#ALL my fics are un-beta'd

[turtlecleric]

Did this on my phone while waiting on a meeting lmao thanks keisha!!

Blank under cut if anyone else wants to participate

[bearsinpotatosacks]

Tagged by @sweetwhispersofchaos thanks for the tag!

I'll tag @pollyna @compacflt and anyone else who wants to

[cloudbells]

I've been so inactive omg (at least by my standards)!!! I think I've subconsciously put a ban on activity until I've finished some fics and it just translates into radio silence 😭

ALSO I will still get to everyone's asks on this and my main account soon!

[thepixelelf]

...............not even close

[pedgito]

𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄, 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐍𝐎𝐖 | Joel Miller x reader

↝ other fics | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | set in the world of handsome, dirty, rich. joel is celebrating your one year anniversary with a few surprises. alternatively: how fast can ali turn a new pedro pic into a fic? also, bless @undercoverpena —she set me on a dangerous path with this one.

content warning | sugar daddy!joel, reader has no description other than a vague mention of a dress, thigh riding, borderline public sex/voyeurism, the use of a certain undergarment for pleasure, fingering, established relationship, sneaking around, subtle dom!joel & brat!reader, pure filth i do not apologize, un-beta'd

word count — 2.7k

He’s rented out the entire restaurant. All for you.

It doesn’t dawn on you at first, but as the primly dressed workers attend to you at the door, carefully removing the coat off your shoulders while another guides you toward the table in the corner of the restaurant—the rest of the space was dimly lit, except here. The overhead light casted a warm but pale yellow glow down on the table. Two plush, leather chairs that you were sure cost at least half of your monthly rent—not that you paid that, either. Joel had made sure of that.

You tried to deny it in the beginning, to fend off his constant willingness to make sure you didn’t have to stress or lift a finger when it came to finances—that you could focus on your degree without any outside distractions. 

Your relationship was still something kept between the both of you, a sacred bond in a bubble that hadn’t been popped yet. It was perfect, too perfect. And you refused to give that up just yet.

“Really?” You ask, scrunching the dress up near your hips as you take a seat in the pulled out chair, careful that it wouldn’t ride up too high, but it seems futile as the moment you both hit the seat, Joel’s palm is settling between your legs. His palm curls around your left thigh, a comforting gesture he did whenever he had a moment to touch you—it doesn’t move, doesn’t linger too close or too far, it’s just there. You rub your thumb over his knuckles and smile. 

“I shoulda told them I wanted the center table, huh?” Joel joked, flashing that perfect smile, his cheek dimpling. “Only the best for my girl.”

“Oh, because the empty restaurant you rented out wasn’t enough?” The playful resonance in your tone makes Joel chuckle, but quickly fades as he sees one of the several waiters approaching.

He orders some fancy bottle of wine you can’t pronounce and you can’t help but stare. He’s so…dressed down, compared to you. A simple white shirt, black jeans that he’s worn on several occasions but always hugging his thighs in a way made your mouth fucking salivate.

You weren’t even five minutes into this date and you were ready to cut short and run, saddle up over his lap in the driver’s seat of his truck and sink down on his cock for a quick five minutes of pure bliss, feeling the full extent and intensity of his love for you in the way he let his guard down in those moments.

The second you’re alone he’s moving his hand from your thigh to the nakedness of your neck, sliding around the back and guiding you toward him, a surprisingly gentle kiss against the column of your throat followed by a soft, “Never enough, baby.”

God, he was in a mood today.

It was nearing a year of making…whatever this was official. It wasn’t asking for your hand in marriage or even to be his girlfriend, just a silent agreement that you both wanted whatever it was that you felt for each other, regardless of labeling it. And that was what worked the easiest for you both. You tried not to think about it too often, the outside distractions and betrayals you were allowing to happen when buying into his attraction to you.

But, right now, that was the last thing on your mind.

Joel does all the ordering—a three course meal of chef’s choice that came with a hefty tip.

So, they were very good at leaving you alone. Just as Joel had requested.

“Did you like your gift?” Joel asks after some time, using the cloth napkin to wipe at his mouth, peering up at you as he forks another piece of food into his mouth.

Gift. You huff a soft laugh through your nose behind closed lips.

“Oh, those—” You roll your eyes playfully, poking at your food with your fork, “yeah—of course.”

And you were absolutely wearing them, just like he asked.

A sleek, lace pair of panties with a matching bralette, but the very obvious bump of a vibrator tucked away in the gusset of your underwear was a dangerous, dangerous game. They didn’t come with a remote but you knew exactly where it was, watching the smile on Joel’s face grow more relaxed as he was on his third cup of wine, but somehow more drunk on the sight of you.

“Wearin ‘em?” Joel asks, just to be sure. “Like I told you?”

“Why don’t you find out, Mr. Miller.”

He hadn’t heard that in a minute, his tongue poking at the inside of his cheek as he reached blindly, but with careful precision for the remote in his pocket.

The buzz startles you at first, but it was faint. You could ignore it easily, so you did.

“Eat up,” You motion to him and his forgotten third-course, a too sweet dessert that neither of you could finish on your own, but you were willing to do anything to distract him, “don’t be rude.”

Joel quirks an eyebrow up and chuckles, “Mouthy tonight? Alright.”

It was a specialty of yours, knowing just the right amount of brattiness to get under Joel’s skin.

The vibration picks up without warning, Joel now leaned back in his chair, left leg crossed over right and his hands resting in his lap, pointedly placed over the obvious growing bulge in his jeans that he was attempting to hide.

You hand grips the table in shock, jostling the silverware slightly.

Another soft laugh from Joel and you shoot daggers in his direction.

“In public? Seriously?”

“We’ve done worse,” He shrugs, “remember that night down at the beach over the summer?”

You did. Very well, in fact.

He had fucked you so hard the ache didn’t go away for a week, right there, on the beach—a group of college kids partying not even less than 20 yards away. You knew they were watching and maybe it was the result of genuine, human curiosity. But, the whistles and shouts—it sent a bolt of excitement down your spine, causing you to squeeze around Joel’s cock as he pumped into you, coming inside of you with your face pressed into the sand.

It wasn’t your proudest moment, but damn did it make the ache between your thighs so much worse as the memory floods your mind and Joel seems to notice you becoming spacey, nudging it up a few more notches and that causes a seering look of warning, teeth gritting as you gripped for his thigh, blunt nails digging in while your other snuck between your thighs, gripping hard on your dress as you squeezed your legs shut against your hand.

“Come here,” Joel says as he beckons with two fingers, curling them in a way you were all too familiar with.

“Joel, not here—” You stress, looking around at the vacant restaurant. 

You couldn’t even hear them moving around in the kitchen anymore. You turn back to Joel and he’s still waiting, daring you as he scoots his chair back a few more inches. He offers a hand, gently removing the one gripping his thigh and you feel your body moving against your better judgment, so willing and pliant to his touch.

He maneuvers you until you’re straddling his thigh, hand gripping your waist as he forces you to take a seat, the broadness of his thigh, the taut muscle against the press of the vibrator as it forcefully dug into your already swollen clit. You gasp, gripping the tablecloth in desperation. 

“Go on,” Joel encourages, “right here—I already know what you want, baby.”

You used to think he only enjoyed the idea of you using anything but his cock to get yourself off, but you quickly realized that it was your favorite thing to do—it was the only time he got cockier than usual, more teasing, seeing how easily riding his thigh would unravel you. It felt primal, that need for release and it was building in your core, that tingling heat lingering in wait.

“If they come back—”

“They won’t,” He stresses, his voice gruff and low as a palm spreads out over your back, the other one finding its home on your thigh, so dangerously close to the hem of your underwear underneath the silk dress, “slipped them a note—”

“Don’t tell me you t-tipped them so you could get your fuckin’ rocks off in the middle of din—” Joel increases the vibration another level and your jerk, holding back the strangled moan that dared to escape as you cant your hips against his thigh, “fuck, Joel. This is—”

Joel shushes you, fingers crawling up your back until he can grip the back of your neck, holding it tight as he pulls you up, head falling back instinctively against his hand, “Ride it, sweetheart.”

You can’t help the subtle rock of your hips, eyes scanning the room anxiously—you’ve never been this intimate in public, at least not with the looming chance that anyone could walk in and see you; arms spread out to grip the table cloth and Joel’s hands all over you, leaning forward over his leg. The table provided enough cover that unless someone decided to step within a few feet, they couldn’t see anything. 

Still, your heart raced.

“Come on,” He teases, the subtle twang to his voice that had you clenching around nothing, the constant hum of the vibrator tucked away in your panties doing nothing to help quell the ache, “I rented out this restaurant for us, asked them to give us some privacy and you’re still feelin’ shy?”

“If someone were to walk by, Joel—”

Joel grips at your neck tighter suddenly, pulling you until his chest is against your back.

“I’ll turn that thing all the way up if I need to and it’ll stay on ‘til we get back home.”

His place, he means. He often called it home because it had become that to you. You had your own place, your own things, but you still found yourself there more often than not. A drawer in his closet tucked away with your belongings, your toiletries tucked away in a cabinet so Sarah wouldn’t ask questions. You’ve become masters of this game of hide and seek, managing to keep this entire thing quiet for close to a year.

Maybe it was just dumb luck.

He adds emphasis on his statement as his other hand slips between your legs and under the silk hem of your dress, palm pressing flat against your cunt and leaving you no room to wiggle away, hips jerking against his touch as you moan out, your hand slapping over your mouth at the sound.

“I’ll give you the next sixty seconds, baby,” Joel warns, glancing down at the shiny Rolex on his wrist, “if you don’t come, it’s gonna be a hell of a ride back.”

As if to make you suffer more, he slips a finger between the wet, sticky fabric of your underwear and over the line of your cunt, dragging through your slick and slipping a finger inside of you wordlessly, angling the vibrator stuffed inside the gusset of your panties against your clit with perfective precision—feeling the throb of your pussy around his fingers, the tight clench of your walls, you find yourself rocking against his thigh mindlessly, desperate to chase that relief.

You couldn’t breathe—the feeling caught in your throat as he lifted his leg only a few centimeters higher, foot raised off his heel, your dress slipping up slightly higher under his grip and allowing him a clear view of your ass, the delicious curve and the black lace that clung to your skin. He could pull his cock out and get himself off there within just a few minutes if he really wanted to and slip himself inside you right as he came, knowing how much you enjoyed being stuffed full of him.

“Attagirl,” He commends you, a grin growing on his face that you unfortunately can’t see, but you feel it—his gaze, the hot press of his hands on your body, “just like that.”

Your eyes fall closed, heading bowing as he releases his hold on your neck to grip at the fabric bunched at your waist, slipping his hand over bare skin, fingertips pressing into the flesh of your waist, aiding in the hurried rock of your hips. The feeling of fullness comes from his fingers when he slips in a second, squeaking out a quiet “Fuck,” as your hand slips, slapping against his other thigh for support, accidently brushing your fingers against the remote tucked away in his pocket and dialing up the vibrator to the max, unknowing that it was only a level off.

“‘’S right there, darlin’,” Joel softens his tone, picking up the pace of his fingers fucking into you, his grip on your hip tighter, undoubtably ruining his jeans for the night, but he clearly didn’t mind.

The feeling builds—the quick and constant stimulation does nothing to help, sending you flying over the edge with a gasp, crying out Joel’s name as he keeps you stuck, pulling out his fingers in an instant and turning off the vibrator, leaving you to wade through the orgasm untouched.

“There you go, baby,” He coos, “makin’ a goddamn mess on my jeans, aren’t you?”

You nod, feeling dizzy as your head spins and your body goes light, whining through the sensitive friction of the denim against your cunt and Joel slides a comforting hand up your spine, rubbing against the middle of your back.

“Still with me, baby?”

You nod quietly, raising your head up slowly.

Joel chuckles lowly, patting gently at your thighs until you turn sideways in his lap. He smiles softly at the disheveled state of you, much less composed than a moment ago.

“What was that about?” You ask after a moment of gentle care, his lips pressing against your neck, chin, before pressing against your lips in the most tame kiss he’s ever given you.

He’s checking in.

“Wanted to cross somethin’ off my list.” 

You raise your eyebrows in pleasant surprise, a small laugh bubbling from your chest as you adjust your dress over your chest, “A list? Like…for sex?”

Joel shakes his head, pulling his lips together in a nonchalant frown. 

“No—well, there’s some of that on there but…things I wanna do with you.”

“Oh,” Color you intrigued, you push one of his imperfectly styled curls back behind his ear, “care to share?”

Joel swipes a dollop of whipped cream on his fingers and shakes his head, “Where’s the fun in that, baby?” You shrug as he presses the cream to your lips and you open dutifully, allowing him to press the whipped sweetness against your tongue, mixed with the taste of yourself as you close your lips and suck just for show, kissing his fingertip teasingly as he pulls away and pinches playfully at your thigh.

You laugh airily, reaching for your phone on the table as you turn to him, pulling up your camera.

“Wait—you really have to see the look on your face,” Instead of keeping the dumbstruck look on his face, he brings his hands to his mouth in the act of blowing you a kiss and you snap the picture with a smile, letting out a startled yelp as he tips you back slightly, nearly into the table as he angles your body to allow his lips to touch your ear.

“Take those off,” He tells you, “otherwise I’ll be tempted again.”

“No self control, Mr. Miller?”

Joel catches your chin between the thumb and pointer of his left hand, cutting off the small giggle that starts to escape your mouth and his eyes are pensive for a brief moment before softening, “Do as I say, darlin’. We got a long drive back.”

You nod, feeling his thumb swipe over your bottom lip before he’s helping you off his lap, swatting at your ass playfully as your feet hit the floor. 

“Yes, sir,” You reply flippantly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek before you disappear. 

Joel smirks to himself as he reaches for his wallet.

You were right, without a doubt.

Joel had no self control when it came to you and he quickly realized that he’d be willing to do just about anything to make you happy.

-

divider creds: @/saradika-graphics

[margowritesthings]

The French Are Glad To Die For Love

A Bridgerton x Moulin Rouge crossover

pairing: Colin Bridgerton x ? word count: 2.1k words warnings: 18+ minors DNI, un-beta'd, mentions of sex, spitting, lots of debauchery authors note: surpriiise! i have been sitting on this since part 1, so to celebrate part 2 tomorrow here's my new mini-series! i have never written for Colin before, so i'm nervous, but i loved writing this.

i also need your help! i cannot decide if this mini series should be Colin x reader or a Polin fic, where Penelope is Satine. I have created a poll here for you to vote, so please let me know!

and as always, enjoy! it's been a hot minute since I last published, so thank you if you're still here.

Bridgerton Masterlist

The stars sparkle especially brightly tonight, the crimson lanterns guiding Parisians and tourists alike through the winding streets, and Colin Bridgerton stands in awe of it all. 

He’d read stories, heard tales of this place during long nights at Whites, but nothing could have quite prepared him for what lay ahead of him, a long string of lights hanging in the sky leading the way to his destination. 

The Moulin Rouge. 

A house of debauchery and sin, of freedom and truth, filled to the brim with bohemians and artists and beautiful women unlike anything or anyone he’s ever seen before. Even now, 30 feet away from the illuminated windmill, he can hear the music and the joy spilling out from the building. His senses are filled with the perfume of hundreds of women passing him by the minute, all with real, toothy grins he rarely has the pleasure of seeing back home. It is far too impolite to be so happy in London society. 

Colin steps forwards, his boots crunching against the gravel and his coattails flying in the breeze. His shoulders brush more wonderfully merry, positively inebriated partygoers on his way in, catching odd fragments of conversations that would have scandalised him and his whole family were he elsewhere. 

But he wasn’t elsewhere. He was here, in the city of love, away from anybody who had ever known the name Bridgerton. His clean slate clutched close to his chest, waiting to find out what will be written on it next, Colin feels the fresh air on his face for the last time before his life is changed forever.

The heat hits him first, a symptom he knew all too well of too many people packed into a small space. But unlike every ball he’s been to, this doesn’t feel claustrophobic or fusty. It feels alive. 

There is a feast for the eye wherever one looks. Burlesque dancers showing off stockings and garters by kicking their legs up, toes pointing towards the aerial hoops holding acrobats hanging from the ceiling. Gentlemen, if you can call them that in this state, wearing top hats, arm in arm with their glasses raised high, spilling their contents all over the wooden floor. 

The music blasts loud from each instrument the band masterfully pluck or blow or bang, but laughter and conversation buzzes amongst the melodies. It is a near overwhelming amount of joy, one Colin certainly could use a drink to wash it down with. 

If he could just find the bar…

Bodies fill his view, so entangled in each other it is difficult to tell where one starts and another ends. Frilly skirts flow over the knees of suits as ladies dangle from the necks of patrons, sharing cigars and passing around bottles of an unknown green liquid. Rosy cheeks as far as the eye can see, wether from too much of that green stuff or the exertion of all that dancing, Colin can’t be sure. Between them all, in tiny empty spaces, he can just about make out rows of bottles and glasses. 

Weaving through the crowd is like treading through water, but their energy and joy seems to rub off on him. There isn’t a dance card in sight, women choosing their partners themselves whenever they like with a freedom Colin isn’t sure he’s ever seen before. Is this truly what people are designed to be when they are free?

Eventually, his hands find the sticky wood of the bar, quickly lifting themselves back off it on instinct at the sensation. When Colin looks to his left, he sees a woman pouring a shot of liquor between her breasts, a man knelt below her waiting to lick it back up, and he quickly realises why the bar feels so tacky- every surface here seems to be host to someone’s revelry. 

“Welcome to the Moulin Rouge, monsieur. Can I get you a drink?”

Colin’s attention is quickly pulled by the welcome, his gaze snapping to a tall French woman dripping with red jewels that compliment her rich brown skin perfectly. She is captivating to be sure, deep hazel eyes commanding Colin’s attention, competing with the most incredible curls of hair he has ever seen. Ladies of the ton are welcome no matter their race back home, but Colin has never seen a lady allowed to wear her hair so beautifully natural before. The Afro framing her face has more tiny rubies that sparkle under the cabaret lights, and Colin is speechless. 

“I…uh, pardon me, Miss, I-“ he sighs, giving up entirely at his failed attempt at decorum, “Is it so obvious I have never been here before?” 

She laughs, gems twinkling as her head shakes with mirth. 

“Not at all, but most gentlemen who have been here before know to wear a top hat. And there’s that look in your eye…” 

As she speaks, she pours out one finger of the green liquor Colin has spotted a few times already, sliding it along the wood towards him. 

“Wonder. Drink this. It will help with the nerves.” 

Colin looks down, finding himself fascinated with a drink that seems to glow of its own volition. He has smoked blends and meditated with world weary travellers from across the globe, drank tea containing unknown substances that left him staring at blades of grass as if they held the worlds secrets, and yet this… whatever it is, seems to terrify him.

The barmaid laughs again, that melodic sound with the real joy Colin very much enjoys. 

“It’s only absinthe, monsieur. Loosens the inhibitions, relaxes the body…” she explains, pouring a second out for herself and lifting it to him as if to prove her credibility. 

“Santé.” He toasts to health.

“Amour.” She toasts to something far greater.

It leaves no room for argument, and all Colin can do is lift his own glass and tap it against hers. 

It burns his tongue, leaving a fiery trail down his throat as he swallows and tries not to cough and splutter. A bitter yet herby anise flavour fights with his taste buds and seems to seep straight into his mind, teasing at those tense knots that held him back from fully immersing himself here. 

When his eyes eventually reopen, he finds the barmaid beaming at him, unphased by her own potion. Rather used to it, if she shares a glass with every newcomer, he should think.

“Be careful, though, monsieur. Many a man has spent a night with the stuff and swears he fell in love with a fairy dressed all in green. Ruined him for any other woman for the rest of his life…” She speaks words that belong in fairytale, with a tone containing such severity Colin is inclined to take every single one of them as gospel. 

“I dare say I should be careful, then. I do not think this green fairy would want to join the rest of my travels when she can instead entice all of Paris’ men to sin…” 

The residue of the liquor smells just as strong as the full measure, which Colin tries to blink out of his senses when he puts the glass back on the bar.

Almost as if society itself had cleared its throat at him, Colin remembers himself, remembers just where he is. Undoubtedly the most unique establishment he had ever set foot in, but an establishment all the same. 

“I beg your pardon, miss, I seem to forget myself. How much do I owe you for the drink?”

She considers him.

“Hm,  the absinthe I think… for you, a kiss.” 

Colin, already pulling coins from his breast pocket, pauses, a little grin tugging at the corner of his lip. The francs clink together when they fall back to the bottom of his pocket, a long forgotten currency of the past. It’s a perfect reminder of just how different things are here, how easily walls crumble between strangers and connection is offered so freely. He has never kissed a woman he has not paid for back home, so afraid of getting too close to another in case they ruin each other. Here, a beautiful woman leans over the bar, offering her flushed cheek for him to softly press his lips against. 

And he does. 

And it is lovely. 

“If any more handsome men capture the eye of Mademoiselle Belle, I will surely be out of business!” A loud, hearty voice pulls Colin from one blissful moment back into the party.

He regards a rather large man, clad in a red tailcoat and stunning golden waistcoat. His top hat, near the same to all the other gentlemen in the room but somehow grander, tops wild orange curls that match a fantastic handlebar moustache. A true ring leader to this wonderful circus of debauchery Colin has found himself in. 

“Harold Zidler, at your service. Welcome to the Moulin Rouge.” 

“Colin Bridgerton.” He replies, offering a hand that Harold seems bemused at. Unsurprising, considering what passes for currency around here. Nonetheless, Harold shakes the offered hand. 

”I must say, your establishment is rather…” he hesitates, unable to find a word in any language he has picked up along his travels that quite captures the Moulin Rouge. Perhaps he could blame the absinthe, or the intoxicating hedonism he feels rooting its way through his mind, hidden in the brass notes from the band and thrown with each cancan kick of one of the dancers that surrounds him. 

Luckily, Harold seems well used to this phenomenon. 

“Isn’t it? And you have seen nothing yet! I assume you are not from around here?”

”It is rather obvious, I have been told.” Colin adds a glance to Miss Belle, who’s skirt frills bounce in the lights while she shakes up a cocktail. He adds, “London.” 

”Well, Monsieur Bridgerton, I promise you that what we have here in the Moulin Rouge is unlike anything you have back home in London.” 

Colin’s eye is caught again across the room, as a beautiful woman with blonde tumbling waves spits a drink into a man’s mouth. 

“I am inclined to agree with you there.” 

It truly is unlike anything back home. Colin has travelled across Europe and back again, seen incredible sights and met wonderful people. He has felt that ease that distance from London society and its unwritten laws and social rules that bind him back home can bring. He’s seen beauty and felt freedom and thought he might have found truth somewhere along the way, but it pales to whatever is contained within these four walls. 

In truth, it couldn’t be farther from London society.

”Just wait until you see my Diamond, Monsieur.”

… Perhaps not. 

Intrigue hits Colin as Harold pulls out a pocket watch on a brilliant gold chain. 

“Your diamond?”

”My Sparkling Diamond. The main attraction of the Moulin Rouge, my most sought after little chickee.” He speaks proudly, with a mist in his eye Colin normally finds on ambitious Mamas at grand balls, secretly trying to auction their daughters off to the highest rank. 

“I do not believe she is booked yet for tonight…” Harold adds, that mist darkening, disappearing, leaving a shiver stuck between Colin’s shoulder blades.

Not because this Diamond is a courtesan. Colin is hardly a stranger to the profession, and he bears no judgement. In truth, he admires the women he has been known to spend the night with, finding the courage of living outside society so freely quite brave indeed. No, that shiver came from Harold entirely, Colin just cannot figure out why. 

Harold excuses himself, though makes sure Colin knows to stay for the show, and Colin orders a whiskey on the rocks, insisting on paying in cash this time. Though singular in person, he has never felt less alone in his life. Looking around, there isn’t an empty chair in the house. If there were, there wouldn’t be room to put it down for all the dancers and patrons enjoying every ounce of the world they can. Music played straight from the soul ringing in his ears, Colin could make out every instrument. The lights dazzled in his eyes and the spot caught him every so often, lighting his drink up in his hand like golden ambrosia. 

And then, darkness. Silence. 

A single spot, though the mirrors scattered around catch the light and illuminate the faces of the people around him. Everybody is looking upwards, as if they all know she is coming. 

Even if he did know, Colin could never have prepared himself for what he saw when he looked up.

Who he saw.

The Sparkling Diamond, shimmering high on a swing hanging from the ceiling. 

The most beautiful, breathtaking, person he has ever seen. In any city, on any continent in the world. 

Crimson lips part as each and every person hangs on the breath she takes.

”The French are glad to die for love…”

don't forget to vote in the poll for your fmc!

[im-ovulating]

(A/n: We all know about Dragon! Kirishima.... But what about Dragon Slayer! Kirishima? With that thought in mind, I present you with this:)

(Inspired by this from cookiecosplayers on tiktok)

(I have a confession... this was supposed to have smut, but it's just been sitting in my drafts for 4 months... since I can't find the flow to the nsfw, you guys get this unfinished and un-beta'd fic. Maybe I'll finish it some day🤷‍♀️😭)

Word Count: Good question

Summary- While sitting in a shady pub, you encounter a very intriguing stranger

Warnings: None

Age Rating: None

Dragon Slayer! Kirishima x Fem! Reader

------------------------------

You're sipping on a pint of stale mead when he slips into the booth across from you, interrupting your self-imposed pity party. The stranger glances around the pub, taking in the drunks and thugs with an unreadable expression before looking back to you.

"This isn't a place for pretty little things like yourself." His voice is gruffer than you'd assume from looking at him, though not unpleasant. In fact, the entirety of your sudden companion is more pleasant than you were getting used to seeing from your table.

His rogue leather armor -just a chest plate and cuffs, really-, and weaponry the only things pointing to his belonging. Armed with a claymore and various daggers, he certainly makes an imposing figure. From first glance, you'd say he's probably some type of mercenary. 'Murder for hire,' your mind unhelpfully supplies.

He's tall with bright red hair that's pulled off his face with a thick leather cord, broad shoulders and thick, veiny forearms. His face is deceptively soft, his right eye sporting a singular scar spanning from his eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone. His bright red eyes bore into you with an intensity that has the hair on the back of your neck stand on edge.

Any attraction you may have felt for him goes out the window at his choice of words, though. His condescending tone making you bristle in your seat.

Your eyebrows furrow as you glare at him. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, honey. You belong in a pretty little dress with pretty little flowers, not here with a bunch of lowlifes." He crosses his arms, and leans against the back of the booth, and regards you with a neutral expression. "Before you bite my head off: I'm just tryna look out for ya. You don't belong in a place like this, darlin'."

"And how do you know where I belong?" You snark, arms crossing as you continue to glare at the man in front of you.

"I just do..." He jabs a thumb at the rowdy patrons, "A little girl like you shouldn't be spending her time with these... creeps. This place is a cesspool of drunks, thugs, and low lives."

"If it's so bad, why are you here? Associating yourself with such bad people?"

A wolfish smile spreads across his face as he leans forward, resting his arms on the table. The faint lighting casting his eyes in an almost scary light. "Considering I'm one of the King's big, bad dragon slayers, I'd say I fit in here quite well..."

He grabs your pint and drinks from it. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Hey- You know what? Never mind, keep it," You're quickly realizing that arguing with this strange man is a losing battle. The distraction of his drink-stealing makes it take you a second to process his words, "Wait- Dragon slayer?"

You eye him for a second, not quite believing him. He may look strong and have the weapons, but he doesn't quite fit how the stories describe the King's most hardened warriors. You have to say, he doesn't look like he could take on such beasts.

Not the massive, armored creatures you've been warned about since you were a kid, anyway. With skin tougher than diamond, teeth shaper than the best blacksmiths' steel and claws longer than your forearm. You've been told even the smallest ones stand above even the tallest of men.

"No offense but you don't look like a dragon slayer."

He quirks an eyebrow at you. "And how am I s'posed to look, sweetie?"

Your face heats at the veiled accusation. "I dunno... Bigger, nastier. I've heard the dragon slayers are all filthy brutes that even the king cannot convince to be more civilized."

He smirks, briefly looking you up and down before leaning against the booth again, arm thrown over it as he manspreads.

"So, you don't think I'm a big, nasty brute?" He teases.

Your back straightens as you prepare to squawk out a defense only to be cut off as he laughs. "Calm down, sweetheart. I'm just playin with ya." He takes another swing from the stolen mead.

The man sets his -your- pint down to unhook his chest plate and pull his jacket aside, revealing a multitude of burn marks and various other scars. "How this for a brute?"

Your eyes widen at the suddenly exposed skin, any disbelief at his claim squashed with a single look at his marred skin. A small gasp leaves your parted lips at the way the pink flesh and silvery scratches and bites make his torso look almost like stained glass. Definitely the scars you've been told stories about.

Before you can stop yourself, you're asking, "What happened there?" As you point to a fairly large burn scar on the left side of his chest.

"That... was from a Firefury. The fucker's fire blasted me square in the chest. Burned straight through my armor like it was kindling." A smug smirk appears as he finishes, "Still managed to take him down, though..."

Any annoyance you held from his snide nicknames and earlier behavior is thrown out the window at the prospect of hearing about the dragons that plague your kingdom from someone who has actually been up close and personal with them. You can deal with his insufferable pet names in favor of firsthand stories.

He fixes his jacket in favor of rolling his left sleeve up to reveal a patch of slightly raised flesh molted with reds and purples. "This one, as you can probably guess, was from a Blue Terror."

You shift to the edge of your seat to get a better look. The noise of the other pub goers fades as you listen to the stranger's story.

"What did it do?" You look at his face only to find him already looking at you, a small smile gracing his lips unlike his previous smug expressions. You look back to the scarred skin to avoid eye contact.

Wondering what the skin feels like after such an injury, you start to reach for his arm before stopping yourself. You may be interested in the stranger now, but you'll be damned if you make a fool of yourself like that.

Seeing your intrigue, he gestures at you that it's okay to touch his arm as he speaks. "She got a lucky hit in; turned my forearm into what felt like a block of ice."

Apart from a few dry, scaley patches along the edge of the mark, the skin feels surprisingly smooth if not a bit tight.

"It lost some feeling after that and if it gets hit too much, it feels like my arm is being flamed all over again."

Confusion floods you at his words, "I thought they didn't breath fire?"

The man's eyebrows knit together before he seems to realize something. "I forget villagers don't normally come into contact with the beasts... Blue Terror's spit flame just like most dragons, contrary to what the folklore says about them breathing ice. Their name comes from where they live and the frigid feel of their flames. They're still very much flames, though. Don't be mistaken."

"Really?" If that piece of folklore was wrong, you wonder how else the dragons are different from what you've been told.

"Ye-" A loud bang from across the tavern interrupts him. A quick look reveals one of the drunks at the bar had merely slipped out of his seat and hit the floor. Shaking your head in distain, you turn back to your new-found acquaintance.

He lightheartedly snorts as the patron climbs back into his barstool.

You hate to do it, but you have to admit, at least to yourself, that looking past his introduction, the man was actually interesting company; not the zealot you would expect from a place like this.

Looking back to you he asks, "I have one more big one if you're interested?"

"You're quite fond of your scars, aren't you?" You lightly chuckle, resigning to take your mead back. You chug a bit before placing it back on the table.

He chuckes as well, "Yeah, I guess you get that way when they're all you've got to remember everything you've fought for."

At your curious look, he continues. "They're a reminder of the dangers of my job and of just how close I came to death. How many times I've pulled through a tough spot."

"The nightmares are a whole other issue though," he jokes.

You tilt your head at the man, "That's... kind of a beautiful way of looking at them..."

"Hey, don't get all sweet on me, honey. I'm a big, mean, uncivilized dragon slayer; I'm not supposed to feel emotions, remember?" He laughs, waving down the bar maid to order another pint.

You can't help the laugh that makes it way up your throat.

"What~?" He sips his drink once she brings it, chuckling. "It's true!"

"I'm sure it is," you're not sure how this went from you being chastised to an actually pleasant conversation, but you can't say you're complaining. "You said you had another one to show me?"

"Right," he turns to the side, moving his hair to reveal a massive star-shaped scar reaching across his neck, just touching his jaw and creeping under the shoulder of his jacket. "This one was the nastiest: A massive Ivorywing managed to get behind my while I was fighting and bit a clean chunk of flesh from me. No reason I shoulda survived, but here I am~"

He spreads his arm wide as he flashes another sharp smile your way.

You return it with a small shake of your head. "The rewards must be worth it, no? Along with the fame, that is?"

"I guess," he muses.

"The reward is nice - the recognition, though? That's the worst part," he continues. "The way I'm treated like some sort of hero or something. I'm no hero, doll. I'm just a guy doing my job; I don't need no damn fame..."

You furrow your brows at him. "What do you mean? Dragon slayers have saved hundreds of civilians - noble and peasant alike - I think that makes you well deserving of the 'hero' title."

The man in front of you has fallen some of the biggest beasts on this earth - has the scars to prove it - and doesn't think he is any sort of heroic? Insanity.

"I know it probably sounds dumb, but I stand by it..." He finishes his mead, chugging the rest of it in one go. "You know who doesn't get called heroes? The blacksmiths that make my weapons, the armorers who design my armor, the doctors who patch me up... They're the ones who should be called the heroes."

"That's very..." You struggle to find the words, "humble of you to say..."

He shrugs, "It's just my opinion. I don't deserve that title just because I have the shiny scars and cool stories."

There's a brief pause as you process what he says and he takes a breath to steady himself from the rant.

"You never answered my question, doll."

"What?"

"What you're doing in a place like this? I've talked enough about me, I wanna hear about you."

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Daddy's Little Princess

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader (One-Shot)

Description: You get home after a long day at the office to near silence. It warms your heart when you walk into your living room to see your husband Bradley Bradshaw playing with your eldest and making her laugh as she combs his mustache with a doll's comb.

Disclaimers: AFAB!Reader, Tooth-rotting fluff, Babies, Bronco, Bradley

Word Count: 1167

A/N: Hi, Star here! The Top Gun Brain-Rot still has me by the throat. This was inspired by this post which suggested, Play with his mustache use barbie hair brushes on it. Obviously, the minute I saw it, my brain immediately went yup, that's a Bradshaw and so this fic was born. This is un-beta'd and un-edited by anyone other than me, so forgive any glaring errors.

AO3: Cross-posted here!

My Masterlist

It's been a long, horrendous day. You'd had to go into the office for an important meeting and dress formally for it, too. The worst part was having to leave your husband and children at home alone. Thankfully, it had been one of his few days off-duty from NAS North Island. You'd kissed your babies on their foreheads as you left early in the morning and spent far too long pressed against your husband’s chest before leaving. Traffic in San Diego was no worse than it usually was, so all in all, your morning was typical. It was during your meeting that your day rattled off the rails. Your proposal was not well received. It had been ripped to shreds by every member of the C-Suite present in the boardroom that day. You'd spent the remainder of the day with your team reviewing every inch of the proposal with a fine-toothed comb and writing and re-writing pieces for the follow-up meeting in one week.

After your day, you were flagging as you got into your Jeep that evening to drive home. The one highlight of your day had been the giggle-filled voicemail you'd received during your lunch break. Your daughter's voice had been so sweet with the baby's babbling and your husband's deep tones in the background. It was apparent your mischievous little princess had stolen your husband's phone and called you accidentally. It brought much-needed energy to you and an impetus to finish work as soon as possible.

All the streetlights are coming to life and illuminating the road with a golden glow as you turn onto your street and finally breathe a sigh of relief. Your husband's bright blue Ford Bronco sits in your driveway as you pull in behind it. It's only a few minutes before you're unlocking the door and finally stepping out of your heels. Rather than the giggling stampede you expect, the house is nearly silent. Sure, there is the ever-present low hum of Bluey pouring out of your living room, but the undercurrent of chaos usually present in your home with a 3-year-old, an 8-month-old, and not one but two dogs isn't there at all. You place your bag on the side table and stretch your tense muscles before padding silently to the living room and peeking in. Your son, Arden, rocks in his swing seat on the floor, suckling happily on a pacifier. Surrounding him lies the residue of what looks to be a war zone of dinosaurs versus Barbies, your daughter Maria's favorite game at the moment. You can't see her yet, but boy, can you hear her now.

"Daddy, Daddy! The dinoswars won! I twout the Barbies were gonna win. You tolded me they would win!" Her little voice pipes on and on about how sad it was that the Barbies lost. Interspersed with her chatter, your husband hums inquisitively to keep the conversation going. Your grin grows at your husband's voice when the little miss runs out of steam.

"Baby, maybe the Barbies didn't win because you forgot something?"

"What, Daddy?"

"What magic spell did Daddy tell you the Barbies needed to beat the big bad dinosaurs so you could save Ardy?"

"I hadda brush all their hairs and kiss them."

"That's right, baby. But you forgot one thing." Maria makes a little confused hum, and your husband continues, "You forgot to comb your hair and Daddy's!"

"Oh!" Her little squeal of realization is too cute. "Daddy, help!"

"Gimme the comb, Princess. Gonna make you look all pretty so we can save Arden from the big bad dinosaurs." 

You step a little bit closer. The kids are entirely occupied with the game, and the dogs, Tramp and Falcon, are curled up in one of the dog beds. The only person to notice you is your husband, who winks at you from his spot in the war zone of toys your living room floor has become. 

"All done!" He proclaims, "Don't you look beautiful?!" He smacks a loud wet kiss against her cheek as she giggles loudly.

"Daddy, wait!" Maria's all bossy now, "We forgot one thing!"

"What's that?" Your husband is the best.

"Your moostach, Daddy!" She's smiling proudly at pronouncing the word mostly correctly. 

"Alright, baby girl. C'mere. Let's comb my mustache and defeat these dinosaurs before mama gets home."

He tugs Maria to stand in between his legs and hands her the bright pink doll's comb. He sits there with unerring patience as your baby carefully runs the comb through his mustache, wiggling his upper lip occasionally to make her laugh. It's absolutely adorable to see. Bradley Bradshaw had confided to you early on in your relationship that he was afraid to have children. As he’d lost his father at a young age, he didn't know what it meant to be a good dad. All that fear turned into uncontrollable love the minute he held Maria in his arms, and he'd proven what a fantastic father he was every day since. You’re unbelievably in love with this man. That love only swells in your chest when you see the glittery butterfly clips nestled in his curls and the love in his eyes as he devotes all of his attention to your little princess. 

Unsurprisingly, of your two kids, Arden sees you first, giving you a gummy smile and squealing as he wiggles his little body to catch your attention. You step into the warzone willingly, carefully avoiding stepping on any of the toys, and heft your youngest into your arms. He’s warm and baby-soft in your arms as you snuggle him close, breathing in the scent of his baby shampoo and the special detergent you use on his clothes. Hurricane Maria is not to be deterred, though, as she wraps herself around your leg and kisses your thigh.

“Princess, princess, c’mere.” Bradley sounds so fond as he tries to free your daughter from her limpet-like grasp of your leg. “Let Mama and Ardy sit down, baby girl. Then you can cuddle her all you want!” He coaxes her away and pulls her into his lap as he sits on the sofa. You join them, letting the soft cushions conform to your body. Maria joins Arden in your arms, and you finally let yourself decompress.

"Hey, Mama," Bradley murmurs.

"Hi, B," Your voice is soft as you turn your head to kiss him. 

"How was your day?"

"Terrible. But it's better now. It’s always better when I have you and our babies in it."

You smile into the kiss he gives you, relishing in your husband's taste before focusing all of your attention on your children in your arms. Maria chatters about everything she'd done during the day, and you converse happily with her. Arden babbles at breaks in the conversation, and you love seeing Maria interact with him. It'll soon be time for dinner, baths, and bed, but for the next few moments, you can rejoice at the feeling of having everything you love at your fingertips.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

[campingwiththecharmings]

Never Have I Ever

AN: I started writing this back in July when I was having issues on another fic and I never finished it because I couldn't really figure out where it was going. I'm not 100% happy with it, ngl, but I really enjoyed writing the dialogue so I decided I'm posting it anyway lol. Hope someone else enjoys this! (Also, this is based on this prompt: "Had a sex dream about a close friend." I cannot seem to locate the post for it though, my apologies.)

(Un-beta'd)

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab one of the shots in front of you and down it, coughing a little as the alcohol burns down your throat. As you set the glass back on the table, you slowly meet your best friend’s gaze. He stares at you with slightly narrowed eyes, his lips parted as he absently tongues the inside of his cheek. “You’re messing with me.”

Rated: T Words: 4,567 (bruh) Pairing: Poe Dameron x GN!Reader Warnings: alcohol use, mild cursing, kissing, friends to lovers, possibly terrible writing. AO3

——————

You throw back a shot with a grimace and glance over at Poe who sits across the table, smirking at you over his own line of glasses.

“My turn again,” he says, his giddiness practically rolling off him in waves.

The cantina is busy tonight; Resistance personnel from a myriad of departments are taking the opportunity to unwind after a particularly grueling week. It’s loud, everyone practically screaming to be heard over the Corellian music playing from the jukebox by the bar.

You grumble and slump against the back of the booth you and Poe have chosen in the corner of the room. “This isn’t a fair game, Poe, you already know all of my secrets and now you’re using them against me.”

He chuckles and raises an eyebrow at you. “Yeah, and you know mine. So what’s the issue?”

“The issue,” you retort, glaring at him, “is you’re trying to get me drunk off my ass.”

He shrugs and laughs again, suddenly looking a little unsure. “Well, yeah, I kind of thought that was the point?”

“Then let me have a turn. I’m not getting drunk alone, that wasn’t the deal.”

Poe sighs dramatically and leans toward you a bit before whispering, “But it’s still my turn.”

You roll your eyes and sigh in resignation, motioning for him to get on with it.

He smiles and sits back against the back of his booth. He squints at you for a moment as if studying you and you send another glare his way.

“Alright, how about this one: Never have I ever had a sex dream about a friend.”

Your stomach drops as you return your gaze to his. He winks at you like he’s done you a favor and grabs one of the shots in front of him. He downs it in seconds, grimacing as he sets the glass back onto the table.

“Kriff, is that stuff terrible.”

You wait a beat, unsure whether you should take a drink. If you don’t, it’d be a lie but he’d never know…

But he’s your best friend, one of the most important people in your life and, despite everything, he’s always been there for you. So you had a sex dream about him? So what? It was a billion years ago and it was one time…

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab one of the shots in front of you and down it, coughing a little as the alcohol burns down your throat. As you set the glass back on the table, you slowly meet your best friend’s gaze.

He stares at you with slightly narrowed eyes, his lips parted as he absently tongues the inside of his cheek. “You’re messing with me.”

You bite your bottom lip and avert your gaze, suddenly very interested in the graffiti on the wall beside you.

…So interested that you don’t see or hear Poe get up from his side of the booth and move to yours. 

He all but falls into the booth beside you, making you jump. Your attention snaps back to him as he scoots closer to you, pushing you a little further into the booth.

“Alright,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, “now you can give me all the details.”  

You snort a laugh and tilt your head to give him an incredulous look. “Maybe you’re drunker than I thought.”

“C’mon,” he says, a little defensively, “you know I won’t tell and it’s not like anyone can hear us back here.”

He’s looking at you like he can figure out what he wants to know if he stares at you long enough (or maybe just stares at you until you cave and tell him what he wants to know), but you only smile and raise your eyebrows in challenge.

After a minute of this, he realizes you aren’t budging and tries a new tactic.

“Alright, how about this,” he begins, pulling his leg up to rest on the bench so he’s facing you, “I guess, and if I guess right, you have to tell me.”

You chew on your lip, considering his proposal. “Okay fine, BUT, you get three guesses, and three guesses only, and if you don’t guess right, we never talk about this ever again.”

He beams and sticks his pinky out toward you. “Deal.” 

You chuckle and clasp his pinky with yours.

He laughs and sits back a bit, rubbing his hands together in delight as he considers his first guess.

“Okay,” he says, clearing his throat, “Snap?”

You scoff and shake your head, sipping at your glass of water. He frowns, considering his next guess more carefully.

“Wedge?” he says after a moment, eyebrow raising suggestively.

You laugh, spitting out some of the water you were in the process of swallowing. 

Poe snorts and hands you a napkin. “Guess that’s a no.”

You shake your head again as you wipe the water from your chin.

“No it is Wedge or no it isn’t?”

You glare at him half-heartedly and crumple the napkin into a ball. “I will punch that pretty face of yours, Dameron.”

You throw the crumpled napkin at him and he chuckles as it bounces off his nose and lands on the bench between you. 

“One guess left,” you taunt, raising a brow at him.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, biting his lip in consideration. “I’m honestly drawing a blank.”

“Come on,” you chuckle, “Just guess. You wanted to do this, Poe…”

“I know, I know…Alright fine, uh, I’ll just guess…me. There. We’re done, you win, we never have to talk about this ever again. Congrats.”

Your smile drops instantly at his words, face burning with embarrassment.

He guessed himself. Of course he guessed himself. 

You honestly should’ve seen this coming. Why did you agree to this? Now you’re gonna have to tell him and he’s going to tease you about it for the rest of your life—

Kriff.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register that he’s talking to you, though about what you have no idea. It takes him a moment to realize you’re not listening to him and he gazes at you with concern.

“Hey, is there a reason you’re flushed all of a sudden? Are you sick?” he asks, putting a hand to your forehead.

You jerk suddenly at the press of his hand, the coolness bringing you back to reality.

“Whoa, you okay? Maker, please don’t throw up on me,” he jokes, his eyes tinged with both amusement and concern.

You nod rapidly and briefly meet his eyes as you scoot as far away from him as you can get, pressing your back to the wall beside the booth. “Yeah. Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

His concern slowly morphs into suspicion as he takes note of your movement. “Why’d you move back? I smell bad or something?”

“Yeah, you smell like a herd of wild bantha,” you deadpan, wrinkling your nose at him.

(He actually smells pretty great, he always does, but you’re not about to tell him that.)

“Oh come on, I do not,” he scoffs, making a show of smelling himself. “If you really thought that, you would’ve said something ages ago.”

“Maybe I just didn’t realize how bad it was until you decided to invade my personal space.”

He shakes his head, suspicion returning. “Nah, that’s not it. It’s something else.”

You press your back against the wall behind you, doing your best to maintain eye contact with him as he stares at you again but, despite your efforts, you look away first.

“Come on, just talk to me.”

The pleading in his voice makes your heart ache just a little, but you ignore the feeling and cross your arms over your chest, looking anywhere but directly at him, hoping that he’ll just give up and move on.

But he doesn’t, because that’s just not what Poe Dameron does. And, honestly, it’s not what you do either.

Heaving a sigh, you reluctantly meet his gaze. His brown eyes are warm and soft, just like always, and you think you feel something in your chest crack because of it (whether it’s your heart or the cage you put around it, you’re not sure).

“Your last guess. It…wasn’t wrong.”

It takes him a moment to figure out what you mean, but you see it in his eyes the second he does.

“You…had a sex dream about me?” he asks blankly, still processing this information.

You cringe and bite your lip, nodding.

He’s silent for a moment, still apparently thinking (kriff, maybe he really was drunker than you’d thought).

Another moment and he’s meeting your gaze again, mirth back in his eyes and a teasing smile on his lips. “You had a sex dream about me?” 

Mildly relieved, you roll your eyes and scoff at him.

“Well, I can’t really say that I blame you, I mean, I am pretty irresistible.”

You snort, shaking your head at him. “You’re so modest.”

“It’s ‘cause I’m so hot, isn’t it?” he continues, his voice lowering an octave as he slides closer and cages you against the wall of the booth with his body, his leg pressing against yours.

Suddenly a little nervous, you huff a laugh and put a hand on his chest to stop him from ending up in your lap, trying to ignore the solid warmth you can feel through his shirt. “Actually, and I cannot stress this enough, I find you utterly repulsive.”

He pretends to consider your words for a moment before shaking his head. “Nah, I don’t buy it. You did just call me pretty a few minutes ago. Plus, you’re always going on about how soft my hair is and how nice my eyes are and how my jaw could cut transparisteel–”

“I have definitely never said any of those things, most especially that last one,” you counter, eyebrows raised in mock indignation.

“Well,” he says nonchalantly, shrugging as he averts his eyes to pick at a loose thread on his jacket. “There must be something you like if you’re having sexy dreams about me every night.”

You scoff, embarrassed again, and push his shoulder. “Uh, it was one time, thank you. And no, there’s absolutely nothing I like about you. I actually hate you and I’ve just never had the heart to tell you the truth.”

He hums knowingly, a small smile on his lips as he meets your eyes once more. “Guess what, Sunshine? It’s my turn again.”

You groan, slumping against the wall at your back. “Come on, when do I get to go?”

“When you don’t take a shot, that’s when.”

“And yet you take one almost every other time you make me take one. How does that work?” 

He waves your argument off, shaking his head. “I’m the one asking, it doesn’t count.”

You scoff, twisting your lips in irritation before suddenly narrowing your gaze. “You took a shot on that last one, too.”

He shrugs, chuckling as he raises an eyebrow at you. “And?”

A smile starts to spread across your lips. “That means you’ve had a sex dream about one of your friends too.”

He tenses almost imperceptibly but you’re watching him so closely you notice. He shrugs again, some of the humor leaving his eyes. “So?”

“So,” you respond, dragging out the ‘o’ as you lean into his personal space, his face inches from yours. “Who is it?”

He swallows, studying you quietly with something unreadable in his eyes. “Trust me, you don’t wanna know.”

You continue to silently stare at each other for another moment, realizing too late how close you actually are. Chewing your lip absently, your stomach flips when you see his gaze briefly drop to your mouth. 

In an effort to create some much-needed distance, you slump a little in your seat and pout at him, employing your best puppy eyes. “But I told you mine.”

The strange moment passes as he bites back a smile and pats the top of your head tauntingly. “Aw, you’re adorable. Want me to scratch behind your ears, Sweetheart?”

You bat his hand away with a half-hearted glare and he chuckles. 

“Hey, guys.”

The familiar voice makes the two of you turn toward the end of the table where you see Jess and Connix.

“Hey, I thought you two were on the night shift?” Poe asks, smiling warmly at them.

“Got off early. Well, I did,” Connix says before gesturing to Jess, “She’s still on-call.”

You nod, turning yourself back toward the table to face your friends as Poe does the same. He doesn’t move back over though, so when he settles on the bench, his arm and thigh are pressed against yours.

He never did have any concept of personal space.

“So, what are you two playing?” Jess asks, sliding into the booth across the table and gesturing the line of shots.

“Never Have I Ever,” Poe says, shooting you a mischievous look, “I’m getting all the deep, dark secrets out of this one.”

You roll your eyes affectionately and snort, trying to ignore how warm he is beside you. “Right, because you didn’t already know about that time I threw up on General Ematt.”

Jess chuckles, grabbing one of the shots as Connix slides into the booth beside her.

“Hey, come on, Pava, those aren’t for spectators,” Poe scolds, making a face as he tries (unsuccessfully) to grab the glass from her. “Besides, you shouldn’t be drinking anyway if you’re on-call.”

She shrugs idly, setting the empty glass back down onto the table top. “It takes a helluva lot more than one shot to compromise me, Dameron.”

“Okay fine, but no more. I’m cutting you off,” he concedes, his hand making a slashing motion through the air.

She chuckles, pouring water from the pitcher into her empty shot glass. “Yes, sir, Commander.”

“What about you, Connix? You want in on the game?” you ask, resting your elbows on the table.

“Sure, why not?” she says with a shrug, “Who’s turn is it?”

“Technically it’s his,” you complain, scowling at Poe. “But I’m sure he’d happily forfeit it if one of you wants to have a go.”

He frowns, raising an eyebrow at you, before gesturing with his hands. “By all means.”

“I’ve got one,” Jess says, shooting a knowing look at the man beside you, “Never have I ever gone commando beneath my flight suit.”

You snort, biting your lip to stifle a giggle as Poe scowls in Jess’s direction.

“Are you ever gonna stop bringing that up, Pava? It was one time,” he complains, downing a shot.

“Nope. I still have nightmares about seeing your naked ass.” Jess jokes, smirking at him from across the table.

He rolls his eyes, ignoring Connix’s laughter as he sets the glass back down on the table. “Please. If it was such a traumatic experience for you, you wouldn’t constantly bring it up.”

Jess heaves an exaggerated sigh, resting her chin in her hand. “I will know no peace until all have suffered as I did that day.”

You snort again and Poe raises an unamused eyebrow at you before turning back to Jess. “Can we move on, please?” 

“Sure, Dameron. Sure.”

The game continues for several more rounds, and everyone gets the chance to ask questions, including you. The longer you play, the more buzzed you become. You’re warm and your head feels fuzzy. Suddenly tired, you let your head fall to Poe’s shoulder, snuggling into the soft leather of his jacket.

When you close your eyes (just for a second), you hear someone at the table chuckle (Jess, you think). “Uh oh, looks like we’re losing this one.”

You feel Poe shift slightly as he (presumably) moves to look at you and you whine in protest, burrowing further into his side.

“Looks like it,” you hear Poe say, his voice slightly muffled with your ear pressed against him. “Come on, Sunshine. Time to go.”

You make it back to your room without any issues (save for your repeated attempts to fall asleep on his shoulder while upright and moving). Poe gets you inside and sits you down on the side of your bed.

“Stay.”

You frown and roll your eyes petulantly. “I’m not a Massiff, Dameron.”

“I know,” he says, disappearing briefly into your fresher and reappearing with a glass of water in his hand. “Massiffs are much better listeners.” 

You scoff, gesturing rudely at him and making him laugh.

“Drink this,” he says, pressing the glass of water into your hand.

“So bossy,” you grumble, taking a few sips.

“Yeah well, they don’t call me ‘Commander’ for nothing.”

You snort a laugh (because everything is funny to you when you’re like this). “Well, Commander, thanks for flying me home safely.”

He smiles at you and takes your glass, setting it on the table beside your bed. “Anytime, Sunshine. Now, time for bed.”

“Yes, Sir, Captain Tightpants. No, wait—Commander Tightpants.”

He shakes his head as he kneels to help you untie your boots. “You leave my pants out of this.”

You hold onto his shoulder as he tugs your boots off, setting them side-by-side near the foot of your bed.

“You okay to sleep in that?” he asks, gesturing to the shirt and pair of cargo pants you’d worn to the cantina. 

You look down at yourself, then back at him, and shrug. 

"Okay," he chuckles, ruffling your hair. "Need anything before I go? A snack? Another blanket, maybe?”

Your face falls at his words and you grab onto his jacket as he goes to stand. “What? No, you can’t leave.”

“It’s late and we both need to sleep,” he says matter-of-factly, trying to reason with you despite your current state. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You could sleep here, you know. Help make my dream a reality,” you say, waggling your eyebrows and jokingly running a hand down his arm.

“I’m not so sure I can live up to dream me,” he chuckles, patting your hand.

“How will you know for sure if you never try?” you ask softly, looking at him from beneath your lashes.

His humor fades slowly as he studies you, and Maker, he’s so close and warm and smells so good and suddenly you wonder if he tastes as good as he smells…

You sigh at the thought, swaying forward a little, your eyes falling to his lips—

Something stops your forward trajectory and you look down, confused, before you realize it’s just Poe’s hand on your shoulder.

“Uh uh,” he says softly.

“Why not?” you whine, pouting dramatically. 

“You’re drunk, Sweetheart,” he responds, some of the humor returning to his eyes. 

“Only a little bit.”

He chuckles. “I’m not kissing you when you’re drunk.”

“So you’d kiss me if I wasn’t?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s not a ‘no.’”

He snorts, shaking his head. “You’re a pain, you know that?”

You smile sleepily, gaze half-lidded. “Yeah, but you love me.”

His smile is fond as he gazes at you, that unreadable something from earlier back in his eyes. 

“Okay, enough,” he says after a moment, his voice somehow both soft and firm. “Sleep.”

“Only if you stay,” you argue, stubborn as always.

He hesitates, gazing at you with searching eyes before heaving a resigned sigh.

“Fine. Move over, Sunshine.”

You do as instructed, grumbling about him being bossy again under your breath. He chuckles, toeing off his boots and settling himself onto your small bed. You press yourself into his side immediately, your head finding a place on his shoulder. A contented sigh escapes you as his warmth seeps into you, his familiar scent lulling you into blissful unconsciousness.

—

You whine a little when you wake; your head is pounding, mouth as dry as the sands of Tatooine. At the noise, something constricts around your middle and you freeze, opening your eyes in panic and immediately flinching at the light streaming in through the small windows. You squint as your eyes adjust, briefly taking in the space around you before turning your attention to the person-shaped mass beside (and sort of beneath) you.

Poe.

You sigh in relief, sniffing a laugh at yourself as you study him from your spot on his shoulder. He looks peaceful, at ease, more so than you’ve seen in ages. The crease between his brows is gone, his mouth is a little slack, and it occurs to you suddenly that, despite the jokes and the teasing, he really is beautiful.

A face sculpted by the gods, you think wistfully, resisting the urge to trace his jaw with your fingers.

His eyelids twitch as you gaze at him, shaking you from your reverie. 

You flush, a little embarrassed by your thoughts as you turn away, looking instead for a way to escape his hold without waking him. His legs are tangled up with yours and the arm around your middle has you pressed flush against his left side.

You’re not sure why you’re feeling so nervous about this, about waking up with Poe. It’s not like it’s the first time it’s happened, you can think of at least three other instances off the top of your head. 

So why does this time feel so different?

Your memories of last night are a little hazy, but you’re convinced something happened. You wrack your brain, willing it to conjure any memory from the night before that could shed some light on what you’re feeling but…there’s nothing. 

Deciding that there’s not really much you can do about it before he wakes, you resign yourself to your current fate (and maybe let yourself enjoy the moment a little more than you probably should).

Less than an hour later, he stirs, stretching a little as you sit up enough to meet his eyes.

“Morning,” he rasps, smiling lazily at you with half-lidded eyes.

“Hey,” you respond, a shy smile on your lips.

He narrows his gaze at your tone, raising a questioning eyebrow at you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say, a little too quickly.

His gaze searches yours a moment longer, and you’re sure he knows, knows something is off, that something is different.

But instead he seems to brush it off, an amused smile forming on his lips as he lifts a hand to gesture at your face. “You’ve got—”

“What?” you ask, your own hand immediately coming up to your face.

“Drool. You’ve got drool,” he says, chuckling as his hand cups your cheek, thumb swiping gently at the corner of your mouth.

Your breath catches at the touch, your gaze briefly flicking from his eyes down to his lips. His smile falters a little at the action and your stomach plummets.

“Thanks,” you croak, forcing a smile to your lips.

He studies you with an unreadable expression, his hand still cupping your cheek.

You should be terrified, should be afraid you’ve ruined the best relationship in your life, but somehow all you can think about is how much you want to kiss him.

Him. Poe. Your best friend.

When did this happen? How could this happen?

“Hey,” he says finally, his soft voice shaking you from your spiraling thoughts, “can I try something?”

He seems strangely nervous. Normally, this would intrigue you, but right now all it’s doing is adding to your own anxiety.

You nod in response, not trusting that your voice won’t give you away.

His throat bobs a little and he shifts, moving as if he’s going to sit up. The hand on your cheek tilts your face up slightly, but you don’t really realize why until his mouth is inches from yours. You inhale sharply in surprise and he halts, eyes meeting yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, his nose bumping against yours as he hovers, waiting. Waiting for you to give him the okay, to tell him this is what you want, that he’s what you want.

You gaze at him, mouth opening and closing wordlessly as you briefly wonder how you got here. But you must wait too long to respond because suddenly there’s an uncertain look in his eyes, and he’s looking away, pulling away—

Without another thought, you reach for him, fisting your hand in his collar and pulling his mouth to yours.

His lips are warm and dry and, at first, they move hesitantly against yours. But then he sighs, pulling you on top of him using the arm still wrapped around your middle. He rolls you over so he’s above you and you gasp against his mouth. He takes advantage of your reaction by slipping his tongue between your lips, the wet slide of his tongue against yours sending a shiver through you. He hums, kissing you harder. 

Eventually, the need for oxygen forces you to break apart, much to the dismay of you both. You press your forehead to his as you try to catch your breath, your fingers playing with one of the buttons on his shirt.

“You okay?” he pants, his thumb idly stroking your cheek.

You chuckle, shooting him an incredulous look. “I’d say so.”

His smile makes your stomach flip. “Glad to have another satisfied customer.”

You scoff and he chuckles, looking at you with the same fondness he always has, and you want to ask him how long he’s wanted this, wanted you. 

“So, uh, what happens now?” you ask instead, suddenly nervous.

“Well,” he begins, averting his gaze almost shyly. “We should probably go on a date or something.”

You bite back a smile, nodding in agreement. “We could do that.”

He smiles again, a glint in his eyes when he meets yours again. “There’s something you should probably know first though.”

“Oh?” you ask, breath catching as he leans in to press a kiss to the side of your neck.

He hums, pressing another to your jaw, smiling when your throat bobs. 

“It was you,” he says softly, kissing the corner of your mouth.

It takes you a moment to register what he said and, when you do, your brow furrows. “What was me?”

He smiles again, lightly kissing your cheek. “In my dream.”

When you realize what he means, you laugh, burying your face in his neck. 

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, sure, laugh it up.”

“I’m sorry but,” you giggle, pulling back to meet his eyes again. “You had a sex dream about me.”

He nods, a little heat entering his gaze. “There’ve been a few, actually.” 

You flush a little, chewing your bottom lip as your giggles subside somewhat. “Yeah?”

He hums in confirmation, nudging your nose with his as he leans in, mouth hovering over yours again. "We'll have to compare notes sometime."

After a beat, you snort, covering your mouth as you laugh again. "Is that a line, Poe? I feel like that’s a line. Has that one actually worked for you before?"

He scoffs, the tips of his ears turning pink. "You know, you're kind of killing the mood here, Sunshine."

You bite your lip, still chuckling. "Yeah well, someone has to keep you grounded, Flyboy."

He grunts, smiling as he leans in, claiming your lips again in a slow, heated kiss. You sigh in contentment, heart fluttering as you thread your fingers through his curls; this…you could get used to this.

Review (pretty please)?

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[here-for-the-chaos]

Very short and not beta'd fic!!! Before things get inevitably worse. Pls give me some constructive critique this is my first ever posted fic. This is dedicated to @qfliporiana cause they filled me with canon denying love of the two of them.

It wasn’t until around 9:30 that morning that Charlie had realized he was wearing Mariana’s glasses. He had been going about his tasks of the morning, making coffee, checking around the house for any traps that had been set (or mines he had misplaced), collecting all of Flippa’s toys that were strewn around the living room into the toybox along the wall, and beginning breakfast. He had to remind himself to triple the pancake recipe. His cooking had never been very… tasty, but he would try for them. When passing by the mirror near the door, only then did he notice the round edges of the frames, and how just a bit blurry everything was. He brought and hand up and slipped them off his face, unable to suppress something of a fond smile. Definitely Mariana’s. Maybe the reason he hadn’t noticed was that he never had to think of it before. A few nights ago, he and husband’s beds were separated. It was for the best, really, them not sleeping together. (Aside from the nights they did, but that wasn’t the point.) But now it was permanent. It was a hard night, one Charlie didn’t like to remember, but ever since then, the beds stayed pushed together. And the two pairs of glasses rested on the same nightstand. Despite him saying otherwise at every opportunity, Charlie didn’t hate it. Not one bit.

 He ran his fingers over the rims. They had cracks and ridges, but were still charming in a way. The brunet sighed to himself. God, all of this was so… Domestic. Was that the right word? Was that how you would describe raising a child with another man, being a husband? Was that how you describe fixing up an exploded house with said man? A comfortable living room. A small but well used kitchen. An indoor farm with all of Flippa’s favorite plants and food. A ladder and stairway lined with family photos, or anything they found amusing. A child’s room with drawings across the walls. A bedroom that once was cold as ice, now warmed by two people sharing a bed. Yes, that was what it was.

The sound of a door creaking open drew Charlie’s attention, a bed wrangled Mariana leaning on the doorway. He wore a loose gold sweatshirt, with boxy glasses slid all the way down his nose bridge. Short dark hair hung down in his face, making Charlie chuckle at the adorableness stupidity of it.

“Charlie, creo que tienes mi-” Mariana was cut off by a yawn, as he rubbed his eyes and fixed the glasses on his face. Charlie could guess enough of what he meant and held up the pair in his hands.

“We switched,” the American chuckled, leaning back on the kitchen counter top as they swapped the spectacles back to their proper owners, “I took yours.” Charlie slid the square glasses onto his face, and watched as the world came back into clear focus. Grabbing the translator he spotted on the counter, he changed the settings so that whatever was spoken would be read out in the other language. Sure, the both of them had picked up enough of the other language to get what they were saying, especially Mariana, but it was better safe than sorry. 

Mariana waltzed over to the other side of the countertop and leaned forward to face the slime, translator between them, and quickly took a hold of his hand. Charlie cocked an eyebrow, a green blush rising to his cheeks. He nervously laughed and averted his gaze, “Never knew you one for contact outside of shitty sex,” he quipped awkwardly. The Mexican scoffed and shook his head, sending a confusing pang of guilt through Charlie, as if disappointing Mariana hurt. Huh, weird.

Their eyes suddenly locked, intense, and firm. Mariana began to speak, “No sé muy bien cómo decir esto. Todo esto empezó porque nos dijeron que cuidáramos a un niño para el que no estábamos preparados. Y lamento lo que pasó, y lamento no haber estado ahí. Tengo mucho miedo de que algo así vuelva a pasar, pero lo intento. Intento ser un buen padre y un buen marido. Sé que tú también lo estás intentando. Y creo que está yendo a alguna parte. Espero que así sea. Así que, gracias por estar ahí. Y gracias por intentarlo de nuevo, aunque sólo sea por Flippa. Que sepas que no es mi única razón.”

Charlie blinked, the cogs turning in his brain halting. Similarly, the translator whirled uselessly, the speed of Mariana’s talking making it unable to translate. He dumbly tipped his head to the side, “What?”

Mariana shook his head, an annoyed yet warm spreading across his face. He paused for a moment, before seemingly shortening his thoughts into 3 words, “Te amo, perra.”

Charlie’s blush deepened as the translator read out “I love you, bitch.” He couldn’t help from smiling himself, and was about to explain how he was absolutely not a bitch-

“Uh, is something burning?” Mariana muttered, breaking eye contact. Charlie’s head shot up and he scrambled over to the stove, smoke beginning to bellow up from scorched pancakes. With his correct glasses on, it became clear to him that what looked like the 360° notch on the stove top was the 660° notch. He lowered his head in embarrassment as Mariana’s charming loud laugh filled the air, sticking the torched pan into the cold water filled sink. “Let’s just heat up some Eggo waffles…”

[keylovesstuff]

Hiii Everyone!!!

I've been around for years now and have never introduced myself. mainly cause I just choose to vibe and enjoy the posts people share, but first time for everything. You can just call me Key, I'm 24 and I go by she/her. I enjoy a variety of stuff from manwha, manga, anime, video game franchises, and just a bunch of other animated media you name its probably buried down in my blog somewhere. Every now and then I get motivation to create fanfiction. I have only written works the Dragonball and Super Mario fandom All my works are under the "Keep Reading". My DMs and askbox here is always open if you ever want to chat I apologize in advance if I come across as a bit awkward (socializing is not a strong suit of mine) or if it takes me a minute to reply (adulting and hobbies am I right?), otherwise I'm a pretty chill person. Thats about it!

One of these days I really want to change my Penname...But I've had it for years now and I'm way too attached to it lmao.

Super Mario Fics: So a lot of these are Princess Peach centric and I'm just crafting up an origin story and some other events following the 2023 film. The links take you to the tumblr post but I have included the AO3 and FFN (for reading preferences) links either in the original post itself or in the case of my earlier stuff in the reblogs.

Lost And Found

A Learning Opportunity (2 chapters on both AO3 and FFN. They are both on the same post here)

Thoughts Over Tea

Aftermath

Finding The Balance

Little Events (currently 4 chapters)

Chapter 1: The Dark

Chapter 2: A Decision

Chapter 3: The Coronation

Chapter 4: Proposals

Dragonball Fics: The first fandom I have ever written for (and by penname you could probably tell what I read mostly) I have only shared them on FFN and AO3 until now. I was just starting to write fanfiction with the first two so they might be kinda cringe I guess but that's 16 year old me for you haha. gonna embrace the cringe by sharing it on here anyways.

Tournament Day

The Prince Before The Day ( I am never gonna finish that one or go back to it lol)

Bulla's Easter Day

Even when I started making fics I'm still not sure what goes through my mind when it comes to the title or chapter titles its literally the first thing that comes to mind and nothing after that but we will get it one day for sure.

Here's Some WIPs (that's both written and not) you guys can look forward too from me. I'll remove them and add them under the appropriate fic tags once I post them:

Uncle Yamcha fic: It is currently three chapters. The first one is him and Trunks, second is Marron, and the third one is Bra/Bulla. I really want to think of one for him and Goten but nothing has come to my mind. I just think he's more close to Krillin and Bulma where he'd interact more with their kids and I can't think of a scenario for him and Goten or what they would even talk about but maybe something will come. (I've currently sent this off to my Beta for review but lemme know if you guys want to see the un-beta'd version I have on here cause I'm really forward to sharing it)

Untitled EOZ fic following after Goku leaves the Tournament grounds to train Uub. This one sits at about 8k words (not sure exactly cause I added a bunch of notes at the end for my beta to see where my thoughts were going with it all) anyways this one focuses mainly on Trunks, Goten, Marron, Pan, and Bra as really the older kids look forward to what may lie ahead. A lot of it is just me focusing on the dynamics they have with each other. When I saw that dlc for kakorat was going to be focused on that one that really makes me want to share this one. Again let me know if you want to see that.

Based on this Ask here you can already see that I've completed 3 out of my 5 ideas so that leaves the other ones and maybe more if I think of anything else. All of these will probably be added to my Little Events fic. a few little ideas not shared here but I've thought about and have some dialoge in mind but haven't fully created yet.

I want to do something where Mario and Haru interact I just think it'll be so neat.

Maybe something where I do my take on introducing Sarasland and Princess Daisy. Probably along the lines of Peach meeting Daisy for the first time.

I need to hop on the wholesome bros. content at some point and I know I wanna try my hand with Mia and Pio as a part of it.

I think thats it for now...I'll probably add more if I think of something as having somwhere to put it down no matter how small it is can be nice to look at and push me towards getting it done.

[vidavalor]

Ineffable Divorce... but it's the OFMD S2 teaser

I was joking with a friend earlier that Crowley would go the opposite route of Ed and the result is this bit of un-beta'd, not-quite-fic crack here.

Aziraphale, in Heaven, has just drafted his 568th handwritten-on-cream-stationary-with-a-quill-pen unsent letter to his dearest Anthony and how much he misses him... everything about him. Being around him. Breathing the same air-- if they really needed to breathe, that is. He winces at his awkward phrasing and magics the letter into non-existence with a sigh. He thinks of him often-- constantly. Does Crowley ever think of him? Aziraphale glances around. No one looking, no one around. He pulls up the Earth Observation Device and whispers nervously:

Ah... hello. I need you to show me Crowley. In the present, please.

Filling the screen is not The Bentley or the bookshop or the pub and Aziraphale blinks, not sure what he expected. He sees a crowded hotel ballroom full of people--humans-- Aziraphale has never seen before... all of whom are having a *suspiciously* great time-- time of their lives, really-- at this wedding reception. The D.J. is currently blasting out some Earth, Wind & Fire and on the dance floor is... Crowley. Formal-wear version of his signature look-- tuxedo version of his vest and his glasses on, jacket off. Snake-patterned bow tie open at his neck-- along with his shirt, almost to his snake belt. Champagne flute dangling out of one hand. Getting down with half the bridal party and guests and... Mrs. Sandwich?!... in the center of the dance floor.

They are surrounded by a throng of humans spanning ages and genders-- ranging from a young groomsman that Aziraphale very much *does not* enjoy observing who seems perpetually stuck in a repeated motion of attempting to get closer to Crowley but not quite getting there... to an elderly woman Aziraphale observes is the groom's mother whose hand Crowley occasionally takes to turn her in a careful twirl... to three elementary-school age children trying to teach each other their made-up dance moves. The kids are the ones who manage to get the occasional slight, genuine smile out from around the perpetual smirk of the demon. Aziraphale can tell the difference between the real smiles and the false cheer covering up pain but still this is at least better than he might have thought and he's grateful to Marla (Mrs. Sandwich) for keeping Crowley company in this... whatever he is doing.

"Oh no!" laughs the maid of honor, audible over the very loud, thumping bebop. She is trying to show alarm with her voice but the crisis turns into amusement in her tone because of the certain... spell... that hangs in the air over this wedding.

"We're almost out of champagne!"

"Yeah, alright," Aziraphale observes Crowley mutter as he stretches his fingers out lazily around his champagne flute and flickers them in the direction of the bar before briefly catching Mrs. Sandwich's hand and dramatically spinning and dipping her, both laughing, before they separate again and continue dancing with one another and everyone else around them in turn. Aziraphale recalls this song as "Let's Groove" from when The Bentley used to play it and Crowley's moves somewhat inspired by those of American cinemagraphic actor John Travolta. (He is not completely clueless, he will have you know.)

"This really is completely mad" is what Nina is saying as Aziraphale manages to drag his eyes off of Crowley long enough to notice her and Maggie. They are not under the spell. The slight smile on Nina's face belays that it might be completely mad, but she is having a bit of fun.

"I know," Maggie grins, her eyes lighting up with a little mischief... and a lot of love as she dances with Nina. "Definitely better than my brother's wedding-- I'll say that."

Nina subtly dances them a little more to the right as Aziraphale frowns, observing her looking nervous as an older man with a dark look on his face approaches them.

"N'uh uh! Love is love, Grandpa," Crowley, still dancing, calls over the music from where he has also observed it. He kisses two of his free fingertips and bats them in the air towards his friends. The older man's angry stalking towards Maggie and Nina suddenly slows to a relaxed gait. Aziraphale watches his expression change from bigoted rage to benevolence.

"Not that we can't fight our own battles but he *can* be kinda useful," Nina whispers with a small smile to Maggie.

"A most pleasant evening, isn't it, Ladies?" the older man smiles as he moves past them to lure someone's elderly aunt who had stopped for more to drink back to the dance floor. To her, the old man says with saucy cheer:

"Come on, Marilyn, let's show these kids how you dance to this bebop!"

Aziraphale observes Crowley toss his head back with a laugh, having heard that supernaturally over the music. Aziraphale knows Crowley might have influenced the older man's choice of words just a smidge. The angel hears what Crowley mutters that no one else quite catches:

"Yeah, fuck you, Aziraphale..." Crowley's voice is less sure and his swallow is thick.

Aziraphale's heart aches. He doesn't see anything in front of him for a minute, lost in pain and the image of Crowley, drunk and dancing, losing himself surrounded by the humans they both love.

When he tunes back in, one of the bridesmaids has managed to get in front of Crowley for a dance and as she laughs, full of a joy that Aziraphale cannot tell is genuine or the product of Crowley or champagne-- or Crowley *and* champagne, Aziraphale thinks, envious-- she asks him over the music:

"How do we know you guys again?"

"You tell me!" shouts Crowley, twisting his fingers in a circle in front of him in a way that looks like a dance move but holds her attention to his eyes long enough for the brief temptation to work.

"Cousin Bildad!" she suddenly cries, as if seeing him for the first time and the dance has just begun, even if neither she nor Crowley have stopped.

Crowley says "sure!" brightly and then growls at the ceiling as she turns away from him. The bridesmaid throws her arms around Mrs. Sandwich, exclaiming her delight in seeing her presumed cousin 'Jemimah' again.

"Hi, hon! Yeah, you look so great! That's your color, girl, looking fantastic," gushes Mrs. Sandwich, ever game. When the bridesmaid isn't looking, she mouths at Crowley: "Jemimah?", as if to say, 'what do you think prompted that one?'

Aziraphale realizes this is not the first wedding that Crowley and Mrs. Sandwich have crashed since he has been gone.

"Long story." Crowley shrugs at Marla. "Might be getting a little loose, Mrs. S," he confesses, still sloppy-dancing.

"A little, hun?"

Aziraphale is relieved to see her toss her dry look also towards Nina and Maggie. Maggie looks concerned. Nina looks at her watch. They make their way over, Nina helping herself to a piece of cake to eat while she watches the other two try to wrangle Crowley into leaving.

"Designated human!" Crowley grins in greeting at Maggie, pointing the finger of his perpetually-full-somehow champagne flute at her.

"You are not driving The Bentley. Not happening."

Aziraphale has the feeling it has happened more than once already.

"Crowley--" she starts.

"Cousin Bildad," corrects Mrs. Sandwich, her eyes flicking to the human wedding party. ("*Bildad*?" squints Nina and she and Mrs. Sandwich exchange 'whatever, it's all weird' looks.) Crowley continues to dance in front of Maggie, trying to get her to join him and everyone else. The spell holds with the wedding guests, who all continue to have the time of their lives.

"It might be time to go before you run out of... your... demonic energy? Is that what we decided to call it?" Aziraphale understands that Maggie means that if Crowley gets drunk enough to pass out, the spell over the humans will break and the four of them will be in trouble for crashing the wedding.

Crowley shrugs while dancing. "Aw, five more minutessss, Mom..."

"Crowley," she gives him a look that feels familiar to Aziraphale and he cannot place why until he realizes that it looks similar to one of his own. She smiles a little, giving in, and dances a little with him, causing him to hiss a victory "yesssss" and for Nina to roll her eyes.

"*Fine*," Crowley spits. "Two more songsss," he hiss-slurs.

"You're a soft touch, ang--," Nina inform Maggie, affectionately.

"NINA!", cry Maggie and Mrs. Sandwich at the same time as Crowley points a finger at her.

"Careful, Coffee Woman," Crowley tries to make it sound like a threat but it comes out like a plea.

"One more song," Maggie tells Crowley softly, in her final negotiation, her look tender, if determined.

Crowley's glare can be felt through his sunglasses but he likes Maggie and Aziraphale knows him. He knows that Crowley--no matter how broken-hearted Aziraphale has made him and Aziraphale can barely breathe with pain over the knowledge of how much he has-- is no threat to humans.

A smirk slips across Crowley's face.

"Alright," he hums, still dancing. "You're in charge, Coussssin Margaret. One more."

Aziraphale watches as Crowley takes petty revenge for his fun ending by choosing the last song. He raises his arms up and points both of his index fingers at the sky.

The D.J.'s music flips mid-song, the sudden change unobserved as strange by the D.J. and the other spell-cast humans, as quickly as if someone has set the needle down on the start of a new record. Suddenly, the humans all cheer and laugh and begin the moves of the dance that goes along with the song that Aziraphale vaguely remembers caused quite an unnecessary stir with some particularly stuffy parents a few decades ago....

When I dance, the woman in the song declares. They call me 'Macarena'...

Nina's eyeroll is slow and as pained as her groan but Maggie's smile turns bemused, her gentleness something Aziraphale is happy Crowley has around him, even if the angel shares Nina's pain. This bebop is especially atrocious. Still, she puts in half-effort and lets Maggie drag her into putting down her cake and half-assing the steps while Maggie enthusiastically Macarenas with Mrs. S and Crowley.

Aziraphale will admit that he can see the allure of this particular dance and his blush is entirely about Heaven's defaulting central air conditioning and has nothing to do with Crowley's hips moving like that.

Aziraphale really has to get Michael on fixing the temperature in here. He blinks away his tears and flips off the device to go get right on that...

[thelightsandtheroses]

Everybody leaves, so why, why wouldn’t you? | Joel Miller x female reader

Summary - You and Joel haven’t heard from either of your brothers in weeks and, with Tess, start forming a plan to leave the QZ and find them. Warnings - none for this fic. Overall series warnings are on the series list. Un-beta'd. Word Count - 1776 Notes - While this stands alone, it’s part of my series of interconnected fics, Fuel to Fire. As a warning, I did write this entire one-shot while I've been ill this weekend so please bear this in mind. Time jump for this one as this scene has been in my head a while.This fic doesn’t mean we won’t return to the QZ at some point for those who want to see more between Between the Shadow … and here and I’ve scattered some hints about some plot points that have happened in between and I will explore those in the future. However, we’ve planted the seeds for the main TLOU plot here. Chapter title from Great Expectations - The Gaslight Anthem. Please let me know what you think of this one shot!

Series List | Masterlist

Boston QZ, September 2023

It’s been weeks since the last radio message. You can see the growing worry in Joel’s eyes. You can see the way it adds to his already loaded shoulders. He hides it as much as he can, wears a mask every time he leaves the apartment, tries to wear that same mask with you and Tess too, but you can see through it.

Tommy has never taken this long to respond to one of Joel’s messages before. In another world, it wouldn’t be a worry, just a sign of a busy life and changed priorities, but in this world it’s not so much a red flag as a glaring, flashing beacon and sirens. Something’s wrong.

Your own brother isn’t replying either and the last you had heard, he was with Tommy.

There’s a sickness in your stomach when you think about that.

“And you’re sure he got the message?” Joel asks, running a hand through his hair and then meeting your gaze directly. His brown eyes are heavy with the weight of his worries, of the last twenty years. Surviving comes at a cost. Everyone knows that now.

“Abe said he did. That’s as much of a guarantee as either of us are going to get here.”

“But he’s not replied?”

“No, but he has barely responded to any of my messages in years, Joel, I got most of my news on him from Tommy,” you say, putting an old scrap of paper into your book and placing it on the battered coffee table. Your brother has been lost to you for too long; first to the Fireflies and their cause and then to grief, pride and stubbornness.  Both you and your brother are now your only ties to the lives you lived before the outbreak, the only other people who are linked to you by blood. That’s not enough though, clearly.

Joel sighs heavily.  “He could be - they could be in trouble. They left the Fireflies, they - Tommy always replies. If he’s not, something’s wrong.”

You don’t reply.

“I have to find him.” You were dreading these words, but you expected them. This is Joel after all. If there is anyone left in the world, he would cross open country for, it’s his family. It’s his brother, even when they don’t exactly like each other anymore. You know this, because you feel it too.

“Where was Tommy’s last message sent from?” You take Joel’s hands into your own, exhale carefully as you entwine your fingers with his.

“Wyoming. Cody, I think.”

“That’s a lot of open country, Joel.” Wyoming feels like a world away from Boston at this moment. You think about the last time you crossed open country, in the years before you met Joel. You and your group were scared and vulnerable and every day you survived was a Pyrrhic victory.  You can die a thousand small deaths while still breathing.

You look down and notice your hands are shaking. You quickly shove them into your jacket pockets before Joel can see. You can’t let him know how nervous this idea makes you. You don’t want him to go alone, or just with Tess, their smuggling runs are agonising enough. You don’t want to go with him either. You can’t let him go without you though.

Your brother is there with Tommy. Whatever fate has befallen Joel’s brother, is likely your brother’s too. Like Joel, whatever barrier is in place between you and your family doesn’t matter if they’re in need.

There is no choice here. You’ll both be going to Wyoming one way or the other if Tommy or your brother don’t reply in the next week or so.

“We’ll need a plan,” you say in a voice you can barely recognise your own. “Need to do this carefully, Joel.”

“I can talk to Tess. She can help.”

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

“Dammit, Tommy. What have you got yourself into this time?”

You wake up next to Joel. The bedcovers are half kicked off the two of you, Joel’s right hand lazily resting over your hip.

“What time did you come to bed?” you ask, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“A few hours after you. I had to think some things through.”

You turn to face him. It looks like he’s barely slept at all.

“We’d need a vehicle,” you say after a moment, running a hand lazily through his hair. “That would be the safest way to get there.”

For a moment, you see a glimpse of your life before the outbreak. You remember sunny days and driving through rural lanes, the sun out, windows down and stereo turned up high, laughing along with friends and singing songs out of tune at the top of your voice.

You remember the joy of carelessness.

You’re back in Boston all too quickly though.

“I know,” Joel replies.

“Do you think you can get one? FEDRA maybe? Decommissioned?” you ask, idly thinking aloud.

Joel takes your hand, kisses it briefly before getting out of the bed and pulling his jeans on.

“I can talk to some people. I think decommissioned is the way to go. They’ll never give us one that’s working, but the depot could be an option, maybe? I mean, they have old vehicles.”

“Okay, so how we do this?” you ask, pulling a shirt on and joining him in the kitchen area.

“It’ll take a lot of cards,” Joel says, his hands pressing down on the kitchen counter and showing every one of his back muscles through his shirt.

“I can pull some extra shifts -” you start to say, running a hand down his spine. “I have some old vinyl records I can trade. I think I heard Mark say he’s looking for some more music, and they’re worth a few cards now. My player’s done for so there’s no point hanging on.”

Joel spins around and places his hands on your hips. “Okay, I can talk to my guy about a vehicle and -”

“Tell me I’m not hearing this correctly, Joel. You’re trying to get a vehicle?” Tess says from the hallway. She raises a hand lazily in greeting as she walks over to join you both in the kitchen. Over the years, you’ve got used to this. At first the way Tess could just walk into Joel’s place and act like it was her own too panicked you, you didn’t know if you were meant to be in some strange competition for whatever it was between you and Joel. Things have settled though; you and Tess, you might even be friends now.

“Batteries?” you ask.

“Why’d you need a vehicle, Joel?”

“We’ve gotta find my brother and hers,” Joel says coolly. “Tommy needs me, Tess.”

“Okay. You know that the batteries are usually fucked in the old vehicles?”

This is what you like about Tess; she’s there for Joel. No questions asked. She’s smart, measured and wily. She’s an asset on your side and a thorn for her enemies. If Joel says he needs to get Wyoming, she’ll help find a way. 

“Yeah, so we’d need a battery too,” Joel says, “But with a battery and one of those vehicles, maybe, maybe we have a plan? Tess, you and me are gonna get out, we get to Wyoming, get Tommy and we get your brother too, darlin’, and then we come back.”

“Wait, I’m coming too,” you say flatly.

“Like hell you are,” Joel says fiercely, shaking his head at you. You take a step out of his arms and cross your arms.

“When was the last time you weren’t in a QZ?” Tess asks. “This isn’t a trip to Disneyland; this is going through raider territory and -”

“It’s my fucking family too, Tess. It’s not just Tommy, is it? My brother might hate me but he’s the only one I have left, so I’m coming too. No arguments.”

Tess scoffs, shakes her head. Joel won’t look at you now either.  You realise he genuinely thought you’d be happy with him and Tess crossing thousands of miles to rescue both your brothers and for you to stay in the QZ?

“I can bring him home,” he says.

“My brother, my problem.”

“You’re not backing down on this, are you?” he asks with a hint of affection in his voice.

You shake your head. You might regret this but you’re terrified that if you don’t go with them, you won’t see either of them and that, that is worse than your fear of the outside.

“Right, so the car battery, Tess?”

“I know someone who could have a lead on that,” Tess says after a moment, “Leave it with me.”

“How soon?” Joel asks. “I’m going to go find out about the vehicle now.”

“As soon as it’s possible, Joel, we can’t rush this. But I get it’s urgent.”

Joel nods. You notice a flash of light in his eyes; a fleeting sense of hope that he conceals all too quickly.

“I can try and start getting some supplies for the journey from work? Most of it’s locked down, but if I start now, by the time we go we could have some things together,” you offer, wanting to help in some way.

“That could be useful,” Tess says.

You check the watch around your wrist that was once your older brother’s. You’re going to be late for your shift. You squeeze Joel’s arm and are a little surprised when he briefly kisses you. While Tess knows that you and Joel are something, the habit of keeping yourselves to yourselves around others over the years has become hard to break.

Before you leave Joel and Tess to their plans, you remember the reason you were at Joel’s yesterday, the reason that had somehow faded away at the site of Joel’s worried face after not receiving a message yet again.

“Oh, I forgot to say. They’ve arrested Jason and Maria - unauthorised exit and entry into the QZ, they were pulling the apartment apart when I left it last.“

Joel takes a step towards you, a mix of annoyance that you hadn’t told him and concern. He knows what this is - Maria’s your best friend and she’s going to be hanged for this. Another loss, another person you will only remember.

“I’m fine, Joel, there’s nothing they can get on me. I’m not a smuggler. I’m fine, but Jason and Maria’s - Maria’s not, they’re not going to be okay” you say softly, “Both of you, be careful.  Please.”

I can’t lose anyone else, you think, I can’t lose everybody.

Tag Lists

Fuel to Fire- @ginger-swag-rapunzel

All Pedro Characters - @harriedandharassed @hiroikegawa @pedrostories

[bcdrawsandwrites]

I'm going to make an attempt at participating in @ailesswhumptober! I don't know if I'll be able to write something every day, but we'll see how this goes. These fics will be un-beta'd and hopefully short.

Day 1: Drugging / sick / poisoned

Characters: Razputin Aquato, Augustus Aquato, Morceau Oleander (with other characters showing up briefly)

Warnings: Emeto

Summary: The camp is finally safe, but Raz didn't get through Meat Circus entirely unscathed.

---~~~---

The day after Thorney Towers exploded was a weird one for everyone.

Raz woke up in the middle of the day along with all the other campers. At first he wasn't sure the past few days had happened at all, and half-expected to hear his mom demanding to know why he wasn't up for early-morning stretches. But hearing the hushed voices of the campers around him and opening his eyes to find himself in a cabin, not a caravan, was enough to make him realize that, no, it was all real. Or... most of it was real. He still wasn't sure about the whole stopping-the-world-takeover thing, but his headache left him wondering. He stepped outside and jumped back in surprise when his father rushed up to him to make sure he was all right. Well, that confirmed that, too.

It was a strange way to start the day, especially when he was pulled aside by Sasha and Milla, who questioned him about everything that had happened in Coach Oleander's mind. Raz was still slightly out of it when he explained, and he hoped he did a good job. After everything that had happened, he felt kinda bad for the Coach.

The next few hours involved his dad and Sheegor trying unsuccessfully to keep Chef Ford in the kitchen long enough to make everyone something to eat, while the counselors disappeared and the campers raided the candy from the camp store. While Raz wasn't too thrilled about the latter, he couldn't turn Lili down when she offered him a psi-pop. Eventually Sasha and Milla returned with Oleander in tow, and made it clear to the campers that he wasn't going to be stealing brains anymore.

Raz was sitting with the Coach on the back deck of the main lodge, having a quiet conversation, when the door behind them opened. "Hi!" Sheegor said, popping her head out from behind the door. "Um... we finally got Mr. Cruller to start on lunch!"

"Oh, finally!" Raz exclaimed, hopping up from his seat. "I'm starving!"

"Me too," the Coach said, wincing as he rose, "but uh, I'm gonna grab something from my rations."

"Okay! Suit yourself!" Sheegor said, and ducked back into the lodge. 

Raz followed her, finding the lodge was already full of campers sitting at the tables, excited to eat something other than candy. Grinning, he ran over to the camp store, where Chef Cruller was parked in front of the grill. "Hey, Ford!" he exclaimed. "Wha'cha cook..."

The smell hit him, and he stumbled to a halt.

"The burgers ain't done yet!" came Chef Cruller's voice, as though from a distance away. "The grill ain't even fired up yet!"

Raz wasn't looking at Ford. Rather, images of floors and walls and platforms made entirely of raw meat haunted the edges of his vision as he stared blankly ahead. Everything reeked, the smell of freshly-butchered flesh and dripping blood assaulting his nose. Slowly his gaze turned toward Cruller's side, to a plate where a number of raw hamburger patties sat, ready to be placed on the grill. The meat was ground, which immediately yanked his mind to visions of live bunnies dropping into meat grinders, and coming out...

His stomach flipped, and he covered his mouth, scrambling out the front door of the lodge. He made it to the edge of the deck and leaned over it just in time to discover just how acidic a psi-pop tastes the second time around.

Gripping the railing for dear life, Raz fought to catch his breath around the acrid taste in his mouth. His whole body was shaking, and he realized with a groan that everyone saw him freak out. His head clunked down against the railing, but hopefully no one would draw attention to--

"Razputin! Are you all right?!" Augustus cried, bursting out of the lodge and rushing up to him.

Raz stumbled back up to the wall and sank into a seated position, wiping his mouth. "Dad..." he croaked, his face flushing. On one hand, it was nice to have another reminder that his dad really did care about him, but on the other hand, he could hear the not-so-hushed whispers coming from inside the lodge.

Augustus crouched down next to him, placing a hand on his back. "You look so pale," he murmured, brow creasing in concern, before he gave Raz a gentle pat on the back. "You need some food in you. Come on, Chef Cruller will be done preparing lunch soon--"

"No!" Raz blurted, scooting further back against the wall as the memory of the smell and sight of blood and meat flared in his mind again. "I-I can't--the raw--the meat!"

Staring down at Raz in surprise, Augustus scratched his head. "Meat?" he repeated, only for something to click. He put a hand to his chin, glancing off to the side. "That's right--that mental world you were trapped in... You were there for quite some time!"

Wincing, Raz looked away from his dad, and was mortified to see a few kids poking their heads out from the door. He immediately recognized the mass of hair belonging to Bobby Zilch, who snickered before opening his mouth to say something. Before he could do so, a pink light enveloped him and the others, and gently tugged them back inside.

"Well, this is a predicament... We need to get you something to eat!"

Raz wrapped his arms around himself and drew his legs in closer. "It's okay. I-I'm... not hungry right now."

"What's that, soldier?!"

Groaning, Raz clunked his head down against his knees as Oleander burst out of the lodge, carrying something under his arm. "Not now..."

"C'mon, on your feet!" the Coach snapped, waving for Raz to stand up.

"What are you doing?" Augustus demanded, shooting a glare at Oleander. "He's not well!"

"Yeah, you don't need two eyes to see that," Oleander replied, his good eye taking a quick glance at Augustus before turning back to Raz. "C'mon, up!"

"Okay, okay..." Raz shakily rose to his feet, his arms still wrapped around his body, and cast a quick glance at the door. "Just... keep your voice down, please?"

The Coach followed his gaze, and the few campers that had huddled by the door again scrambled away. "Ah. Right." Clearing his throat, he stepped away from the door and around the side of the lodge. "This way, soldier. Forward march!"

After exchanging glances, Raz and his dad followed the Coach around to the back porch, where Oleander was setting out a few items--two brown plastic packets, a large metal water bottle, and a couple paper plates. The Coach reached into his pocket and pulled out a pocket knife, which he used to cut open the packets, and pulled a number of other smaller packets out of those. Raz found himself watching in interest, his hands slowly dropping to the side.

"A good soldier isn't gonna fight on an empty stomach," Oleander said, getting to work opening the smaller packets. One contained a candy bar, another contained utensils, and another Oleander didnot empty, but rather poured water into and re-sealed. "We gotta get some fuel in that tank."

Raz wilted. "That's the problem. I know I gotta eat something other than candy, but..." He shuddered. "Those burgers... they just made me think--"

"Yeah, well, you ain't alone."

Lifting his head, Raz noticed that Oleander was frowning down at the food he was preparing. Remembering what the Coach said about getting something else earlier, as well as some of the things in that mental world, something clicked in Raz's mind. "Oh! You... you don't eat meat, do you?"

"Bit hard to eat something you can have a conversation with," the Coach grunted.

"You can speak to animals?" Augustus asked, crossing his arms.

"I can, too!" Raz replied, and his dad cocked a brow at him with an amused smile. "I mean... only a little. I can understand mice! And squirrels, sometimes. But... I've never had trouble eating meat until now."

"You didn't see that part of my mind until now." The Coach lifted his helmet to scratch beneath it. "Sorry, kid. Didn't mean for that part of me to rub off on you." He turned back to the packets of food and resumed unpacking them. "But don't worry, you got options."

The food he ultimately dumped out of the bag turned out to be some mushy-looking pasta with vegetables. It wasn't particularly appetizing-looking, but... it didn't have meat in it. 

After mixing in the sauce, Oleander handed a plate to Raz while he took another plate for himself. "Eat up!"

Hesitantly Raz took a bite, and his face lit up. While it wasn't particularly amazing, it actually... didn't taste bad, and all at once his appetite came back. Soon he found himself shoveling the food into his mouth, while Oleander joined in with his own meal.

Meanwhile, Augustus leaned back, his shoulders sagging in relief. "Thank goodness! You had me worried for a moment there." He brushed a hand against his beard. "I suppose I'll have to talk with your mother about making some vegetarian foods for a while."

"Mmmhmmm!" Raz hummed around a mouthful of food, only to freeze, swallowing. "Oh man, Mom's gonna kill me, isn't she?"

"I'm sure she'll be relieved to see you again," Augustus said with a chuckle.

"I hope so." Raz wiped his mouth on his glove and looked down at his plate. Now that he actually had some food in his stomach, he felt a lot less awful. It felt weird to think that the person who'd helped him had been the same one who, hours ago, had been trying to steal his brain. He looked up at Oleander and gave a smile. "Thanks for the food, Coach!"

Oleander grinned. "Anytime, soldier!"

[asirensrage]

"Nothing can keep us apart. I'll burn the world down if they try."

Okay, listen. I couldn't decide if I wanted to twist Gojo from JJK for this or do it for Dabi from MHA in prep for my fic with him. (Then I was even tempted to go with Mikey from Tokyo Revengers but I reminded myself that I am not at all caught up with that and it was a bad idea lol) So...I basically did neither and left it open to interpretation. (aka I left some hints that could refer to both of them but don't name names)

One of these days I will make a choice but it is not this day. I hope you like it.

Rating: M Warnings: obsession. mentioned violence and destruction. threats. ...sort of kidnapping? Darkfic! Un-beta'd.

In retrospect, you should have known better. 

Your mother always told you that you were a magnet for trouble. You had laughed her off, waving away the awkwardness of the truth of that statement. It wasn’t that you were a magnet for it, you just tended to act without thinking sometimes and that was what got you in trouble. Luckily, you also were often able to charm your way out of it, but she had warned you that one day it wouldn’t work. You had promised her to do better, to be careful. 

She was right. 

You ducked into another small shop. You were just trying to buy some time until your friend showed up with the train tickets. You needed to get out of this place and fast. Before he found you. And he would if you weren’t careful. He seemed to have some sixth sense when it came to you. 

When you met, he was charming in his own weird way. You had laughed off his flirtations, not taking him seriously even though you caught the way others had watched your interactions. It wasn’t serious. It couldn’t be. Not when he was who he was and you were…you. Exceedingly average in comparison to the people he surrounded himself with. And that was fine. You liked your life and you were well aware that meeting him in the first place was a complete happenstance. It didn’t mean anything. 

Except that it did. To him. 

You don’t know if it was the casual way you treated him, ignoring the features and abilities that everyone else focused on, or if there was something else you missed. It didn’t matter. He had decided that the two of you were meant to be, that you were destined to be at his side through it all. When you laughed it off, which you really needed to stop doing considering how much things were coming to bite you in the ass, he was unimpressed. He promised he’d prove it. He’d make you understand. It was the first warning. 

It got complicated from there. 

He’d show up whenever you were out with friends. Not always coming over to interact, but enough to make you aware of his presence. You’d feel his stare on you and if anyone tried to hit on you, the moment your back was turned, they’d disappear. Sometimes you’d see them leave, not giving you another glance. He always took the opportunity to present himself, to grin at you and offer to take you home. You never took him up on it, aware that you’d never make it to your home. He’d take you to his, fingers brushing against your skin as he’d give promises to make you feel good if you just said yes, let him in. If you did that, he’d never let you go. 

It got worse when you were approached by those attempting to corral him, wanting to use you as bait, as coercion, wanting you to manipulate him to their desires. When you refused, suddenly you found yourself out of a job. Your boss gave no warning, no explanation but you had a feeling that it was because of that. They had retaliated to your denial. At least he only scared others off and tried to sway you. 

When he found out though? 

You thought you knew destruction before. You had seen it on the news, but it was always something distant. Close but not really in your backyard. It was never something that you felt you really needed to worry about. Until you heard about what was destroyed and you knew. 

He couldn’t stay away and when you questioned it, he just grinned. “I did it for you,” he said. “Told you I’d protect you.” It sent chills down your spine. Another warning. 

You barely even packed a bag. You couldn’t use your own accounts, something in the back of your mind suggesting he had someone watching them. You asked one of the few friends you had left for help. They had seen the way he looked at you. They agreed with ease, promising to meet you with tickets to get you out. Preferably out of the country but you’d take what you could get. Any space would be worth it. 

The bell above the door rings and you duck behind a shelf automatically. It’s stupid, but your mother’s words echo in your head and you can’t help but be nervous. No one knows where you are except your friend and even then, they only know the meeting place. It’s fine, you tell yourself. You’ll be long gone soon. 

“Boo.”

You nearly jump out of your skin, spinning to see him standing behind you. His eyes seem to light up at your reaction. His hands are shoved in his pockets but that doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. You’ve seen how fast he can react when he wants to. 

“Wha-what are you doing here?” You stumble back slightly, trying to increase the space between you. 

He tilts his head, looking at you. “What do you think?” 

“Shopping?” You wince even as you say it. It’s not true just because you hope it is.

“Where were you going?” he asks. There’s no amusement in his expression. Instead, you see the same threat that was there when he told you what he did to the people who wanted to use you against him. 

“Nowhere.”

“No? So you aren’t supposed to meet up with what’s their name in twenty minutes?”

You stiffen. “What did you do?” 

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Not yet at least. That depends on you.” 

You glance around but the shop seems suddenly empty and the cashier is gone. You’re left alone with him. “What do you mean?” 

“I told you, didn’t I? I said I’d protect you, that I’d take care of you because you’re mine. We’re in this together.”

You step back, shaking your head but he moves forward, cornering you against one of the shelves. 

He bends down, lips brushing against your cheek. “You’re not leaving me. Nothing can keep us apart. I’ll burn the world down if they try.” He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. “That includes your friend. So what’s your choice? You going to finally come home?” 

You swallow tightly. You know what he’s capable of. He wouldn’t make a threat he’s not willing to stand by. “Yeah,” you say softly, giving in. “I’m ready.”

He grins before leaning in, mouth pressing against yours. His hand goes to the back of your neck, tilting your head slightly so he can deepen the kiss. You let yourself fall into it. It's demanding and hard but it draws you in further with every movement and taste of him. When he finally breaks, when you’re both breathing heavily and desperate for air, he nods. “Finally.” He takes your hand and leads you from the shop, away from where you were supposed to meet your friend.

Obsession Prompts

[hellcheer-munson]

Chapter Six: “Iceberg! Right Ahead!”

Hello all! I’m afraid that chapters have been slow because six weeks on from me going to work at camp and thinking "ugh my throat and chest feel scratchy", I'm STILL ill. Today has literally been me going to the doctor first thing, going to the pharmacy to get antibiotics, going to a health clinic for a chest x-ray, and then going home to nap before watching television. I am, in short, VERY sick, which is why I had to take a break writing this chapter because all of last week was me battling sinusitis and a chest infection. I'm still not well at all but I wanted to get this down because, hey ho, I love writing it!

As of the end of this chapter, there's about an hour left of the film to cover - plus deleted scenes and my own additions. I'm hoping this fic will be about ten chapters, but we'll have to see how it goes.

A lot of the first two sections of this chapter are lifted heavily from Jonathan Mayo's book "Titanic: Minute by Minute" - it feels very jumpy and chaotic, and it's for a reason. In the film, the time between Fleet calling out the iceberg warning and the actual impact is something like two minutes - in real life, it was barely forty seconds. The Titanic really did not stand a chance sadly. As I saw it once so adequately described online (on Quora I think - I still have the screenshot of it saved to my phone), "the sinking was a 'perfect storm' (in calm seas) of COCK-UPS" - the crew not being trained on evacuation procedures, the missing binoculars for the look-outs, the lack of lifeboats, the fact the iceberg warnings from other ships were ignored etc.

Potential warnings for this chapter include a man hitting a woman, same man also slut-shaming her, swearing (let Newt/Tina/Theseus/Lally swear, goddammit!), people being idiots, passengers panicking because they've been locked on the lower decks, a very sad Thomas Andrews, and my un-beta'd writing.

The soundtrack that corresponds with the scene(s) at the beginning of this chapter (and the last bit of the one before it) is called "Hard to Starboard" and I highly recommend listening to it (or watching the scene if you haven't already seen the film) to get into the mood!