On Air” sign. Carly was talking about some upcoming charity ball for Christmas that Mina would certainly make them attend, and Jack saw confusion on the co-host’s face as he came to tower over Carly. 

This would get him a dressing-down from Mina, but he had to–he had to roughly grab Carly’s shoulders, hear her squeak in surprise, turn her to face him as he bent in half, hands tilting her face up as he pressed his lips to hers. 

It was a rough, impatient kiss, his fingers sliding in to her hair, searching for those godawful pins that held up her hair, pulling them out one by one, throwing them to the floor as they kissed. Carly was responding in full, her hand on his cheek, noses brushing together, her teeth playfully nipping at his lip. 

“Excuse me, uh, Carly? Can that wait for commercial?” 

Jack growled, pushing his tongue into his girlfriend’s mouth. Her hands slid around his neck, a moan rumbling through her throat, hair falling about her shoulders as he finally freed her hair. The anger in his chest had finally started to subside. 

“Carly, come on, kids are watching this,” 

The co-host (Jack had never bothered to learn his name) pulled her away, his fingers tugging at her blazer. A smacking sound erupted as they separated, and Jack was ready to reach over her and kill this man. 

“Oh, um,” Carly was looking up at him, cheeks flushed and lips glistening with saliva. “Sorry ‘bout that, got excited. Say hi to everyone while you’re here, Jack,” 

Waving vaguely in the camera’s direction, he never took his eyes off Carly. 

“Next commercial break. I’ll be waiting.” 

[anadriftsoul]

Rebirth

/The trees were like fallen soldiers. The skeletal remains of the proud, the powerful, so old they seemed nearly invincible before the battlefield of winter had taken them to their deaths.

The trees were my constant and only companions in the world of solitude I’d recently self-imposed. One caught my attention in particular. It was standing strong but naked without its spring leaves and armored in withered bark. Rather than collapsed like its timbered comrades, it had taken a final bow, coming to rest in that very image, somehow managing to succumb to the elements with a tragic grace, bent but not broken. God damn it was like staring in a mirror. It was quite something what nature could reflect for a person. Seclusion helped to carve out the details of the surroundings in greater relief than any place busy with distractions. This was the driving force behind my decision to seek it.

Life had found me at a crossroad, one of many predecessors. Some intersections in life were there to teach you how wrong you could be about a person, good and bad. Others were like a little red string, tied around a finger reminding you that despite the twenty-four seven date with oneself, you still had shit to learn.

Anyone who’d ambled through this forest never would have questioned the integrity of the trees nor their staying power but here they were, chopped back down to size by forces they couldn’t combat. It was among these once living giants my truth was blatantly clear.

I’d long thought I’d settled into a way of life I found satisfaction in. Demons, though, have a way of resurfacing where you can’t quite kiss them goodbye. Mine lingered, like an itch you couldn’t scratch. To cope with this internal prey, somewhere along the line I’d unintentionally stopped taking in the details, allowing the edges of my reality to blur. My metaphoric knife needed a sharpening and the evergreens of the Pacific Northwest, were my stone.

I’d fed egregiously before I’d come into the forest, draining human after human before embarking on my walkabout. It wasn’t blood I was after, but energy. I took varying degrees of youth, rage, angst, will power, a dash of confidence, a side of spring in my step, stripping my victims of what had been driving them, leaving them minus the things I had absorbed.  Aside from strapping myself with the extra fortitude, the feedings allowed the fringe benefit of quality time with Mr. Vitamin D himself, hello sunshine. Too long between feedings and I’d have to hit the vein directly, but I preferred not to get energetically emaciated. The atrophy of one’s brain was not at all pleasant, trust.

I was not unused to being on my own; I had been a solo rider for the better part of eighty-five years. My parents had been unfailing companions until their immortality had been robbed in an act of homicide, one that had gone an unsolved. I was only just fifteen. Revisiting that set of memories was well north of unpleasant. Like an old Polaroid, the color had faded but the image would not be erased. Their bodies had been smoldering in their own hearth, their heads on either side of the mantle. My screams had caused a ringing in my own ears. My pursuit for their assassins would not find an end, not without avenging the only family that had ever been mine. Even with my determination, it was unlikely I’d ever find their killers, especially after I’d let my concentration dull. I knew their assailants could only be vampire. And… That. Was. It.

My focus had been sacrificed for far too long in favor of pleasure, indulgence in travel and music and arts and literature and food and sex. I freelanced as a private investigator, solving cold cases.  In the rage of my grief I had found myself an opportunistic sleuth, hence the Jaxon PI gig. Helping others find the closure I couldn’t worked as well as bandages do, covering up the wound, not allowing it to become infected, but not actually doing much for the healing. I had relied on those bandages, lying to myself that I was moving on.

I never had.

The unresolved had the power to surface like bile in the stomach after a bad meal. One day I woke up, eyes wide open to the realization that all my movement actually had left me standing still. I was no closer to the truth than I had been the day I’d let it all fall to my subconscious and also no less alone. I hit another crossroad, this one telling me to go back three spaces and find that closure I’d lied to myself about possessing. Facing all that, to put it bluntly, sucked, but what else could be expected with reopening wounds. It also left me with a bitter aftertaste for allowing the trail to grow not just cold, but downright polar.

This restart would be out of the fray and modern day distractions. The world was too far gone into virtual reality and it took a shit ton of efforting to concentrate on the real deal. John Muir knew what he was doing, that man was a sage.

I walked right into those trees, minus a map and purposely lost the trail. As my resistance to the sun’s companionship started to diminish just three days into my walkabout, I’d found myself in that field full of fallen troops. Fixated on their various states and arrangements, I moved from tree to tree, taking time with each one, letting imagination tell me their fictional stories and how they had met their end. It was in a particularly dense section a flash of light had caught my eye. Hidden among the overgrowth was an abandoned cabin. Boarded up and barely discernible, clearly the forest had been working on reclaiming it. Damn, nature was fucking fantastic. Gut instinct hit with a force that nearly knocked me silly. I hadn’t known I’d been looking for it, but somehow the place had found me. Completely out of the fray and off the grid, it called out to me, “Welcome home, Jaxon.”

I set to work without delay, clearing the brush to see what I had to work with. Whoever had left the place clearly had no intentions of returning. It was a shell, for certain, but the foundation was solid and it even had a working well, not to mention solar panels. Five out of the six were busted and needed replacing; I’d have to get them on the first trip back to the city.

The inside of the three bedroom was caked with about ten years worth of dust and an entire universe of cobwebs.  It was sparsely equipped with a few necessities but not a lick of furniture.  Someone had lived here at some point and they’d had to have hauled shit away which meant I could come back with what I needed to make this homestead all my own.

With a reluctance and an inner voice crying out it was “too soon” I made a trip back to plugged in, concrete reality a few days later. I had a mental list of what was needed, and the walk out provided me enough time to navigate how in the hell I was going to return with construction supplies because I was damn sure Home Depot wasn’t delivering. The strength of twenty men on my side, the clever trick would be accessing the trail without notice considering a new mattress would be part of the loot. Cloak of night it would be.

I’d liked to have said I only picked up the necessities, but it would be a whopping lie, considering I’d grabbed my record player and about five hundred out of ten thousand of my vinyl sweethearts, some books and a decent amount of food. No television or computer though, I was going unplugged. I fed again, this time tapping the human’s vein, not because I’d gone too long, but because it would allow me the luxury of working under the sun. Blood gave me a day pass the canopy of trees could not. I’d have a good two weeks, give or take a few days.

It took about twice as long as the trip into town to get back with what equated to enough shit to fill a truck bed, but it was worth the hassle not to have to make two. I was itching to be away from the confines of modernity; somehow I had become trapped by a world that was wide open.

First order of business was setting in the solar panels so I could run more than just the fridge. My laughs echoed in the trees at the awareness the very beast that could kill me was going to provide me electricity. Sunshine, so fickle.

It had been a long ass time since I had worked with my hands and I was savoring every busted knuckle and blood sacrifice my project claimed. I was digging the outdoor shower, which needed a few alterations to accommodate those times I had to stay out of the sun.

After the outside was addressed in the span of a week, I worked on making the inside a lot more livable, first up was building a bed frame for the monster mattress that I’d hauled for miles off trail, still wrapped in its plastic.

The interior I banged out in a day and it was then and only then I allowed myself to celebrate with a scalding shower, half a bottle of good vodka to my head and some vinyl spinning under the needle with the windows wide open to all that piney, fresh air.

I had nowhere to be, no one to answer to. Lost to the world, I only hoped I would find myself./

[aion-rsa]

James Bond Movies Streaming Guide: Where to Watch 007 Online

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

In times of great stress it’s natural for us to all find some sort of escapism – and movies are the perfect way to forget about your problems (or the world’s) for a couple of hours. Personally, we’ve found the James Bond franchise to be among the best forms of such entertainment: the movies are pure adventure and fantasy, they have a comforting template that they mostly follow, and you can dive into the series — or even an individual film — without having to catch up on anything that came before.

That’s why it’s so heartening that — even though the new film, No Time to Die, has been delayed due to the COVID-19 crisis — most of the Bond catalog is available to watch via the major streaming platforms. Amazon has many of them streaming for free for Prime members, with almost all available to rent or buy. A number of titles are free to stream on Hulu or Netflix. Of course, you can also watch a lot of them (with commercials) on Pluto TV’s dedicated Bond channel, or on demand there as well.

Wherever you get your Bond, the exploits of 007 remain a sure bet to whisk you away for a while; it’s only a shame that we couldn’t send Bond to defeat the coronavirus as easily as he takes out his enemies. And with the recent passing of original James Bond Sean Connery at the age of 90, you might want to revisit his work, as well.

Here’s how and where you can watch…

Dr. No (1962)

The first Bond movie and still one of the best, Dr. No introduced so many elements of what became the series template for decades to come. Unsettling megalomaniac villain, world-spanning evil plan, drop-dead beautiful women, pulse-pounding chases and cold-blooded killings…they’re all here. And then of course there was the late, great Sean Connery, rugged, smoldering and deadly as the definitive screen Bond.

Available to rent or buy on Amazon and Amazon UK

From Russia with Love (1963)

Connery’s second outing as 007 is probably the closest to Fleming’s books in terms of overall tone and style. This is a lean, thrilling adventure that puts Bond up against one of his most fearsome enemies: the cold-blooded assassin Red Grant (Robert Shaw). Their train fight is one of the best scenes in the franchise.

Available on Amazon and Hulu, to rent or buy on Amazon UK

Goldfinger (1964)

Bond’s third outing was the Avengers: Endgame of its time, a cultural event not to be missed. Director Guy Hamilton introduced more humor into the proceedings, while Connery tweaked the character accordingly. Add to that more action, a larger than life villain and an epic scope, and you have the movie that many still consider the best of the series.

Available to rent or buy on Amazon and Amazon UK

Thunderball (1965)

After three straight winners, Thunderball is where the 007 series first started to wobble. Although it features one of the best Bond villains and some of the most beautiful Bond women, the movie is overlong and bogged down with too many underwater sequences. Thunderball is still fun in many ways — the first 40 minutes or so are marvelous — but it spends way too much time in the water.

Available on Amazon, Hulu and Pluto TV, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

You Only Live Twice (1967)

The final entry of Connery’s initial run as 007 proves that bigger isn’t always better. Although the movie finally introduces long-lurking nemesis Blofeld and takes Bond to a massive secret lair disguised as a volcano in Japan, the series started to feel flabby and the star seemed visibly bored. It was also the first Bond movie to stray wildly from the source novel, a decision that in this case didn’t work.

Available on Amazon, Hulu and Pluto TV, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

Casino Royale (1967)

Producer Charles K. Feldman acquired the rights to the first Bond novel before the official series from Eon Productions was launched. He subsequently produced this spoof of the 007 series, which bears only the title of the book and the name of the Bond character (who is played by David Niven). Six credited directors, a bevy of screenwriters and a boatload of international stars couldn’t salvage this infamous mess of a movie.

Available to rent or buy on Amazon and Amazon UK

On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (1969)

Australian model-turned-actor George Lazenby made his sole appearance as Bond in this sixth film, an exceptionally faithful adaptation of the emotionally devastating Fleming book it’s based on. Lazenby manages to acquit himself nicely despite being the first actor to follow Connery, while Diana Rigg and Telly Savalas are outstanding as, respectively, the love of Bond’s life and the instrument of her death. Once considered a misfire, OHMSS ranks among the very best of the series.

Available on Amazon, Hulu and Pluto TV, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

Diamonds are Forever (1971)

A pale echo of the earlier Goldfinger (from the same director, Guy Hamilton), Diamonds are Forever is remembered as the movie that lured Sean Connery back for one more turn in the tuxedo (until 12 years later, that is). The sober, character-driven style of OHMSS is jettisoned for a cartoonish romp that has its fun moments but is largely disposable.

Available on Amazon, Hulu and Pluto TV, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

Live and Let Die (1973)

Roger Moore’s debut in the role — after Connery exited for a second time — is, sadly, a largely cringeworthy affair. Based on Fleming’s second 007 novel, the movie’s attempt to fuse blaxploitation with Bond is awkward and, nowadays, borderline racist. Moore doesn’t quite find his footing either. The upside? The title song by Paul McCartney and Wings is a stone cold classic.

Available on Amazon, Hulu and Pluto TV, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

The Man with the Golden Gun (1974)

Based on Fleming’s final Bond novel and considered one of the worst of the Roger Moore era, The Man with the Golden Gun has two things going for it: a relatively tough Moore performance and one of the best Bond villains of all time in Christopher Lee’s title baddie, Scaramanga. Lee’s presence literally saves whole stretches of the film, which is often undone by juvenile humor and lame supporting characters.

Available on Amazon, Hulu and Pluto TV, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

The Spy Who Loved Me (1977)

Third time was the charm for Roger Moore, as The Spy Who Loved Me gambles on going for all-out spectacle and delivers handsomely. Moore strikes the right balance of grit and humor, the action is thrilling throughout and the villain’s henchman, Jaws (Richard Kiel), is a slam dunk. This is rightly considered the high point of Moore’s run as well as one of the series’ finest entries.

Available to rent or buy on Amazon and Amazon UK

Moonraker (1979)

Although remembered with some derision as “Bond in space,” Moonraker really only takes 007 to the stars in the final act for a wacked-out battle that looks too much like a cheap grab at some of that then-lucrative Star Wars money. Until then, however — and barring some bad comedy starring the encoring Jaws — Moonraker is a fairly straightforward thriller with a deliciously droll villain (Michael Lonsdale).

Available on Amazon, Hulu and Pluto TV, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

For Your Eyes Only (1981)

Moore gives perhaps the best performance of his seven Bond films in a taut thriller that scales back the gimmickry and comes closer to the feel of the original Fleming than any other film in the Moore era. There are some cringeworthy elements (such as an awful Lynn Holly Johnson as a 007-infatuated pro ice skater), but this also features Moore at his most cold-blooded and cynical. 

Available on Amazon and Hulu, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

Octopussy (1983)

An aging Moore and director John Glen (back for the second of five films — the most of any 007 director) keep the For Your Eyes Only vibe going with less spectacle and more practical spy film action. Maud Adams is good as the title femme fatale, but the film gets snarled in a convoluted, uninteresting plot that features some especially flat humor and one of the weakest Bond villains.

Available on Amazon, Hulu and Pluto TV, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

Never Say Never Again (1983)

Sean Connery was coaxed back to play an appropriately aged Bond in this non-canon 007 adventure. A remake of Thunderball that was legally made possible due to certain rights owned by a solitary producer, Never Say Never Again benefits from the Connery charisma, a distinctive villain and some stylish sequences. But it can’t help feeling like a strange mirror universe cash grab at the same time.

Available on Pluto TV, to rent or buy on Amazon and Amazon UK

A View to a Kill (1985)

Moore bows out with a rather silly Silicon Valley adventure in which the actor’s 57 years (at the time) are clearly visible throughout. Christopher Walken is an excellent, quirky villain and henchwoman Grace Jones is also an impressive presence, but it was clear that the Moore formula of suave bonhomie and locker room humor was long worn out.

Available on Amazon and Hulu, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

The Living Daylights (1987)

Timothy Dalton’s debut as 007 was billed as a return to the feel and texture of the Fleming stories, and it even borrows elements from the short story it’s based on. Dalton is a much harder-edged Bond than his predecessor Moore, but the movie is overplotted and its action mostly unremarkable.

Available on Amazon, Hulu and Pluto TV, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

License to Kill (1989)

Dalton settles into the role in his second (and as it turns out, final) appearance as Bond, this time in a tale that puts Bond on a personal mission of revenge against a powerful South American drug lord. Somewhat maligned for its rather sadistic violence, License to Kill is an underrated entry in the series that occasionally pushes the envelope for 007 in ways that hadn’t been done for a while.

Available on Amazon, Hulu and Pluto TV, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

GoldenEye (1995)

After nearly winning the role years earlier, Pierce Brosnan makes his long-expected debut as 007 in a rather thoughtful thriller that questions both Bond’s relationships and his place in a post-Cold War world. Brosnan is assured in the role, if a little bland, but GoldenEye still manages to feel a little like both the earlier Connery classics and some of the better Moore romps.

Available on Netflix, available to rent or buy on Amazon and Amazon UK

Tomorrow Never Dies (1997)

Jonathan Pryce is excellent as the movie’s Rupert Murdoch-like media mogul villain — who intends to start a major war to bolster his news network’s ratings — and Michelle Yeoh makes a solid foil to Bond as a tough Chinese agent named Wai Lin. Brosnan’s sophomore Bond outing has a subtle satirical edge to it and some exciting scenes, but stretches of it seem more impersonal and functional than stylish.

Available on Amazon, Netflix, Hulu, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

The World is Not Enough (1999)

Despite strong work from Sophie Marceau as a 007 first — a principal villain who’s also a woman — and Robert Carlyle as her damaged terrorist henchman, Brosnan’s third film is marred by another incomprehensible story and Denise Richards as one of the most embarrassing Bond women ever. The humor and serious moments clash awkwardly, harming what could have been a much better entry.

Available on Amazon, Netflix, Hulu, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

Die Another Day (2002)

Just like Connery and Moore, Brosnan goes out on a low note with this ridiculously overstuffed mess that features both an invisible car and a high-tech lair made out of ice. The plot is even more incomprehensible than usual for the lesser outings, and the presence of Halle Berry as a sort of female version of Bond doesn’t generate much excitement either.

Available to rent or buy on Amazon and Amazon UK

Casino Royale (2006)

Four years after Pierce Brosnan exited in one of the silliest Bond films, Daniel Craig took up the mantle in an instant classic that returned the series literally to its roots. This largely faithful version of Fleming’s first book features Craig as a relatively new but deeply haunted 007, who gets one last chance to turn back before becoming the ruthless assassin of legend.

Available on Amazon, Hulu and Netflix, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

Quantum of Solace (2008)

Widely derided at the time, and deservedly so, for Marc Forster’s nearly unwatchable direction — the movie’s editing is absolutely atrocious — Quantum of Solace was also hurt by a writer’s strike that left the script somewhat undercooked. But Craig is excellent again, and the movie works a little better if you watch it right after Casino Royale, as an extended epilogue.

Available on Amazon, Netflix and Hulu, available to rent or buy on Amazon UK

Skyfall (2012)

Craig’s second finest outing as Bond has impressively stylish direction by Sam Mendes and is one of the most beautiful-looking 007 films of all time thanks to DP Roger Deakins. Javier Bardem is marvelously ghoulish as the villain, and Judi Dench gets an emotional send-off in her seventh and final appearance as Bond’s boss M. Skyfall finds the right, gripping mix of characterization and epic action.

Available to rent or buy on Amazon, Amazon UK

Spectre (2015)

Bond arch-nemesis Blofeld (Christoph Waltz) and the title crime organization appear for the first time since 1971’s Diamonds are Forever in one of 007’s most polarizing entries. The action is great and some of the series callbacks are fun, but Craig seems bored and tying everything from the last four films back to Bond’s childhood is a contrived, unnecessary mistake. Spectre is better than you might have heard, but not as good as it could be.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Available to rent or buy on Amazon, Amazon UK

The post James Bond Movies Streaming Guide: Where to Watch 007 Online appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/2UNvQ6O

[distant-rose-archive-blog]

The Fourth Musketeer

Note: I owe someone out there a Beth/Gideon fic and I was working on it rather diligently until my laptop decided to die and I lost a big chunk of it. It was 5,000 words and I only saved like 3,700 of them so I decided to take a break because I was so angry. During that break, I was talking to @welllpthisishappening​ (as par the course with me) and during a conversation, we somehow created a fourth Jones sibling for the Little Pirates ‘verse, which through a monkey wrench because I had all of their lives mapped out and now I have to redo a huge chunk to make up for this cutie that we came up with. (I’m really not mad, if anything more amused because I get to play around with this universe more.) Anyway, @welllpthisishappening​ is entirely to to blame for this monster right here, which I both love and hate her for. Anyway, if you’re unfamiliar with the Little Pirates ‘verse and wish to read more, here’s a link to my pseudo-master post: [LINK]. Please note: Anything under Ever After verse is a bit null and void at the moment because it doesn’t take into account Ned’s existence.  Summary: After her horrendous pregnancy with her daughter, Emma Swan was pretty set on not having anymore kids…or so she thought. Rated: T+ Word Count: 7,200+

It all started at Granny’s when they had to meet her parents and siblings for dinner. The joint Charming-Jones clan was big enough to warrant a second table being tacked onto their booth and the kids were banished to the secondary table while Emma sat between Killian and Henry. The kids, for once, were getting along and minding their own business. They all seemed to be focused on Emma’s younger sister Ruthie, watching as she began to draw on her placemat with more artistic skill at six years old than Emma had in her entire life. None of them seemed to notice anxious energy surrounding Snow and David, but Emma had picked it up almost as soon as she walked into the dinner. Her parents were looking at them with nervous smiles, their hands interlaced tightly on the table.

“So…we have news…” Snow started somewhat nervously.

“Very exciting but unexpected news,” David clarified giving Snow’s hand a squeeze in support.

“Okay…I will have to be the judge of that, but I can’t necessarily tell you if it’s exciting and unexpected if I don’t know what it is,” Emma replied, giving them both an impatient look that blatantly expressed her desire for them to just come out with it. She had never been very good at guessing games.

“Well, umm…we’re pregnant again,” Snow announced with a somewhat self-conscious smile. “It’s a bit of a surprise, but we’re happy about it.”

“That’s awesome, Grandma!” Henry laughed, leaning over to brush his hand against theirs because he couldn’t necessarily hug them while being trapped in the booth by his mother and stepfather.

“Congratulations both of you,” Killian replied before Emma could even comprehend fully what her mother had said. “How far along are you?”

“Twelve weeks,” Snow replied.

Her small smile grew before Emma’s eyes until it was beaming. David’s expression matched hers; his own smile dazzling and so big that the corners of his eyes crinkled a bit. Emma couldn’t remember the last time that she saw them smile like that. Fuck, her mother was actually glowing. She was the only pregnant woman that Emma knew who actually glowed when pregnant. Emma had always felt like fricking Emily Rose from that weird exorcism movie that she watched on On-Demand one time because it was free, especially with Beth. Her last pregnancy was horrible.

“You’re pregnant?” Emma croaked out before she could stop herself. She was still coming to grips with her mother’s announcement. She hadn’t been expecting it, especially since they were now either entering or currently in their forties, at least in a physical sense. They were getting a bit old to be handling babies.

“Bit slow on the uptake today, huh Swan?” Killian murmured in amusement as he wrapped his arm around Emma’s shoulders and placed a kiss on her temple.

And that’s when Emma saw it. 

There was a particular gleam in Killian’s blue eyes. Over the course of their marriage, Emma had learned that Killian was quite expressive with his emotions and had specific looks that expressed them. Her favorite was when he was feeling particularly naughty and the kids had made themselves scarce and he would look at her with smoldering eyes and a wicked smirk that promised absolute sin. However, he had other ones like when he was observing their children playing in the backyard where his entire face went soft and his eyes were tranquil or when he was irritated while reading in another language and he couldn’t remember the translation, and his eyes were narrow into hard points as they examined the text. The most common look these days however was an exasperated eye roll whenever one of the kids (mainly Wes if they were being honest) did something particularly careless and stupid like trying to hot-wire David’s truck.

This particular look, however, Emma had seen emerge just before their wedding when he had been playing with little Alexandra Herman and it was something she had become increasingly familiar with over the course of their nearly decade old marriage. It was a look very similar to the softness he had for their little trio of pirates but it held more yearning and more wistfulness and it always ended up being entirely focused on Emma. It was a look that so clearly said “I want a baby.”

Dreaded pirate captain was a title he once treasured, but Emma knew that Killian Jones did not covet any position more than he coveted being Daddy. He loved being a father and everything it entailed from checking for monsters under the bed to torturing their little ones with tickling fingers while snuggling on the couch. Killian had their pediatrician on speed dial and was dangerously close to being a bubble wrap dad. He knew exactly how to make mac and cheese the same way that Granny did because that’s all Harrison would eat once upon a time when he was smaller. He knew all the names of Beth’s pirate stuffed animal army from Captain Bear to Gertie. He also knew exactly how many blankets Wes needed to fall asleep and how to arrange them so their little blonde boy was snuggled up like a burrito. Killian lived and breathed to be Daddy.

And now, without even saying a word and just by looking at him, Emma knew that he wanted another little one to add to their little crew. He wanted to add a fourth musketeer.

It terrified her.

It wasn’t that Emma was entirely against the idea of more kids. Quite the opposite. There was nothing more attractive than Killian Jones holding a baby, especially if said baby had his pointed ears and smile as all three of their little pirates did. Making that image a reality had its appeal, but pregnancy sucked. Each and every one of her pregnancies had been taxing and, for lack of a better term, an event. For Henry, she had given birth in prison. Harrison had been so large that he had nearly ripped her open. Wes had been a breach baby. Beth had been nearly a month early and was almost born on the Jolly Roger. As much as she loved her kids, she hated pregnancy with a capital H. Killian would never pressure her and he had been gracious when Emma said that Beth would be their last, but she hated disappointing him.

The look in his eye didn’t leave for a second that night, but Killian made no mention or hint towards the subject of babies to Emma. He did, however, pepper Snow with questions on their plans for the new baby, what the doctor’s recommendations for her health and how the kids coped with the announcement of their latest addition.

When they returned home and put the kids to bed, Emma waited for him to broach the topic but Killian merely kissed her forehead and picked up his book, some old tome in Latin, to read while she turned on the television to watch the latest trash television show on ABC.

The “baby look” (as Emma took to calling it) and the lack of discussing children continued on into the next week. Emma watched as he stared more wistfully at infants in carriages and made silly faces at toddlers in Granny’s Diner to keep them entertained. She nearly lost her shit when he offered to hold a young haggard-looking mother’s baby in the grocery store as she loaded her purchases onto the conveyor belt, cooing and bouncing the child as he did so.

Watching the scene made Emma’s biological clock scream at her, reminding her that she was nearing the end of the fourth quarter fertility-wise. She was well aware that she was about to hit the two-minute warning; her forty-first birthday was about to approach in the upcoming months. They really needed to talk before Emma’s ovaries overrode her brain and she did something drastic.

“Okay, Killian. Out with it,” Emma snapped abruptly that night as they prepared for bed.

Her husband blinked at her in surprise, obviously not expecting the outburst. He gave her a puzzled look as he closed his book and gave her his undivided attention.

“Out with what, Swan?” he asked with a small frown.

“You’ve been acting…different since Mom’s...announcement and you’ve got that look going. That look when you want something…something that we’ve discussed several times.”

“If you already know what I want, then why do you need me to say it, Emma?” he asked her, running his hands through his hair. 

She quietly sucked on her teeth when he used her actual name instead of his patented ��Swan.” It meant they had crossed over into the realm of a serious conversation and Emma wasn’t entire sure she was prepared for it.

“Because I need to hear you say it, Killian…” she said it so quietly that for a moment she wasn’t sure that he heard her.

“You want hear me say it? You want to have this conversation?” Killian clarified with a furrow of his brow. “Because I was pretty certain that this conversation was done nearly five years ago and you weren’t interested in opening up again and I sure as hell am not interested in starting a fight.”

“Just say it!” she commanded, squeezing her eyes shut.

“I want another kid, Emma,” he stated softly. “I want another kid so badly it hurts, but I know you don’t so I didn’t think it was up for debate.”

“It’s not that I don’t want another kid,” Emma started and before she could properly think about it, she began blurting out nearly every thought she had on the issue. “Want is not an issue. If the whole process of pregnancy, childbirth and childrearing was easy, I would give you as many kids as possible because you’re the best goddamn father in the world, but that’s not the issue here. We have three children. Three wonderful, demanding, wild, crazy children. I love them with everything I got, but bringing them into this world wasn’t easy. Pregnant in my thirties was tough enough, I cannot imagine how tough it would be now. Especially with all the risks. Birth defects, still births and miscarriages are much more of a risk now than they’ve ever been…I’m not sure I could survive that…not to mention, we’re old. I hate to say it, sailor, but we’re going a bit gray,” Emma finished. 

Her fingers dug into the flesh of her palms as she recited all the information that she looked up on the internet while she had been sitting in the Bug on stakeout this afternoon. She was pretty sure her palms were bleeding, but she ignored it. 

“I know the risks, love. You’re not the only one who knows how to use Google anymore. Yeah, there are risks, but with age, we are older, wiser and we’ve now been around the block a few times. Hell, we now know how to handle a kid who knows how to start cars without keys. Look, Swan, I’m happy. I love our kids and they’re more than enough, but I’m never going to stop wanting more children with you because what we make is perfection, though sometimes that perfection is...a bit rough on the edges...but any child with you as a mother couldn’t be anything less than perfection…”

“You always know exactly what to say, don’t you?” Emma said softly, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She hadn’t expected to get this emotional during this conversation, but he always knew what buttons to press to get a response from her. She both loved and hated him for it. “It’s almost not fair…”

“It’s not fair,” he agreed. “But I want nothing more than a little girl with blonde hair and green eyes. I want a little Swan.”

“You have Beth,” Emma chuckled wetly. “And she would take that statement as an ultimate betrayal.”

“Or she would be excited at the prospect of being an older sister and having someone to boss around,” he countered.

“Beth? Our Beth? We talking about the same girl? Because she would hate the idea of being an older sister, especially to another girl. She would have a fit because that means she won’t be Daddy’s special little girl anymore and she would have to share you.”

“She already shares me with Henry, Harrison and Wes,” Killian scoffed.

“Your relationship with our daughter is very different than the ones you have with our sons and that’s fine. This isn’t a criticism because I honest to God love that you two are so close, but yeah, you have very different with her than you are with the boys. She knows it and she loves it. She wouldn’t want to share it,” Emma replied with a shake of her head.

“Sharing is a part of life though,” Killian responded with a heavy sigh, refusing to acknowledge Emma’s commentary on the nature of his relationship with their daughter, not that she expected him to. Killian, who prided himself on being a good father to all of their children, did not want to acknowledge the idea of possible (most definite) favoritism. She could understand that. It wasn’t particularly the nicest thing to come to terms with.

“It is,” Emma agreed with a sigh. “But before we discuss this further, I need you to ask yourself this…Are you sure you really want to go all the new baby nonsense again? Sleepless nights? Spit up? Changing diapers? Messiness? A good few months without sex? Going through potty training again? Yes, potty training, you remember that nightmare, right? Not to mention, I would be out of commission for a few months with a new baby. Money really isn’t an issue for us, and yes, we can convert the office back into a nursery, but do you think you can handle being interim sheriff? And deal with the dwarves on your own without killing them? Be professional without me and without my Dad because I doubt he wants to leave the farm this time around? And if the answer to any of those questions is no, this conservation has to end now.”

Killian’s eyebrows rose at her words and Emma watched as his mouth opened to speak but nothing came out. If the conversation they were having wasn’t so serious, Emma would have laughed at the fact she had rendered her normally verbose husband speechless.

“Swan…are you saying that this is actually on the table? That you’re actually considering this? This isn’t just all hypotheticals?”

“I’m asking you if you’ve really thought about this beyond the baby fever nostalgia and remembered how shitty taking care of a baby is both figuratively and literally, and if that’s something you’re willing to do still while we’re getting old…fuck, we would be the oldest parents at high school graduation.”

“No, Snow and Dave will be there right beside us with their little one. Our child would automatically have a playmate there. As for the challenges, yes, I have thought about it, but any challenge, any struggle and yes, all the sleepless and sexless nights are worth it. Even if we get another hellion with a penchant for chaos, it would still be worth it because there’s nothing in the world that’s better than having children with you and I mean that with every fiber of my being.”

“Okay…” Emma replied, letting out a heavy breath. She couldn’t think of a legitimate response. She was feeling a bit tongue tied at the moment.

“Okay?” Killian repeated with a hint of inquiry, leaning forward a bit. “You never said whether you were seriously considering this…but what do you say, Swan, we give it one last good try…?” His voice trembled a bit on the last few words and he was looking at her with something akin to desperation.

And that was the question there, wasn’t it? Did she want to give it “one last good try” and all that it entailed? It meant commitment. It meant genetic disorder screening, prenatal vitamins, fertility shots, specialists, possible treatments and a horde of doctors telling her that late in life pregnancy was far from ideal with high statistics on everything going wrong. No, she didn’t want any of that hassle. It was too much. However, the image of Killian playing with the baby in the grocery store was burned into her mind. Though she couldn’t get herself to say it out aloud, Emma privately admitted to herself that she loved and even wanted to see him hold another child while softly singing sea shanties and whispering stories about his days on the Jolly Roger while he thought Emma wasn’t listening.

“No, I don’t want to try,” she said softly and she watched his face crumble for a moment before he was capable of masking his disappointment. It was that final look that affirmed her decision.

Emma moved forward and opened the top drawer of her nightstand. She bent down on her knees and began riffling a bit through the junk before finding her birth control pills. She could almost physically feel the weight of Killian’s eyes as on her as she picked up the foil package and lifted them up so he could see them.

“Emma…what are you doing?” he asked quietly.

She ignored him as she stood back up and walked towards their bathroom with a sense of purpose. She pushed the door open and made a deliberate choice not to close it. She stood next to the toilet and looked back at her husband who had scrambled to the edge of the bed, obviously wondering to himself what the hell she was doing. The lines of his forehead had never looked so pronounced.

“Emma…?” This time his voice was louder and the silent question more present.

Emma closed her eyes for a moment, steeling her nerves. When she opened them, she looked Killian straight in the eye as she deliberately dropped her birth control pills in the toilet and flushed. Once more, her husband opened his mouth to say something but was speechless. Emma had never seen him more confused in her life.

“I don’t want to try.” Emma repeated with a sigh, “but I don’t want to not try…or at least I don’t want to try to prevent it. Trying means doctors, treatments and I know you…you will look up ever old wives’ tale about fertility and probably eat a huge fucking lemon whole just to make yourself more fertile or some nonsense like that…I don’t want the hassle…but if it happens…and that’s a big “if” because like I said, we’re old…then it happens and I would be okay with that, but if it doesn’t happen, don’t beat yourself up about it because, you’re right, we make some amazing kids and we already have three good ones down the hall. Okay?”

“Okay,” he replied softly and now, he had tears in his eyes and a smile so hopeful that it made Emma’s heart ache.

He opened his arms, gesturing for her to come to him and she nearly sprinted into them. They both started to laugh and cry at the same time as they embraced, holding each other so tightly that Emma was sure they were going to give each other bruises. Killian wiped at her tears and began to kiss every inch her face, still chuckling between each one.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream…” Killian murmured against her hair and Emma got the impression that he was trying to hide the fact he was legitimately crying now by burying his face in her hair.

“It’s not a dream,” she murmured, running her hands down his back in a soothing gesture. “But it’s also not a guarantee. We agreed to not try but not prevent, remember?”

“I know, I know, Swan,” he murmured, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the apple of her cheek.

He captured her lips with his in a brief but intense kiss that was full of promise. He pulled her close until he had firmly slotted himself between her thighs, his hips rolling against hers. Emma couldn’t stop the soft sigh that escaped her lips and she moved to run her fingers through his hair, dragging her nails lightly against his scalp in the way she knew he liked. He replied to the gesture with a deep groan that rumbled in his chest and his eyes were dark as he pulled away.

“If you don’t mind, I would like to start this “not trying” business right now…” Killian murmured against her lips.

“No one is stopping you, especially not me,” she replied softly.

Before she had even finished her sentence, she found herself on her back with a very amorous Killian Jones hovering above her. He captured her lips in another fierce kiss that held more emotion that Emma knew what to deal with. Giving her bottom lip once last nip, he changed courses; his nose brushing a sure line along her jaw as he worked teeth and tongue torturously against her skin. He nuzzled his head against her throat before worrying his lips against the pulse point in her neck.

“I love you…” Killian whispered it so quietly that she almost didn’t hear it.

“I love you too,” she whispered back and she hooked a leg around his waist, knocking her hips against his. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he replied, biting gently. “Never, ever.”

Killian had always been a thorough and attentive lover; it was one of Emma’s favorite things about him. However, he was extra zealous in his efforts that night and there was a renewed sense of purpose that seemed to power each caress, kiss and thrust. It was as if he was physically trying to will a child into existence with every fiber of his being despite Emma’s insistence of “what will be will be.” When they finished in a sweaty boneless heap of limbs, Emma caught him absently worrying his thumb against her abdomen as his eyes fluttered shut and he rested his head against her shoulder.

As Emma predicted, it wasn’t that easy. Even after months of vigorous and almost embarrassingly near-constant lovemaking, there was nothing. Emma watched as her mother’s stomach swelled and hers remained stubbornly flat. She tried not to feel bitter when Snow gave birth to another boy while her own womb was empty. Though she knew that it wasn’t going to be an automatic success in the same way her other children seemed to be, she privately became fearful that their no longer subtle efforts would be fruitless and wondered if their kids could sense the unspoken disappointment and desperation growing between them.

Worse, Emma was starting to wonder if she was menopausal. Over the course of the months, her periods had gotten lighter and less regular. She hadn’t bled in early two months, but she also hadn’t felt any of other pregnancy symptoms that she had with her other kids. With the boys, she had incredibly sharpened senses and near constant queasiness. With Beth, the symptoms had been amplified to the point where she had barricaded herself in the bathroom due to the near constant vomiting and diarrhea. 

Now, she was just tired and dizzy, which unfortunately led to her being short with everyone including her kids. She had yelled at Wes the other day so heatedly that she thought her normally cool-as-a-cucumber son would be reduced to tears. Emma knew she had gone too far when Harrison embraced his younger brother afterwards. As long as they had been alive, Harrison and Wes had never had the best relationship, but that day she saw Harrison captured his little brother in a hug and look at her like she was an alien. Emma Swan had never felt like a bigger asshole than she did in that moment. She was a terrible mother and maybe it was best that she didn’t expose another innocent child to her shitty parenting skills.

She couldn’t bring herself to tell Killian her suspicions; she didn’t have it in her heart to crush the dream. She did, however, book an appointment with their family doctor to confirm the fact that at forty-one years old she had entered early menopause just as she was just getting around to the idea that she actually really wanted another kid as badly as her husband did. The irony was not lost on her.

“You’re not menopausal,” her doctor stated bluntly as she looked at the results of her blood test. “Your estradiol levels are normal. If you were going into early menopause, they would have greatly decreased. Your estriol levels are pretty high though. Dollars to doughnuts, you’re pregnant, Emma.”

“What?” Emma blinked.

“You’re pregnant. This shouldn’t be such a surprise. You haven’t been using any form of prophylactics, you’re sexually active and you’re in relatively good shape. I have less concerns for you than I did for your mother with Robbie, however I do have to remind you that being pregnant in your forties is risky business and you’re more likely to run into complications such as Down’s syndrome and pre-eclampsia.”

“I can’t be pregnant. I’ve had no other symptoms. No vomit. No smells or cravings. Not even sore boobs. None of the usual mess,” she replied in disbelief.

“Not every pregnancy is the same, Emma. You know this. Sometimes not all symptoms present themselves. It happens. Regardless of symptoms or no symptoms, blood doesn’t lie. Your estrogen levels are through the roof. I would like to take an AFP, HCG and a hormone inhibin A test, if that’s okay with you? Maybe even an ultrasound?”

“Yeah…” Emma croaked, still in shock. She had prepared herself for the worst and now her doctor was telling her she was pregnant. It felt like she was in a fever dream.

Emma ended up leaving the doctor’s office in a daze, barely holding onto the tiny ultrasound photo in her hands. When she had come to her doctor this morning, she had done so with the expectation that her doctor was about to tell her that she was entering menopause and her baby making days were behind her. Now, she was leaving with the knowledge that she was eleven weeks pregnant with a baby the size of a fig and said fig had come up healthy on the test screenings so far. Praise the Gods for small blessings on that front.

Shit, what was she going to tell her kids? Killian was a non-issue; he would be through the roof with excitement over the news. Her kids who had no knowledge of the fact their parents were trying without really trying to get pregnant over the last six months were another issue entirely. Henry would be okay with it. He was grown, out of the house and very much focused on his own life. Harrison would be okay, he would probably give them a bit of lip but he would get over it fairly quickly. Wes and Beth? Their reactions would be anyone’s guess, but Emma was preparing herself for the Apocalypse. A meltdown of epic proportions was in her future and she could feel it.

Her husband and kids were on all couch, yelling and playing some racing video game on the big screen when Emma arrived home. She stuffed the ultrasound photo into her pocket and observed them for a moment, gathering her bearings. Killian, who was still getting used to using the one-handed game controller that Henry had gotten him for Christmas, was in last place with Beth in third. Wes and Harrison are neck-and-neck with Killian indiscriminatingly sending them complications from his last place position in hopes of letting Beth gain the lead.

“I win!” Harrison shouted.

Harrison thrusted his fist into the air in victory as his character crossed the finish line ahead of Wes’s character which had spun out to the side and allowed Beth to gain second place. Killian, in an act of fatherly selflessness, paused his character to allow Wes to finish in front of him.

“That’s because Dad kept blue shelling me,” Wes grumbled, tossing his controller and crossing his arms in front of his chest. Her youngest son was incredibly sore loser as they had long since learned.

“Nothing against you, lad, but I was trying to give your sister a fighting chance for once,” Killian replied, dropping the controller in order to ruffle Wes’s blonde hair. 

Ever the tough guy, Wes tried his best to wriggle away from his father, but Killian caught him and decided to up the ante by giving the boy big, loud, smoochy kisses. Wes protested loudly and Emma couldn’t help but smile at the scene, her hand subconsciously resting upon her stomach. He was such a good father. This new kid was going to be so well loved.

Beth caught sight of her first. Her eyes lit upon seeing Emma standing by the door. She immediately scurried off the couch, running towards Emma until she had wrapped her arms around Emma’s knees. Beth looked up at Emma with a delighted grin and little gurgling giggles emitted from her throat.

“Hi Mommy!” Beth greeted sweetly.

“Hey kid,” Emma replied with a small laugh, running her hands through her daughter’s long dark hair. The girl’s wild mane was forever tangled and Emma did her best to work through the knots.

“Swan,” Killian greeted with a small smile, still holding a squirming Wes against him.

“Mom! Help me!” Wes cried out dramatically, making Emma laugh harder. Their current youngest son had a flare for the dramatics and Emma wasn’t sure if it was genetic or something he learned from watching Killian.

“Resistance is futile. She won’t help you,” Harrison grinned wickedly, leaning forward to tickle Wes’s ribs as Killian held him in place. “No one will save you now, Westley.”

“Actually, I do need to borrow your father for a moment,” Emma said with a small smile before looking down into her daughter’s bright eyes. “Is that okay?”

“Is Daddy in trouble?” Beth asked curiously.

“No, Daddy is not in trouble, but Mommy and Daddy need to talk,” Emma replied, tapping the end of Beth’s nose with her finger gently. Her daughter scrunched her face in response to the tap and Emma never realized how many freckles her daughter had until that moment.

“She said ‘need to talk’!” Wes exclaimed in stage-whisper to Harrison. “Dad is so in trouble!”

“Dog house,” Harrison said in agreement.

“Daddy’s in trouble! Daddy’s in trouble! Daddy’s in trouble!” Beth began to chant in a sing-a-long voice, the boys joining in as she got louder.

Emma sighed and brought a hand up to bury her face in. Maybe having another kid wasn’t the best idea they had ever had. They could barely control the three they had as it was.

“Alright, alright,” Killian sighed as he released his hold on Wes who immediately moved to tackle his much larger brother. “That’s enough from the peanut gallery. Mom and I are going to go talk, please do not burn down the house or commit any ritual animal sacrifices while we’re gone, aye?”

“We will do our best,” Harrison responded with a shrug as he successfully pulled Wes off of him. 

It was almost comical how little effort Harrison put into fending himself off from his younger brother. They were the closest in age out of their brood with only fourteen months between them, but they couldn’t have been more different from each other like day and night. Emma privately wondered what the unborn child inside her would be like when it finally made its appearance. Intelligent and kind like Henry? Strong and gentle like Harrison? Wily and witty like Wes? Fearless and commanding like Beth? Or would it be something else entirely?

“But we make no promises,” Wes tacked on, rubbing at the bruise that was beginning to form on his left cheek from being tossed by his brother like a ragdoll.

“Naturally,” Killian replied dryly. “I wouldn’t have expected any less.”

Emma reached down to give their daughter a brief kiss before meeting her husband’s eyes and tilting her head towards the stairs in hopes he would get the hint. He nodded in response and gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. She reached for his hand as they climbed the stairs, intertwining their fingers and giving his hand a squeeze in solidarity, trying to tell him without words that everything was going to be alright.

Killian sighed and ran a hand through his hair as she closed the door to their bedroom behind them. The smile on his face was positively nervous and it was clear that he, like their children, thought he was in some sort of trouble despite her reassurances otherwise.

“Alright, Swan, what is it? Whenever someone says the words “need to talk”, nine times out of ten I’m not going have a good conversation,” Killian replied, sitting on the bed and looking up at her expectantly.

“Like I said before, you’re not in trouble. So I guess this is the one instance out of your ten scenario,” Emma replied, playing with her hair as her nerves started to get the best of her. “I thought this was going to be easy, but honestly, I feel so unprepared and finding out about it kinda put me in a daze so I apologize for not coming up for a cute way of telling you but…”

She pulled the sonogram out from her back pocket and nearly shoved it into Killian’s chest. Surprised, Killian took the photograph into his hands automatically and Emma watched as he took in exactly what he was holding, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.

“Swan, is this what I think it is?” Killian asked, breathlessly.

“Yeah…” she replied, unable to stop the smile that spread across her face so wide that her cheeks hurt. “Congratulations, Dad. The fourth horseman of the Apocalypse is on his way.”

“Her way,” he corrected absentmindedly as he studied the sonogram. “It could be a girl. Why didn’t you tell me that you thought you were pregnant, Swan?”

“Because I didn’t know,” she replied with a small laugh. “When I made the appointment, it was because I thought I was menopausal. My period stopped but I didn’t have any pregnancy symptoms and I didn’t want to tell you because I wasn’t sure and I didn’t want to disappoint you because I knew how much you wanted this baby…And well, I’m definitely not menopausal because you’re holding actual photographic evidence that there is a eleven-week old fig inside of me right now…a healthy eleven-week old fig…”

Killian dropped the sonogram on the bed and pulled her to him, arms wrapped around her in a vice grip. Emma pushed her fingers into his hair, caressing the soft strands as Killian rested his head between her breasts for a moment before dropping to his knees so that he was eye-level with her stomach. With misty eyes, he placed a kiss against her lower abdomen. Emma felt her heart triple in size as she watched him.

“Hello there…” he whispered to her belly as he pulled away. “I know you’ve been around for awhile and we haven’t spoken yet, which is awfully rude of me but in our defense, we didn’t know about you, however, allow me to make amends by introducing myself. I am Daddy and the delightful creature who are you’re inside right now is Mommy. We love you very much and we’re very excited to meet you.”

Emma had promised herself that she wouldn’t cry, but that promise was broken as she listened to her husband talk to the unborn little pirate inside of her. It had made all six months of trying but not trying completely worth it. She didn’t think it was possible to love Killian anymore than she did in that moment.

“How are we going to tell the kids?” Emma murmured as she continued to play with his hair.

“I don’t think that will be a problem, Swan,” Killian replied with a chuckled, looking up at her with some mirth in his eyes. “Because I’m pretty sure we have three of the world’s worst eavesdroppers standing outside our door listening to each and every word. Isn’t that right, Jones crew?”

There was a loud creak and hushed whispering from outside their door. Emma groaned, taking her hands out of Killian’s hair and rubbing her eyes. For the second time that night, she wondered if bringing a fourth child into the fold was a good idea.

Killian got off his knees and kissed the top of Emma’s head as he rose to his full height. He immediately went over to the door and opened it, exposing their three sheepish-looking children.

“How did you know we were there?” Wes asked, looking very impressed with his father.

“Because I’ve been living in this house longer than you’ve been alive,” Killian remarked before tapping his foot on the floorboard beneath Beth’s foot. “And I know that board creaks when stepped on. Valiant effort I must say, but a very rookie mistake. It’s not polite to listen in on other people’s conversations. Mom and I were having a very adult conversation that wasn’t for your ears.”

“Is Mom really having a baby?” Wes asked bluntly, ignoring his father’s lecture.

“Yes. Mom’s pregnant,” Killian affirmed with a sigh.

“Jeez, another one? You think you guys would have learned after having these two,” Harrison remarked, jutting his thumb in the direction of his younger siblings.

Wes let out an offended squawk and hit Harrison between the ribs while Beth, who had been looking at her parents with the most betrayed look, burst into angry tears. Both Killian and Emma sucked in a breath. In the haze of emotions, they hadn’t prepared themselves for a round of Hurricane Elizabeth.

“I don’t want a baby, Daddy!” she cried, stamping her foot.

“Why not, minnow?” Killian asked gently, getting on his knees so he was eye-level with their five-year old. “Don’t you want to be a big sister?”

“No!” she shrieked, giving another stamp with her foot. “I don’t want a baby! You have us! There’s three of us! You don’t need it! You don’t need another baby! You have me! You have me! I’m your baby!”

Emma sighed as she leaned against the doorway looking down at her daughter having an absolute meltdown. Well, this reaction was predictable. Killian looked up at her with a helpless expression, not sure how to respond to Beth’s tantrum. Harrison and Wes watched in fascinated interest as their sister’s face turned purple.

“Hey, hey…” Killian murmured, soothing Beth’s shoulders in hopes of quelling her tantrum. “This is exciting. You get someone new to play with. Maybe she will even play pirates with you and help you terrorize your brothers and you won’t be so out-numbered. That would be fun, right?”

“No because then I wouldn’t be the Pirate Queen!” Beth cried harder, tears dribbling down her cheeks in earnest.

Killian’s brow furrowed, obviously not following his five-year old’s logic.

“And why is that?”

“Because there can only be one and you’ll want us to share and there can’t be two Pirate Queens, Daddy. There just can’t!” she explained as if it were obvious.

“Says who?” Killian asked, squeezing her shoulders.

“Everyone,” Beth replied seriously. “There can be only one, Daddy. Everyone says so.”

“Good to know someone’s been watching Highlander,” Emma remarked with a chuckle before joining Killian on her knees to get to Beth’s level. 

He was doing a shit job at damage control. For someone so close was to their daughter, he didn’t seem to understand the root of the problem. Beth didn’t want another child to ruin the dynamic and hierarchy that already been established, especially when it came to her father’s affections where she was number one as the only girl and the youngest.

“I know this is scary and new, but it’s also exciting, Little Beth,” Emma said, tugging a strand of hair behind Beth’s ear. “The new baby isn’t going to replace you, I promise. We are still going to love you and your new baby brother is going to love you so much. I guarantee he is going to follow you around and want to be just like you because you’re such an awesome sister.”

Both boys snorted at the statement and Emma gave them both a withering look that made them both step back a bit.

“Baby sister,” Killian corrected.

“Oh no, this one is definitely a boy. A dark haired, blue eyed boy. I can feel it,” Emma replied with a smirk.

“Care to wager on that feeling, Swan? Because fatherly intuition says it’s a blonde haired, green eyed girl,” Killian responded, raising his eyebrows at her.

“What do you say, Little Beth, should we wager a full month’s worth of diaper changing and ice cream on a boy? Since fatherly intuition doesn’t exist and Daddy is full of crap?” Emma remarked, pulling Beth to her side.

“If there’s ice cream involved, I want in on this,” Wes remarked, joining Emma’s side. “And I’m Team Brother because one Beth is enough.”

At his words, Beth looked positively offended and with the maturity of any five-year-old, she stuck out her tongue at Wes. Emma sighed and mentally counted to ten.

“Traitors,” Killian admonished his youngest children without much heat. “The two of you are traitors.”

“Sorry, Daddy, but there can be only one Pirate Queen,” Beth replied, not sounding the least bit remorseful.

Harrison who had been quietly observing for the majority of the squabble took that moment to join his father’s side, looking at Emma with apologetic eyes as he placed a hand on Killian’s shoulder.

“I’m Team Sister because the world cannot handle another Wes Jones.”

“You’re right,” Wes said with a smirk. “The world cannot handle any more of this kind of awesome.”

“Well, that’s definitely a word for it,” Harrison muttered under his breath.

“Alright, enough with the witty banter. It really gets tiring after a while,” Emma huffed. “The stakes of the wager are as follows, an entire month of diaper duty carried out by the losing party. Kid or kiddos on the winning party get ice cream. We have ourselves a wager?”

“Aye, love, it’s a deal,” Killian replied, leaning forward and sealing their wager with a brief kiss that made all of their three children gag.

“Good because I’m going to make you eat your words because fatherly intuition does not exist,” Emma declared.

And in the end, she was right because six months later she gave birth to a son; a dark haired, blue eyed son whom they named Edward David Jones but affectionately called Ned. Emma practically cackled when they placed him in her arms, looking at her husband like the cat who ate the canary.

“You know what Neddy is telling me right now, Killian?” Emma asked, as she held her newborn son to her breast.

“What Swan?”

“That you and Harrison are going to have a lot of fun changing his shitty diapers.”