#From a different time where that shit got you in the trenches

[hajihiko]

I don’t use the word kin, but I do say I relate to characters. I believe it’s technically the same thing but idk kin just… bothers me? Fine for other people but not my cup of tea

oh yeah idc if other people use that I just don't

[jordyn14]

It’s just a little scrape | Joe Burrow

Summary: After a win against the Bills, everything is going good until a drunk fan finds his way into a place he isn’t supposed to be

Pairing: Joe burrow x first person fem reader

Words: 3962

Notes: this is different than the other fics I’ve written, but I hope you enjoy!! <3

A week later was the primetime home game against the Buffalo Bills. During the day, I had a quick photo shoot with a new clothing line here in Cincinnati, but I made sure to clear out my entire schedule for the rest of the day after that. Since it was a home game, which I was so incredibly excited about, Katie, my best friend, was coming to the game. Unlike me, she wasn’t with anyone on the team, but she loved going just as much as me. Like always, we were going to stay in Joes suite where his parents were also going to be. For the whole day, excitement ran through me. Not only did I have 100% confidence in Joe, but I had 100% confidence in the entire team, and today felt like a good day for the whole entire team. When it was finally time for Joe to leave, I sent him out of the door while admiring his all green outfit, which was my all time favorite color.

Currently, I was laying out my outfit onto our bed which consisted of a white sweater dress, a long brown trench coat, and a pair of almost knee high white boots. After I laid my outfit out, I grabbed my cute little clear purse with number 9 and Burrow on it which already held my must haves for game day, and then slipped into the bathroom. In the bathroom, I curled my hair and then put on some gold hoops. Once I was done with that, I put on my makeup and then walked out of the bathroom and to the bed where I got changed. While I changed, I got a text from Katie saying that she was on her way. I texted her back with, "I'm so excited, hurry!😆" The last game was in San Francisco and Katie and I just watched it over her house, plus before that was the bye week and we haven't gone to a game together since the Seattle game. Saying we were excited was an understatement.

We arrived at the stadium 2 hours early so we could settle in before the hundreds of people filed into the stadium. Like most home games, Katie drove me so I could drive back home with Joe when the game was over. Since we weren't in the stands where I could talk to Joe before the game, we both got settled into our seats. "I'm so excited to watch the game. Work has been stressful." Katie said while stuffing her mouth full of the chicken fingers we both got before we came up to the suite. "I know, it’s been way too long since we've watched a game together. How are the extra shifts going by the way?" I asked Katie. "Well," Katie said with a mouth full of food before she held up a finger so she could swallow the food in her mouth.

We both started laughing as she swallowed and then continued. "I'm making more money than I ever have, especially with the promotion, but I feel like I'm always on the go. I'm either at work, at the grocery store, the gym, the coffee shop, or in bed. I feel like you because I never see Jamie." Katie said. "Shit, Katie, why do you still work at the coffee shop? I even quit because I wasn't seeing Joe enough, and I don't have real job." I told Katie. "Yeah, well, you quit and you still don't see him." She said with a little scoff. Leaning towards her more, I said, "well that's because my husbands in the fucking NFL, obviously I'm not going to see him that much." I said. Katie gave me a little shrug of approval and then we laughed a little bit. "All I'm saying, is that you have the opportunities to see Jamie, you just have to take them. So, quit working at the coffee shop, pay the extra 10 dollars to have the store drop your groceries off for you, and see your damn boyfriend. If you need extra money, I'll pick up more photo shoots and give you the money." I said.

Katie sighed a little bit and then looked off into the direction of the field. "You know what, you're right, You should give me money." Katie joked. Elbowing her softly, I took a bite of my chicken and then watched as the boys went into the tunnel to get on their uniforms. "All jokes aside, you're right." Katie said. "Well obviously." I laughed with her.

The Bengals won the game 24-18. Katie and I cheered so much that by the end of the third quarter, we were already starting to get scratchy and sore throats. Although the bengals won the game, they gave us a big scare by letting the game get as close as it did. By the end of the game, my nerves were so high that Katie had to force me to unclench my fists and calm down a little. When it finally did end, we stood up and started to chant. "Who Dey! Who Dey! Who Dey think gonna beat them Bengals! Who Dey! Who Dey! Who Dey think gonna beat them bengals! Nobody!" I changed along with the whole stadium, which included Robin and Jimmy who were just as excited. "Let's fucking go!" Katie yelled. "That's how it's done!" I yelled with Katie as we stood up and celebrated the win over the Bills in the primetime game.

Once we settled down and the stadium started to clear out, I hugged a yawning Katie goodbye and then after a little bit, walked with Robin and Jimmy to the tunnel where I would meet up with Joe. Since it was already really late and they had a little drive back to Athens, they decided to just text Joe and congratulate him on the win. The three of us stopped just before the tunnel entrance and we hugged. "I'm so happy that you don't have to go home with another grumpy Joe. There's been too many losses this season." Robin said as we pulled away from our hug. "You and me both. I love him, but he sure can have an attitude." I laughed and then hugged Jimmy. "By the way, Joe wanted to remind you once again not to call him right after the game and give him a play by play of everything. I tried to tell him that you already know, but you know how he can be." I told Jimmy who shook his head with a sigh.

"That boy will be the death of me." Jimmy said with a shake of his head and a little chuckle. "You and me both." Robin said. We said our goodbyes and then I walked into the tunnel entrance by showing them my pass and then headed to the family area where the players could see their families. While I walked over there, I got a text from Joe saying that the press conference took a little longer so he just got into the shower and to just wait for him by the locker room. So, rather than going to the family section where I could just wait for Joe, I went to the locker room entrance and leaned against the wall while waiting to see Joe. I couldn't wait to see a happy Joe after a much needed win and wrap my arms around him.

While I waited, I went on my phone and scrolled through Instagram where new pictures of Joe from the game started to appear. Even seeing Joe through the screen made my cheeks flush a deep shade of red and I couldn't stop the corners of my mouth from turning up into a smile. My eyes were so focused on the pictures of him that I didn't even notice the locker room door opened up. "What are you smiling at?" I heard Joe say in front of me. Quickly taking my eyes off of my phone, I slipped the phone into my pocket and walked over to Joe. Both of us had huge smiles on our faces as we walked towards each other. When we met in the middle, I wrapped my arms around Joes back and he wrapped his around my neck, holding me closely. "It may or may not have been a picture of you walking out with Sam to do the coin flip." I said, leaning my head back to look into Joes eyes.

Joe raised an eyebrow and said, "oh yeah?" He then leaned forwards to capture my lips with his. The both of us breathed in the kiss before he pulled away, not wanting anyone to take a picture of our kiss. "Believe it or not, you in a uniform really does something to me." I laughed. Joe just laughed and then looked into my eyes deeply. "Well it's a good thing that we get to go home in a little bit." He said with that pantie dropping smile he loves to give me. Right after he said this, my face flushed red. With a little groan, I placed my forehead on joes chest, trying to hide my obvious flustered state. "If I could, I would slip into the nearest supply closet with you." I said. With a small sigh, Joe straightened more, obviously getting turned on. Before Joe could say anything else that would solidify my decision of going into a closet with him for a little quicky, the locker room door opened again.

Lifting my head from Joes chest, we both looked over to the door and watched Ja'marr and Sam walk out of it in mid conversation. Right when Ja'marr looked at Joe and then me, he ended his sentence and then walked over to Joe, reading his facial expression, and patted him on the back. "Y'know, the locker rooms empty, you might be able to slip in there for a few minutes. What's your record, like 3 minutes?" Ja'marr said, but quickly walked away from Joe before he could hit him in the arm. "Fuck you." Joe joked with a stern look on his face and looked over at Sam who just put his hands up to show that he wasn't going to make any crude remarks or add onto what Ja'marr said. The both of us released our arms from one another, but Joe kept one arm around my waist, pulling me close to his side and we exchanged quick I love you's as we walked.

The four of us walked together to the family section where the boys could get some food and Sam could meet up with Jessica. "Y'know, she blocked me on Instagram in college because she saw that I was following you. She thought I was her competition." I said to Sam while we talked about Jessica and where she was during the game since I couldn't see her and neither could Morgan, Holly, or Tianna. "I know, she told me she was worried that we were getting together behind her back. It took a lot of convincing for her to fully believe that you were loyal to Joe." Sam said. While we talked, I heard some scuffled footsteps behind us and turned my head slightly to look at who was making the noise.

As I turned my head, I saw a man that I've never seen before. He looked to be in his mid 30's and based off of the way he was walking and the way his eyes were slow to move, I knew he was drunk. I took another look at the man, careful not to make it too obvious, and watched as the man held up his phone out to us. By now, the boys knew someone was behind us, but thought nothing of it. "Joe burrow." the man said. Joe, realizing the man was probably a fan, kept on walking. "Joe! Hey wait up! Can I get a picture with you." The man said again, followed by saying Joes name continuously to try and get his attention.

"Who is that?" I asked Joe. "Just keep walking. once we pass security up here they'll deal with him. He's not even supposed to be in here." Joe said and pulled me closer to him, not wanting any of us to pay any attention to him. "Do I have to fuck your wife to get your attention?" The man said with a small and weird chuckle, slurring his words like crazy. "What the hell." Ja'marr said and turned around. Joe clenched his jaw and turned around with Ja'marr. "What the fuck did you just say to me?" Joe asked in an angry tone, stepping closer to the man. "Hey, security!" Sam yelled, wanting security to step in before Joe did something. "There he is! Can I get a picture with you real quick?” The man asked and stepped forwards. Once closer, he began looking me up and down and said, “and maybe take her for a spin afterwards.” A shiver ran down my spine as I scowled at him in disgust.

"Let's go Joe, security is coming." I said and walked in front of Joe to try and stop him from doing something stupid. In times like these, Joe was a hot head. The man was known as 'Joe Cool' on and off the football field until it involved the people he loved. "No, no, say that again to my fucking face." Joe said. "Just back the fuck up man!" Ja'marr said to the man, standing by Joes side. No matter what, Ja’marr was always by Joe’s side, especially when it came to disgusting people like this man. "C’mon, Can I just get a pic real quick?” The man said and held up his phone and got both him and Joe in frame, except I was in it also. The man, not liking that I was in it, slipped the phone into his pocket and then put both of his hands on my shoulders. Since I was facing Joe in an attempt to keep him moving, I could see a few security guards coming up to us that Sam got. All of a sudden, I felt his arms on my shoulders and then he spun me around slightly, pushed me to the side so I wasn't in the way. One second I had both of my feet planted on the ground, and the next I lost my footing because of my big boots and fell to the ground.

Not expecting to fall so abruptly, I let out a faint scream as my knees skidded across the concrete. From above me, multiple shouts and yells echoed through the walls of the tunnel. There was a lot of commotion for about 5 seconds and then I felt 2 firm hands go onto my sides from behind me. Quickly, I was lifted off of the ground and placed back on my feet. I quickly turned around and made eye contact with Joe whose eyes were filled with anger. "I'm fine, I'm fine." I said quickly and then looked to Ja'marr who was going off on the man who touched me and also the security guards who let the man slip past them. Once joe could tell by my expression that I was okay, he turned around and took a step closer to the man who was being put in handcuffs my a police officer who came rushing over after seeing the commotion.

"Don't you ever lay your fucking hands on my wife again!" Joe yelled and then added in, “you hear me!” I looked to the man quickly and then at Sam who walked over to me and put a hand on my shoulder. "Let's go over here." He told me and then guided me over to the side and away from everyone else. “Holy shit." I said, flustered from everything that just happened. It all happened so quickly. "Are you okay?" He asked me as we both turned around. Joe and Ja'marr were currently going off and raising their voices at the security guards who let the man get into the tunnel. The man was not wearing a pass and was not a family member of any of the players, so how he was able to get into the tunnel was beyond any of us. "I'm fine, I just fucking scraped the hell out of my knee's though." I let out a little exasperated laugh.

We both looked down at my knees. One was bloody just around the scrape, and the other one had a bigger wound on it which was currently dripping blood down my leg and onto my new boots. "Oh shit, that's not just a scrape." He said while laughing slightly because of the way I addressed the blood on my knees. “Oh no, my boots.” I said with a frown. After a few more minutes, more people gathered around the scene including a few more police officers, Zac Taylor, Jessica who came and found Sam and was currently having him fill her in a few feet away from me, and then Logan Wilson and Morgan who didn't leave yet. "Oh my gosh, are you okay?" Morgan asked when she got over to me, looking down at my scraped up knees.

"Yeah, I'm fine, I promise, it's just a little scrape." I said. Morgan and Logan stood by my side as we all watched what was going on in front of us. "How did he even get back here?" Joe said loudly. Zac stepped in between Joe and one of the police officers who was currently taking the man to his car outside. Joe and zac started talking. "What even happened? Who was that?" Morgan asked me. Logan stepped closer, wanting to hear what happened also. "A random guy from behind us kept trying to get Joe to take a picture with him. He was obviously drunk and whatever so we just planned on ignoring him until we got closer to the security guard so he could deal with him. When Joe wouldn't listen, the man literally said 'Do I have to fuck your wife to get your attention'." I said.

"That’s disgusting." Morgan said and put a hand over her mouth slightly, a sour look on her face. Logan's face scrunched up in disbelief and disgust and then looked over to the scene while still listening. I explained the rest of what happened to them and then the police asked to clear the area and informed Joe that the man was being taken to jail. As the area began to empty and everything died down, Joe walked over to me, but didn't notice my knees yet because of the chaos that just occurred. "I'm so sorry, are you okay?" Joe asked me his eyes darting from my right eye and left eye and cupped the sides of my face gently in his hands. His breathing was fast and ragged, obviously shaken up from what just happened too. Bringing my hands up, I grabbed onto Joes wrists that were on either side of my face and took a deep breath. "I'm fine, I promise you. I wouldn’t have even fallen if I wasn’t wearing these big boots. It was a small fall, that it." I said.

I looked deeply into Joes eyes with a small and reassuring smile, and shook my head to show that I was indeed fine. "Are you 100% sure? He shouldn’t have even put his hands on you." Joe said. "My knees along with my ego are a little damaged, but that's it, I promise." I said. Joe couldn't help but let out a small laugh at what I said before realizing that I said my knees. Quickly, Joe glanced down at my knees to see blood dripping down my right leg. "Shit, I didn’t know you were bleeding." He said quickly and then removed his hands from the sides of my face.

Joe kept his eyes on my knees for a few seconds before turning around a little. "Joe it's fine, I'll just wipe it off." I said and placed my hand gently on his arm, trying to pull him around towards me.  Joe looked at me quickly and said, "if the medical staff is still here then you're getting your knees cleaned up." The face he gave me told me that he wanted me to go along with him and not try to change his mind. Once again, he turned around and called Zac's name before he got too far down the tunnel. "Yeah?" Zac asked in a concerned tone. "Is the medical staff still here? I just want to get her knees cleaned up real quick and make sure she doesn't need stitches or anything." Joe said, taking a step forwards.

"I don't need stitches, it's just a little scrape." I said with a small laugh and walked by his side as Zac started to walk our way. "Well how am I supposed to know? All I see is blood dripping down your leg." Joe said, looking down at my knees again. "Oh man," Zac looked down at my knees, "Yeah, there are a few still in the locker room. Just come with me." He said. We all headed towards the locker room. I was in between Zac and Joe who was still a little fidgety and on edge after what just happened. Even though I was the one that got pushed down and hurt, Joe seems to be affected more by it. The way he keeps looking down at me and flashes those 'I'm sorry' eyes at me makes me want to pull him to the side and make him understand that I'm okay.

We finally got to the locker room and Zac found us someone who had their gear out still. So it went quicker, we just went over to Joes locker where I could sit down and the medic could clean up my knees and throw bandaids on them if needed. Zac said goodbye to the both of us and once again apologized for what happened. As soon as I saw Joes locker, my mouth almost dropped open. There were shoes, clothes, hats, some snacks, and many more random and weird things thrown around Joes locker room. It looked like a tornado came to Cincinnati and only hit Joes locker; plus a few other players lockers. "Do you ever clean? My goodness look at how gross it is." I laughed as I sat myself down on the fold out chair in front of Joes locker. Looking offended, Joe just chuckled and then kicked a few of the shoes that were in the open closer to his locker.

"The hate is really not necessary. Plus, it's not that bad." Joe said with a small shrug. Furrowing my brows, I looked around at Joes locker while the medic who kneeled down in front of me began to grab things out of his kit. Looking back up to Joe, he just started laughing at my reaction. "You really think this isn't "that bad?"" I asked, using air quotations to really emphasize what Joe just said to me about his terrible locker. "Okay, okay, it's pretty bad." We both started to laugh together and then the medic looked up at me, so I gave him my attention. "I'm just going to clean off some of this blood and then the actual wound itself. Once I get to the wound, it might sting a little bit." He said to me. "Alright, go for it." I said with a little laugh while Joe grabbed onto my hand and gave it a little squeeze.

[minty364]

DPXDC Prompt #142 Part 2

His parents had spent years working on their portal, to the point where they were neglecting their own children. Danny didn’t know any better, neither did Jazz. To them it was just how their family ran and for the most part it worked for them. It allowed Danny to really study space and the Stars. His room was covered with different ship models on the shelves, glow in the dark stars on the ceiling and posters on the walls.

Jazz had similarly explored her own thoughts and topics as she studied Psychology. Her room was more feminine but still had a certain scientific decorum to it.  

He never thought that he’d suddenly be ripped from all the things he loved. But here he was with the trench coat man, instead of taking some biology class or something.

“What happened with the portal?” Danny asked.

The man took a long sigh, “listen… quite a lot of shit went down after your accident.” 

“That tells me nothing,” Danny glared at the man.

“I get your upset kid, but let me at least know your name. Mine's John Constantine,” 

“…Danny,” Danny muttered after a moment. He wasn’t sure he trusted the man but he guessed he had no choice. He was also noticing he felt a bit off, it was the weirdest gut feeling and Danny was having trouble telling exactly what the feeling was. It was like the feeling was telling him to trust John, although at the same time John had this weird feeling about him that had Danny feeling weary. He decided to trust John just a little, hopefully it got him back home, after a moment Danny spoke again, “…Can you at least tell me if the portal worked?”

The room was silent for a moment and then John spoke “Alright, fine, I’ll tell you what happened but some background first, do you know who the ancients are?” 

The name didn’t sound familiar, “Ancients? Like Ancient Aliens or something?” 

“No, no…” John took a swig from a flask in his pocket and then started fiddled with an unlit cigarette he pulled from a different pocket. He then looked Danny up and down, “You don’t know the first thing about the infinite realms do you?”

“The what?” None of this was making any sense and the more Danny talked to this guy the more he was getting a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. Something about this conversation felt wrong, like Danny should know all of this already but he just didn’t. 

“Right well… I guess the easiest way to explain this is the portal your parents made was to the infinite realms.” John said, putting the cigarette in his mouth.

“My parents called it the Ghost Zone.” Danny muttered.

John seemed to chuckle at that, “I mean it is mainly inhabited by ghosts, however they aren’t the only ones, far from it in fact. I’m sorry but… I couldn’t allow your parents unlimited access to the realms. I had to disable it and prevent it from being reactivated.”

Danny felt a little disheartened after hearing that, he guessed John was probably right though. He remembered hearing his parents talk about how they’d dissect every ghost they found to study them. The bully’s at his school often bullied Danny over it especially after his dad and mom would continually embarrass him on parent teacher nights and on field trips.

Danny let out a small sigh, “so when can I go home?”

John looked a little surprised, his eyebrow quirked up, “so you're unaware of your situation right now?”

“Situation?” Danny trailed off, he remembered getting shocked and then he remembered waking up here, “where are we?”

John let out another sigh, “shit, well from my research you're supposed to know everything about your powers when you wake up.”

This made no sense to Danny, powers? Danny didn’t have powers, he didn't have the meta-gene.

“Powers? I don’t have the meta-gene. I think you have the wrong person.” Danny stated as he folded his arms in front of himself.

“Then how are you floating?” John asked with a smirk.

Danny looked down and he indeed was floating just an inch off the bed, he wondered when that started but the feeling threw him off a little as he stumbled a little trying to keep himself upright. It didn’t work and he fell back down on the bed with a little thud. He turned to see John watching him with a small hint of amusement in his eyes. 

“What am I?” Danny asked, his voice small and a little panicked.

“You, Danny Fenton, are an Ancient. I know the term makes it seem like you're old but the term is more because your people are ancient in age.” The explanation made no sense to Danny but he could somehow float now. He thought the term ‘Ancient’ was a little much for some floating powers.

[thefiery-phoenix]

Hi I have been reading all your works and I'be got to say that its really good I mean like wow anyways I would like to request a platonic y'know fix with the oldies of lookism I mean Charles and tom Lee meeting up and Charles bragging about his child (the reader) there new awards , involvement in the business or you can do the geniuses instead of the reader being a genius she's named as the prodigy and is literally so smart like 400 IQ type shit and she literally saves the company's reputation, every genius admits shes smart and kinda like a learning genius where she doesnt have to copy it but masters whatever she wants to learn isnt a copy genius btw but can you like make the personality of the reader a bit like James like reserved nonchalant etc anyways thank you

Hello and thank you for liking my work, it really does mean a lot to have your support❤️

THE PRODIGY

"Long time no see Choi'' spoke a hulking and imposing man that stood tall and towered over the frame of the CEO of the HNH group as Charles glanced up from his newspaper to see none other than Tom Lee, the owner of the White Tiger Job Centre (Baekho HRM), known for being the best in the business to get rid of people in a sneaky and quick manner. "Oh please, you act like we haven't seen each other in years when we just met 2 months ago'' scoffed Charles slightly but a small amused smirk formed on his face. "You look happy...whose life did you screw over, you old crone?" chuckled Tom as he took out his grey bottle from his trench coat pocket and gulped a large sip of his alcohol from it. "Oh come now, you act like I'm a criminal or something...but I didn't screw anyone over yet...for now'' said Charles as he headed over to the table nearby and shuffled a few papers till a picture of you fell out from the stack of papers as Tom's interest piqued up and peered at your picture in an interested manner

"I didn't know you started hiring girls to do your dirty work Choi...props to you for following gender equality and such'' grinned Tom as he stared at the picture. "Ah, that's my newest recruit. One of the prized gems I've had the fortune of stumbling upon. Her name is Y/N L/N'' spoke Charles proudly as the lines around his eyes crinkled slightly out of pride for you. "This is the first time I've ever heard you praise someone other than those brats Gun and Goo...I wonder what makes this one here so special that has you singing her praises'' questioned Tom as he raised a brow in curiosity, awaiting for Charles' explanation. "In a way, she's kind of like James Lee...an exceptionally skilled and talented fighter, I daresay even stronger than Gun and Goo... she has training of the Indian martial arts called Kallaripayyatu along with Krav Maga which makes quite the deadly combination when used in combat. The advantage of her using her skills is that no one can predict what she might do next. She's even more unpredictable than Goo and James because if someone faces them a couple of times they'd be able to read their attack patterns with ease. But it's different for Y/N, you'll never know when she'll whip out a chain or a knife or just fight with her bare hands... that's what makes her quite the enigmatic fighter, she isn't afraid to fight dirty as well''

"She sounds like quite the catch then...'' muttered Tom as he continued to drink his drink and stared at your picture. "She's even won an award for her literary works as a writer, the Lindenberg award and is quite the over achiever if I must admit...a real prodigy of a girl. My daughter took an instant liking to her as do I. She simply cannot stop singing her praises'' replied Charles as Tom had an amused smirk on his face. "Neither can you and the amount of stalking you do makes me look sane'' answered Tom with a cackle. Charles smirked as he replied "That was mere research...her personality is a literal carbon copy of James, completely reserved and shy and nonchalant'' "Ah, so you're dealing with a touch me not of an introvert then eh, good luck getting that one to open up to you'' said Tom as he snickered and gulped down the last sip of his drink before he stuffed his bottle back into his pocket and glanced at Charles

"Doesn't matter though, I'll have to make her open up...what she's achieved to do for my company was more than what any of the Worker's affiliates could do, they're all mere useless inexperienced children in front of her...'' scoffed Charles as he hummed slightly and his gaze left your photo to focus on the view of the night city before him, several feet below him, taking pride in the fact that he'd gotten to a point where people had to look up to HIM. "You better be careful though...a little birdie told me that Steve Hong was looking forward to meeting with Y/N L/N'' said Tom with a slight grin as Charles' posture stiffened and his jaw clenched as he narrowed his eyes. "What did you say?" he asked in a soft voice, his tone laced with malice and hidden fury. 'That old bastard...if he ever thinks he can have Y/N and steal MY prodigy from me, he's got another thing coming...he can't have her..no...I'll make sure of it...' Charles thought to himself as Tom smirked, looking like he'd just read Charle's thoughts. "You look awfully nervous of losing your beloved little prodigy...wouldn't it be a shame if someone were to snatch her up like the little feather that she is for someone else to use?" asked Tom, his cheshire cat like grin evident on his face and his eyes glinted with malicious amusement, enjoying the sight of Charles Choi on the verge of losing his cool and his patience on the line

"Let me enlighten you with a little story...a while ago Eugene tried to recruit Y/N to join the Workers and he somehow thought he could keep it quiet from me but failed. Why else do you think I decided to meet with Jake Kim, the son of Gapryong Kim that night? We both know it wasn't out of sheer pity...Y/N is my ticket to destroy the crews and the Workers and expand my empire'' said Charles as he continued to stare at the city beneath him, just how he liked it, everyone underneath him, serving him. "I sometimes forget you're more unhinged and ruthless than me...I can't say if I'm shocked or proud'' spoke Tom as he trailed off and looked like he was pondering about something. "This is coming from someone who strips his clothes off and challenges his employees to a fight to the death. It's a miracle your so called employees lasted for so long'' replied Charles as he smirked at Tom. "Touche old Choi'' grinned Tom

"I'm planning to make sure she stays close to us...to me...at my residence. Of course, I shall fund for her schooling and such'' said Charles after a few moments of silence. "Doesn't she have parents?'' asked Tom with a quirked brow as his amused smirk grew even wider. It was such a sight to see someone like him be so obsessed about someone like you, and rightfully so, Tom could understand his friend's obsession with you. You were a natural gifted fighter, the sort of fighter people would literally KILL and spill blood to have on their side. "Do you think that concerns me? Her father is a software engineer and her mother is a stay at home housewife...hardly what I call a challenge. Her potential will be wasted if she continues to live with them. I've tried to convince them before to send her to me and they had the guts to refuse me even after offering them a fortune...I am Elite...if it means I have to get rid of her parents and have their blood spilled then so be it. It will also prove as a warning for anyone foolish enough to attempt to lure her to them. Besides, I've already spilled blood before, it's nothing new. What's a bit more going to do?'' answered Charles, his eyes glinting with malice as his smirk widened. Tom was now convinced you really were the prodigy he'd heard so much about from the people around who kept on yapping about you. He was just glad he managed to wring out the information from Charles which saved him tons of amount of research as he mentally decided to pay you a visit some day...even if it meant dealing with Choi's wrath which he could always deal with later. The main goal on Tom's mind now was how to get you on HIS side...

[icallhimjoey]

YES! yes hurt me won with 82.4% and i cant WAIT to cry over bookstore joey once more! he has my full heart and i need him to violently sob over me whilst clinging on and telling me he loves me: bitch, do you worst!

HURT ME!

fine, bitch. just know that i hurt my own feelings writing this, and none of you will be eligible for compensation :) here's the bit of when bookstore!joe and you had the saddest fight you'd ever had with him from the series A Whisper Away - enjoy Wordcount: 4.1K

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But, I Love You

Date night.

You weren’t meant to be screaming at each other on date night. You rarely ever had date nights to begin with... maybe that was why you weren’t any good at them. But this disastrous? Neither of you had seen it coming.

Joe’d decided to mark a random Friday night in July in both your calendars as date night. With the store and the apartment empty, tidied up, and void of any immediate responsibility, you took a lot longer to get ready than you’d usually take.

Put some music on and took time to slowly do your make-up and to blend properly for once. Not that you looked any different in the end. You’d just been slower. Hadn’t rushed yourself until Joe said, “I’ll wait downstairs,” and you saw him walk past the opened bathroom door in a black trench coat.

You were going to look far too casual next to him in what you had on, so you quickly rushed your lip balm, sprayed your face with setting spray and went to find something else to wear. Something more sleek, and shinier, and... more black, for easy elegance.

You still looked casual.

Knew you’d look it especially next to Joe.

Didn’t know how to match Joe in smartness, even if you tried.

It wasn’t really a fair race if you were honest – fancy actor on a steady climb to more exciting things and bookstore owner that relished in the silence and comfort written words brought.

When you made your way down the stairs, out of the clouds of scents that hairspray, bodylotion and perfume left lingering, it was nice to step into the scent of books. Of old paper, and wooden shelves and old leather armchairs.

You weren’t going to lie, you amped that shit up by placing strategic scented candles around – never to be lit without supervision. Obviously.

Stepping into the store front, you expected Joe to maybe be tidying a little, like either of you would often do if you were in there for a little longer than a minute after closing. Straighten some shelves, pile some stray books that were left near the till, or even sweep the walkways a little.

Instead, Joe was just sat in one of the armchairs and seemed lost in thought. Not on his phone. Not holding a book. Just, looking up and around, but eyes quickly found you once you stepped into view.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he smiled, pushed his cheeks up and turned his eyes into slits.

“Sorry for making you wait,” you said, going to collect your keys from one of the drawers.

“That’s ok, we’ve got some time ‘til the reservation, we could even walk if we wanted,”

Rummaging, you noticed the keys to the front door weren’t where you thought you’d left them.

“Have you seen the–”

You heard them jingle in Joe’s hand before you looked up and smiled. Joe was already standing by the door.

“Walking’s fine, although, maybe not for the way back,” you said, revealing your heeled ankle boots when you stepped around the counter. “Or you’d have to be all right with holding me upright the whole way back,”

“Hmh, sounds romantic,”

“We’ll have eaten; you’ll be sluggish, and I’ll be extra heavy,”

“Yea, maybe not,” Joe said around a laugh, doorhandle in hand.

“Where are we going, again?” you slung an arm into a jacket. Sure, it was July, but it had been abnormally cold for the time of year. Felt more like autumn. Looked more like autumn too – grey skies, wet streets, wind.

When you mentioned the restaurant he picked, you froze.

Made eye-contact.

Dropped your shoulders.

Groaned as you tilted your head.

“Are you joking?”

Joe gave an awkward chuckle, looked confused. “Why would I be joking? You know I know Maurice,”

The head chef.

“Yea, but that’s like... that place is one big room with window’s all ‘round. Can we not go? Not there, anyway? You’ll be stared at all night.”

You would both be stared at all night.

Joe just shrugged. Scrunched his nose up a little.

“So? Let them stare. I’ll only have eyes for you anyway.”

And you knew it was meant to be cute. Meant to make your stomach twist and have it flutter with butterflies, because your boyfriend just said he wouldn’t even notice people paying attention to him because he only wanted to pay attention to you. It should have made you smile, giggle, blush a little, but instead, it made you grimace.

“Joe,” you pleaded. “It’s Friday as well.”

“It’ll be fine,” Joe said, voice carrying humour as he wildly beckoned you towards the door that he was still holding open, hoping that you’d step through already so he could lock it behind you.

You didn’t move, though.

“No, please, I’m seriously not... I don’t want to go out with Joe Quinn,”

Joe sighed. Let his head drop.

“Have my family group chat fill with photos of us with our mouths half open shoveling pasta in – that’s not,” you sighed. “That’s no fun for me, I’ll be on edge all night eyeing for girls who secretly have their phones out... can we just...” you looked around the store. “Can we maybe get take out and have a meal in here? Do a cute picnic?”

Joe grew more annoyed by the second and slowly closed the door. Turned to stand in front of it, both hands in his pockets, and then was quiet for a bit as he looked at you. After a few seconds he shrugged, and you knew he meant, what the fuck am I supposed to do with this?

“We don’t have to have it in here,”

The bookstore had been a touchy subject for a while now. But you’d changed the opening times for Joe – you were now closed on Sundays, and you opened late on Monday morning. And Anne worked the most hours she’d ever worked, because financially that was easy to manage now, and that also it meant that you didn’t have to work late every day.

You hadn’t wanted to change the opening times initially. Felt like Joe was forcing you out of your job, what with him wanting to move out of the apartment above it as well and all. But two weeks in, you had a whispered conversation in bed in which you confessed that it was nice to be able to stay in bed a little longer on Sundays. Have slow breakfasts together. Have Anne do the things you’d normally do after opening hours during her shift. Joe’d only made fun for a second, made you tell him he was right and wouldn’t stop poking you in the ribs until you squealed the words out.

“We could also... go someplace else?” you were the one to shrug this time, but yours was more unsure, more hopeful because you wanted Joe to smile and say, “Sure, of course, whatever makes you feel more comfortable.”. That wasn’t what you got, though.

Before Joe said anything, he pushed both heels of his hands into his eyes.

Fuck.

You were going to have a fight. You didn’t know if Joe knew, but pushing his palms into both eyes was his tell.

“No, never mind,” you quickly backtracked.

You’d sit in a restaurant on edge all night if it meant evading a fight.

“Let’s go,” you stepped closer, wanted to reach for the door behind Joe, but he didn’t move. Instead, he grabbed the arm that reached and stilled you.

“What is it...” Joe started, eyes still closed. “What is it about– why can’t we...” he searched for the right words.

“We can,” you tried, but they were the wrong words if you were to go by the grip that strengthened on your arm.

“Clearly we can’t, I’m not... I’m not going to take you somewhere you don’t want to go,” he looked at you then, eyes all sad but definitely annoyed. “It’s just, it's the reasoning is what gets me, doesn’t it?”

Not a question for you to answer.

“It’s like you don’t want to be seen with me, so, then what? We just never go out for a meal ever again?”

That’s not what you meant.

“That’s not what I–”

“Can’t go out with Joe Quinn on the off chance that someone recognises me,”

Joe said it like that had never happened before. Like there weren’t still people visiting the bookstore on the daily in the hopes of running into Joe. Like there weren’t girls who walked past the windows and peered inside to make sure Joe wasn’t in before they’d look away again. Like every conversation you had with a stranger didn’t at some point suddenly turn into a question-and-answer session about Joe that you didn’t know how to politely get out of.

“Joe,” you tried for the door again, but Joe was the one to step further into the store now, signaling he wasn’t planning on stepping out with you just yet.

“I’ve been out, had dinner at lovely restaurants like... six or seven times this past month, and, I’ve not been bothered by anyone. No, I did, maybe once, but it was fine, it’s always kind people, nothing bad,”

“No, I know,” you didn’t know, but you wanted this to stop just as quickly as it had started.

“Never mind what I said, you’re probably right, let’s get going,” you gestured at the door, but didn’t step closer. You needed Joe to give you an inch before you’d do so.

Joe didn’t give you an inch. Sighed deeply instead and stared out the window a second.

“Sometimes... sometimes I think you don’t want this,”

Joe was right. You didn’t want to go out with your boyfriend and have people ogle all night. You didn’t want Joe to be all glossy and clean shaven and styled in a coat worth two grand, no matter how good he looked. You didn’t like Joe gone half the year, and didn’t like Joe growing in his success because that only meant more of all the negative things.

You wanted Joe soft and scruffy, with a book in his lap, sat in one of the armchairs in the window on a slow Tuesday morning when you’d get to make coffee for him and when Anne would tell you to stop staring at him because it was weird.

“That you don’t want to still do this with me,”

Oh.

No. No, you did want that.

“No, I do want that.” You were quick to state. Had to let Joe know that you did want to be with him.

“Yea, but,” Joe gestured. Meant, then what the fuck is it with you not wanting to go out for dinner with me?

You sighed a long breath, one that turned into a grunt at the end.

“It’s just that... I’m not in the mood to go for dinner with the whole world, you know?” because pictures would get taken and would circle the globe in TikTok videos where they’d zoom in and out set to music. “I just want to have a nice meal with you...”

“Which is what I planned for,”

“Yea, but...” you tilted your head. Gave Joe a face with scrunched up eyebrows. Joe knew you meant that that’s not how things worked out there. Going out in a busy area where Joe had had his picture taken in the streets before was the opposite of going for a quiet meal together.

It was quiet for a bit, and you hoped that maybe the cogs in Joe’s mind would guide him into making a decision. You’d go with either one. Would sit in a popular restaurant with him. Would have your picture taken by a sneaky phone badly hidden behind a music. Would much rather go somewhere where they could hide the two of you in the back somewhere, but, whatever Joe’d choose, you decided you were just going to go with it.

Was easier that way.

But Joe stayed silent. Stared at the floor a second.

“Remember that first year of us knowing each other?” you suddenly said, hoping to shift the mood. “Where you’d come in and would just... be around? Before we even had Anne working here?”

It was the weirdest but also the best time you think you’d ever had in the store. Of course, memories involuntarily got romanticized – your brain left out half the bad shit that happened, made you forget about the hardships and stressful days, but made you remember Joe and his fluffy hair, in his wrinkled linen shirts of which the buttons sometimes strained a bit around his chest and some skin would peep through.

You hadn’t even introduced yourself to Joe, but had learned how he liked his coffee and would give him a steaming mug of it whenever he’d been sat reading in one of the chairs for over an hour.

“No one ever recognised you in here,” you reminisced, couldn’t help but look over at the chair that was now Joe’s chair, even though he barely sat in it anymore.

“If I’d asked you to go for a meal then, you wouldn’t have gone either,”

Ouch.

Your neck almost cracked with how fast it turned to look at Joe. He seemed unimpressed.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not like you were that different back then,”

He was right. You hadn’t changed much at all, but, that wasn’t the point.

“No, but... it was nice to be around you and have it involve no one else,” and you willed a small smile onto your face, because you hoped maybe Joe would copy it. Would agree with you. Would stop this path towards more mean words and would just tell you what was going to happen for dinner because you were getting hungry and felt the itch to get out of there in your feet.

“I’m not going to put on a show and play myself but four year ago,”

“That’s not what I’m asking!”

“Then what? What are you asking?”

“I’m asking for us to go have our date night... we can still make the reservation, see Maurice, have him cook us beautiful food, I just... let’s go, I want to go,” with a little more confidence, you touched the door handle like Joe had done before.

Joe narrowed his eyes a little at you, as if suspicious, and deep in thought.

“Do you think that was when we peaked? When we wouldn’t even talk to each other properly?”

For a second you didn’t believe you heard that right.

“What?”

“When I didn’t know you lived upstairs and you googled me every night?”

“Oh my God,” you scoffed, offended. You did not google Joe every night, and Joe fucking knew it.

“When all I knew about you is that you ran this store? And you wouldn't fucking tell me anything else about you, ever? Was the fantasy of being with me better than–”

“Stop!”

You were surprised by the sudden volume of your voice.

“Stop it! No! Of course not! Jesus Christ, Joe, is that what you think?”

Joe looked pissed off as he breathed through flared nostrils, brow all furrowed in your direction.

“Is that what you think I think?”

“If that’s not it, then what is it?”

Yea, all right. This was just going to be a fight then. Fuck dinner.

You let go of the door handle and stepped away from it, more towards the counter. Further away from Joe who was stood nearer the windows, closer to the armchairs.

“It’s what I just said! It’s...”

There was more. You stopped by the counter, placed your hands on top and hung into your shoulders, head hung down. You were already regretting saying what you hadn’t said yet but decided to go for it anyway. Now seemed as good a time as any.

“It’s that... I can’t remember the last time I didn’t actively miss you, with your work, and your–”

“I’m right here. Right now. I’m here.” Joe held two arms out wide to demonstrate.

“And still!” you exclaimed, eyes all wide, slightly bent at the hips to get the words out closer to him.

Joe’s facial expression immediately softened yours – no one needed to see the hurt they’d caused reflected back at them through someone else’s eyes.

“I miss you, I’m missing you right this very second and I don’t...” you faltered, exhaled through flared nostrils and tried to pick the right thing to say from all of your swimming thoughts.

“Remember when we used to be apart for like four weeks and be fine?”

“I’d still miss you,”

“And I’d miss you too, but, I’d get things done, I’d still see my friends all the time, I’d still have fun, and then we’d call and I’d have all these things to tell you about, and then you’d tell me about the place you were at, and the people you were meeting and, yes, I would miss you, but it was never the gut-wrenching sort of missing you I do nowadays,”

What had changed?

You knew the answer.

“Now, when you’re away, I don’t even feel like I can function properly – everything is overwhelming and,” you winced at yourself before you said, “And I get so jealous that you just get to step out of all of this for a second, and I don't want to resent you for anything, I truly don't,”

“You want out?”

Joe didn't mean the relationship. He couldn't mean the relationship. He probably meant the store, referenced the thing you said about everything being overwhelming - that had to be what he meant.

“No, I don’t want out, but it feels unfair that you’re constantly leaving me to deal with all of it by myself,”

“You don’t have to deal with it by yourself,”

“I know I don’t! Doesn’t change the way I feel, though, does it?”

Another silence fell where Joe let himself fall into his armchair.

You want out?

Joe could not fucking mean the relationship.

Couldn't.

The silence was deafening, but you didn't want to be the one to break it. Joe asked if you wanted out. Was staring out the window now, after having just asked you if you wanted out.

What if you were out?

Just... for a second?

It was not like Joe's fame was going to stop growing all of a sudden. All of this was already hard enough as it was, but it was only going to get more difficult, wasn't it?

You tapped an impatient fingernail on the counter and saw how Joe turned his head more away from you.

Out.

The careful door that word had opened in your mind was scary. It creaked on its hinges and behind it, everything was a little dark, but, it felt like an out was exactly what you needed.

Out.

Just for a second.

You inhaled a sharp breath and let it out slowly, cheeks puffed out.

Out.

“Maybe I’m not made for this,” you repeated what you’d told Joe when you’d started the relationship. When you’d voiced your fears of making this a serious thing, and he’d been so reassuring, had told you that you’d be fine. More than fine.

Yet, look at where you were now.

Joe was in a ridiculously expensive coat and to measure up you pretended that your all black outfit was good enough.

It wasn't fucking good enough.

“I don’t think I can do this with you,” you were nearly whispering, afraid to hear the words come out of your own mouth.

They were vulnerable, made the area behind your eyes prickle, and you needed Joe to handle them with care.

“Of course you can’t fucking do this with me, what, with all the trouble it’s giving you,”

You got snappy sarcasm from him instead, insinuating that all of your worries and fears were unreasonable. Stupid. Not real. The thing you’d been scared of from the start was still looming over you so threateningly, and you were done with it.

Didn’t want that anymore.

Joe had said himself that you'd get to be with Joe. Not with Joe Quinn. You'd both known what that meant. You'd both been on the same page about that.

You were no longer with Joe.

You'd not been with Joe for a while now.

Had instead gotten to be with Joe Quinn, and you didn't want that.

And now, Joe was being mean about it.

The snarky sarcasm you got from Joe shot the last little bit of courage you needed into your system. They’d also shot tears into your eyes, and a weird numb feeling into your fingertips. But the courage was important, because the courage had been just enough for you to say,

“I think we need to take a little break from each other for a little while,”

You hadn’t been able to finish the sentence without tears escaping both eyes, and now each cheek felt a burning hot path being carved right down to your jaw where you wiped at them with a clammy hand.

It was like Joe’s mind registered what you’d said in slow motion.

You saw how his face fell. How his brows went from being impossibly low on his face, to knitting together up high. How his eyes went from narrow slits to big rounded wet ones. Ones that reflected those stupid Christmas lights that you’d put up that one time and then had never taken down again.

Joe tried to find a little hint of humour. Of this being a joke.

Instead he found trembling lips that tried to hide their shaking and eyes that were somehow both scared and determined at once.

“No,” Joe got up, waited for you to take the words back. Hovered near the chair with his mouth slightly open, face reading nothing but sheer shock that turned into desperation when you didn’t say anything.

You couldn't be fucking serious, could you?

You just stood there, by the counter, leaning into your shoulders whilst tears ran down your face.

“No,” Joe said again, making his way over now.

Out.

Joe had spat the question at you, but had never even considered the thought of you actually taking it there.

“Take it back,” Joe pleaded, now next to you, an elbow leaning on the counter to round out and face you. But you’d let your head fall forwards, had closed your eyes, made tears fall onto the counter in little drops and tried to deal with the overwhelming feeling of relief at getting the words out.

“Take those words back, we’re not–”

You shook your head and let a sob escape.

“No, stop that, we’re not going on a break, you take those words back,” you heard Joe's throat close up as he spoke, voice sounding more constricted with every word.

Joe was crying too now, and as much as you wanted to turn and hug Joe, you didn’t.

You weren’t going to take the words back.

“I think I want out for a little while,” you managed to squeeze out, head lifted and looking Joe in the eye.

You wished you hadn’t.

Hadn’t looked him in the eye.

Seeing the person you loved – and you did love him, so much, almost an unbearable amount – break right down the centre right in front of you was the worst thing you’d probably ever seen.

Joe ripped in half.

Broke down.

Fell apart like a book would do if you ripped off the spine. Pages everywhere. Front and back cover useless now.

“No,” Joe cried, voice hoarse, and he sunk.

His knees hit the floor hard, and you were pulled into a hug around your hips. Around your waist. All anger was gone now, no more snarky comments or risky questions left in him. Just sad desperation that tried to hold onto what the two of you once were together.

You knew that you hadn’t been that in a while, now.

Out still sounded good when Joe started murmuring things into your hip.

Out still sounded good when Joe’s grip grew stronger, and his sobs got louder until they got violent and hurt his throat.

Out still sounded good when Joe pleaded and begged and said the same things over and over as you cried silent tears above him, the only tell being the way you had to sniffle on every inhale.

“But I love you,”

You loved him too, but couldn’t say it back. It’d send the wrong message.

“Take the words back,”

You couldn’t. Didn’t want to take them back.

“I love you, I’m sorry, I,” Joe paused for a wet sob, “I love you, I love you, take the words back, take,” a deep inhale, “take them back, we can’t, I love you.”

Date night.

“I love you.”

Out.

“I love you.”

Out still sounded good.

---

The Taglisted

@05secondsofsexgods, @a-time-for-wolvess, @adoreyouusugar, @alana4610, @ali-in-w0nderland, @alwayslindie, @babybluebex, @barfightzanddiscolightz, @bettyfrommars, @cancankiki, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @choke-me-eddie, @did-it-work, @dirtyeddietini, @dylanmunson, @eddie-joe-munson, @eddies-puppet, @electricmunson, @emma77645, @emmamooney, @everythinghasafacee, @figmentofquinn, @frogers, @frootvelvet, @ghost-proofbaby, @ghostinthebackofyourhead, @harringtonfan4, @haylaansmi, @jasminearondottir, @joesquinns, @kellyxo1, @kennedy-brooke, @lovelyblueness, @luvrsbian, @miserybeans, @nadixq, @ohmeg, @paola-carter, @pepperstories, @phyllosilicate-s, @roosterisdaddy36, @sherrylyn628, @sidthedollface2, @thebellenouvelle, @thefemininemystiquee, @thewondernanazombie, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @yelyahcardella

(taglist currently full, sorry)

[beneathashadytree]

SICKBED - MONKEY D. LUFFY X READER

Warnings : mentions of sickness and medications, reader is gender-neutral!

Genre : fluff and comfort 🫶🏽

Word count : 0.9K words

Additional notes : I always thought that activating Gear Fifth would make Luffy ill, and this is my take on it!

Tip jar if you’d like to buy me a Ko-Fi!

Masterlist

As soon as they stepped into the Thousand Sunny’s infirmary, they clicked their tongue at the rather-predictable sight. All bundled up and swathed in a million layers of thick blankets, they could spot just a few tufts of ebony hair indicating that Luffy was indeed buried underneath all the cotton.

They pulled up a chair from Chopper’s desk (they’d be sure to put it back, though) and sidled up right against Luffy’s side of the bed. He seemed to be making no moves to acknowledge their presence, only small miserable huffs and whines coming from under the blankets. It took all they had to stop themself from keeling over with laughter at that, the part feeling sorry for him winning out this time.

“Honestly, what did you expect would happen, after going all out with Gear Fifth?” They shook their head, reaching out to pull down the blankets and finally see him. His forehead was lined with beads of perspiration, and his hair was somehow both mussed and sticking to his skin. “At least you look like you’re starting to sweat your fever out.”

Bleary eyes blinked back up at them, and if he didn’t look so pitiful, they would’ve called him rather adorable. If it weren’t for the fact that he had never gotten ill before, he probably wouldn’t have been in such a terrible condition.

“Luffy, you really need to sit up and take your medicine. Chopper asked me to do it for him while he tends to Zoro’s injuries.”

With a very pronounced frown on his awfully paled skin, he sluggishly pulled himself up, blearily blinking past the unconscious of his sick sleep. His limbs flip-flopped all over the place, barely scrambling to grab onto the glass of water they handed him—despite the alarming fact that his grip seemed precariously close to slipping.

Though he hated taking medicine in the forms of sticky pills that often got glued halfway down his throat, he clearly felt terrible enough to not say anything about that and quickly gulp them down and wash them down with the entire glass in one go, before falling back against the mattress with a groan of pain, surely caused by his sore body protesting.

Whining out their name, Luffy’s hands stretched of their own accord and latched onto their arm. “I feel like shit. Make me feel better, please?”

This time they couldn’t help but chuckle. Perhaps his clinginess made him a little more demanding, but they had no qualms indulging him a little. “I’m no Chopper, but that’s why I came here.” Prying his fingers off with much difficulty—and much protesting from his end—they turned to the bedside table, where Chopper had so thoughtfully left a cold compress on a bowl of ice for them to leave on his burning forehead. “There, there, you big baby.”

Patting it on his skin only served to make him scrunch his nose up in displeasure, and reach out to clasp their wrist as firmly as a sick man can. “I don’t want you to touch that wet thing. I want you to touch my head.”

“No can do, captain. Your hair’s all greasy and shit. I’m not touching that until you shower.”

His pout only grew worse, and paired with his slightly nasally voice, it felt like a double threat to their heart. “But you always run your fingers through my hair, even when I haven’t showered.”

“There’s a difference between not showering for a few days, and not showering for almost a whole month,” they snorted, before taking pity on him and ruffling his hair; the most they would allow themself to do without having to subject themself to the trenches that were oily and grimy hair. “Happy now?”

“I guess that’ll do for now,” he grumbled, slowly blinking up at them. His grip loosened on their wrist, and they could tell from the haziness of his dark eyes and the flopping of his legs on the bed that he was quickly falling into a drowsy stupor. “Stay here, will you?”

“I intended to do that anyways,” they reassured him, taking his hands and setting them back on the bed. Then they asked a question that most probably counted as taking advantage of his half-delirious state. “Want me to read to you?”

Luffy closed his eyes for a second, before he gave a slow, sage-looking nod. “Yeah, it’ll bore me to sleep.” Opening his eyes halfway, he pointed at a book on the desk. “Robin left this here when she visited Chopper in the morning.”

They hummed in agreement as they walked over to grab it and sat back down again. “She does have the best adventure book collection amongst the crew. It’s only natural that’ll be your choice.” Readjusting their position in their chair, they tucked the blankets well under his chin, reveling in the sweet little tired smile he gave them in return.

As they cleared their throat and prepared to start reading out loud, they watched their boyfriend with all the love and affection in the world, nestling into the soft pillows, and his eyes fluttering shut once more.

“‘I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow…’”

Taglist: @stories-that-shaped-me @wifeofkyojuro @livwritesfics

[rikaluver]

Joy Ride - Postal Dude x AFAB Reader

Genre - Smut

This is an old fic of mine, you can find it on AO3 but I don't know where since it was on my old account...Anyways, enjoy!!

The heat hits you like a wave. The sun beats down relentlessly from a cloudless sky, casting everything in a harsh, unyielding light. The gas station is a low-slung building, its faded yellow and red paint peeling in the desert sun.

You get closer and spot a tall man in a tattered black trench coat loitering near the pumps. He’s got a scruffy goatee and a wild look in his eye, and he seems to be muttering to himself as he paces back and forth.

Freak, you think to yourself. 

You push open the door, and a blast of cool air washes over you, providing a welcome respite from the scorching desert heat. It’s dimly lit inside, with rows of shelves stocked with snacks, drinks, and other random shit. There’s one other customer inside—an older man. He’s standing by idly, not looking at anything or buying anything. It’s like he’s not even there. 

You make your way to the back of the store, grabbing a few snacks and some beer (a lot of it). There isn’t much to do around in this ghost town; you spend most of your time getting drunk or high. As you return to the store's front, you notice a display of souvenirs near the register. Postcards with the Grand Canyon, refrigerator magnets, random shit with the state flag plastered on it, you name it. 

The cashier appears disconnected, staring blankly ahead and barely acknowledging your presence. As rude as it is, you snap your fingers before him to get his attention. He blinks slowly and looks at you vacantly before scanning your items. He’s moving in slow motions as if operating on autopilot. 

You don’t bother to make small talk; you know he’ll give one-word responses, not registering your words. It’s always the same with the people in Paradise. They’re like zombies. 

You finish paying and gathering your belongings, though you can’t help but feel a bit of unease. 

You feel the warm sun on your skin and the desert air in your lungs the moment you step outside. You shield your eyes from the sun's rays, waiting for your eyes to adjust. 

The people in this town stick around one place, and you rarely see them anywhere else, so when you see the guy there when you entered, smoking, it’s not a surprise. You know everyone’s face (not that there are many people, to begin with), but you can’t recognize this guy. You’re unsure if you’ve ever seen him outside, and you’d undoubtedly remember him considering his height (he’s got to be 6’5” at least).

He spots you after a while and quickly stubs his cigarette out before walking up to you. 

“You’re not one of the contaminated ones, I can tell.”

“Jesus, dude, what?”

A manic grin spreads across his face, “You’ve noticed it, haven’t you?”

You take a step back, feeling a bit uneasy. The man in front of you seems like he’s on something. And, unlike everybody else in the town, you can’t tell what his next move will be.

“There’s something in the air infecting everyone in Paradise. You and I are the only uninfected people left in this town.”

You scoff and push past him, making your way back home. You were right to think he was a freak when you first saw him. As animated as he may be, he’s still one of the crazy people around here. 

Are you the only one with a functioning brain around?

The man grabs your shoulder and turns you around effortlessly, griping you too firmly. Not only was he abnormally tall, but he was also abnormally strong. 

“I know. I know what you’re thinking—you think I’m one of them, right? Different but still crazy, yeah?” His eyes flicker between you and whatever’s behind you (you know there’s nothing and no one behind you). The look in his eyes is one of a man on the edge, teetering between madness and despair. “You can trust me, though. I thought the same when I saw you,” he punctuates each word, his grip tightening.

You feel a sharp jolt of pain through your muscles; the shit he’s saying goes in one ear and out the other. You need him to let go. The pressure is intense, and it feels like his fingers are digging deep into your flesh, leaving a mark you can feel long after he’s released his hold.  

“Yeahyeahyeah, you’re right, now let me go!” Your voice comes out more desperate than you’d like it to.

Realizing that he may have been too forceful, the man quickly lets go of your shoulder. “Sorry,” he says, a note of concern in his deep voice. “You’re willing to hear me out though, right?”

You nod, rubbing your shoulder to soothe the soreness, not considering what you just agreed to. And before you know it, the man’s taking you to his house. He introduces himself as Postal Dude. You’re not sure why he’s using a fake name if, apparently, you two are the only ordinary people around.

As you approach his home, you see it’s in disarray, with broken furniture and discarded items strewed outside. It seems The Dude has been living in survival mode, making do with whatever he can salvage. 

It’s no wonder you’ve never seen him around.

Once inside, Postal Dude leads you to a small, makeshift living room with only a few small lamps providing light, a worn-out couch, and a rickety table that needs to be flipped back up. You sit on the couch (the only “clean” place) and look at his living conditions.  The walls are bare, and the floors are made of old, creaky wood planks that groan at any pressure applied. Stacks of newspapers, empty beer bottles, and discarded food wrappers are piled up in the room's corners. There are a few personal touches here and there, a well-arranged collection of….weapons on a nearby shelf, an old game console (he doesn’t have a TV), and porno magazines! How homely!

He doesn’t sit down with you. He, instead, walks over to the window, peering out anxiously through the blinds. His posture is tense, and you can tell he’s on edge. Jesus, you can practically see the fear and anxiety emanating from him, and you wonder what he’s looking for. You assume the “infection” must make him paranoid and attentive, always looking for potential threats. 

“You okay?” you ask cautiously. 

After a few moments, he turns back to you, his expression still serious. “We need to be careful,” his voice is low and urgent.

“Uh, yeah, for sure,” you fiddle with your bag. Maybe drinking might get him to calm down (and break the silence). You take out a can of beer, you’re shocked the thing’s still cold, and hold it out to him. “Want one?”

He doesn’t reply but walks back to the couch and grabs the beer you’re offering. You watch as he cracks open a can and chugs it down like it's nothing; he lets out a satisfied sigh and sits down next to you. He seems more at ease. He grabs another from the bag, cracks it open, only taking a sip this time, and begins to ramble about the supposed infection. His tone is urgent; his words spill out quickly as if he's been waiting for someone to talk to about this for a long time.

“It's crazy out there, you know,” he says, taking a swig of his beer. “People are turning into these—these things. I don’t even know what to call them.”

You nod, taking in his words. It’s clear now that Postal Dude is fucking mental. But hey, he’s the most exciting thing around town and will have an actual conversation with you, so you decide to humor him.

"Have you seen them?"

“Yeah, all over the place, they’re slow but fuckin’ insane. If I ever let one catch me, I probably wouldn’t be here to help you. You’ve seen them too.”

“I have?”

"Yeah, back at the gas station. Two of them." He drinks the rest of his beer and goes on a tangent about…stages and stuff…to explain the ones you encountered. You give up on trying to keep track a couple of words in, and the guy talks for what feels like forever. You start chugging beers with him to cope with the total bullshit he's spewing. Nothing he's saying makes sense. You're surprised you didn't see any comic books about aliens invading Earth lying around. His imagination is way too active. Or he's delusional. He's mistaking everyday citizens who work tirelessly for people infected and trying to kill him. It's safe to say you don't believe a single word coming out of his mouth. Though, you're having fun listening to him talk. 

The Dude’s voice is deep and gravelly; he speaks in a low, measured tone, as if every word is carefully chosen for maximum impact. Even when he’s slurring his words right now, you like it. When he finally finishes his deviation, you realize how much you miss hearing him talk. 

His voice isn’t the only thing you like about him. A middle-aged man with a rugged appearance isn’t exactly who you’d go after, but his looks are eye-catching. His hair’s unkept and greasy, falling in messy strands around his face. His deep-set green eyes draw you in. In fact, he’s one of the few good-looking men in Paradise. Or you’d assume you never paid attention to looks (or sanity). Dick size was the only thing that mattered.

And speaking of dick size…

“So…what do I do?”

He slurs something you presume to be a ‘what?’

“About them going mad and attacking me, what do I do about that?” 

“Fight back.” You know the question’s stupid, and so does he, chuckling a little under his breath. “If you'd let me, I don’t mind showing you a thing or two.”

He explains some basic self-defense techniques, stuff you already know. The more he talks, the more excited you get. Something about his voice hits you hard, deep in your gut. It might be the alcohol. Who cares what it is, though?

You lean in closer, catching his lips with yours in a slow kiss. He returns the kiss in a far less passive fashion. He doesn't wait for you to acclimatize to his kiss's more aggressive tempo, brushing his tongue over your lip eagerly. The subtle taste of alcohol lingers on his lips. When he opens his mouth, and his tongue meets yours, the citrusy, bitter flavor is intensified tenfold. You groan, pushing further into the kiss. Postal Dude seems more than pleased to indulge you, playing along with your lead while his hands wander and grope at whatever’s most readily available. Down they go, over your back and shoulders to cup your ass, twisting around to knead and stroke your thighs and hips. It's as if he can't decide which part of you was the most enticing.

After some time, he wraps his hands around your waist and hoists you onto his thigh. You only now realize how tall he is; you guessed he was 6’5” at first, but he’s humongous. So is the tent in his pants!

Your hands trail down between the two of you and unbutton his trousers, and at the sight of his undergarments, you sort of raise an eyebrow. You brush your fingers against the tip of his crotch, and he lets out a hitched breath against your lips.

“You got a condom?” He pulls away from your lips and trails kisses on your collarbone.

You whimper slightly at the contact, “no…is that a deal breaker for you?”

He sighs and mumbles a “yeah” against your shoulder.

“Hey, it’s fine, man,” you shuffle him off your shoulder a bit. When he looks up at you, you raise your hand to his face, cupping his neck and rubbing your thumb under his jaw. “If you won’t fuck me without a condom, I’m down with giving you head or a handjob.”

Postal Dude considers it for a brief second before his face bores the dejected expression it did a minute ago. 

“Orrr…” you trail off.

“Or?”

“Or I could ride your thigh while you jerk off.” 

That’s an idea that sticks with him. He’s not comfortable letting anyone around his junk. If he’s ever had anyone around his junk, that is.

You watch as he takes himself out of his boxers. You gawk at the sheer size of his dick before taking it all in. It suits a man his height.

You're somewhat grateful neither of you had condoms on you; there's no way you could fit that all in you. Well, maybe you could, but you'd end up in the hospital.

Words can't express how badly you'd love to touch it (whore). But alas, you can't. Gotta respect boundaries.

As he begins touching himself, you find yourself (metaphorically) drooling at the sight. It's, like, really hot. He pants and lets out soft whines occasionally, and you eat up every part of it. After a bit, you realize you're just staring at him and not fulfilling your end of the deal (plus, you're horny as fuck, and you have to take care of that too). You start your movements on his thigh, nice and slow. You let yourself enjoy how good it feels to grind against him, albeit embarrassing. His eyes are on you, and you can't tell if he's judging you or what, but he's undoubtedly enjoying it if the way he thrusts up into his hand is any indication. 

It's humiliating. 

It's exciting.

With a slight struggle, you wrap your arms around his neck and get closer for a quick peck on the lips. 

The “supposed” peck quickly turns to making out, and one of your hands rests on his head, not keeping him there, just finding a more comfortable position. Without realizing it, your fingers run through his ginger hair, and he whines into your mouth, leaning further into the kiss. 

You pet him some more, and his hips buck into his hand each time, giving you more pleasure. It’s embarrassing for him but extremely arousing for you. 

After a while, you pick up the pace against his thigh. You vibrate as he fucks his hand, admiring how you look. It’s disgusting but oh-so intoxicating. You pant into each other, verging on each other's climaxes. The Dude cums first with a breathless grunt, and you follow, wetting his thigh. 

[bonezone44]

Muddy Waters, pt 3. (18+)

'Lateralus'

Ezra x F!Reader x Joel Miller

Summary: You and Joel spend an evening together. It's romantic. And awkward. The next morning, you and Ezra have 'quality time.' It's filthy.

Word Count: 8,8k 

part 1, part 2 ----- part 4

tags: NSFW 18+. Intuitive!Reader. Afab!Reader (she/they). Southern!Reader. Established Ezra x F!Reader. Polyam. No use of Y/N.

This Chapter: Pet names: baby, darlin, 'shy girl'. Oral (f receiving), fingering, objectification (maybe?), rough/painful P in V, bicurious!Ezra, dirty talk re: anal, threesome, double penetration, math, activities involving a hairbrush, cuckolding.

Warnings: Country music, slow dancing, romance. 

Author's Note: I feel like I'm fresh from the trenches. My body hurts from sitting at the computer and ruminating! I suffer for my art!

----

That night, once Joel had finally peeled himself off of you, you got up from the kitchen table and started talking to him like nothing had happened. He tried to grab a rag to help clean you up, but you waved him off and grabbed it yourself. You washed the glasses and put away the liquor. You even made sure the table was in its right spot and the chairs were back underneath it. You made it look as if you had never been there to begin with. No remnants of you at all.

Something about it made him feel used.

Then Ellie walked back in the house.

And you looked just as shocked as he did.

“Joel!” Ellie whined.

You were able to compose yourself faster than he was, hands held carefully in front of the cum stains on your clothes.

“Jesse?” you asked with narrowed eyes.

“Ugh!” Ellie groaned and stomped. “Is it that obvious?”

You offered a sympathetic smile.

“Joel. Jesse is ruining me and Dina’s house plans!”

Joel’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two of you. Utterly befuddled.

“I’ll let you handle this,” you whispered. You waved good-bye the same way you did after your first visit. All nice and friendly-like as you stepped out the front door.

What the hell?

Now he was really confused by you.

“Joel! Are you listening?” Ellie waved her hand in his face.

“What?”

“Dina showed Jesse our house plans and now he wants to make ALL these changes and they’re bullshit, okay?”

“Wait, what houseplans?” Joel tried to orient himself.

“You said I have to follow your rules as long as I’m under your roof.”

“Okay?”

“So we’re gonna build us a new roof!” She gave him a cheeky smile. “And put a house underneath it! But look!” She slammed a piece of paper down on the table. Right where you had been sitting only minutes before.

Joel’s stomach turned.

“Look at the bathroom!” She pointed to the drawing, pencil lines drawn and erased several times. “Anytime I tell Jesse anything, he has to do the opposite. He wants to put the toilet and the shower and the sink on all different walls—”

“Well, Ellie,” Joel cleared his throat, trying to focus himself. “Y-you really wanna have all your water in a line on one wall–”

“That’s what I told him!”

Joel looked one last time out the front door, but you were long gone.

There was no way–absolutely–no–way that you knew that Ellie would come back home instead of staying at Dina’s overnight like she had said she would. And yet you got up and cleaned the place as if you did. 

Joel didn’t like that. He didn’t like the burning it made him feel in his chest, like a fresh wound stinging in the open air.

And, once more, you got away without him learning where you lived.

And now he really couldn’t ask someone in town. They would know there was something between the two of you for sure. It would be written in red all over his face. And he wasn’t ready for that.

He would have to wait again. Wait until the two of you happened to cross paths in town or by the stables. Or, if Lady Luck was favoring him, you would walk by his house, and he could invite you in again.

Joel didn’t like waiting. Especially when he had already had a taste of what he wanted. Not even a real taste at that. His hands never crept under your shit. His mouth never went lower than your neck. He didn’t see your bellybutton–your pants were pulled up too high. He can’t remember if he even held your hands.

It was like getting the scent of coffee wafting by and not being able to take a sip. He couldn’t find where the goddamn coffeepot lived, for Christ’s sake.

But at least you were out and about again. That was something to look forward to–aching every day for the sight of your smiling face, walking in the sunshine, and knowing you were aching for him right back.

‘Poor Ezra,’ Joel thought. ‘That man’s not gonna know what hit him.’

+++++

The next time you visited Joel, it was Friday night after dinner. He had found you in town to invite you–said something about Ellie staying out ‘for real this time.’ And before you parted ways, you made sure to tease him for ‘looking for you.’

But once you got home to get ready, you became an anxious mess.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Ezra,” you said as you stood naked in your shared bedroom, digging through your clothes dresser. “Is-is this okay? I mean, am I being selfish?”

“Selfish?” Ezra smirked with furrowed brows. “You think anyone else in this town wants to fuck that old man?”

“Ezra!” You turned to him with a gasp and slapped him hard on the arm. You couldn’t fight back your smile.

He chuckled. “I would like to point out that you did not answer the question.” He raised his brows, lines drawn on his forehead. “And it is certainly a fair one. Shit, baby.” He placed his hand on his chest with his fingers splayed. “The way I see it–” His eyes were wide and serious. “--You’re doing this town a favor. You fuckin him is a goddamn public service. Maybe while you’re over there you can pull that giant stick out of his ass.”

“Ezra.” You groaned. “You’re not helpin me.”

“Well,” he held his palm out. “I am supplyin you with my perspective of the matter. I suppose it is up to you, then, to determine how you feel about the whole situation.”

Part of you wished that Ezra could read your mind and figure it all out for you, but he clearly wasn’t even gonna try. You sighed. “... I want it, you know?” You stared down at the top of your dresser, covered in clothes and books. “But I don’t understand why. I don’t–I mean–shouldn’t–” you huffed and faced Ezra. “Should you be enough? Why do I want this?”

“You are an evolved woman.” He held your hands within his own and looked into your eyes. “And you are precious to me. And if you believe that this will make you happy, then why are you worried about whether it is something you should or should not do?”

You closed your eyes and breathed through your nose. “I just… I need it to make sense.”

Ezra stood from the bed. He released your hands and slid his fingers up your arms, sending goosebumps all over your skin. You opened your eyes again when he cradled your cheeks. “Not everything is going to fit into a pretty little box for you to define and decipher. Embrace the random,” he said with a grin. “Ride the spiral to the end.”

You fought back a smile. “It may just go where no one’s been.”

“That’s right, baby,” he muttered and kissed you softly on your lips. “Now c’mon. You need to get dressed.” He smacked your bare hip with the flat of his hand, causing you to yelp. 

How was Ezra so sweet and so perfect to you? You rested your forehead in your palm, smiling and shaking your head. “I-I don’t know what to wear.”

“Wear the blue number,” Ezra suggested with a wink. He was sitting on the bed again with his left ankle crossed on his right knee. His right knee jumped up and down.

Your lips curled in. The blue number–named affectionately by Ezra himself. It was a bra and panties from two completely different lingerie sets whose shades of blue vaguely matched. They weren’t even the same material. The panties were a simple cotton and the bra was a dull satin–the wire long gone. He enjoyed it, though. Not that it ever stayed on for long.

“No,” you shook your head resolutely. “That’s for you. I don’t wanna wear it for him.”

Ezra leaned back on his elbows with a thoughtful look. “Well, then wear whatever makes you comfortable, baby.”

Now that was the right idea. Comfort. That’s what you really needed.

You didn’t want to spend the whole evening tugging on your clothes and worrying about your appearance. You wanted to focus on Joel. Focus on yourself. Focus on whatever the hell was bringing you two together.

Turned out, Joel had dressed up for you. Your chest warmed when he opened his front door. His hair was brushed neat and his beard was freshly trimmed. You swore he even ironed his button-up shirt; deep clay red with tortoise shell-looking buttons.

“You look amazing,” you blurted out after your quiet hello’s.

“Thank you.” He grinned.

“I feel so underdressed,” you said quickly, watching him close the door behind you. “I was so nervous about someone seein me walk over here all dolled up so I just put this on. I hope that’s okay.” You wore your favorite long sleeve shirt and jeans. The comfort of it wasn’t make you feel as confident as you had hoped. Not with Joel looking sharp and smelling crisp with cologne.

He walked to your front, placed both hands on your lower back, and gently pulled you close. “I think you look beautiful,” he spoke softly.

You wanted to wave him off, part of you unconvinced, but he leaned forward a little more and pressed his lips into yours. There was no tug or pull, no beginning or end. It was light and playful the way your mouths met. His facial hair tickling your skin.

It made your cheeks burn. Your hands slid up his arms, resting on his broad shoulders. The fabric of his shirt was smooth and felt almost new.

He stepped backwards and you stepped with him–his hands guiding you further into the living room, lit warmly by table lamps. Excitement was already heating you within. The house was quiet and still.

“So, no Ellie tonight?” you asked.

“Some kinda campin trip for the older kids.” He huffed and shook his head. “I can’t figure why they wanna sleep outside.”

You grimaced. “Campin stopped bein fun a long time ago.”

“Yeah, I hear ya.” He leaned forward for another kiss. As light and teasing as the one before. It felt good. Comfortable. You were a little embarrassed, though, by how quickly he could turn you on and how easily you let him pull you in. Ezra had to do the work, sometimes, to get you to relax.

“What did you uhh… have planned for us?” you asked in an attempt to slow things down a bit.

He nosed your cheek. “We can do whatever you want, darlin.”

You scoffed with a smile. “You invited me over.” Your hands slid down to his arms and squeezed. They were warm and firm beneath your fingers. “I’m not here to just fool around.”

He stood tall, his hands rising to your waist, thumbs sliding back and forth. “You’re not?” he smirked.

You laughed. “I am your guest, Joel.” You smirked right back. “Entertain me.”

“Okay.” He nodded with a sparkle in his eye. “Alright.” He let you go and walked over to the corner of the room, fiddling with something on the end table while you fiddled with your too-casual outfit.

Shit, you felt silly. You felt out of place and out of time. He looked beautiful over there with his shirt tucked into his dark denim. Long fingers messing around with an old stereo. He looked mature. Sturdy. Put together. In fact, his whole house was nice and clean and organized. Nothing appearing out of place. His presence felt like a towering mountain and you–you felt like a street puddle in comparison.

Soft country music began pouring from the speakers, only a little warped. You didn’t recognize the singer’s baritone voice, but you were never much for country music anyway (It wasn't angry enough for your taste).

“It’s not the best, but it’ll do,” Joel said as he returned to you. “Alright.” One hand circled your waist while the other grasped your hand and raised it in the air. It made your stomach sink. You knew what was coming. “May I have this dance?” he asked.

Your eyes went wide. Your free hand clenched his bicep. “I-I don’t know how to dance.”

“What?” he huffed, amused and confused. “Everybody knows how to dance.” He shrugged. “It’s easy.”

“I’ve never… danced,” you said, feeling like sweat was about to start dripping down the side of your forehead.

His brows furrowed with a smirk. “You never went to a school dance even?” He shook his head. “Homecoming? Prom?”

“Not really.” You squirmed. “I’d go with friends, but I wasn’t the type to really dance. I never dated anybody to-to-to dance with.”

“Really?” He grinned wide with surprise. “You’re too pretty to not been asked.” He raised his chin. “Were you one of those shy girls or something?” Clearly implying that he was not one of the shy ones in school.

You had to look away, suddenly feeling even smaller than a street puddle–you felt like a bead of condensation falling off the corner of a window unit mid-summer.

“I wasn’t that shy,” you mumbled in defense of your younger self. “Boys just wanted sex in high school and I was not about to have sex with any of them.”

“Yeah, we were trouble, weren’t we?”

“Y’all were awful.” You forced a smile, though you felt anything but happy about those years. “I was terrified.”

He laughed. “Alright, shy girl.”

You shrank even smaller.

He bit his lip. “Lemme show you how to dance.” He pointed with his chin. “Put that hand on my shoulder.”

You brought the uncertain hand that had been resting on his bicep back up to his shoulder. Your thumb toyed with the collar of his shirt as you held your breath in your chest. You prayed he didn’t enjoy this ‘shy girl’ thing too much. You weren’t exactly here to relive your teenage years.

Though you two did get off last time like teenagers.

And boy, if you knew then what you knew now–

He took a tentative step forward and you fumbled.

Your face went cold. Your body froze.

“Just relax.” He spoke gently. His smile, soft and kind. “We were dancin when you came in.” He brought his lips to your neck. “Just move with me, darlin,” he whispered beneath your ear. “I gotchu.”

You swallowed. His mouth felt so good and his smoky voice washed away all the anxious thoughts that were icing up your mind. You could finally feel his hand, too, the one holding yours. It was both soft and calloused, strong and tender. His sturdiness comforted all the frightened little nerve endings that had spread throughout your limbs. He was a mountain–grounding you and giving you a stable surface to stand upon.

Maybe you weren’t condensation.

Maybe you weren’t a street puddle, either.

Your bodies came together once more and he swayed you both from side-to-side, meandering to a song of love and longing. Your footsteps creaked along the wooden floors, but you felt like you were floating.

He pulled his head back as you two glided. “Ezra never dance with you?”

“Ha!” You rolled your eyes. “I’m pretty sure he’d find the whole concept ridiculous.”

“Damn shame,” he said with a smirk, bringing your bodies even closer. “You got a good way of movin.”

His compliment gave you butterflies. Though you weren’t really doing much of the moving–you were just following him.

But maybe that was what he liked about it.

Maybe he wanted someone flowing along with him, wherever he guided. Like a stream running down and around the crevices of his stony surface, following along whatever path he carved out.

“Did you dance with a lot of girls in high school?” you asked. “You seem to know what you’re doing pretty well.”

“Yeeaah, I dance with a few.” He nodded. “Danced a lot more after high school, though. Used to go to this bar back in Texas called Howler’s.” His mouth widened to a grin. “My friends and I would go on Saturday nights. Get all dressed up to meet women.” His brows went high into his forehead. “Women. Not girls. Women,” he clarified with a laugh. “We somehow got it in our heads that we were too mature for the girls our own age and we belonged with real, sophisticated ladies.” He started shaking his head with a flustered smile, cheeks turning red. “They taught us a thing or two, I tell ya. Laid us out flat.”

You laughed. “I… I honestly can’t even picture that.”

“Oh yeah,” he assured you. “They were havin none of us, I can tell you that much.” He smirked. “It was fine with me, though.” He shrugged. “Got real good at dancin and got real good at women.”

You wished you could see a photo of young Joel Miller. Wished you could see him trying to hit on older women at bars and get turned down or laughed off. What a riot it must have been.

It ached, though. You never got to have that experience. You were only eighteen when everything happened. You had just started taking classes at a community college and feeling like you were in thirteenth grade. You hadn’t even been to a club, yet, let alone a bar. You were in a new town with a new home, new job, surrounded by new people. All alone–

“What’s wrong?” Joel asked.

“Sorry,” you mumbled. You quickly wiped the tear from your eye, only recognizing it when Joel spoke up. “I just… I like this.” Because you did. “I like gettin to dance.” It was healing something in you that you had forgotten even hurt.

“‘M happy I get to share it with you.”

It was hypnotizing the way he was looking at you. His smile was steady as he searched your face, moving you around without looking where he was going. There was so much affection in his sweet brown eyes. You had to close your own to stop your cheeks from burning and instead, chose to rest your head on his chest. He was so warm. So tender. And you were so present that you could hear his heart beating over the music.

As Joel continued to lead you around the furniture in the living room and kitchen, you suddenly thought of the other night, when you were grinding against him and he countered your rhythm so perfectly. The carnality of the memory brought your stomach to the floor and fire to your cheeks. You opened your eyes, wanting to kiss him again. Wanting to feel the poke and scratch of his mustache.

And there was Joel, still staring right back down at you with stars in his eyes. You couldn’t help but lean forward and press your lips into his–finding a way to dance and kiss and melt all at once. The kiss was slow. Languid. Dragging on and on without breaking.

And then Joel stopped dancing–stopped following the flow of the music.

The abrupt change of momentum set your heart racing, running laps in your chest. You wanted to keep dancing, keep moving, but you didn’t know how to express it with your lips tangled as they were.

You felt his broad hands slide up and down your back and it made your breaths grow shallow. You tried to push past it and adapt to the new direction. You didn’t realize how much you had been focusing on the music. The movement of your mouths felt so disparate to the tune coming out the speakers.

You heard a weighty thud and realized Joel had backed into the wall. He pulled you into the space between his legs, his growing hardness pressing against you. Part of you wanted to pull back.

One of his hands tugged your shirt by the hem before slipping beneath.

As soon as his warm fingers touched your flesh, you gasped.

Your body flinched and your hand came down and clutched his wrist.

“Shit.” You bit your lip. “I-I’m sorry.” You weren’t though. You were grateful that your body spoke up when you didn’t know how to. Your eyes squeezed shut. You took a breath and let go of his hand.

He rested it lightly on your hip. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m so embarrassed.” You gave  him the most apologetic look you could muster. “I-I don’t think I can do anything tonight.”

“That’s fine,” he said quickly. “We don’t have to.” He stood tall, separating your bodies. The hand on your hip dropped away while his other found rest on your shoulder. “I want whatever you want.”

“I just–” you briefly closed your eyes again and sighed. “I suddenly feel like a–like a scared teenager.”

A sheepish smile bloomed on his face and you weren’t sure why. “Yeah, I hear ya.” He ran his fingers through his hair, eyes wandering the room. “Let’s go sit down,” he said and pointed to the couch with his chin.

Fuck, you felt awkward–loud footsteps bringing you back to Earth after a brief stroll through the heavens. This whole thing was going very differently than last time and very differently than all the scenarios you had been imagining all week in your head with your hand between your legs. You wondered if this was even going to work or if your previous visit had just been fueled by too much alcohol in your systems.

Shit.

It felt so weird and confusing to be alive sometimes.

You sat on the couch feeling so much colder than you had only moments before. Like a bucket of water had been poured over you–wet clothes clinging to your skin.

Joel turned the music down low before joining you on the couch, the cushions sinking deep to the weight of his body. “I haven’t done my due diligence,” he said as he angled himself toward you.

“What do you mean?” You turned to him as well. You were close enough to each other that your knees could touch if you wanted.

He reached forward and grabbed one of your hands, holding it and grazing the top of it with his thumb. It was nice. Sweet, even.

He looked into your eyes, working his jaw, words on the edge of his lips. A smile flashed on his face–arriving and disappearing in seconds. He looked down and sighed.

The anticipation only made you more curious. Whatever he wanted to say was clearly something difficult. You always considered yourself easy for others to talk to–you tried your best to be open and accepting. It was why you were so good at visiting people.

He ran his thumb across your knuckles. “I noticed you for a long time.”

You blinked. “...what?” you whispered, shocked. Some unknown emotion started twisting itself in your throat.

“You’re beautiful,” he said so matter-of-factly. So clean cut and dry. “And you always look so happy, but I–” He released a hot breath from his nostrils. “--But I never had a reason to talk to you.”

“Joel…” You had no idea. Not a clue. His words caressed your heart. 

He gave a playful smile, eyes crinkling around the edges. “Then you noticed my shutters.”

A laugh burst from your chest and your free hand flew to your mouth, trying to quiet down. “I was pissed,” you said, grinning beneath your fingers. “I see everything that goes on in this little town but I never saw you workin on those things.”

“‘M glad for it.” He chuckled. “I am.” He looked down at his hand holding yours. “And you got me feelin like a teenager, too.” He smirked up at you. “Got me movin fast and makin assumptions. Thinkin I know everything.”

It felt good to hear him say it. It felt good to hear him admit to something. But he wasn’t the only one moving fast.

“You know, you were right the other night about…” You steadied yourself through your stuttered words, unable to look at him as you spoke. “About you callin for me and I just came runnin.” You stared at the woven threads of cotton spanning your knee. “People tug on me everyday.” Your free hand moved to your stomach. “I can feel them wantin my help or wantin my attention. It’s like they got a lasso around my waist and I gotta dig my heels in to-to-to make ‘em leave me alone. But with you–” You threw your hand up and met his eyes. “When you tugged on me, I didn’t question whether I should or shouldn’t.” You shrugged, but that unknown emotion was snaking around your throat again. “I-I came runnin like it was nothin.” You shook your head, eyes back to your knee. “I don’t know what that means–”

“I don’t think it means anythin bad,” Joel said with a laugh.

“Yeah,” you smiled and sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” 

What was that from before? If you knew then what you knew now–and now, there was nothing in your gut telling you to stay away. Not yet had Joel given you any kind of warning sign that he had any particularly nefarious intentions. 

Your body wasn’t so cold anymore. The music no longer felt so disparate. You felt comfortable with Joel again. You felt at ease. You felt tired, too. The excitement. The dancing. The talking. It wore you out. You had had a long day on top of it all.

“I don’t wanna leave, yet.” Because you didn’t. “Can I stay over?” You placed your hand on top of his. “Just to sleep,” you clarified with a wide grin.

“Of course.” He mirrored your expression. “I want whatever you want.”

That phrase he kept saying… He was giving you something with it, but you weren’t sure what exactly. He couldn’t possibly want what you wanted when you didn’t know what you wanted. You tried not to think about it too much.

You made it to bed about an hour later, after more conversation. You were content to sleep in your own shirt. Joel stared at you from the other side of the bed as you undid your jeans and slid them down your legs. His expression made you laugh.

“Sorry. I’m not sleepin in these,” you said as you stepped out of them.

“That’s fine,” he muttered and looked away–fingers scratching the back of his neck. He wore a plain white t-shirt and navy blue sleep pants.

If you were at home, you would have left your jeans in a little ring on the floor, but Joel’s house was too clean. You picked them up, folded them, and placed them on the dresser next to the bed. You hated to do it, but you kept your bra on, knowing your back would ache in the morning. It felt too exposing. Even under your shirt.

Climbing into bed with him had your body warming up all over again. But it had your heart racing, too, just like before. It felt so strange to share a bed with someone other than Ezra. You hadn’t even shared a room with anyone else since you two first arrived in Jackson a couple years previous.

“I’ll stick to my side of the bed,” said Joel as he got situated under the covers. 

You laughed. “Thank you, Joel.” You reached over from under the blanket and grabbed his hand. You pulled it close and kissed his knuckles. “Good night.”

He rolled toward you–watching and making sure you weren’t gonna pull away. He placed his palm on your cheek and leaned in, kissing you sweetly. “Good night,” he said into your lips. You could feel him smiling before he pulled back, showing you the grin on his face.

He turned away to face the window and–-there was that mountain again. His broad shoulders high above the low dip of his waist. You felt like gravity was pulling you in, bringing your body closer to his. You slid your hand along his ribs, fingers splayed to hold him.

“Is this alright?” you asked with your neck tilting your head up from the pillow.

“Yeah.” His shoulders shook as he chuckled. “It’s alright.” He grabbed your hand and pulled you tighter.

You kissed the back of his neck and nuzzled into him before falling asleep.

+++++++

Ezra wasn’t worried about Joel.

Not one bit.

Not even a little.

Okay, well, maybe a little.

But only in the way that kept him on his toes–kept him from taking advantage of the partnership you two shared.

You were right to say that Ezra didn’t keep you on a leash. You were your own woman. Always had been. Always would be.

Ezra was just along for the ride–doing everything he could to love you and see you happy. He made sure to protect you and take care of you.

Because not only did you understand him–you indulged him. You let him indulge in you. You let him express parts of himself he hadn’t known existed until you came along and found a way to reel it right on out of him.

He couldn’t remember how it started between the two of you all those years ago. Just that it did. It was while you and Ezra were still working alongside his cousins.

Seemingly outta nowhere, you two had slowly gravitated towards one another on a level deeper than survival and then—SMACK! You were like two magnets clacking together; lips, hands, groins, in constant contact. And then there were times when you would be so repelled from each other it was like one of you went flying off into the sky, getting lost in the clouds, til the inevitable pull of gravity brought you right back down again.

You two had good times and bad, but Jackson was good. Very good. And he was keen to let the good times keep rolling.

It just so happened that Joel Miller became a part of these good times.

Now…

Ezra was a man.

He wasn’t supposed to want this. He wasn’t supposed to want another man making love to his woman. It was insulting to his physical prowess. Humiliating to his ego. Downright derogatory to his dignity.

Which made the situation all the more appealing to him–being as contrary a person as he was.

Ezra was overwhelmed by the thought of Joel fucking you. Couldn’t stop fantasizing. Couldn’t stop touching himself. There was no need to savor the orgasms, either. Ezra was rubbing them out, one right after the other as he leaned his forehead against the shower wall, muttering to himself. He didn’t feel like some aging man hitting 40 anymore, with libido and desire in decline. He felt like some pubescent kid who newly discovered what his dick was for and was aching to get some practice in.

Ezra loved you. Loved you more than his extensive vocabulary could possibly define. And the thought of someone else loving you? Doing things to you that had hadn’t and maybe in ways that he couldn’t?

And the fact that it was Joel Miller of all people? Ol’ Gruff ‘n’ Tuff with the stick up his ass?

Sheeeeiit.

(For how explicit Ezra could be with his thoughts and feelings, there was a certain piece of all this that had him speechless. A forgotten memory had been unearthed. An old fantasy. An unrealized dream from decades ago that Ezra had put out of his mind for reasons he could not yet approach for fear of rapture. It came to him in flashes and dick twitches. It set his mouth watering and his heart racing. It had him sweaty and confused. It was the thought, the idea, the implication of himself being sexual with another man.)

Ezra had been aching for you to come home–had been aching for you all night, in fact, while he was out on patrol. He had been uncharacteristically quiet with his patrol partner as they circled their way around the outskirts of Jackson. He was too busy wondering what Joel might be doing to you and how he was doing it and what kind of noises that old man might make and how loud he would be when he made them.

It didn’t matter how many times he had just jerked off in the shower, he was ready and eager for more–his leg bouncing impatiently while he sat on the bed. 

He sighed in relief when you met him in the bedroom. He rubbed his palms on his pajama-clad thighs.

“There’s my little slut,” he said with a sly grin.

You laughed and waved him off. “I am not dealing with you right now.” You walked over to the dresser and started taking off your clothes.

“Why not?” He asked, all offended.

“Because nothing happened!”

“What?”

“Nothing happened.” You repeated. “We didn’t have sex.” You laughed again. “He didn’t even get to second base.”

“Not even second base?” Ezra was aching and pained. “Baby.” He gave you a compassionate look. “Could he not… perform?”

“Ezra!” you shouted. You picked up one of your notebooks from the top of your dresser and threw it directly at his face.

He caught it. “It was an honest question,” he mumbled and tossed the book on the bedside table.

You took your time to explain it all and Ezra did his best to understand.

He thought it was the sweetest thing in the world that Joel danced with you. He had no idea you were a dancing kind of woman. He tried to picture himself dancing with you and–no. It was wrong. All wrong. Ezra just wasn’t a dancing kind of man.

Maybe dancing was for you and Joel.

Like the ‘blue number’ was for you and him.

He liked that. He could work with it.

All you had changed into was a loose t-shirt and a pair of underwear before lying down next to him on the bed. You clearly had no intention of going anywhere anytime soon. So he decided to feel you out. Poke at you a little bit to see how you responded.

He laid on his side, propped up on his elbow. “I think you’re beautiful, too, you know.” He grazed your arm with his finger.

“I know, Ezra.” You smiled and turned your head away.

“It is unfortunate that your body reacted the way that it did.” He caressed your cheek with the scarred-up knuckle of his right index finger. “Your love is the most precious experience there is.”

“Stop.” Your embarrassed grin grew wider as you squirmed and turned away again.

Ezra crawled over you and you made space for him between your legs. “It’s been a while.”

You covered your face with your hand. “I know–” You looked up at Ezra with urgency. “--and it has nothing to do with Joel, okay?”

Ezra’s cheeks warmed and he felt a lightness grow in his chest. “I know, baby,” he cooed. “I know.” It soothed him to hear you say it aloud. He mouthed at your breast through your shirt with his eyes up.

Your worry disappeared–replaced with a soft smile as you looked at him affectionately. You wove your fingers through his hair.

He palmed your breast and found your nipple. He sucked on it through the fabric, increasing the intensity over time. Harder and harder.

Your breath hitched and your mouth opened. 

The hand around your breast tightened as he pulled his mouth away.

You released the tiniest whimper.

“Lemme play with you, baby,” he said with his chin tucked in and his eyes wide and serious.

Your expression changed once his suggestion registered. Your jaw went slack. Your breaths shortened.

You swallowed.

He waited.

“Okay,” you whispered and started to nod before stopping yourself. “Wait. But… but…”

“But? But?” He mocked you. He already knew your answer. He knew whatever excuse you had wasn’t worth a damn. He knew you were already getting wet for him. “But what, baby?” he smirked.

“I should shower first,” you whispered.

Ezra threw his head back and laughed. “Baby. Have you met me?” He shook his head at you, bewildered by your protest. “If that’s your best appeal, then we shall proceed.” He scooted down the bed and tugged your underwear roughly down your legs, tossing them over his shoulder.

He tapped your knee with an amused sigh. “Alright, show me what’s good.” He said it with his eyes locked tight on your lower half, mouth watering like some cartoon wolf about to eat a Thanksgiving feast. 

With slow breaths, you slowly pulled your knees up and lifted your feet into the air. You grabbed the backs of your thighs and spread them apart. Exposing yourself.

Ezra moaned. “Been far too long,” he muttered to himself. He licked one strong stripe up your seam, causing you to twitch. “Baby,” he began with nothing but endearment in his eyes. “You are like sour candy the way you make my mouth water.”

You threw your head back against the pillows in an attempt to hide the burning shame on your face.

He wasted no time in spreading your pussy part with both of his hands. He applied pressure with his forearms on your thighs to keep you from squirming too much. You yelped and cursed when dove straight into your clit, laving it with languid strokes and teasing it with the tip of his wet tongue.

“I am a disgrace to every man on this planet, baby, and I apologize sincerely for that.” When he pulled away to speak, he’d reach out with one of his long fingers to toy with your bud, watching it puff and swell. “No time like the present, I suppose,” he murmured against your lips, rubbing his mouth up and down your spread folds, tickling you with unkempt facial hair. He gave it a chaste little kiss. “I should be eating this pussy every day.” He looked up at you tenderly. “Lord knows you deserve it.”

He slipped his finger inside of you to collect your wetness. His eyes glittered as you gasped from the sudden intrusion. He pulled it back out and swirled the tip around your entrance. “Fuckin’ ambrosial.”

Next, he used his tongue and finger at the same time. He lapped and sucked at your clit, lazily moving his finger in and out of you.

“C’mon, Ezra. I need more!”

He pulled back, pulled his finger out, and slapped you hard on the meat of your hip. He pointed at you–with the same fucking finger that was just inside you. It was shining in the dull light of the room along with everything surrounding his mouth. “You take what I give you and you fuckin like it.” His words rolled out of him low and heavy.

This was the only time Ezra was allowed to speak to you like that–all angry and mean. It was rare for him to speak to anyone like that since living in Jackson. He knew how much you loved it–how much you loved this fun, chatty man turning cruel and denying you.

“Here I am, providin you a fuckin service,” he muttered to himself. You had become someone in the background, again. His mind focused solely on your pussy. Like it was a mystery of the universe he was so close to solving if he could just fiddle with it the right way. He licked into you with the flat of his tongue and moved his head up and down. He tried to keep at least one forearm on your thigh, his fingers spread across your folds as he splayed you apart. “Fuck, I missed this,” he spoke into the hair on your mound before giving it a loving kiss.

“Me, too,” you sighed.

Ezra grinned. “I haven’t fucked your asshole in a while, either.” He felt sweet victory when you moaned. “That was the one good thing about Memphis, huh? That big jar of Vaseline.”

“Uh-huh,” you answered.

“Yeah?” His fingertip found your entrance once more. “You liked that, huh?” He spread your slick around your lips.

You moaned out a ‘yes’ and rolled your ankles.

He stared between your legs at your wet cunt, at the spit and moisture that leaked down to your other hole. “You took that hurt so good, baby. So fuckin good.”

“Mhmm.”

“Strongest woman alive.” He slid the broad side of his index finger up and down your folds, lost in a distant memory. “Remember that hairbrush?” he smirked.

“Ezra.” You whined and adjusted the grip you had on your legs.

“It’s just me and you, baby. There is no reason to feel any sense of shame.” His finger dipped inside you, all the way. “Nothing wrong with using what you have on hand.” He wiggled it around, teasing you without any significant stretch or pressure. “Or are you worried about Joel uncovering your avaricious and sordid history?”

Your eyes and brows were squeezed tight. You huffed. “Ez.”

“What?” he pulled his finger back out, all wet and glistening before sliding it around your folds again. “He seems like the kinda man to appreciate our ingenuity, don’t you think?” He didn’t expect an answer. His mind already somewhere new. “How big did you say his dick was?”

“I-I-I don’t know,” you spoke between frustrated breaths.

Ezra grunted in disappointment. “I was trying to visualize my fat cock stuffing your ass full and him in your tight little cunt instead of that hairbrush.”

“Oh my god,” you moaned and started rolling your hips.

Ezra’s tongue was back on you, digging deep into your entrance.

You were crying out his name and whimpering.

“C’mon, baby,” Ezra said low with his mouth still buried close. “Gimme one.”

“I can’t. I can’t.” You were shaking your head and writhing. “I need more.”

He burst into cruel laughter. “No, you don’t.” He leaned back and replaced his tongue with his finger. “I've seen you get off with less than this.” He shook his hand side-to-side, finger sliding back and forth across your wet clit at a rapid speed. “You want me and Joel to fuck you at the same time, don’t you?

“Mhmm!” you answered through hitched breaths. Your right leg jolted.

“Well, now let’s examine the options, baby. Two men for three different holes.” He grinned. “What’s the math on that, you think?” Your whimpering desperation spurred him on. “It’s called variation.” He raised his brows. His lone finger continued its unforgiving pace across your clit. “And I believe it adds up to six, but that just sounds wrong and limited, don’t it?” He tilted his head to the side. “If I’m in your ass and he fucks your mouth, that’s one. If I’m in your ass and he’s in your cunt, that’s two.”

You started bouncing on the bed, trying to grind yourself into Ezra’s hand.

“Stay still!” he groused and placed both hands on the backs of your thighs.

“Nonononono,” you whined and kicked at him with your feet.

He held you tighter and snarled. “I am trying to work out the specifics of this equation with you and you are not helping my concentration.”

“Fuck, Ezra. Why are you like this?” you cried.

“If you are unhappy, then you are free to leave,” he said.

You whimpered. Sighed. Resigned. “I’ll stay.”

He huffed with a smile. “Fuckin predictable.” He slapped the back of your thighs with both hands. He hummed, fingers squeezing into your skin. “If I’m stuffin your cunt and he’s fuckin your ass, that’s three. If I’m stuffin your cunt and he’s fillin your mouth, then that’s four.” He looked up at the ceiling, murmuring to himself. He rocked back and forth, using his palms on your thighs as leverage. “Actually in this situation, it would be six variations for myself as well as six variations for Joel. But if we include using the same hole at the same time, then it would be nine variations per.” He looked at your dazed expression with a grin. “Doesn’t that sound nice?"

“Yes, Ezra. It sounds very nice.”

“I thought so, too.” He collected the growing moisture in his mouth and spit on your entrance, causing your body to shudder. He slipped his finger back inside. “Do you think you could fit two cocks in here, baby?”

“I don’t know,” you groaned.

He shook his head, slowly pulling his pruning finger in and out. “I’m sure with enough lubrication and determination that Joel and I could find a way.” He swallowed, overcome with an image in his mind. “Or maybe I fuck you and make him watch.” He stared at your sopping wet center, finger gently circling its edges. “Make him sit in the corner like a bad little boy and jerk off without gettin to touch you at all.”

You moaned and Ezra grinned.

“Think about it, baby.” His voice grew deeper. “Think about Joel Miller wantin you down to the depths of his soul but I won’t let him touch you.” He grunted, wiggling his finger around inside of you. “I would likely have to cuff his hands together. Otherwise I am sure he would simply pull me out of you and replace my cock with his own inside this wet little hole.” He started grinding his erection against the mattress. “Think about it. Think about the chains of his handcuffs jinglin while he’s jerkin off, wishin he could fuck this tight, chokin pussy.” He curled his finger, finally pressing against the tender spot of your inner wall. He sucked your clit in a strong, steady rhythm–slurping and lapping at your wet flesh.

And there you were, shaking beneath his mouth, breaths short and high in your chest. You groaned deep and loud as if your orgasm had been punched straight from your diaphragm. You reached down with frantic fingers on his head and face to push him away.

“Too much. Too much,” you panted.

“From not enough to too much.” He grinned and relented.

“Holy shit, Ezra.” Your legs fell and you stretched them out, curling your toes. “Oh my god,” you sighed. You shifted your hips around and rolled your shoulders.

Ezra waited for your breaths to become slow and even before he asked, “Are you good?”

“Yeah, my hip almost started cramping,” you answered in a daze. Your whole body appeared limp and sinking into the bed.

“Good.” Ezra stood up and ripped his shirt off over his head. He shucked his pajama pants off, too, before crawling back between your legs. “I’m not stretching you out.” He hovered above you. His hard, wide cock was warm and moist against your thigh. He looked down at you, wide-eyed and serious. “You’re gonna take what I give you and you’re gonna like it.”

You nodded with your eyes barely open. You licked your lips. “Okay.”

“I’m gonna tear you up, alright?”

Your eyelids fell shut. “Yes,” you whispered with your brows furrowed deep.

“You like that, huh? When I tear you up?” Asking these questions and hearing your answers made his whole chest heat up. His cheeks burned and his hips rolled into you–the pressure relieving some of the ache he felt in his cock.

“Yes, Ezra,” you whimpered desperately. “Tear me up.”

He huffed. “Alright.” He guided his cock to your entrance, breaching it only just so. Then with his other hand, he covered your mouth. “Fuckin masochist,” he muttered. He locked eyes with you. His hand muffled your pained groan as he swiftly pierced your tight wet cunt.

“Shit, that’s beautiful, baby.” He didn’t wait for your body to adjust before pistoning in and out of you. He moved his hand from your mouth to the back of your head, holding it in place so he could maintain eye contact as your warm hole swallowed his cock. “This pussy takes it so good for me. So beautifully.”

You nodded and groaned.

He palmed the backs of your thighs and pushed them upward, in the same way he had you positioned before. “Old man doesn’t know what he’s missin,” he laughed as you shouted in pleasure–his cock thrashing against your g-spot. “Maybe you should inform him of the ways I pleasure you. Maybe then he’d have something to fantasize about while fuckin his own hand in the shower.”

You were nodding and groaning, dazed and slack-jawed beneath him. Face twisted in anguished pleasure. His hips snapped harder, deeper and deeper.

“I can’t wait,” he spoke through panting breaths. “I can’t wait for him to fuck you. Want that dirty old man to fuck you so bad.” One hand released your thigh and grabbed your cheeks. He got real close, his lips touched yours as he spoke, as he pistoned in and out of you. “I want you chokin on his cock, baby.”

“Uh huh?” you cried.

“Let him fill up that pretty mouth of yours with his cum.”

“Mhmm! Mhmm!” you nodded. Your voice was breathy and shaken.

“You gotta let me know how it tastes, okay?”

You nodded again. Frantically. 

“Yeah?” You’d do that for me, baby?” He let go of your face and leaned back, clenching his teeth. All angry and focused. “You’d let that old man fuck your pretty mouth? Let me taste that cum inside you?”

You whimpered. “Yes! Yes!”

“Fuckin filthy,” he spat, chasing his own high, using your pussy to get him there. He wasn’t worried about you coming again. It was his turn now. “Fuckin filthy.” He repeated, shaking his head.

He wished Joel could see you like this–split wide open on his cock–lost in a warm vortex of pleasure and speaking in tongues.

Ezra continued to snap his hips into you until a warmth tingled through him and a white hot light overtook his vision. He spilled into you with a pained groan. He rolled his hips again and again as your cunt milked him dry–his whole world coming to a quiet standstill.

He fell forward on his palms over you.

Ezra was wide eyed and clear-headed, but a little unstable, as blood pulsed in waves through his body. The whole room seemed to jut out at him–all the shapes and colors suddenly becoming three-dimensional objects. His mind reeled. His face and body stung sharp from those words he said toward the end.

‘Let me taste that cum inside you.’

He replayed those words again and again.

All with a clear vision in the back of his mind of Joel’s cock–well, the way he was imagining it, anyways–making his mouth water and making his dick fire into the heavens.

But you were there beneath him with chewed up lips and glazed eyes and tears running down the sides of your face.

“I love you. I love you.” You said again and again, sniffling and pulling him close with trembling hands. “I love you so fuckin much.”

You.

You made everything so easy. You took Ezra. You took everything he gave you. You weren’t doing it because you were forced to. It wasn’t an obligation. He wasn’t a chore.

You did it because you wanted to. Because you both had an overwhelming desire to hurt and be hurt. To love and be loved.

He pressed his forehead into yours. “I love you, too, baby.” He let you kiss him soft and slow with your tongue. “I love you.” You had no idea how much you made everything okay–how much you allowed him to allow himself to think and experience.

Ezra’s tenderness returned in full force as he cleaned you up and cradled you. He showered you in kisses and caressed your skin.

“My angel,” he said and he meant it. He felt like you were some divine entity sent to Earth to heal him and love him. To save him from a life of plasma-hot anger and pain.

“Born bad,” his daddy would say. Ezra had spent most of his childhood in juvenile detention. He had just gotten out of jail for the first time, in fact, when it all …happened.

And then you came along and told him he was ‘too smart for his own good.’ Though, because you two were arguing at the time, there were a lot more curse words involved in the sentiment. But it had given him so much peace to be recognized as something more. Something other than the ‘stupid fuck-up’ he had been taught his whole life that he was by his daddy and his cousins and the government bodies that had shuffled him around.

There were so many times over the years that you soothed him, altered his perspective, guided his hand toward more cooperative choices.

He worshiped you. He worshiped every inch of your skin and every ounce of your soul.

He loved you so much.

Ezra wasn’t worried about Joel Miller.

He only worried about your happiness.

+++++++

tag list: @toxicanonymity @jksprincess10 @walkintotheriveranddisappear @shotgun-shelby @alwaysdjarin @longlongtime2023

Author's Note: I hope that smut at the end was okay. I've overthought it for the past 72 hours. I don't know who's cucking who at this point. 🙏 god bless.

+++++++

Part 4

(story masterlist)

(my masterlist)

[heyyyharry]

Hits Different (from the Flatmate series)

...in which Harry goes to the club while his flatmate goes on a blind date.

Word count: 2.6k

Inspired by Taylor Swift’s unreleased song “Hits Different”

___♥___

The muffled club music was still thrumming in Harry’s ear as he splashed his face with cold water. He stared at his reflection in the dirty mirror. Jesus, had he been looking like this all night long? His eyes were red and his hair suggested that he’d either just had sex or just got out of bed five minutes ago. Neither of that was true. He’d been living off of coffee for the past few days because of the exam season, and he really wished he was having sex right now instead of hiding in the loo, suffocating from the smell of urine and vomit.

The door swung open all of a sudden and Niall rushed in, face taut with worry. “Mate, you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry murmured as he washed his hands under the running tap. Niall looked the opposite of him – so clean and sober, with his hair neatly pushed back, and his white polo shirt made him look like he’d just gone golfing. Harry looked even more of a mess now with Niall’s reflection behind him in the mirror.

“You sure you’re alright? We’re worried about you,” Niall indeed looked worried.

But before Harry could deflect the accusation that he might not be alright, Layla walked in, wearing a silver sequin dress that made her look like a mirrorball. Layla always treated the club like her Met Gala as it was her way of manifesting an invitation for the event in the future. But seeing Niall and now Layla made Harry feel even more like shit.

“Harry, are you taking drugs?” she asked, eyes wide.

“What? No.” Harry scoffed, frantically pushing his hair back. “Why? Do I look like I’m on drugs?” A pause. “Wait, what are you doing in the men’s room?”

Layla ignored that as she pushed past Niall to grab Harry and started fixing his hair and shirt.

“I think we should take him home, Layla,” Niall said.

“No, we agreed to go out tonight, so we’re gonna have a great time,” Layla said while aggressively tugging at Harry’s sleeves to straighten them.

“He’s clearly drunk,” Niall breathed. “We should take him home.”

“Why are you guys talking about me like I’m not here?”

“He’ll get over it,” Layla told Niall as she stepped back and looked at Harry, satisfied with her work. “He’s just being dramatic.”

“I’m the dramatic one?” Harry gasped. “Said the shiniest girl in the club.”

“At least I’m not being emo in the toilet because my crush is on a date.”

“I don’t have a crush on Y/N.”

“Denial is a river in Egypt.”

“Layla, give him a break.”

“Let’s get back out there,” Harry said, not wanting to argue with Layla right now. Besides, they were finally playing a song he knew.

___♥___

Oh, my, love is a lie

Shit my friends say to get me by

It hits different

It hits different this time

Catastrophic blues

Movin' on was always easy for me to do

It hits different

It hits different 'cause it's you

As it turned out, Harry hated that song. It was the one Y/N had sent him earlier this week on Whatsapp, and he only listened to it because she loved it. Now they were playing it in this bar and it made him chug down more pints than he could count, and by the time he’d made it out of the club, his knees were wobbly and his head spinning.

Layla threw her big coat on, and Niall shivered in his trench coat, but Harry, with only his jumper on and alcohol flooding in his blood streams, was not affected by the October chill.

I wonder what Y/N is doing right now.

“Bet she’s having a better night than us,” Layla muttered, and Harry realised he’d said that aloud.

“Layla, don’t say that.” Niall put an arm around Harry to help him stand. “Let’s get you home, Harry.”

“Can we pick up Y/N?”

“We don’t know where she is.”

“I’ll text her.”

“Don’t you dare.” Layla snatched the phone out of his hand before he could even unlock it. “The only night that Y/N gets to not be boring and you’re plotting to ruin it for her. Also, you’re being very selfish right now, mentioning her when you’re with us.”

Harry felt his stomach churn. “Do you think she’s having fun?”

“Well, obviously. She would have texted you if she wanted to leave the date. She might meet someone who’s perfect for her and fall in love and live happily ever after with him–”

Before Layla could finish painting that picture, Harry braced his hand on the wall beside him. He heard Layla scream as vomit pooled beneath him, staining his shoes, his stomach clenching in pain. Niall’s voice was muffled, though Harry could feel Niall’s hand rubbing his back.

While the taste of vomit passed down his tongue and filled him with shame and regret, the memory of tY/N getting ready for her blind date stormed back into his head, and when he thought about another man touching her, the second torrent of sludge exited mouth.

“These boots are vintage!” Layla screeched. Harry feared that she’d start crying, but instead, she just smacked him with her purse, knocking him onto the ground.

Through his fluttering eyelids, he could see how scared Layla was because she hadn’t expected him to fall. It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t hit him that hard; it was his legs that decided to give in, and so he sat on the pavement, head against the cold brick wall.

This felt too comfortable, he thought, eyes pinched shut. Maybe he should just stay here…

___♥___

“Is that a new hat?”

“Yup, just got it from a charity shop,” Y/N said as she studied her reflection in her full-length mirror. Harry stood in her doorway, a piece of toast in hand, chewing as he watched her. Y/N rarely got dressed up, so when she did, it was extremely noticeable. It wasn’t really because she thought she was too cool for all those girly things, but she’d once told him that she felt like putting on something nice would draw attention to herself and she hated that. Now she was wearing a new knitted hat and a bright blue trench coat that she’d worn once for a book club event.

She wanted to get someone’s attention.

Not another gay neighbour, Harry hoped.

“Where are you going?” he asked, trying to act casual as he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe.

She paid him no attention and kept on trying to pick out a lint from her cream knitted hat. “Oh, just this blind date that Sian set me up on.”

“What? Blind date with whom?”

Now she finally turned around to face him. “Harry, it’s called a blind date for a reason. I don’t know who I’m going to meet.”

“Okay, that sounds safe,” he said sarcastically. “Who’s this Sian and why do they want you killed?”

“Sian is my boss.”

“At the student office? Isn’t she like thirty?”

“It’s with one of her cousins, I think.”

“Hmmm, still sounds sketchy to me,” Harry said as he took a huge bite of his toast and started chewing aggressively. “Do you want me to go with you? Just to be safe.”

“No, Harry, I would prefer not to have you on my date with me.”

“I’ll just be in the background. If he turns out to be a decent guy, I’ll go away.”

Y/N tilted her head and gave him a look that said ‘Really?’ sarcastically, of course.

“Please?” He didn’t know what else to say.

“You don’t see me asking to go with you on your dates!” said Y/N.

“That’s because I know who I’m going on a date with?” He laughed dryly. “Also, my ‘dates’ aren’t actual dates. It’s just sex.”

“Said that to all the girls who came up to me to ask why you ghosted them.”

“Well…” He thought for a moment. “I didn’t have feelings for them, so it was better to rip the bandage off.”

Y/N let out a laugh, but he didn’t think she found it funny. “I’m not getting relationship advice from someone who switches out his Barbies and skips town like an asshole outlaw.”

“Hey!” he said. “But I like that…asshole outlaw.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and sat down at her desk to start doing her makeup. Harry guessed it was his cue to leave, but he didn’t want to just give up like that.

“I’m not giving you relationship advice,” he said.

“Oh, you’re still here,” she sighed, her back still turned to him.

He went on anyway. “I’m just saying that it’s not safe to go on a blind date in London. People get stabbed left and right in this hell hole.”

“I’ll be fine. Besides, if he turns out to be a creep, I’ll text you.”

That sounded more reassuring, but not exactly what Harry wanted to hear. “Okay,” he breathed. “Keep me updated. Stay safe.”

“I’ll get condoms.”

“Ew, I did not ask for that information.” Why did she have to say that? Now all he could think about was her having sex with this stranger?

Y/N glanced at him over her shoulder and smiled. “I’m just kidding. I’ll go slow. I’m a relationship type of girl, Harry.”

“Good…to know.” He awkwardly nodded. “I’ll leave you to do your thing.”

“Thank you. Shut the door on your way out, please.”

He rolled his eyes and shut the door behind him.

___♥___

“She was very excited about her new hat,” he murmured.

In his daze, he heard Layla ask, “What?”

“Y/N got a new hat. I should’ve complimented her.”

“Are you seriously crying over a hat?”

“I’m not crying.” He sniffled. “I’m just…cold.”

“Do you want my coat?” asked Niall. He loved Niall. Niall was cool.

Harry blinked up at the blurry outlines of his two friends, backlit by the pink neon light of the club. Layla looked like a disco ball now and he found it amusing.

“I want to go home with Y/N,” he slurred, thinking he sounded quite robotic.

“Our Uber should be here in five minutes,” Niall reassured Harry while pulling him back to his feet. “But we’ll have a conversation about this when you’re sober.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that you don’t want to admit you’re in love with Y/N.”

“No, I’m not…” It took him a moment to get the words out, “I mean, if I was capable of love, she’d be the only one that I love. But since I’m not, I’m…not.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It kinda is,” Layla chimed in. “Love is a lie, anyway. Also, you’re always whining about needing your own space. You and Y/N would never work.”

“Layla!”

“What? I’m trying to talk some sense into him. I think he just wants her because she doesn’t want him and he has a massive ego.”

“I’m still here.”

“Yeah, and I said what I said,” Layla told him. “Besides, moving on is always easy for you to do. You’ll forget about Y/N the next time you lay eyes on a hot girl.”

Harry would like to say that it wasn’t true, but maybe Layla had a point. He knew his nature, and Y/N didn’t deserve someone like that.

“I’m a relationship type of girl, Harry.”

They said when it’s right, you’ll know, but nothing had ever felt so wrong. He supposed the real reason he was so upset was because Y/N seemed to know what she wanted, and he didn’t. In his head, he was cursing the space that he needed and the doubt that he had for himself. If he just knew what he wanted–

“Our Uber is here,” Niall said as a black car pulled over in front of them, headlights blinding.

He heard Layla say, “Let’s stop inviting him out.”

He wanted to tell her to stop talking about him when he was right here, but now that he was in the comfortable backseat instead of the pavement, sleep quickly enveloped him.

___♥___

Dreams.

Harry was dreaming. Well, he must be, because just a moment ago, he was in the Uber with his friends, and now he was sitting on the sofa with Y/N and it was morning again. He felt fine, not a single drop of alcohol in his system. She was wearing her joggers and a massive hoodie. While she perused the book in her hands, the sun from the window behind her made it look like she was made of light, and he sat and stared.

For the first time, it felt so simple. He knew what he wanted, and it was to hold her for a while and tell her how much he loved her hair, her stare, and her sense of belief in the good in the world and, well, in him.

It was the sound of the key turn in the hallway that made him start awake. The room was dark and he was covered in sweat. Was she at the door? Was she okay?

No, just his neighbour coming home.

And so he sat there with his head in his hands, wishing he could go back to the dream.

“You’re alive.”

The voice made him jump. Y/N stood by the kitchen door, backlit by the kitchen light, looking just like she had in his dream.

“When did you get home?” he asked, catching his breath.

She seemed amused by his reaction. “Before you. Niall and Layla dropped you off.”

Fuck.

“Did they say something to you?”

“Nope. Oh, Layla did mention you’d need to pay for her vintage shoes, though. I saw what you’d done to them.” She made a face. “I assume that would cost you a whole month of night-outs.”

Harry kneaded his temples to ease away the headache while trying not to make eye contact with her. The last topic he would want to discuss now was Layla. “How was the date?”

“It was alright,” she said and sat down beside him. “He was nice.”

He glanced at her. “And?”

She shrugged. “Friends vibe.”

Harry had to fight the urge to punch the air and start dancing in circles around the room. With a straight face, he said, “That sucks.”

“Oh, well, I’m not giving up that easily. I’ll meet someone,” she said with a smile as if she knew something that he didn’t, and Harry didn’t like that at all.

“Go shower. You stink,” she said and stood up.

If she thought he would let this end so easily, she didn’t know him at all.

“Wait.”

“Hmm?”

“You said…friends vibe. Was it…like you and me?”

It took her a few seconds to process the question. “No.” She shook her head. “Nothing like you and me. I don’t know…we’re different.”

“How different?”

“Sometimes, I want to strangle you. Other times, I like being around you.” And when she saw the look he was giving her, she went on, “You do have a lot of redeemable qualities, Harry. You’re like a likeable villain.”

Likeable or not, Harry didn’t want to be a villain. The villain never gets the girl.

“Nah, I’m the main guy.”

Her lips curled. “The type that should be killed off but lives?”

“Yeah, an anti-hero. You wouldn’t want me killed. I could still melt your world, not like those boring Ken dolls out there.”

“See, whenever you say things like that I want to strangle you,” she scoffed, shaking her head. “Good night, Harry.”

Harry said nothing as he watched her walk away. His argumentative, antithetical dream girl.

___♥___

"Hits Different"

I washed my hands of us at the club You made a mess of me I pictured you with other girls in love Then threw up on the street Like waiting for a bus that never shows You just start walkin' on They say that if it's right, you know Each bar plays our song Nothing has ever felt so wrong

Oh, my, love is a lie Shit my friends say to get me by It hits different It hits different this time Catastrophic blues Movin' on was always easy for me to do It hits different It hits different 'cause it's you

('Cause it's you)

I used to switch out these Kens, I'd just ghost Rip the band-aid off and skip town like an asshole outlaw Freedom felt like summer then on the coast Now the sun burns my heart and the sand hurts my feelings And I never don't cry (And I never don't cry) at the bar Yeah, my sadness is contagious (My sadness is contagious) I slur your name 'til someone puts me in a car I stopped receiving invitations

Oh, my, love is a lie Shit my friends say to get me by It hits different It hits different this time Catastrophic blues Movin' on was always easy for me to do It hits different It hits different 'cause it's you

('Cause it's you)

I find the artifacts, cried over a hat Cursed the space that I needed I trace the evidence, make it make some sense Why the wound is still bleedin' You were the one that I loved Don't need another metaphor, it's simple enough A wrinkle in time like the crease by your eyes This is why they shouldn't kill off the main guy Dreams of your hair and your stare and sense of belief In the good in the world, you once believed in me And I felt you and I held you for a while Bet I could still melt your world Argumentative, antithetical dream girl

I heard your key turn in the door down the hallway Is that your key in the door? Is it okay? Is it you? Or have they come to take me away? To take me away

Oh, my, love is a lie Shit my friends say to get me by It hits different (It hits different) It hits different this time Catastrophic blues Movin' on was always easy for me to do It hits different (It hits different) It hits different 'cause it's you

Oh, my, love is a lie Shit my friends say to get me by 'Cause it's you Catastrophic blues Movin' on was always easy for me to do It hits different (Yeah) It hits different 'cause it's you

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Do you have any fic about the difference between how Matt is to Alfred vs Jack/Zee? That feels untapped.

Four cunts and a Kiwi walk into a trench.... Please note this is a work of historical fiction based roughly on the Kaiserschlacht of 1918, Germany's last offensive. It is not a textbook. The interactions here cannot possibly begin to represent the real motions of history. The depictions of war and empire are fictional. Everyone's a piece of shit in this, but they are fictional pieces of shit. The existing author's views do not align with that of the fictional characters or any other message you think you're gleaning from this. Everyone in the following piece is fictional and over the age of 18. Do not get your morality from fanfic. No one is happy, no one is having a good time. They are individual, fictional characters and they are miserable. If I haven't made them miserable enough its because my wrist is busted in two places and I'm not in the fucking mood. Flanders March 1918

Matt’s slicker is draped over the tent pegs, a crude shelter against the elements beating down on them. Between Matt shoved in tightly to his left and Zee wedged into his right, and the blankets still tucked in tight all around them, Jack is as warm as he’s been since he stepped foot on this bloody continent. He shifts, something uncomfortable against his back. 

He mumbles something and tells Matt to roll over, but Zee says something about Matt fucking off if he was going to be an insomniac. But Zee is to his right, and Jack is on his back. She can’t possibly feel anything. He disregards it, rolls back asleep, and snuggles in tighter against her back. 

There’s a rush of cold air, Matt yelling at him to get up! To get the fuck up! There’s the crack of steel on a skull. He knows the sound has driven his own shovel into enough Turkish and German heads by now to know it, as well as he knows the sound of his own voice. Matt’s grunting gets louder. Jack is on his feet, pulling Zee up with him. He may as well have not opened his eyes. It’s so fucking dark.

He snatches Zee close, and she screams at him, working something over in her hands. 

“Get down,” He hisses at her. 

He’s too late. She’s lit the flare. In the dark, formless under the clothes and blankets, she might have not been noticed, but in the sick light of the flare, green as gas, there’s no mistaking her form, a girl’s form even in the trousers of the men’s field uniform, permitted this near the front with the medical officers. They were supposed to be safe here, three trenches back. There’s a joyful German noise and then the swell of bodies. Not a trench raid, not a squad. This is a counter-offensive. Matt throws one into another’s bayonet, and Jack breaks another German’s neck without thinking. The world is lit in green light reflecting from the gore.

He kills three men in seconds, Matt even more. But they’re replaced. This is no trench raid. It is a punch right through the line, a blow puncturing right through the armour of the front line. Jack takes up one of the rifles, but it won’t fire. He swings it into another man’s face. Where the fuck is his gun? Where the fuck is Matt’s? 

“Zee! Go!” Matt bellows. Jack spun and watched his sister’s face. There’s German blood there, splattered across her jaw and cheeks, her hand red, a knife that is not hers dripping. 

“Go!” Jack says and bodily shoves her back at the ladder. “Find Dad!” 

Her eyes flash with the knowledge that this is the only way to avoid the worst, but also full of loathing. She hates him, and maybe Matt, for making her go. 

“Go with her,” Matt tells him. Gripping him by the sleeve and shoving him as hard as he can. “Go!” 

“Matt!” 

“Go!” 

He’s got a German rifle to his shoulder and is already flipping back the lever and aiming. He looked up, and he was horrific in this light, face sharp, eyes narrow, lip curled back. But a flash of Matt, of peacetime. “I can slip away if they capture me. You can’t! Go!” 

“He’s right!” Zee whispered. “Come on!” 

“No!” Jack wrenched his arm free of Matt. They’re surrounded by his soldiers. Australians are to their left and their right flanks, awake now and fighting. Their souls come to his awareness like stars as the sun sets. Pinpricks of light he can’t leave. Too much is happening. “No! Stop!” 

“Jack, Go!” Matt’s firing, and something is screaming in the distance. Five bullets, then four. “I’m right behind you.” Four bullets left, more screaming. The trenches around them are coming alive. He won’t leave them. He can’t.

 But Zee’s got him by the arm and is dragging him with her.

“You know what happens if we stay!” Zee whispered. Three bullets become two. Hoarse shouts. She gripped him by the face, her own grey with terror, but her brown eyes set with certainty. She has all of Dad’s decisiveness. “What happens if I stay,” 

And just like that, she’s straightened his thoughts. He won’t let Germans have her, and she won’t leave him here. So they go. They have to go. 

“Okay,” He exhales his panic and shakes his entire body. “Okay.” 

Matt has fired twice more. He’s out of bullets, and more are coming, more are coming now. His sister tugged him back. He snatched up his sidearm, forgotten on the floor in the mêlée. 

“Be quick and be safe!” Matt tells them. It’s a benediction as hoarse as his prayers are when he thinks there is no one around to hear him. They’re just as futile, too. The time their slaughter brought them is at a standstill, and Matthew’s bullets are gone. 

“Find Alfred!” Matt screams over his shoulder as if he’s on another German. The last thing Jack sees of him is the full horrific brutality of his Matt in hand to hand. The filth of his fight. Matt was a brutal bastard. He thrust his fingers into an enemy’s face, finding eyeballs for leverage and twisting heads, viscous as a wolf just before spring. Matthew gives Germans a fight the way he gave their father before Jack was born, and that’s before his fingers close around the pine of his favourite axe. Jack turns, hearing Zee say his name. Their artillery is waking now. He can hear the guns open up. They have to go.

Zee was just ahead of him, running headlong into the dark. It’s wrong. Leaving his men. But she’s ahead of him. It’s the way the world works. Zee sailed into a new day ahead of him on their spinning planet. He follows. A German must have crawled past Matt. Jack shoots.

Zee jumped, startled, and for a fucking moment, he thought his wee Kiwi-bird of a sister, flightless and round, was going to sprout wings and fly straight home to New Zealand. But she’s repeating his name, and he’s staring into the dark, eyes swimming with the gun flash, wondering if hell is a different sort of red from home, with all its bright baked clay. Zee took his hand, her bloodied fingers around his, and looked at him. He grabbed her and hauled her along, forcing her to keep up with him despite their height, as he has their entire lives, from the moment she toddled into existence and he was taller.

He can trace her in the dark as she zigzags through the bullets and is lit by the odd shell in the sky as they escape into the night. He never lets go of her, making her steps longer when her weight hasn’t completely shifted. She is not alone. He is not alone. 

They slip into the night, into chaos, into darkness, and further back into the line. Jack trips when a floodlight opens on them, temporarily blind as Zee hauls him to his feet. Everywhere, everything is chaos. Horns honking on trucks they only see when their lanterns appear from nowhere upon soldiers firing up the ignitions, officers and enlisted men shouting. American rifles being broken out from their boxes, sleeping soldiers on rest, still dreaming as they take distributed weapons. The trenches give way to tents, and tents give way to the depots. Still, Zee pulls him along. 

“Where—” Jack asked, panting. “Where the fuck are we going, Zee?” 

“Alfred!” She huffed, breathless, like that was obvious. But he had wanted father first and figured she would, too. 

“Why?” 

“Father will prioritize defending the front line.”

“So?” 

“So— Alfred understands defense in depth. Give up the first line easily, then they pay for driving in deep, using the salients for killing zones. The more warning he has, the more of his and ours that man those salients, the more of theirs will die.” 

He swallowed. He hated it when she sounded like Dad. 

“Like Ypres before Matt took the high ground. Guns on three sides,”

“Exactly,” Zee replied. She had picked up a lantern at some point, and as she raised it, her eyes, always more brown than green, glinted for a moment with father’s thrilled, satisfied cunning. “We make them pay.” 

They stumble through the night, guided by the sensations of a nation so like and unlike them. They are flavours of the night jars that encircle the Pacific. They fly; they’re so much larger than their father. Matt, cold and clinging to the top of the world, his back against Alfred, with even more people. Then, Jack was warm and all alone in the Pacific in his early years. But the Tasman Sea is Zee’s hand on his elbow. He loves her so much, and he hates his father, and he hates Matt for making them go and both of them for being right and for being practical. He collapsed into the early morning grass off the road, nearly taking Zee down with him. Soldiers yelled, and more traffic roared in his ears.

“Jack?” Zee tugged him to a stop. “Jack, mate. Hey.” 

He couldn’t quite seem to get his breath, and he barely avoided puking all over her as he sprawled to the side and vomited what felt like everything he’d ever eaten since stepping foot in France. 

Zee made a sympathetic sort of sound, and he felt her arms around her. It’s his soldiers behind them now. He can feel hers a little, too, on the flanks and Father’s, but his own are fighting, and he is running, and he has killed again. Again. And not for the last time. What’s his count? Can he add those to his count? Matt does. Zee counts hers against the lives she saved, and now she cradles his head, gently taking him by the jaw to make him look at her. Her eyes are hers now, and it’s not her father’s words in her mouth, not his will or his brutal practicality. 

“Jack,” she said, and he squeezed her, clamping his arms around her smaller body like he had when he was little, and she was all he had of home in frigid England. “Jack, Christ.” 

“I’m sorry,” He said but didn’t let go. She squirmed, not escaping but looking up at him. “I’m sorry,”

“Look at me,” she said, and he finally lifted his eyes to her. “Thirty-six thousand.” 

“What?” 

“That’s how many you evacuated from ANZAC cove. You. Not father, not me. You and your generals planned and executed that. Your balance is still positive, do you understand me?” 

“Kiwi-bird,” He said because he was trying to argue, because she could read his mind sometimes, and he didn’t want her to, not now. He wanted to get up and move again and pretend he’d thrown up his sins with his stomach’s contents. “Don’t.” 

“Thirty-six thousand.” She said again. 

“Those weren’t directly... that kind of number is different from the ones you put back together on the table, Zee. It’s not the same. It’s not the same and it’s blood and it’s so much blood.”

“Look at me!” She said, this time harsh and sharp. “We do these things together, right? That’s what we said. My balance is your balance. You watch my back, I cover your arse.” 

“Where the fuck was that cover when I got shot in the bum at Lone Pine, eh?” Jack shot back out of spite. But then she snorted so hard he thought she might puke, too.

“It’s not my fault it’s so bloody big!” She said. “You got the birthing hips, mate.”

“You are such an arsehole.” He countered, giving his side a rub where it most certainly did not round out into berthing hips. Then he was serious. “You mean it?”

“Heart and soul, dick.” She offered him a hand up, and he let her swing him to his feet. “Your balance is my balance.” 

“Except at the commissary.” Jack huffed, unsure why that was the thought that popped into his head. “They won’t let me buy oranges anymore.” 

“Correct. I trust you with my life and my immortal soul, but not the money.” 

They push through the busy roads of new refugees and even more soldiers towards the pull of their father and the pull of whatever Alfred is, still half a stranger. It takes Zee pulling a “Do you know who my father is?” to some Oxbridge-educated fuck she might have rubbed elbows with in her school years to get them through the guard and into the command tent, and a damn good thing she did or Jack was ready to take out British soldiers like he had German. Arthur and Alfred are together, already half aware, and Father looks relieved, openly so. Not a good sign. Alfred looks bewildered. Less empire than boy startled out of bed. Because he still tends to sleep in one of those, even now. Because he is precious and held in reserve. Zee explains what happened and what needs to happen next. Jack fills in details as they go. His soldiers are the brunt just at that moment, and his heart is banging away in his chest when Alfred rolls around on him, full of piss. Looming because he does have two inches and an empire on Jack.

“You LEFT him?” He demanded, one fist gripping Jack’s collar. “You left Matt? What the fuck is wrong with you!” 

“He can get away!” Zee said, trying to wedge herself in between, struggling as much with their father’s grasp as Jack was with Alfred’s. “Matt’s been doing this for years. He’ll be fine! We had bigger things to worry about!” 

“Get the fuck off me!” Jack could do nothing about Alfred’s hold. His struggle was useless.

“Like what!” Alfred practically shouted. “What’s more important than making sure Matt gets home in one piece?” 

“Like the entire western front, you dumb cunt!” Zee shoves her face up at Alfred’s, willing to argue even if she is a foot shorter. 

“Enough!” Arthur slammed his hands down on the map-laden table and tugged Zee away, shoving one arm between Alfred’s chest and Jack’s, curling so he was in front of her. But he couldn’t break the grip Alfred had on Jack’s collar. “Get your hands off your brother, boy!” 

“Fuck you!” That was all Alfred had to say to Arthur. Zee was tugging her arm back from their father and freeing herself. 

“You left him there!” Alfred rounded on Jack again, closing the distance he already commanded with the grip on his collar. 

“You always do this!” Alfred tossed back at Arthur. “You always leave him to do your dirty work. No one watching Matt’s back because why would anyone watch his back! Why would anyone give a shit except about how much killing you need done! Why should anyone watch his back?” 

“I was!” Jack was on his toes, the angle of Alfred’s fist the only thing keeping him from using his jacket as a hangman’s rope. He didn’t care. “I was here, watching his back while you were home turning a fucking profit! We were here when it was all for nothing! You only showed up for what? For what? To take credit? Aunt Bridgie always said you were brave, that you were brilliant. She forgot to mention what a bastard you are!

“You shut your mouth. I’m not the one who just abandonded Mattie.” 

“Ah, my dear boy, but you did that first.”

One sentence. One sentence, and that’s all it took. Father looked unbothered. Alfred’s hand dropped like he’d been slapped. Jack fell back, and Zee was there, throwing off Dad’s grip and under his arm in a moment. The room was silent. Jack breathed hard. He would have probably swayed if Zee wasn’t so close, half shielding her body from Alfred, half shielding his sanity from the shouting.

“Want another first?” Alfred wasn’t facing them now. This was an argument older than both of them, conducted in shouts muffled from the other end of the house. “I took his head off his shoulders at Yorktown. I shot our dear lord father’s jaw from his fucking skull and his skull from his shoulders and the lobsterbacks surrendered. And then they left. And when the gutters overflowed, you were born.” 

Zee’s hand tightened on his, squeezing, squeezing like when the hospital ship she’d been on went down, torpedoed by that kraut bastard, and he’d dragged her corpse off a beach, and the only sign of life she could give him was the vice of her hand on his. I love you. It’s not true. I love you. It’s not true. I love you. It’s not true. 

Arthur exhaled a laugh. “Goodness, I read you lot too much Shakespeare. Such a flare for drama, children.” 

Alfred’s face twisted. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Who’s us?” Zee countered. Jack wanted to throw up again. “What’s wrong with you? You two are the kraut fuckers, not us!” Father looked almost as shocked as Alfred. “Matt wouldn’t even be out there if someone hadn’t made mess! And it wasn’t us!” 

The conversation had meandered, shot right from under them, from under Matt. Fuck.

“All right!” Dad intervened like he’d had the same thought. Hard and sharp like the furious fifties that marked the sea voyage home when Jack was small, he cut through the tension. “As flattered as your brother would be to see you defending what little of his honour he hasn’t left in a brothel, I rather think we should get to the task of finding him first, no? And perhaps, if you lot can manage more than one task at a time with the single wit I seem to have left you to inherit, we could perhaps even turn back what looks to be an entire German offensive that’s just caught us with our cocks out.” He paused and glanced at Zee. “Barring you, dear girl.” 

Jack snorted so hard they almost toppled over. Alfred sighed like a martyr. A sigh to make him sound like Matt, if there ever was one, and leaned over the table. “Where’d you put your favourite knife this time, you old bastard?” 

“Excuse you,” A note of laughter in a gravelly voice, still half-ruined by gas. “I am Father’s best knife. Only the finest for when the Krauts come for dinner, eh Dad?”

It was a pile-on, everyone rushing to get an arm around him. If Zee was his rock, the rest of them needed fucking mortar to stick together. Jack nearly elbowed Dad in the face as Arthur tried to look at a particularly large blood stain oozing from Matt’s shoulder but had to settle for turning his cheek and looking him in the eye a moment before he and Zee nearly got bowled over entirely by Alfred rocketing through. He practically picked Matt up. 

“Let me down, for Christ’s sake.” Matt laughed. “I’ve got Gilbert brains on my shirt, bud, fuck.” But Alfred would do nothing but grip him and shake his head. He might have muttered idiot. Jack didn’t hear. Matt was looking over the Yank’s overly broad shoulders, nodding at them both with a wan sort of smile that said as much of pride as it did blood loss. Zee’s hand was on his shoulder, and he glanced at her.

“You want me to slip some arsenic his coffee?” Zee whispered, not doing half as good a job suppressing her grin as she thought she was. “They burn it so bad. It could be proper strong. Nice and quick like the cholera.” Her sense of humour was morbid like that, even if he wasn’t entirely sure it was humour.

“Naw,” Jack drawled. “Reckon I’d’ve taken it some kind of personal too if someone had left you out for the Krauts.”

He got an affectionate punch in the kidneys and a squeeze for his trouble. 

“There’s nothing about you that came from a gutter.” She said, drawn tight to his shoulder. “Not a bloody thing.”

[heraldofcrow]

come on you of all people have to make a choice on who is getting the blue ribbon in Malenia vs Sephiroth

they are your stabby children?

NO

I FUCKING DON’T

(incoming “angry” rant this is mostly light-hearted and non-serious, so please don’t worry 😅)

I am the QUEEN of not pitting two bad bitches against each other and instead I will gleefully say “fuck you” to all the versus battle shit that fandom loves to drool over and point out how these two would actually be pretty well-matched in most things and why MALENIA AND SEPHIROTH SPECIFICALLY SHOULD STOP BEING PITTED AGAINST OTHER CHARACTERS IN GAMING LORE BECAUSE THAT’S ALL PEOPLE EVER DO WITH THEM FOR FUCKS SAKE—

*throws Vergil’s stupid lawn chair out the window*

I spent hours and hours defending Malenia in the trenches on YouTube and Reddit back when the TRAILERS were just coming out. I STILL GET NOTIFS FROM THIS ONE THREAD OF ESSAY COMMENTS I WROTE ON YOUTUBE WHERE I TRASHED SOME SMUG DUDEBRO THAT WAS HATING ON MALENIA AND ACTUALLY MANAGED TO WIN THE SUPPORT OF 75% OF THE OTHER GAMER KIDS THAT READ MY RETORTS BECAUSE I WAS ON FIRE. (I am bragging a little, yes. I am still proud of that moment. No, I don’t want to ever re-live or re-read that cringe again but it was fun while it lasted).

I fucking think Radahn is pretty badass and a cool character, but the moment he showed up as the rival to Malenia, there were people worshipping the ground his horse walked on. As soon as the game was out, it took a couple of days for everyone to take his side in literally everything from morals to combat prowess, and Malenia just got dragged through the mud. Worst ER fandom era. I’m so tired of it and I left it behind, but dammit, I still stand with my view that Malenia deserved better from the fans.

She deserves to have her story analyzed and treated with care and her boss fight to be treated as a worthy challenge. There I said it.

Also, her strength is incredible. She is disabled and rotting from her core, but she can still do THIS?

She’s so fucking beautiful, I am gonna cry. That’s her trouncing her own disabilities to keep fighting. That’s her stunning waterfowl dance where she moves like a dancing bird.

And then she has her god-form where she becomes a vessel for an Outer God so powerful that it reshaped an entire part of the continent, and she can BLOOM, absorbing more and more power. She kills players every moment with this these days. Out of the 9 billion deaths that Elden Ring has caused players, Malenia claimed over 300 million of those when the stats were last checked. One of the best bosses in Soulsborne history and almost certainly the toughest.

She is an absolute powerhouse, and MORE IMPORTANTLY, a well-written, tragic, and morally complex character with an amazing story that I wish I could summon the brainpower to articulate in full.

And Sephiroth is the same if people can set aside all the fucking stereotypes and popular gamer perceptions of his character for five seconds.

This is him as a kid aged somewhere between 13-15:

He has his own “Waterfowl Dance” called the Octaslash:

…where he moves faster than the eye can see. He cuts through moving bullets, big-ass troop transports, and dozens of soldiers in the blink of an eye. He can also summon fire so aggressively that it completely obliterates the surrounding environment.

When he has his later powers, he cuts through enormous buildings and metal structures, he can throw….city ruins…at you,

He can….change the weather???

He can impale snake gods on giant…woodchips lmao?

He can fly without and with a wing, he can cut through different dimensions of time and space, he can shapeshift with his alien mother’s power, and he has an angelic god-form just like Malenia:

….with which he has the potential to destroy the Solar System….

And he summons a Meteor that is big enough to destroy an entire planet in the game

And it….almost does….

But see, Sephiroth CAN still be stopped. Malenia CAN still be stopped. They both have limits, and are beaten by The Protagonist Swordsmen. None of this powerscale shit matters with them because they both end up defeated anyway.

Sephiroth can summon that enormous meteor but Malenia fought the man keeping the stars in check to a stalemate and still left him crippled. Malenia has an Outer God backing her up with power, but Sephiroth has his own alien god mother backing him up with power.

Both of them also have the theme of refusing to just fucking die around them too, and I respect that.

Malenia has an incredible in-depth and tragic story with a strong connection to her brother and the horrors of her own existence.

Sephiroth has a shocking and tragic story with a deep connection to his mother and the horrors of his own existence.

One is a fallen hero turned into a villain, one is a fallen warrior with crumbling and desperate morals.

I only said Sephiroth was more terrifying than Malenia because he is vicious, unlike her. Malenia isn’t trying to burn all of humanity to death. She just wants to defend her brother as his champion. I’m not afraid of her as a villain or anything. I can see that she’s trying her best.

Sephiroth is brutal and cruel after he turns to the dark side and is meant to be terrifying as the enemy. He doesn’t have a cute little Millicent looking for him to restore his dignity. He’s completely isolate and moves like a prowling shark. That’s that.

BUT OVERALL THEY SHOULD BE FRIENDS AND GO TO THERAPY TOGETHER AND PEOPLE SHOULD STOP MAKING EVERYTHING ABOUT THEIR ABILITY TO TAKE ON OTHER CHARACTERS BASED ON INCONSISTENT VIDEO GAME MECHANICS AND JUST BECAUSE MALENIA KICKED EVERYONE’S ASS, GOING DOWN AS SOULSBORNE’S MOST DIFFICULT BOSS AND BECAUSE SEPHIROTH STOLE THE SPOTLIGHT IN SMASH BROS AFTER KILLING EVERYONE AND GIVING THEM PANIC ATTACKS SINCE 1997.

FUCK

Ok, I’m done.

Love you, anon—and yes, I love my stabby children and will defend them until I’m fucking dead <33

[mlmxreader]

Trenches Deep | John Price x m!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Could you do one with Price and M reader with prompts 11 and 14? ❞

: ̗̀➛ the trenches are not a desirable place to be, even more when the bloodshed never ends.

: ̗̀➛ MCD, blood and gore, death and gore, swearing, smoking

↳ @mockerycrow @seigwaidau

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

A long time ago, you and Price used to dream of the mundane; waking up together in the morning and groaning when he tried to kiss you before he had gotten rid of his morning breath.

Snuggling up on the sofa together and watching atrocious horror films that were far more boring than anything else, like the one about the puppeteer in Norfolk who couldn’t get rid of a stupid looking creation; or perhaps the one about the two men in the lighthouse. Either way.

You and Price used to dream of the mundane so much; laughing together in the kitchen whilst making dinner in the afternoon, long walks in the cold winter sun in the evenings. The mundane.

The same old routine every single day no matter what, yet it never seemed to get boring to become a relic of its time - it never seemed any different, the beauty of the mundane purely inescapable.

You used to dream so much about the mundane; about being his husband and him being yours. It seemed like reality would never sink in fully, like your dreams were the only thing you could ever afford to indulge in.

You both used to dream about it a lot, even when confined to snowy and icy trenches that went on either side of you for as far as the eye could see; even when confined between blocks of frozen wood and frozen dirt.

Piled up so high that you needed to use a ladder to clamber over it. Mice would run along across the solid mud, squeaking and screaming as they scuttled around; chased by rats and covered in lice and fleas.

You and Price were no better off, constantly itching and infected from the bites, small marks turned into huge scabs by constant irritation and opening.

Lice and fleas were the least of your worries, though; the shelling had not stopped since the first time you set foot upon the trenches. The ground seemed to wail and sob every time one smashed and crashed against the ground, so loud that not even a thunderstorm could be heard.

The shells were only one part of the devil's symphony, though.

Further back, the machine guns howled and gnashed their jaws, starved dogs set to attack by cruel masters. Either side of the trenches, the machine guns became the chellos and the great big saxophones.

The constant cries of agony and despair screamed throughout No Man's Land, drowned out by the other instruments as they weakly tried to save their own skin. But it was pointless. Bayonets caused enough damage, but coupled with shells, machine guns, and toxic gas - there was no escaping it.

No one could survive in such a world. You and Price were all alone, as Ghost had been caught by the gas not two days ago, and Gaz's body was still somewhere out there, half buried in mud and blood. You let out a sigh, shivering as you pressed your body closer to Price's, but he hardly reacted.

Price rarely reacted to anything anymore. His stare was constantly vacant and a thousand miles away, no emotion behind it whatsoever. His lips were constantly in a frown and his voice was always monotonous and flat.

Price hadn't been himself for years, ever since stepping foot in those horrid trenches.

"Jealousy was always a good look on you," you sighed. "Can't remember the last time you even smiled, anymore."

Price nodded slowly, but didn't show an ounce of anything more than vacant, far away staring. "Yeah."

"I wish we could go back to normal," you whispered. "We... we used to have dreams, John..."

"And look where it got us," he said flatly. "Stuck in a shit pit, all our friends dead. Nothing left anymore."

You nodded, swallowing thickly. "If anything happens to you, I'm not gonna make it, y’know. I'm not gonna be able to go on."

He nodded again. "Nor me."

But you couldn't tell if he meant it anymore. Price was a shell of himself, these days. Far from the man that you loved, and it made your heart drop to your stomach to even think about it; the Price you loved was dead.

He had died a long time ago, and yet, you would fight for him and his survival - even though he wasn't your Price anymore, you would still fight. You watched with wide eyes and a weak protest as he forced himself up against the ladder of the trench, the rotten wood creaking and moaning as he put his weight onto it.

Pushing himself up, Price peered over the edge. A single gunshot rang out. His grip went limp, and his body fell back with the force; a red spray kicked through the air, bits of skull fragments splattering this way and that.

His eyes were still open, still vacant and blue as he stared up at the skies he once filled with cigarette smoke. A pool of gushing red slowly forming around in the mud where his head laid.

You sat there, breath shaking and vision going blurry as you fought to cry out and to scream; nothing came of it except short, sharp gasps. Your breath ragged and harsh, forcing your stomach to push fully out and then back in. Wide eyed and weary, you gently nudged his shoulder.

"John? John, c'mon, get up... get up... we have to go... come on. Come on, the match is on later... it's Liverpool against Man City... c'mon, John... c'mon... please stop looking at me like that, it's time to go... please... please..."

[strawbrygashez]

P3 x P2 hcs bc I read a fic last night of themmm :3

•While p3 loved to make things harder for him when they first met he actually does love to pamper him when they become closer/date! It feeds into his masculine ego to do things around the house or go out and do things for p2, while p2 ‘sits there and looks pretty’ 🙄🙄🙄 he makes tons of jokes about it but actually enjoys letting p2 relax. P2 allows him to do whatever he wants sometimes but other times he just ignores him and does whatever tasks needs to be done himself.

Kinda related, he calls p2 his wife and yells “Honey! I’m home!” when he gets back from whatever. He makes sure to kiss him before he goes and when he comes back.

•P2 is actually more of the cuddler in the relationship 🤭 it takes him a bit to actually feel comfortable enough to sleep in the same bed as p3 (because he’s used to sleeping by himself when he was with the bitch) but when he does start feeling more relaxed, he pulls p3 closer in bed without even thinking about it. Like he will wake up with p3 in his arms or his head on his chest!!! He’d deny he started the cuddling though for a bit because he genuinely thinks p3 got him into that situation somehow 🙄 p3 would say some shit like “That was all you loverboy”

•Oh yeah!!! P3 calls him all kinds of nicknames. Lover-Boy, Sweetcheeks, Hun, Skippy, babe, and hot stuff are the main ones!! P2 sarcastically calls him Dear.

•On a day where p2 is doing particularly bad mentally & if p3 is staying home all day, he lets p2 wear his brown coat out as a way of being able to ground himself. P2 won’t admit it probably but the scent of p3 on it and how heavy it is on him (p3 is taller and larger than him) is very comforting to him. P3 can probably tell that anyways because p2 yanks it away from him to use as a blanket sometimes if p3 took it off.

P3 would wear p2s trench coat if he could but p2 is too short and tiny.. it doesn’t fit p3 well 🥲 but that’s fine.

•p2 also will not admit he finds p3s voice very sexy & that he likes his southern accent. The sound of his voice literally makes him shiver if he’s whispering in his ear or his voice is even deeper when he first wakes up.

•While p2 is cuddly in private, p3 is the one to throw a arm around him and loudly say inappropriate or loving things to him in public. I think p3 used to be kinda worried about being thought of as gay but once he actually yknow..gets with a guy he really loves, he doesn’t give a fuck anymore lol. If someone gives them shit for it he’ll gladly take care of it.

He’s also kinda handsy in general. He loves grabbing p2s face to make him look up at him.

•The height difference is definitely something he teases p2 for all the time. If p2 is struggling to reach something, here comes p3 all smug and pressed up behind him, asking if he needs any help. Which usually gets him cursed at thru mumbles. He’ll ask “What was that?” And not help p2 until he can stop with the attitude.

•If they travel somewhere to a beach and they are sitting on one together, p2 is glaring daggers at p3 because p3 is just like 😎 while tanning. He’s glaring because he knows p3 is gonna tan nicely like always while him himself is just gonna be pink.

•P3 had the audacity to try to show p2 how to shoot?! Like they were shooting for fun at targets one day and p3 came up behind him, put his hands on his to try to get him to aim better which pissed p2 off 🫤 he knows what he’s doing smh.

•P3 loves p2s attitude but wants to get rid of p2s attitude towards him at the same time LOL like he doesn’t care who p2 mouths offs to but will make life a little hellish if it’s to him. He should think about how blessed he is that he doesn’t get punched everytime he mentions something about manners 😳

•When they both head out to do chores together, p3 kinda drags p2 around and gets easily distracted more. He’s kinda honestly the reason why they get attacked 90% of the time but he’s protective & wouldn’t let anything too bad happen to p2 so it’s all fineeee :3

•When p3 gets hurt and p2 is patching him up, it’s non-stop flirting and joking. He’s smirking when p2 tells him to take off his shirt or pants to get to a wound & he won’t stop going on about p2 being his sexy nurse 🙄

When p3 is patching up p2, p3 makes it a lot more serious feeling and is super quiet because he feels guilty he got hurt. P2 will have to be the one who actually tries to start joking around & will have to remind him he’s no stranger to getting injured. If he’s able to lighten the mood, p3 will crack a joke or two before finishing up but still treats him like he’s made of glass for the rest of the night.

[sysakiddo]

Listen, I had a nightmare on Tuesday and it went something like this. I don't know what this is either, sorry.  tw: toxic relationship, drinking, antidepressants (i mean like combined), mention of a gun (not used!), fighting 

Daniel enters first so he can't slam the door shut, even though he would love to. He feels his rage boil under his skin. It's only a matter of time until it spills over. When Max tries to take off his coat, something he does for him almost every day, Daniel jerks away and snaps at him.

“Don't fucking touch me.”

Max looks at him, blank-faced, and says nothing. Daniel can't stand the silence. He is tipsy and makes his way to the kitchen, knowing he needs to drink a lot of water just to be able to get out of bed tomorrow. He shouldn't drink while on the meds, he knows. But there's not much you can do when your husband leaves you in the middle of the Christmas get-together with all of your colleagues and some of the kids' parents. Subconsciously, he wonders if he drank just to spite Max. He has sat through countless lectures about how he can't stand seeing Daniel hurting himself and not letting Max take care of him like he deserves. At the time, the support from his partner made him feel warm. Now, it makes him laugh.

He fills his cup to the brim and bangs the back of his head on the cabinet. The kitchen is gleaming; the cleaning lady must have visited while they were gone.

He opens his eyes, sees Max standing across the room, leaning on the kitchen table. He is silent, devoided of any emotion. The only crack in his composure is the way he fiddles with the bracelets on his hand. For a moment, Daniel watches the turn-turn of the Cartier bracelets, back and forth without stopping.

He drinks his water in silence, dizzy. He is waiting to see who yields first. It's probably going to be him. Max would always choose death over surrender. That is okay with Daniel. He will make sure they will burn together.

“You left me there-” he starts. Max looks up at him, like he is shocked Dan would break the silence first. “I told you. Shit. I told you it's important to me and-” he cuts himself off, realising he is working himself up too soon.

Max has a faint smirk on his face, his facade not cracked. He doesn't even have to listen to Daniel. They know each other so well it's all just a play by now. In moments like this, they sit in trenches of loneliness, firing harmful words at each other. The point is to cause the biggest damage, not to win the war.

“Why did you say that? In the car, about-” Daniel sounds genuinely curious. Max lets himself be fooled, just this once.

“I don't know, maybe I was saying stuff I didn't mean just to say something. Must have learned it from you-”

Max realises his mistake immediately after the words come out of his mouth. Daniel got him where he wanted, with an opening presented on a silver plate. What would be a butt of a joke they would laugh at just hours prior became Daniel's loaded gun now.

“WELL, I CAN BE FUCKING QUIET IF YOU WANT ME TO! GOD FORBID I WOULD SAY SOMETHING YOU MIGHT NOT LIKE!” he yells out, flinging the glass into the sink. It shatters with a loud rattle. It unlocks something deep in his chest. He moves his legs, almost like he is naturally pulled to Max by a magnetic force.

Max narrows his eyes. “Who the fuck do you think you are, raising your voice at me?” he says coldly, slowly. Daniel stops in his tracks like he's been slapped.

Max is a smart man. Nothing he does is accidental. Every single one of his actions is calculated.

Daniel shivers. He knows, rationally, this is stupid. But the part of his brain that sees Max's cold eyes, the gun he laid on the table in the hall, and the guards that opened the doors for them, is thinking differently. He is afraid. Daniel falters with the knowledge. He can't believe it came to this, him being afraid of his own husband.

Daniel isn't ready to admit his fairytale has plot holes. He doesn't try to suppress the rage anymore, turning on his heel and opening the first cabinet. He picks up a plate and throws it on the floor, just a few centimetres off Max's feet. This is exactly what his sister talks about when she says Daniel can be hysterical.

“You think I wanted this?” he yells, throwing another plate, this time to the left corner of the kitchen. “You think I fucking enjoy this?” The sound of the glass breaking makes his hands shake. When he stops for a brief moment to look at Max, he doesn't know what to expect. Max blinks, an indifferent look on his face. He looks faded, bored, his jaw set. He has no intention of stopping Daniel. This is exactly what his sister talks about when she says Daniel married a sociopath.

Daniel isn't stupid. He knows Max is only capable of changing for the worse. So he bites his tongue and smiles and acts like he doesn't know the new P.E. teacher has been hired specifically to protect him at work without raising suspicion. He smiles and smiles and keeps buying flamboyant gucci shirts with Max's black amex.

They silently watch each other for a minute, only the sound of Daniel's heavy breathing filling the room.

“Are you done?” Max asks, raising his hands in a mocking gesture. He was the person that taught Daniel it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Daniel doesn't like drawing parallels, but he thinks it's kind of funny. His hands, tanned and tattooed, marked with ink and coloured highlighters. Max's hands, porcelain-like, covered with blood. They met in a bar. Daniel, a new English teacher in a private secondary school. Max, one of the wealthiest man this side of the world. Daniel gathered what Max does for a living pretty quickly. Either way, it was too late for him. He has fallen in love with him so hard that he did not stand a chance. He had been doomed the second Max smiled at him for the first time.  

He can feel his eyes water and he turns around quickly. He doesn't want Max to see his weakness even though it might be too late for it now.

“Come on, Daniel, let's go to bed.” Max puts a hand on his shaking shoulder and Danny lets him. He wipes the silent tears from his cheeks and wordlessly tugs him under the shower. 

Max closes the curtains when they enter the bedroom, knowing Daniel can't sleep otherwise. Daniel tugs the blanket to his ears and closes his eyes, so he only feels it when Max slides next to him. Max fishes his hand from under the blanket and kisses all of Daniel's knuckles softly. 

He doesn't apologise.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

seven degrees east - chapter seven

Fandom: Masters of the Air Pairings: multiple Rating: E Chapter: 7 / ? Word Count: 4397

read on tumblr: one | two | three | four | five | six

Professor Harding moved amongst them, and the boys had the sense that they had been in the trenches of Walden together, that a bond had been forged between bean fields and the fundamentals of self-reliance, that the murky veil of authority between instructor and student had been thinned, all for the better. It was now mid-July, and the summer semester was almost at an end.

In the two weeks since the party in Cringleford, the boys felt their worlds—social and academic, personal and shared—had been changed. University, which in its functions and expectations cared little for the lush, revolving inner worlds of its students, ploughed ahead as though nothing were different. This meant it was time for the boys to immerse themselves in the plotting and planning and researching and revising of concepts for their final essays. It was time to show what they’d learned.

Feeling he worked in the spirit of Thoreau’s project, Harding had permitted, for this last assignment, arguments which yoked Walden and each boy’s particular literary speciality. The professor’s aim was to make the essay useful to them, as Thoreau’s excursion to the woods had been to his own mind and methods. This allowed Harding’s students more freedom for creativity, and so more space for development had also been allowed. Harding had allocated that day’s class for the workshopping of final essay ideas.

Curt was sitting next to John. Had this arrangement been tried even the week before, it would have set the rest of the class—including Harding, who didn’t concern himself with his students’ spats and scuffles but, like a barometer, always noticed a change in atmospheric pressure—on edge. However, John’s bruises had faded, and he and Curt had worked to clear the air. This had involved less effort than either might have expected. Since John hadn’t hit Curt, Curt’s primary grievance had been the insults John had slung at him while baiting him into the two right hooks he had thrown. John had apologized sincerely and, because Curt understood he hadn’t really meant what he’d said, had his apology accepted at face value.

Curt’s secondary grievance was all tangled up with John’s primary one: that John hadn’t kissed Gale, while Curt had. When they’d hashed the whole thing out over a smoke, Curt had placed the blame for all the shit between them on John’s failure to act on his feelings for Gale sooner. John had taken this criticism on the chin—close to where he’d taken Curt’s fist at the party. Once John had cooled his head and his heels (and was sober), he had more easily accepted that what he’d seen through the door of that Philosophy classroom had been a combination of friendship, trust, and spontaneity. Gale had been newly (officially) single. Curt was known among their group to be the least uptight about his sexuality. Like Gale had told John the night of the fight—and other things as yet unexamined—it had been a one-time occurrence. Had Curt enjoyed kissing Gale? Of course. (John had clenched his fingers into a fist beside his leg where Curt hadn’t been able to see, then forced himself to relax them.) Was Curt rooting for John and Gale to get together? Abso-fuckin’-lutely. Why hadn’t it happened yet, Curt had wanted to know? What was this new weirdness between them that no longer seemed to have anything to do with Curt? John had staggered into a sentence he didn’t know how to finish before just letting it float away like the smoke he sighed from his nostrils.

Now, Curt was ranting to John about his two favourite ideas he’d come up with for his final essay.

“You got the travel narrative, right? You with me, John? You got fuckin’ Kerouac, fuckin’ On the Road. That,” Curt said, “versus Thoreau’s, I dunno what ya’d call it… his stayin’-put story. Ok? So, we got movement and restlessness and how that gets channeled.”

“Right,” John said, more to show he was listening and less because he was totally following.

“Or—second idea, second idea now, John—we got city and country. Another comparative essay, external conditions seemingly in opposition. And for this we go to Baldwin. Yo, Buck! Baldwin!”

Gale, who was mid-discussion of his own essay with Rosie, glanced over and offered Curt a thumbs up. His gaze slid automatically to John, who blushed for no good reason, scratched his head, and turned back to Curt.

“I’m a little less sure about that one,” Curt admitted, focus back on John. He kneaded the knuckles of his left hand into his right palm until they cracked. “But if I could figure it out, it’d kick ass.”

“It’d be fucking killer,” John said, really quite at sea, but carried along on the tide of his friend’s enthusiasm and, more than anything, wanting to demonstrate his renewed love and support since the rupture in their friendship.

“Ok, and for my third idea—”

“Your third?” John had one idea for this essay, exactly one, and he rubbed worryingly at his chin as Curt prepared to launch into another pitch.

“Yeah, dude. So, this one I’m thinkin’ Hinton—you know, The Outsiders?”

“Sure, man. Patrick Swayze.”

“Patrick Swayze? Goddammit, John.” Curt’s hand shot out and lightly cuffed the back of John’s head. “This is a fuckin’ literature class. Read a book, would ya?” He shrugged. “But sure, Swayze, if it helps ya follow along.”

John scoffed before giving in to his grin. He planted his elbow on the table and sunk his head into his hand as he listened.

“This one’s simple. It’s so good,” Curt promised. One thing they shared, luckily, was confidence in their work. “I look at belonging in a group and belonging in a place.”

“That’s interesting,” John said. He meant it.

This time, the idea struck something deep within him, something that twanged back. He was warmed by the resonance. It was them, he thought. He could see that Curt, himself, and the rest of the boys fit neatly at the center of Curt’s concept. They were Thorpe Abbotts’ English PhDs, the Bloody Hundredth, their own favourite company to keep. And they were a part of this place, this university, these grounds, this country they’d transplanted themselves onto in the hopes of learning something of books and life and driving on a different side of the road.

“That’s the winner,” he said.

“You think?” Curt asked earnestly.

“Yeah, man. Run it past Harding.”

“Alright, alright, but tell me yours first. Whaddaya got?”

John smiled a slow smile and said, “Hemingway.”

“I’m shocked,” Curt joked, and beckoned with his hand. Gimme more.

“It’s not much,” John explained, meaning the idea was spare, unadorned, not that he thought it was a poor one. He straightened up in his seat. “I’m just thinking… Thoreau. Hemingway. A man alone. Not sure yet if I’d go Old Man and the Sea or For Whom the Bell Tolls, but one of the two.”

He nodded conclusively.

“I mean, yeah,” Curt said. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

“Then fuck yeah!”

“Fuck yeah,” John agreed, nodding again.

Curt shoved his chair away from the table, preparing to speak to Harding about his idea. He paused before rising.

“That’s everything you got?”

“That’s it.”

“Sick,” Curt praised.

“Thanks, man.”

A man alone, John thought when Curt had gone to the other end of the room. He drummed his fingers on the table. Without meaning to, he found himself gazing idly at Gale. Gale sat so still as he listened to Rosie, who was speaking with sweeping gestures of his hands. The other brainstorming group—comprised of Crosby, Nash, and Bubbles—already had three members, so John knew it was Rosie and Gale he should join. And he would. Any minute. He made his body as still as Gale’s, heavy and content, chest moving in and out. Gale’s gaze swung over to meet his and John immediately pushed his chair back and went to join them.

Gale watched as John approached, as he flung his pen and notebook down and took an empty seat, stretching his legs out beneath the table. He wore a brown t-shirt. It might’ve been nothing on someone else, but dark brown on John made his hair look lustrous, his sunburned nose and cheeks peachy rather than painful—these were Gale’s thoughts, and this study of John as he moved, as he sat and unfurled his long limbs, recalled the John of two weeks prior, if only because of the contrast (and because that John had rarely left Gale’s mind in the interim). That John had been compact; Gale’s gaze had darted madly to take in the taut-muscled twist of his best friend’s body. John had been on his knees and ducking his head to avoid the jeep’s ceiling, though turned towards Gale, the hunch had resembled a bow. And his cheeks; the flush on his cheeks had been blood, not sun, lit up just enough by the porchlight that Gale could see the heat trapped beneath John’s skin. God help him, he had ached since that night to know what it felt like to touch the heat rolling off John when he came.

“Whadda we got goin’ over here?” John demanded, forcefully casual.

“Poe,” Rosie said, steepling his fingers against his own chest. He indicated Gale next. “James.”

“Hemingway,” John supplied with a grin, sticking out a hand for each of them to shake as though they had taken on the names of these authors as their own and were introducing themselves. They humoured him. Gale hung on a little long before letting his fingers slip free of the hold.

“Let’s hear it,” John encouraged, waving Rosie on.

“You want my shpiel?” Rosie checked wryly. He smirked. “Alright. Picture Thoreau’s cabin.”

Gale had heard the shpiel already, so while John closed his eyes to center himself inside the narrative Rosie was constructing around him, Gale stared at John. They had talked, and the talking had been a relief after the days John had spent freezing him out. Unfortunately, they had talked about everything but the night of the party. Gale was beginning to wonder if they ever would, and the wondering filled him with a longing he couldn’t have described with all of Henry James’s winding, self-conscious language of introspection. Like James’s characters, Gale felt divided between past and present existences. He felt he was leaving some version of himself behind with the new one not yet fully formed. Though he could not go back, he feared going forward alone. If only John would say something. Why was he suddenly such a good listener?

Listen was what John did as Rosie laid out the argument for convincing his reader that Walden could be interpreted as a Gothic story. He spoke of legacy and sustainability, the fickleness of memory, the blurriness surrounding whether the landscape intruded upon the characters or they upon it. “The Fall of the House of Usher,” Rosie insisted, would help him break new ground on Walden.

“I like it,” Gale was quick to say when Rosie had wrapped up.

“Same here,” John said, and Gale felt the satisfaction of their agreement from his scalp to his toes.

Rosie, caught in the middle, glanced from one of his friends to the other with a knowing smile. A slight action of his shoulders showed his shy acceptance of their approval.

“Gale’s turn for show-and-tell,” he informed them.

John started a facetious drumroll on the edge of the table. Gale snatched up Rosie’s eraser and bounced it at him. When it landed in his lap, John gave Gale a look (You wanna pick that up? the look said) before slowly returning it to the table. His eyes glittered like Gale remembered the streaks of rain on the jeep’s windows had, catching headlights as Bubbles drove them home.

Gale cleared his throat.

“I’m thinkin’ of something a little cerebral.”

Through a fake cough, John barked out, “Snob.”

“Maybe,” Gale allowed, grinning. “Maybe.” He stared at the table for a few moments while he collected his thoughts. “So, Thoreau spends a lot of time doing, but there’s a lot of thinking there too. He talks about meditation. He, uh, he… really makes you see the value of patience, besides just that it’s necessary when you’re waiting for something like crops to grow.”

“Sure does,” Rosie encouraged.

“You wanna talk about what’s worth waiting for?” John asked abruptly—so abruptly that the question seemed to short something in Gale’s brain and he forgot, just for a moment, what it was they were discussing. He blinked and recoupled the cars on his train of thought.

“More the worth of waiting at all,” Gale corrected. “I’m going to throw in Washington Square to complicate that. I think what James really shows is… the importance—but the difficulty—of trusting your own mind.”

“Hmm,” Rosie said thoughtfully, which was a not-discouraging response.

“I think what James really shows is how much the mind sucks ass,” John declared. He added, “Figuratively.”

“You do, do you?” Gale countered, slightly annoyed.

“Yep. It’s too much thinking that keeps whatshisname and whatsherface apart.”

“You haven’t read it.”

“You’ve talked about it,” John said shortly. “I listened.”

They had a brief, silent standoff during which Rosie wrote down some useless jot points in his notebook. Gale suspected he was working hard to resist the urge to break into a self-soothing whistle.

“Morris and Catherine,” Gale emphasized, “stay apart because her father believes Morris is after their money.”

“Which he can never confirm?” John checked. “And neither can she?”

“That’s right.”

“So, it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s a great work of literature.”

“Yeah,” John drawled, “but it’s stupid that Catherine decides to be suspicious and alone. If you ask me—”

“I didn’t,” Gale pointed out.

“—everybody in that novel thinks a little too much. Where’s the…” He snapped his fingers, attempting to summon the right word.

“Spontaneity,” Rosie provided without looking up.

“Thanks, Rosie. The spontaneity. Why doesn’t Catherine grab life by the fucking balls?”

“Maybe that’s not who she is, fundamentally,” Gale said.

“Maybe it could be,” John challenged.

“She’s a product of her time.”

“Bullshit. Love is timeless.”

A laugh burst from Rosie, who could no longer pretend he wasn’t listening to the exchange happening across him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, beaming. “I was imagining my grandmother embroidering that on a tea towel.”

His laughter cleared the accumulated tension from the air. Gale took a deep breath and stole a glance at John doing the same.

“My essay is mind over feelings,” Gale said weakly. “It’s what I know.”

“It’s not all you know,” John said. “But, for the essay, I get it. I think the ‘trusting your own mind’ thing’ll work with Thoreau, that pretentious fuck.”

“A little respect for our dead friend, Egan,” Harding called over.

“Don’t worry, sir, I meant it as a compliment.”

Gale had his back to their professor, but he heard him sigh. The three boys chuckled quietly.

“Bet he can’t wait to get us out of his hair,” Rosie guessed.

“Nah,” John said, “he loves us. Especially me.”

Who wouldn’t, was the thought that came to Gale unbidden.

As John took his turn, once again delivering his idea in a style so stripped-back it rivalled Hemingway’s own, another trio was brainstorming in the opposite corner of the room.

Aside from the mandatory course texts for their class, Nash hadn’t read anything written by a man since he’d spent the night with Helen. Helen hadn’t directed or even requested this. It hadn’t mattered, and Nash was already in deep. Rosie had walked into their floor’s shared kitchen in the dorms the other night to see Nash squinting at the fine print on the Pop-Tarts box (probably bored while using the toaster, Rosie had figured). To mess with his friend, Rosie had shouted, “A MAN WROTE THOSE NUTRITIONAL FACTS,” not expecting to laugh so hard he almost peed his pants after Nash dropped the box in horror.

Nash’s essay idea wasn’t one the boys felt moved to mock though; he planned to set Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s fictional Herland up next to Thoreau’s portrait of the actual Walden Pond and compare them as utopias—what they had, what they were missing, through whose eyes the reader was meant to view them as idyllic. At another time in his life (pre-Helen), Nash might (would) have joked about Herland as the utopia to end all utopias because it was full of women, but he had grown, he had changed. He felt less eager to surround himself with women and much more eager to get himself drunk on Helen. Just intoxicated. Falling-down, slurred-speech sloshed on the sight of her, her laugh, the feel of her fingers raking through his hair when he’d had his head between her thighs.

Since the party, Helen had borrowed Sandra’s car to visit Nash once on campus. He’d taken Rosie’s keys and seen her three times. Between these four meetings, it had felt as if they’d barely been apart, and Nash liked it that way. He was up to his heart-shaped eyeballs in love and overflowing the joyful energy into writing his final paper, just so he’d have something to talk to Helen about when he called her at night—as he had been every night they weren’t physically together.

Where Nash deconstructed an idealized vision, Bubbles went for realism from the start. Feeling he hadn’t spent enough time with his pal Steinbeck this semester, Bubbles was bringing that author into his final essay to help him examine the dichotomy of working man and intellectual. He thought Thoreau inhabited both archetypes, and while Thoreau’s life-on-the-land project had perhaps taken a few shortcuts, Bubbles was keen to dig into the messier side of a collision between two seemingly contradictory paradigms. The struggle was everywhere but in how he explained it, words rolling off his tongue.

Bubbles’ only distraction—though he proceeded through it—was Crosby. His best friend’s face was so serious as he listened. It was nice to be heard with such rapt attention, Bubbles felt, but he worried. He’d overheard Crosby on the phone with his mom the night before. Touching base with home would be good for Crosby, Bubbles thought, but none of them would be making the trip back to the States until the semester ended. Bubbles knew Crosby, and if he was reaching out to his mom now, it suggested something was up, that his balance was off, that he was looking for someone or something to right it. Did Crosby really need to be reminded that Bubbles was right there? But then maybe he did. Bubbles had seen how mixed-up Crosby could get himself if he wasn’t careful, and it was a shame when Bubbles thought the whole world of him.

“Last but not least,” Bubbles said, when he was finished and had turned towards his best friend. “What’ve you got for us, Croz?”

“Mystery?” Nash guessed.

And usually, knowing Crosby, this would have been the correct guess, the easy right answer, but today, Crosby leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms against his chest, his ankle over the opposite knee. His own limbs wound tight around him, he smiled a smile that troubled Bubbles.

“Maybe the mystery is why people are still reading Walden,” Crosby quipped.

Coming from Crosby—usually so eager, so earnest, so desperate to get it right (whatever it was)—this remark was shockingly irreverent. Bubbles and Nash looked at each other, at a loss. Nash made a noise between a laugh and a choked sigh. Bubbles pondered what to say. Long seconds later, it was their professor who was the first to come up with a response to Crosby’s snark.

Sidling silently up to their clustered chairs, Harding ordered, “Go with it.”

Crosby jumped.

“Sir?”

“‘Why are we still reading Walden?’ Go with that.”

Bubbles cast his gaze from Harding to Crosby.

“I was just—” Crosby began, the flush of wrongfooted embarrassment creeping up his neck.

“And now you are,” Harding cut across him to state with finality. He fixed his student with a commanding stare which, despite its ferocity, wasn’t without humour. “Consider writing the paper punishment for your curiosity. You asked the question, Crosby. I expect you to answer it.”

“But I don’t know…”

“Find out.”

Crosby stammered, but Harding turned abruptly away and went to Rosie, who had his hand raised. Crosby looked to Nash and Bubbles instead.

“What do I do now?”

“Write the paper,” Bubbles suggested with a smug smile. “What other choice you got?”

“It’s one essay,” Nash reasoned. “Just write something.”

“You can always start over if you don’t like it. We both know you’d be doin’ that anyway.”

“Yeah, but Harding assigned me this topic,” Crosby protested. “Normally, the only person pressuring me to get something perfect is me.”

“When’d he say it had to be perfect?” Nash asked.

“It obviously has to be perfect!” Crosby picked up his pen and began rapidly clicking the end. In, out, in, out.

“There’s not just one way,” Bubbles assured him. He reached out to stop the clicking and Crosby sighed, sliding the pen behind his ear instead.

“It’d be simpler if there were.”

“Simple’s not really your style, buddy.”

“Nobody overcomplicates shit like you, Croz,” Nash threw in.

Crosby bowed his forehead to the table and groaned.

—

The next day found Nash and Rosie in their suite’s common area. There was no air conditioning in the dorms, so they usually left the windows shut on the hottest days in an attempt to keep humidity out. Today, they had shoved the windows up in their casings and surrendered themselves to the heat.

Rosie was lying on the floor in his boxers. Next to him was the boombox. An infectious pop song—“Wannabe” by the Spice Girls—had come out earlier that month, and Rosie had found a radio station that was playing it on repeat. The first time he had heard it, he’d just listened. After a couple more listens, he’d sung the chorus under his breath. Now, he knew all the words and hummed the melody even when the song wasn’t playing. This included when he was washing dishes, brushing his teeth, and getting gas in his car. Not when he was showering, of course; then, Rosie belted “Wannabe” at the top of his voice. Other residents of the dorms (and anyone passing by outside) were instructed to not go wastin’ Rosie’s precious time. As a boy, Rosie had never been particularly self-conscious. As a man, he lived in the same building as John Egan, who was not exactly a role model for shame or restraint.

Fortunately, Nash could work through pretty well any kind of commotion—it was silence that he found distracting, and he avoided the library accordingly, except when he had to collect a book. Also stripped down to his underwear, Nash sat at the desk and worked on his essay. The biggest hindrance was the damp paper, courtesy of the humidity the boys had failed to shut out. When the Spice Girls were silenced mid-verse, Nash swivelled around in the chair to see Rosie sitting upright.

“What’s up?” Nash wondered.

Rosie looked at him.

“I’m gonna ask Liss to marry me.”

“What?”

But Rosie leapt to his feet and strode into his bedroom, closing the door. When he reappeared, he was dressed in shorts and a polo shirt, the collar flipped under against his neck. Nash spied the glint of keys twirling around his roommate’s finger.

“Rosie. Rosie.”

Rosie didn’t seem to hear him, marching to the door. His jaw was set, his gaze determined.

“Rosie!”

The door slammed behind him.

“ROSIE, FIX YOUR COLLAR!” Nash yelled at the closed door.

Nash sighed in annoyance and tossed his notebook down before forcing himself to get up. The heat was oppressive and he hated to move. He went to the door, opened it, and peered down the hallway. Rosie was already gone.

Leaving the door ajar, Nash shuffled over to Gale and John’s dorm. John opened the door to Nash’s knock and automatically glanced down.

“Aw, Jesus Christ, Nash,” he said, assaulted by the sight of Nash in his briefs.

Nash grinned and shrugged, then remembered why he was there.

“Rosie’s being weird,” he reported.

Gale arrived in the doorway, encountering the same view that had provoked his roommate’s exclamation. He blinked and asked, “Compared to what?”

“He just blew outta here. He said he’s going to propose to Liss.”

John chuckled and Nash, who was still smiling, raised his eyebrows to underscore the ridiculousness of such a thing. Gale, however, cocked his head thoughtfully.

“That’s fast,” he observed. “Good for Rosie.”

“Good for— what?” John demanded in disbelief. “Rosie can’t get married.”

“Sure he can. He’s a grown man, John. Knows what he wants.”

“Ken’s married,” Nash noted when it looked like John was opening his mouth to protest.

“And Lemmons is a helluva lot younger than Rosie,” Gale added.

“I just can’t believe he didn’t talk it over with us,” Nash went on, affronted.

“Hey,” John said to get his attention. “He’ll be back. We’ll talk to him then.”

And so they rounded up Curt, they rounded up Bubbles and Crosby, they went back to Nash and Rosie’s dorm (they made Nash put some clothes on), and they began their vigil. The aura of disbelief lingered, but the fact was that Rosie wasn’t there. Had he really driven up to Cringleford? Did he have a ring? They asked Nash and he could only tell them there was no ring that he’d been aware of; it had seemed to be a spontaneous decision with no clear impetus beyond “Wannabe” playing for the zillionth time. The boys were perplexed.

They received some answers within the hour. Instead of coming back through the door, Rosie called the suite’s landline. Nash picked up.

“Liss said yes,” came Rosie’s rushed voice. “Can you come meet us?”

“Where?” Nash asked, flapping his arm at the boys to demand background silence when they tried to ask what Rosie was saying.

“Norwich City Hall.”

“What?”

“I’m getting married, Nash.”

Nash could hear the smile in Rosie’s voice. Still, he said, “When?”

And Rosie said, “Now.”

[direwombat]

what would your oc sing at karaoke night?

If your OC was at a karaoke night, what would be their go-to song? Would they even partake?

Include a snippet if you want!

tagged by @g0dspeeed, @inafieldofdaisies, @strafethesesinners, and @socially-awkward-skeleton (tysm this is a fun game!)

tagging @strangefable, @detectivelokis, @sstewyhosseini, @poetikat, @schoute, @confidentandgood, @aceghosts, @fourlittleseedlings, @adelaidedrubman, @henbased, @purplehairsecretlair, @wrathfulrook, @inquisitors-grave, @trench-rot, @gaeadene, @locustandwildhoney, @jacobsneed, @river-ward, @roofgeese, @cassietrn, @neverthesameneveranother, @sukoshimikan, @deputyash, @harmonyowl, @voidika, @vampireninjabunnies-blog, @madparadoxum, @euryalex, @clonesupport, @ivymarquis, uuuh i think that's everyone but if i was dumb and forgor someone, i am tagging anyone else who wants to play!

English translation (approx): Slip me through your fingers and then burn me Consume me for you, be only smoke When you're in this world where your dreams take you I would like to be blonde like an American To be sweet and wise or sweet Take you on my cloud of smoke love is like a cigarette It burns and it goes to your head When we can't do without It all goes up in smoke love is like a cigarette It's burning like a match It stings the eyes, it makes you cry And it goes up in smoke

Sybille almost didn’t go. 

Karaoke night at the Spread Eagle has always been low on her list of priorities. Even more so since the Reaping began. But after spending almost three weeks in the Whitetails undercover as one of Jacob’s Chosen — in a place where weekly cage fights are what counts as recreational fun — she can’t deny the appeal of getting drunk and singing off-key with a bunch of strangers. 

Besides, Joey loves it, and she feels a little guilty for neglecting her the way she has. 

She sits at the bar beside her girlfriend, cheering Nick and Kim on as they wrap up their third power ballad. 

“Your turn,” Joey says, giving her a gentle shoulder bump. “Oh, come on,” she scoffs when Sybille shakes her head. “You’ve got a decent voice — better than most of the people here, anyways. Get up there!”

“You know I hate bein’ at the center of attention,” she argues. “B’sides, music I listen to ain’t got words.” 

Joey laughs. “Okay, first of all: bullshit — you and I have rocked out to Zeppelin in the cruiser more times than I can count —”

“Radio’s different!” Sybille interjects. 

“— Second,” Joey continues, waving the neck of her beer bottle emphatically, “the song doesn’t have to be in English. It just has to pre-date 1985.” 

Sybille lifts a skeptical brow, and when all Joey does is nod, she redirects it toward Mary May who’s wiping the counter nearby. “You got any French shit?” she asks. 

“Probably,” she shrugs. “Check the catalog.” 

Sliding off the bars tool, Sybille says, “If all they got is Édith Piaf, I ain’t goin’ up there,” before striding over to the jukebox catalog. She’s astonished to find as wide a selection of French songs as she does, and after finding a track she remembers playing on her maman’s record player, she walks onto the small stage and takes the microphone. 

But as the lyrics fall from her tongue, it isn’t Joey they make her think of, but rather the man who, last she saw, had allowed her to walk away, completely free without any sort of fight whatsoever.