#I GIVE FUCKS BECAUSE HES FLIRTING WITH A GIRL A DECADE YOUNGER THAN HIM

[junkartie]

My mom on her way to lecture me about being racist AND ageist because i dont want my sister talking and flirting with a 26 year old (shes 15)

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I have an odd request… perhaps a captain price fic where the reader is much younger and edgy- likeee covered in tats and stuff,, and price isn’t rly used to that but finds it hot as hell… idk maybe they work together ?? Smut ensues …

IDK I have tatts and wonder what he’d think of that 👹👹

Just an idea 💡❤️😫

Fire it Up (John Price x F!Reader)

Word count: 7.8 k

Tags/warnings: Smut 🔞 mutual pining, flirting, swearing, older man/younger woman dynamic, forbidden love, smoking & drinking, voice kink, a tiny brat taming kink squeezed itself in here too. Reader has tattoos and works as a coder at the base. Rough ~10yrs age gap described, reader is of age I hope to god it goes without saying (Price is canonically 37) Also: no use of 'daddy' in this fic

A/N: I'm so glad for this request anon and I hope you like what I made! Also people please be gentle, this is my first Price fic 🥹 God I wish I could attach the fat scent of cigar here to give you the full experience. 

You don't know what caught your attention first.

The cigar, perhaps. Or the beard? Might be his hips, the ass that tells you this man can fuck a woman for hours.

Or maybe it's the fact that he's too old for you.

No, not too old…

Just older than you. A decade, perhaps, if you were being gentle with him and lenient with yourself.

He certainly isn't old enough to be your father, but he wasn't the type of man your eyes usually drifted on either.

He looks like someone who's supposed to be fishing in Alaska, sucking that fat cigar while taking in the view of mountains while trying to catch wild fish in some wide, free stream. 

He's supposed to come home to a remote cabin: to his little wife who pours him a scotch after he has shown her what he caught today. Make sweet love to her while stars shoot and speckle the indigo night.

He looks like someone who makes love to women.

You, on the other hand, want to ride with him to the sunset on the back of a Harley, clutch his jacket as he drives you to some bizarre highway motel. You want to watch him drink that scotch from your navel. 

You'd do all kinds of crazy shit with him, keep his head between your legs with both hands, grind all over that mustache, and see how wet it gets. You want him to pound you with those narrow hips, take you from behind while you look back with parted, swollen lips and relish the sight of what must be a grown man's hardened body, covered with hair and scars and–

"The bug's still there."

You return to reality, look at the code on your screen, and then at your colleague, a 20-something bloke who looks at you with the lethargic stare that only belongs to techies. You've just been caught daydreaming your eyes off in the middle of a lazy afternoon. Coffee doesn't do shit after 2 PM…

"Yeah I know. I'm working on it," you say. But when the dude leaves, you decide it's time for a creative break. You tell yourself it's only because the code jumps on the screen, not because you hope to catch a certain someone smoking outside. 

The leather jacket is a little too much these days, but you throw it on out of pure habit. You realize the weight of your mistake when you go outside from the ventilated building and notice the sweltering heat. Spring has finally turned into summer.

Coffee doesn’t do shit, but it’s time for another kind of wakey-wakey. And butterflies are a funny term for something that mainly feels like it’s eating your insides out of pure excitement. 

Because he's here too.

Jonathan Price, although no one calls him Jonathan. Few call him John, either. 

Mostly, he goes by the title Captain.

He's stressed; you can tell. But his eyes soften immediately when they fall on you, a brief look to the side, just to know who else comes out to have a breath of fresh air or a smoke. He looks like he's been expecting you, but that might only be a silly girl's daydream. You two share a vice, and you've never been more grateful for your bad habit before this place and him.

And you wouldn't call it necessarily a bad habit. It's simply stress relief if you do it once or twice every few weeks. It's not like you smoke two packs a day. It's not like you even smoke one cig per day. 

Although ever since you started this odd little job in this odd little place, you've smoked one or two nearly every day… And it's not because of the stress.

It's because of Price. 

John. You’d like to see his reaction to you moaning that word in his ear…

"How long have you been here?"

His eyes are still on you, mouth covered by a hand as he makes love to his cigar. And that bedroom voice always gets you. It's better than the upcoming slow drag of nicotine. You're not here for tobacco at all.

"Two weeks." You reach for your excuse and try to prevent your hands from trembling as you light the cig. Usually, you're not this shy with people. Not with men, anyway. But with him, your wits and words disappear. 

You blow the smoke through the air with a quick, lively wisp where he lets it roll out his tongue in a heavy cloud. He's still watching you as if to weigh what kind of woman you are exactly.

"How about you?" You continue the small talk with nervous ease.

He chuckles; the little smile even shows a flash of teeth as he steals a look at the clouds, calculating years with those surprisingly lively eyebrows curled up toward the sky.

"Ages."

He's not that old. Perhaps well over his thirties, might be knocking his forties. The statement is merely an underline of his stress today. You can only wonder what kind of pressure the captain of Task Force 141 is under when you get sleepless nights from a stupid source code. There are a few wrinkles around his eyes, but they only tell you that this man smiles a lot. He might be the only one in this compound who smiles a lot.

"Have you ever tried a cigar?"

There's a glint in his eyes as he offers the thick roll of tobacco to you. It's suddenly difficult to breathe, difficult to even keep your thoughts together.

"No," you shake your head as if your answer wasn't enough to tell him he's the first person ever to offer you such a thing. Then you realize the word does not precisely deliver your eagerness to try that stout cigar.

"Would love to," you hurry to add with a soft smile. "Can I have a taste?"

He walks to you slowly, and your eyes drop to those hips, which sway like he's purposely trying to seduce you.

Fu–ck…

Then your eyes sink even lower, between his legs, to his fucking junk, and it's too fucking late–

Jesus–get your shit together…

You force your eyes back to his and see the little glimmer in them gain a surprised spark – you're totally caught red-handed on checking him out.

Fuck. How can you be so stu–

"Gently then, kid."

You swallow your heart and thoughts down and take the offered cigar; of course, your first thought is how thick and heavy it is. And somehow, you decide right then and there that you will no longer be the nervous, hot-cheeked woman on the corner.

It's time to make him flustered.

So you take a hollow-cheeked, slow suck on the fat cigar. A chaste, savory taste, more like, but there's nothing chaste in the way you raise your eyes to his, putting every ounce of soft seduction in that stare.

He draws breath slowly – his face is full of expression for an allegedly cold-hearted elite soldier. You don't know how often women flirt with this hunk of a man, but he sure looks taken aback by your sudden play. Probably thinks you're too young for him – and you curse the second time you put that jacket on. You want to see his reaction to your sleeves.

"Mm. It's thicker than I thought," you weigh the cigar between your fingertips and let the smoke roll out your mouth. The man switches his weight from one foot to another, speechless, and you suppress a big beam of a smile.

"The taste," you emphasize as if innocent, as if you didn't see that shocked little shift. "Round, and… god, it's almost sweet."

You smile as you give it back, and he chuffs an approving laugh through his nose – those eyes are bear-warm playful now, his mouth curves into an easy smile.

"Nice," you look him up and down as if you're talking about the man and not the cigar.

"Beats those little sticks." 

His voice drops down a few notes; it's almost a husky growl. You barely make out the words he's saying. The tension in the air could form little balls of lightning around you, the flirt is over the roof, and there's even no roof because you're outside – and you take your jacket off, slowly, to make it clear it's summer and not spring.

His eyes fall on the ink immediately, and he blinks a few times, draws some more breath – you tweet your thanks accompanied by another smile and go back inside.

You know he's checking your ass in those black jeans as you walk away.

….....

It doesn't end there.

You see him again and again and again, and at some point you realize he has to walk almost 100 meters from the other end of the base to get to the little corner where the two of you smoke. 

He's intrigued but decent. Holds a distance, never says anything that could be taken in the wrong way – or even in the right way. But he's fucking you with his eyes. 

No… making love to you.

And it drives you crazy.

You don't want that. You don't need that. To be that little wife in the cabin. Pouring him a drink, climbing in his lap, ghosting a finger down the stubble on his chin, see how wide and proud it makes him smile to hold you like you're his and his alone...

God. When did it come to this?

You suck on his fat cigar every now and then. Look him in the eyes while you do it. Once, it makes his tongue dart out, it wets his bottom lip, and then he does that thing with his mouth... the thing where he kind of purses his lips and it makes the mustache dip, and you realize, you learn it's a sign that he's restless, he's flustered.

You make the big, burly captain of Task Force 141 flustered.

And he doesn't smell like the people inside smell. Of stale coder sweat and Joy Division and soft drinks and mommy's home-cooked meals. He smells of rich forest and fine bourbon and half-burnt gasoline. Maybe Saxon on vinyl. Definitely beats those little sticks that are your nerdy co-workers at the hacker department, as you call it.

He may have a flask somewhere; perhaps he takes a sip or two every now and then, whether at work or not. And you don't blame him. Even with those laugh lines and that brown bear benevolence, you can tell he's seen things. 

You wonder what he's like out there in the field. Brutal? Or just efficient?

He never asks about your tattoos, but he eyes them often. There's a certain admiring esteem in his stare. He's checking you out, scratches his chin, and rips his eyes off when they start to drift down. He forces his eyes to stay above your neckline no matter the cost. You mourn that you got rid of the septum a few years ago: you're pretty sure he would've liked that, too. After all, it's a piercing that screams 'warrior' the most. Break after break, you return to your desk, aroused and giddy and surrounded by the rich, masculine aroma of his cigar.

One night, he drives by when you're walking home after what was supposed to be one or two pints.

The car is a big, black pick-up, and when it slows down and starts to inch by your side, your first reaction is a silent curse of why the fuck don't you carry some pepper spray in your pocket.

"Hey, you ok?"

Your head rises from the asphalt the second you recognize that smooth, pleasant voice of a man you had compared every guy to at the pub that evening. The whole man is brimming with burnt sienna, he's hard alcohol with no ice…

You stop and turn, a little wobbly from the pint turned to two or three. Or four.

"Yeah. Had a little girl's night out."

The car rumbles softly, not two meters away, and the sound reminds you of his voice. A soft purr that can turn into a growl, even a roar if he wants to. 

He looks like he's going fishing, even without the boonie hat. The dark hair is cut short, so you won't have anything to tug if he ever ends up between your legs. But you don't really mourn that fact, because he looks so damn good.

He looks you up and down, and you notice the briefest blob of his Adam's apple before he gives you another offer.

"Want me to give you a ride?"

Would love a ride.

Would fucking love to ride you.

"Sure. That's kind of you." 

Your eyes must be sparkling like the fucking stars.

"No problem at all," he leans his elbow on the open window and waits while you round the car and get in. You try to tone down your drunken state, but your moves are a little too brash for a calm and collected coder lady this man has usually caught leaning against the wall of the workplace you two share.

"Did you have fun?"

He sounds like a dad picking up his girl from a school disco, and you purse your lips in slight distaste and amusement.

"Yeah. You know how it is when someone asks you for a pint."

He gives a short laugh and starts to drive. "That never ends well."

You smile and turn to look at him.

"Mm… This one kinda did."

You enjoy the brief look out the window, the sight of someone so formidable and robust and experienced trying to find his way out by feigning something caught his attention in the black, empty distance of a quiet city.

"Glad I could be of service," he brushes off your flirt like it's nothing more than a speckle of dust on his coat.

The rest of the ride is silent, too silent. He turns the music off in case it "bothers you," and it turns into an awkward, overly polite fight about whether to keep it on or not. 

It's a minor shock to notice he was listening to some classical. Not 80's rock, not country, not even BBC. He was just soothing his nerves.

You can't put your finger on what makes you feel so sheepish around this man – usually, you put men on a leash with a few dry jokes and a hearty laugh or two. Now, your flirting is shy and does nothing: there's a wall built up, and from behind that wall, only a few stolen looks…

The pick-up is humming, the engine is running at idle next to your place far too soon, and it's time you get off the car – but you have vehemently decided you will knock down that fucking wall even if you have to drag him to your bed. 

"You wanna come up and have a nightcap?"

Another look out the window as he raises his hand over his mouth, fiddles with his mustache, and avoids the rising heat between you two.

"Thanks, kid. But you need to sleep."

Your heart is pumping, and you feel like a harasser as you place your hand on his thigh.

He doesn't move, but you can hear the audible swallow this time. He doesn't move a single finger even when you slide your palm down that leg, then drag it over to the inner thigh, and start to drift back up slowly, slowly, to give him the time and space to stop you before you reach….

….the visible bulge between those legs, the absolutely gorgeous, ample bump pulling at those pants, something so delicious that you must fight tooth and nail not to race your hand up there and give it a fond grope.

His hand falls over yours just before you reach it.

"Kid. Let's leave it here and call it a night."

His voice is strained and tight, and he's still looking out the window. You don't move your hand away because he doesn't move it away. His warmth stays there, keeping you against him, and you feel like shit for thinking it's not a no… That it's a yes when he seems to hold your hand as a prisoner, wanting to feel your dainty little palm against him.

Your fingers curl slightly, a hopeful gesture to imagine how it would feel to curl and claw at his hips and that ass while he's fucking you.

"Listen. You're a nice girl. A very nice–"

You give a heavy, demonstrative sigh and finally draw your hand away.

"Come on Cap… You're seriously going to give me the "you're a nice girl" talk?"

Finally, he turns. His nostrils quiver as he tries to keep his breaths calm. Your lips part like it's a whole caress he just gave you – and his gaze drops to your mouth instantly. You start to see where the problem is.

You're too young. 

You're forbidden.

"I offered you a nightcap," you tilt your head slightly. "You can come up or you can go home."

You wet your lips, give the bottom lip a tiny little bite, and offer him the last, inviting, soft smile. It must hold an equal amount of sorrow because you can't drown the bitter feeling of rejection, no matter how many drinks you've had that night. No matter how much he seems to want you, it doesn't change the fact that he's apparently decided to stay strong and keep his hands off the cookie jar.

You turn and get out of the car, lean on the door for the final fucking time...

"Didn't know I'd only get to suck your cigar... You're all smoke and no fire, Price."

The door flies closed with a louder slam than you originally meant. 

Now that was a little bit passive-aggressive, you have to admit. But you're drunk, and he's being a pain in the ass, calling you a kid, looking at you like that, having a fucking hard-on and giving you nothing.

…But it does the trick. 

You smile like an idiot when you walk to your place and hear the purr of the engine stop. Another car door opens, then closes, wide footsteps follow you…

A nightcap it is, then.

He looks even bigger when inside a place with walls and a roof. He stands inside your apartment tall and wide as if he's waiting to call attention. Those large hands are over his crotch, concealing the swell of erection you already saw in the car. 

You know the tank top you wear reveals even more skin covered in tats as you throw your jacket away and go get him that drink. The glasses glide on your table, slide nearly to the floor, and the bottle of Jim Beam meets the counter with a devastating clank. You look at the excuse to get him into your place and sigh. 

"You know what… Fuck this."

Offering cheap bourbon to someone like him seems a bit ridiculous. So you offer him something he might actually like. Something he actually came here for. 

You walk to him and throw your hands around him – he stiffens from the middle but looks down at you with a heated glimmer in those eyes. You could've sworn they were charred brown, the same color as his cigar, but up close you see they're actually molten iron. Mercurial.

"You sure about this?" He asks softly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He unclasps those hands from over his groin, and the warmest weight falls to rest on your waist, even steals a caress to your hip. You want to hurl yourself at him, press yourself against his crotch and grind until you bleed from just that tiny touch he finally gives you.

"You've had one too many, love."

Love…

Shit.

The warmth spreads from his eyes, from that hand, from the word that rolls out of his mouth like a beautiful puff of smoke. It unfurls inside your heart, swells inside your throat, plummets to your groin, and you switch the weight to your other leg to feel how that hand gains more weight as it gets pressed more firmly against you.

"Doesn't change the fact that I want you."

Your voice is nothing short of a purr. When have you ever purred like that to a man? You sound like a housecat, tame and adoring, waiting for a gourmet meal.

"You really want an old man?"

He still has that reserve in his eyes, decent and distant, but underneath, you sense a terrible heat, like the glow of a cigar lit in darkness, an adamant smolder that never dies out.

"You're not that old." 

Your purr turns into a deprived meow. You dangle from his neck, and the smoke, the fire that surrounds him, blends into the gentle scent of a man, the musk of a mature beast. You know he's hairy under those clothes; he fucking has to be. The vision of how his cock must look, surrounded by untame, coarse fur, has tormented you night after night.

And now he's finally here. In your apartment.

You skate your hands over his chest while slowly dropping into a squat, then languidly kneeling in front of his crotch.

He doesn't stop you, not even when you open his belt and the zipper and crawl your fingers down the waistband of his underwear. You have to stifle a delighted gasp upon seeing how his cock springs free and stands proud in front of you in all its glory. And fuck yes he's hairy – the hairiest man you've ever had. 

Cigars feel like tiny little sticks when you wrap one hand around him and lick the weeping slit like it's your favorite ice cream. The groan that follows is a husky eruption above you and gets stuck in his throat as you take him in your mouth.

"Fucking hell, kid…"

He's thick, broad, and the musk fills your nostrils, but what he just said makes you pull back and whisper on the bulbous tip–

"Don't call me a kid," you breathe on his cock, swirl your tongue around him, and his thighs bunch. "Old man."

You finally manage to push some buttons.

The back of his hand brushes your cheek, then slides over to your throat. He's gentle but firm as he forces a thumb under your chin, curls fingers around your neck as if you're a cat who's about to be force-fed some medicine that's only good for her.

"Is that how you wanna play it?"

His thumb brushes down the ridge of your throat. Tentative, promising.

"Perhaps," your lips quiver with anticipation as you smile; your voice is a pitched vibrato before it drops, just to give him a reason to put you in your place... "Old gum–"

The hand pulls up, the grip tightens just enough to guide you back to your feet and up to meet his face.

"Didn't know you asked me here to tame a brat."

Fuck…

You almost moan. 

The hand doesn't choke you; it makes love to you. Claims you as his. 

"Really…?" You sigh. Flash him a filthy, guiltless smile.

The fire surges forth and nearly buckles your knees. His eyes flash in rhythm with your grin, like a sudden flicker of a campfire in the middle of a dark, parched forest.

"This what you want? Hmm?"

The rumble reminds you of the engine of a Harley roaring to life. His throat is burned from the fire of his cigars, the hand on your throat is used to squeezing dead metal and pulling pins from frigid grenades. But even they can't stand a chance against his woodland fire and sycamore smoke. He could bring a cold, inanimate rock back to life with all that fire.

"Yes. I want it. John."

His name on your tongue is a cat's meow. It has the exact effect you hoped for.

"Let's get the brat tamed, then."

"Hah," you finally moan. "Promises, prom–"

The fingers around your throat pull you to his mouth with a python strength. His lips spread yours with soft devouring as he coats you in fire. The coarse beard smells of sweet tobacco – nothing like a pungent cigarette. It's like an old memory: safe and sturdy and strong. Male.

You moan in his mouth – god, what will it be like when he's inside you? – and he capes both arms around you and crushes you against him. Broad shoulders envelop you like a shroud of thick smoke, the cock gets trapped between you like a hot spear, and you mewl like a slut.

Your pussy clenches, just from his warm mouth, the rich velvet of his lips. He takes everything with that kiss, and you're weak in his arms as he bends and molds you against him just the way he wants, opens your mouth with his own and breathes you, samples you like those puffs of smoke he sucks from his cigar.

Your brain short-circuits, you barely notice how your top slides up as his hands go under it. It's dragged up, up, over your breasts and then over your head as he detaches just enough to rip that piece of clothing away. 

You look at him like he's Christmas, then reach for your bra while he opens his pants more to get them down. Your jeans are accursedly tight, and he's breathless, too: the whole room is dark and filled with heavy breathing and rustle of clothes as you claw your socks off, slide your strings down and away, watch him get out of his shirt and throw it on the floor too, all propriety gone.

And then…

Jesusfuck–

He picks you up, lifts you from the ground like you're nothing but a leaf, and strides with you in his lap until your back meets a wall.

The barrel-like chest presses the air out of your lungs while your back travels up – you don't know if his arms or chest do the lifting, but you're being positioned for his cock to enter. Your hands try to grasp something solid before it's too late – his back and neck – your legs wrap around him, feet hooking over his ass as the thick of his tip pokes your soaked folds, and after a few seconds of probing, slides in. 

"F–uck…" you gasp, sounding so needy that it could be a voiceline from a bad porno movie. His lips find the place between your ear and neck immediately.

"Be good for me now," he gruffs, dark and round like the sweetest bourbon, although you know he's the finest single malt in the world. "Be good…"

"Ah–John…"

I'll be good… 

Just for you, I'll be so, so good.

He pants heavy on your neck, grunts as he starts to fuck you against that wall. You knew he might be intense, but apparently, you had no idea. The man is needy as fuck, and has concealed it up until this point. 

You could cry, scream from joy from the thickness that spreads you, fills you with every fat glide of a thrust. The sex borders on rough but is so incredibly tender too, so needy it makes your heart collapse, compress into a taut knot in your chest. It's the softest rocking, the gentlest fucking as he retreats, then ruts into you again and again with sharp, rusty moans. You're in a slow but steady rodeo with this man, your breasts pressed against a solid chest covered with hair, and it tickles, even if his pecs threaten to crush your ribcage.

"You're one hell of a girl," he gruffs in your ear, beard grazing up and down your neck. "Taking me so– Fucking hell, look at you…"

His eyes are embers as they sweep over you: your abundant ink, the helpless, adoring look in your eyes, the little mouth that opens with a gasp, the trickle of sweat that forms between your breasts and meets the hair on his chest. 

He doesn't have to look down to see how greedy your cunt is for him. He can feel it.

"This is what you wanted the whole time? Huh?"

He's all smoke. All fire.

"Yes…"

"Wanted me to take you against a fucking wall? Eh?"

"Yes…just, just take me," you moan and purr some more, giving him everything he wants. "Fuh–fuck me good…"

"Ahh shit..."

You know you're a drug to certain decent men. But to him, you're a forbidden fruit in all its aspects. 

A calm, collected captain who enjoys wide respect, eyeing an edgy, younger woman from the tech department? That's not how this was supposed to go. Thirsting for someone who did what they wanted, looked just the way they wanted, walked this earth like a dark fairy – that's not his usual go, surely. He was supposed to settle down with a proper lady. If he were to settle down at all.

"I've dreamed of this," you whisper in his ear, lips moving just enough to deliver your secret to him.

"Yeah..? Me too," he gives your throat more love with a velvet growl. "Know I shouldn't, but–"

"Shh. Don't–don't…" You grip him tighter, taste the spruce and salt as you breathe his neck. "It's good. It's all good."

He rumbles in approval. Your skin is raw from his beard; even the coarse hair dusting his thighs feels too rough on your skin. And your skin is used to being needled, shot full of ink right inside the dermis. But this… This is branding.

You're silk in his rough embrace, and plundered with no remorse. You sigh and moan, hug him... And then he dares to stop, panting and throbbing inside you.

"Darlin'. Where's the bed?"

The soft question makes you panic. If you go to bed and let him push inside you while you're lying on your back, if you brave a look into those eyes while he takes you, you'll develop more than just a horrid lust for this man. If he collapses on top of you, spent and spoiled while you're at your most vulnerable, you'll tie a string from your heart to his, and you can't, you just can't allow that to happen.

Because he's untamed too. He's not a man who settles down, he's not up for domestication; he's a wandering fire.

"No–no bed," you pant on his muscles, the shoulder that keeps you safely pinned on the wall. "John…? Please."

He's breathing wild too, disguises his surprise well.

"Alright."

He sounds disappointed, and it's not because he doesn't have the strength to maul you against that wall. The rejection stings him too. It makes you want to offer a truce, a little something. When he rocks you again, you graze your fingers up the back of his neck, knowing he will feel ripples across his scalp from your caress.

"We can smoke a cigar after," you propose, not knowing why your voice still comes out as an airy whisper. "Together. I'll pour you that drink…"

His chest swells with a deep breath, he huffs fire on the hollow trench between your collarbones.

"Fuck, woman…" 

It's dense syrup that surrounds you much like those shoulders and arms, that coarse hair, that bold male want.

"And after that I want you to…" You catch your breath and sound like a mouse with your next shy question. "Would you go down on me, John?"

It's like you're under a bear attack, but he stills; his head tilts a little to the side and meets your temple. 

"You wouldn't tease a man like this," he says. A soft warning, brimstone coated in velour, but the core of it is despair. So much need, so much forbidden, distant want… 

"Right? No more teasing."

He's still thinking that you're teasing him… That it's some kind of a joke that you want him.

"I'm serious... I want your mouth on me. I need your–"

"I'll put my mouth on you as soon as we're done here, love."

You have to bite your lips, suck them between your teeth to prevent another deprived moan from escaping.

"Want you to fuck me all night," you continue to whisper on his neck. You should shut the fuck up because it doesn't take a bed to tie that string from your heart to his. After all, they're right there, beating against each other through bone and skin and chest.

"Yeah? That's what you want?"

"Want you to… F-fuck me slow and good from behind and–"

You sniff. Whimper.

You should be ashamed: mewling for more when he's already buried inside you. What kind of a brat are you, wrapping your thighs around that narrow waist like you never want him to pull out?

And you're not crying. 

It's just that the cock inside you is throbbing against your walls as if he's making a home there, his hands dig into your ass cheeks like you're his already, the breath upon your sweat and skin feels far too affectionate. When exactly did a raw wall-fuck turn into such an affectionate, gentle taste of love?

And it's not enough. You want to climb on top of him every morning, ride him slowly and watch him unravel as the sun climbs the sky and coats that fur in gold.

"Could you do that? Please… John, please," you whimper and whine, beg like you're tame already. 

"I'll fuck you all night if that's what you want. Fill this pretty, tight cunt up every way you like."

It's coarse smoke. It caresses you until your legs start to shake. He adjusts his grip, drags the pull-outs like he drags those pulls from his tobacco. Keeps you nicely in place for him to drive back in–

"I'll fuck you 'till you cry, love. Yeah?"

He punctuates that promise with another good, fat thrust. You moan all tame now – a rippling stream, laughing and crying in his molten hold.

His cock fills you while your thighs quiver and tremble in his hands. Your pussy throbs; it sucks him already, the orgasm is seconds away, and your fingertips search for support but only slip over sweaty, hard muscle.

John. John.

"Fuh-…"

He spreads you a little. Those arms are pure iron as they mold you for him to plow. You know he can feel the waves, the way your cunt grips him with longer, deeper pulls as you start to sound downright pathetic.

"Just like that, just like… hah…"

"M-hm. Yeah," he bends the vowels, daubs them with smoke. "That's it. You're doing good. Doing so well my love."

He huffs between the thrusts that have turned into slow, intense love-making. He's making love to you – god, why does he have to be like this…

"Cum for me. Nice and pretty, yeah? Come on."

He encourages you with words, but you can't hear them anymore.

Heat coils in the pit of your core just before you burst with a heady scream.

The spasm is so sudden you almost hit your head on the wall. He's at your throat the minute it's exposed, and your scream turns into a weak wail when his tongue grazes your skin. It's blazing, and dips into the hollow between your collarbones like it's a shot glass full of scotch. Next thing you feel is fire, even some teeth on your neck.

And you thought Price might, just might be intense…

Your head drops as the blunt of the orgasm leaves you. Your feet unclasp, and next up would be some soft waves, but the man continues to fuck your shattered cunt and marshmallow soul with a good, intense pace. The words that pour out of your mouth are those of a brainless person.

"Ah–hah, God–"

"Where's that cheek now, mm..? Pretty little thing."

"John–h…"

The thrusts rub you against that wall like he wants to staple you there.

"So nice and good for me now, ain't ya? Cummin' on command…" An amused chuff right on your poor, chafed skin… "Begging for my mouth and cock."

You travel up and down in a limp heap, trying to hold on to him with weak limbs as he drives into you with a tight series of half-thrusts. Your legs hang loosely on the side, but he has no trouble carrying the full weight of you.

"Slow–slowly, Cap…" 

"Ahh fuck–"

He swears on your ink, right on the trotting pulse on your neck. Through the vapor of man sweat and rich smoke and a whiff of cedar trees bending in the wind, you feel him tense and thicken.

"The fucking things you do to me…" he pants with a low growl, hushed but intense. Your pussy answers with a good, demanding pull. 

"Fuck… fuck–!"

You're a limp doll between him and the wall when he comes. Pressed between a rock and a hard place, literally. His chest being the rock, an entire boulder that whips the oxygen from your lungs as he drives deep, his balls giving a few taut pulls against your ass as he empties himself into you with a satisfied, dry moan. A dark, ripe blossom, shooting straight to your core while you're sealed tight around him.

The world goes still after that; the only thing that moves is your breath and his, a refreshing hot breeze coursing through the stale air. The darkness of the room isn't half as snug as the safety of his arms.

Your fingers find his neck, the short-cut hair and the skin pounding with a rush of blood. He lets you go reluctantly, bends a little to set your feet back to the solid ground. He doesn't pull out, keeps huffing all over you even when you're returned back to the earth. 

And you never want to come back. Your cunt still throbs around him and cries a tiny, thick stream down your thigh. His upper body still pins you against that wall, his breaths still mist your skin, caress the red burns of his beard.

He feels so good. Too good…

When he pulls out, he does so with intense care. He gives you some space to catch your breath, and you finally notice he has fucked your legs into splinters.

"I'm…" You break the hush of heavy breathing with a soft laugh. More viscous load pushes out of you with it. "I don't think I can stand."

"Yeah? Tried to take you to bed," he muses softly, sounding annoyingly content with his achievements.

"Gotta admit it was a good idea."

"As was the nightcap," he rasps, voice drenched in soft smoke.

"We'll get there eventually."

"I have no doubt about that."

You give him a soft, warm chuckle as you cast your eyes between the crest of his pecs. Rough, tight muscle meets your soft breasts with heaving breaths, and teases your nipples to taut little points. The wet hair on his chest looks good paired with your inked, smooth skin… You two look so goddamn fine together.

"I hope I didn't make you deaf with that scream."

He stands at his full height, but tilts his head down and slightly to the side as if you were a new, interesting species he's just found on his travels.

"Wouldn't complain, love," he says. More wet syrup, just for you. He weighs you with his stare, curious and appeased, and you feel shy. For fuck's sake, you still feel shy even though this man was inside you just a moment ago. 

"The bed. Now be a good girl and tell me where it is."

"Down the…hallway." 

A delicate little whisper, again.

It's laughable, how the veteran of Task Force 141 turns you into something so dainty and meek. Captain John Price takes you against a wall like you're nothing but a doll, makes you purr and beg, reassembles you into a weak-willed woman who gets carried to bed. 

This is not how it was supposed to go...

He lifts you back in his lap while you continue to hold onto him like he's your prince Charming. A laugh spills on your lips when he tries to lay you gently on the bed and you manage to pull him down with you. You end up tumbling there in a sweaty, messy heap. 

"Knew you were trouble," he's smiling too as he settles beside you. You curl and wrap yourself around him, your bodies mold and curve together like they're made for each other.

He's so solid, so warm, the kind of man you'd love to fall asleep on every night. No more cold sides of the pillow, no more tossing and turning and trying to get the code out of your head. Just… this chest, those ember eyes burning in the night. Some soft breathing, a roaring engine standing still, waiting for you, just for you…

"I hope this wasn't a one time only occasion," you test the waters.

"No." He shifts a little, disentangles from you slightly. "Unless you–"

"No."

You bend in his arms like a young willow, cut his doubts off with a kiss. It's passionate, and so sloppy it threatens to make the same sounds as your cunt and his cock a while ago.

The hand on your hip tows you closer, then steals its way down your leg. You hike your thigh up, perfectly willing. You're a sticky mess, but so is he: his rock-hard thigh meets your still soaked pussy like these two have always belonged together. And this man's full fire has escaped you until now. There are so many hidden, wild things in him too. 

He would look so good on a Harley… He would look good on a motel bed after riding for days and days with you attached to him like an eloped dark bride. The nights would be smeared with hot sex and cinder and smoke, a dash of scotch on top, he could drink it from your lips. You would serve it to him from your mouth, round the taste a bit so that it wouldn't burn so much…

"Have you ever been to Alaska?" 

The liquor is leaving you, but you don't feel any more sober. The lava in your veins has only been replaced by another kind of fire.

"No."

"Would you like to go?"

"What'ya mean," he murmurs on your tongue, and you know he's hard again just from the thick lust coating his voice. "What kind of question is that?"

"I was just thinking."

"What were you thinkin', kid..?"

"Don't… call me that," you laugh. In truth, you're growing quite fond of it. It reminds you of old movies. "Here's looking at you, kid" and all that.

His laugh is a charred roll in his chest. To him, you're a brat – an unruly kitten – no matter what you say. 

"Kid. Why Alaska?"

He's curious. Borderline hooked. You steal a peek into those vulcan eyes. 

"You'd look good in Alaska. Old man."

"Really," he rumbles a soft purr against your heart. 

Another soft kiss follows. Affectionate… He plays time, but he's also a probing, scanning. You bloom in his embrace, unfurl on his lips like he just wrenched you wide. He could haul you to the cabin right now and you would only cook him dinner.

It's too late, even if you try to shift after such a kiss. Escape to press your cheek against that place between his pecs, the spot where the hair is darkest and thickest. You want to lick that valley where his heart meets his musk. That scent must be born from a good, stout heart.

"Would you take me with you…? If you ever decide to go."

It's a fragile question. A baring of the heart. It holds so much more than an inquiry about whether he would whisk you away on a secret leave. It's strings, pulling from your heart to his, taking root.

"Sure. But you're quite a handful, love."

"Is that so…?" 

You crawl over him as gracefully as you can. He allows you to straddle him, and of course he does. You're no threat; you're only a one woman show. The only thing he's probably missing right now is a glass of scotch and a thick roll of tobacco. 

He takes in the view with hunger: not satiated by that pent-up fuck, just like you're not... 

But then his hands come to rest on your thighs to check if they're still shaking. The touch bleeds possessiveness: it's a thoroughly absent-minded, instinctual attempt to reach for you. It tells you you're exactly where you belong. 

"You seem like the kind of woman who's not for the faint of heart," he says like you didn't just mewl in his arms like the tamest fucking housecat.

And perhaps that's what intrigues him. Contrasts. And even more than that, the odd place where black fuses into white, the gray area where everything is possible. The split-second moment when the skin accepts the ink and traps it in. 

Everyone always says you get buried with your tattoos. That you should think twice before staining your skin with such permanent hookups.

But the thing is, you get addicted to it. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff before a bungee jump. You know you'll never be the same person after you jump, and you know you can't leave that cliff without jumping. It's a stalemate until you clear your mind of doubt and just plunge.

And you don't want to leave this earth without getting stained and sweaty, without dipping your soul into the full experience. You're supposed to get a little dirty. This is Earth, after all.

Your fingers disappear somewhere in his slick fur. Sunrise is hours away, but his eyes spark aflame. They're always, always smoldering like the butt of his cigar. He's a man who causes wildfires at the end of the world – he's a reckoning, a flicker in the dark forest, roaring into a bonfire as soon as the wind passes through the trees.

And you've always loved fire. Wild, and free. The only thing that competes with such freedom is a wide, wild stream. 

"But you can handle me. Right?" Your fingers curl softly around the hair surrounding his navel. "Tame me and everything?" 

It's an offering that causes even fire to tilt its head in curiosity. In the end, you're not sure who tamed who.

"Someone has to," he grabs your hips with rich promise. 

You'll pour him that drink. Light him a cigar after his mouth is full of your taste, see how well it pairs with fire and smoke. You'll toast to the Harley, the crazy motel… 

And Alaska. 

[the1975attheirverybest]

'Personally, nothing gives me the ick more than the fact that he slides into models’ dms. Models who are a decade younger. That’s the part that I’m concerned with here. ' - that!!

Honestly no one talks about it. How old is she ? She looks like a teen in that one photo. And him a public person texting someone random on insta, or flirting is the worst idea ever. Because u dont know what kinda person you are texting, she could use it against him

Honestly, I’m not sure. Nothing in her account indicates how old she is or what she does for a living or anything. She mostly shit- posts lol. Idk if he found her some place else first or stumbled upon her posts.

I say model because that’s a reasonable guess given his pattern. Whether it’s that Charlotte girlie who told half of MSG that he’s fucking her back in 2022 or that other girl he “dated” afterwards. Or whatever. Like there has been a recent string of significantly younger models in his hook ups, and it’s gross. Like, gross enough to give the vibe that he doesn’t think he can pull someone his own age. That he’s intimidated by mature women. Anyone on here in their mid or late 20s?! I’m 28 and I will tell you now, at 22 and 23 I THOUGHT I was officially an adult or whatever, but I didn’t know shit. Lmao. I probably still don’t. When I’m his age, 34, I’m sure I’ll look back and think “oh you sweet summer child. 28 year old me had no idea.”

He’s 34. He should know better. Also the dms????? For real?? That the laziest way ever. Just because these women are technically adults and it’s not legally wrong, doesn’t mean it’s okay. Like just cuz you CAN do something, doesn’t mean you should. Man up, get your shit together, and get someone your own age, bro.

[mudhornchronicles]

teamwork | jack “whiskey” daniels

pairing: jack “whiskey” daniels x reader

warnings: age gap, shootin + some gunsss, eggsy’s wink-a-roo

a/n: thank you so much @meshlamando for your help! i wanted to make sure whiskey gets a good debut, and you made it happen! a real yeehaw bitch there.

request by: @ickleronniekinsemotionalrange

masterlist

“T-this isn’t - fuck - a very good time, Champ!” You grit into your earpiece. You bring your elbow back and jab it into a man’s stomach behind you and kick the other in the shin, bringing them both down. “Whiskey! Will you stop clowning around and come help me?” you yell.

Your partner, Jack or also known as Whiskey, decided it was a good idea to get the ladies in the pool area to safety and leave you to your own devices taking down 7 grown men. You find it quite hard to fight off these weaponed guys with your boss screaming in your ear.

“No can do, Brandy!” You roll your eyes as you throw a chair in the fifth man’s direction and shoot the man behind him. “I got three boys tryin’ to get in a tussle down here!”

“Champ wants us back in the office, Whisk! What happened to teamwork?”

You hear him grunt and a ‘bang’ in the distance. “What does he want us for?” You hear him let out a hah! and then another grunt. “This is teamwork! I’m the distraction! Hey partner I ain’t finished with you yet!”

You laugh at hearing him on the other end. Your partner tends to like teaching bad guys lessons and you’re sure this is probably one of them.

__________

You struggle holding in your stomach’s contents as you see Jack continuously flirt with the three young ladies who are easily twenty years younger than him. You see him leaning on the desk, twirling a redhead’s hair in his fingers while the other two giggle like school girls. You roll your eyes and let out a sigh.

You were also younger than Jack, but that didn’t stop you from harboring a crush for your cowboys partner. From the moment you were an official Stateman, he was the first to treat you as an equal and offered to be your partner and show you the ropes.

That was almost two years ago.

Champ’s assistant calls you in and you give her a warm smile that soon goes away when Whiskey tips his hat at her and looks back as he passes her. You give him a back handed smack on the chest and a glare. He motions a confused hand movement and mouths ‘what?’ You smirk and look back at the office girls, the girls who went back to their daily jobs.

“You do realize that those girls are just old enough to rent a car right?”

Whiskey shrugs and adjusts his tie. “Yeah, but that don’t I can’t have a little fun, do it?”

You widen your eyes and chuckle. “So you just flirt with anything that walks… for fun?”

“Mhm. Don’t you?”

You simply shake your head side to side, earning a dry chuckle from him.

“So ya flirt with the people ya actually like? People who ya wanna date?”

“Yes, Jack.”

He laughs a single laugh. “I wouldn’t put that on a cat’s ass.”

You shake your head with a laugh as you finally walk in the office, but soon come to a stop when your eyes meet a young man’s own. He stands and gives you a smile. Whiskey tenses behind you as he follows your eyes to this new man on the other side of the table.

“There’s my two favorite liquors!” You laugh at Champ’s old, but timeless joke. “I want you to meet someone!” He turns to the young man and motions to him. “This here is Eggsy. He’s a kingsman across the pond. Kid, this young charm is Agent Brandy. The newest but one of the best.”

Eggsy extends a hand to you, and as you shake his hand, he gives you a wink. A wink that makes you blush and makes your partner clear his throat loudly. You look back and see Jack stand behind his usual chair offering a two-finger salute to the kingsman. “That there,” Champ says, “is Agent Whiskey. These two make up the best team ya ever laid your thick-rimmed eyes on.”

Throughout the meeting, you and Eggsy exchange a series of quick glances and small smiles. As you go to steal yet another look at the Brit, Jack kicks the back part of your chair, causing you to quickly look back at him. He pretends he doesn’t notice and looks at you with a nod.

And that’s what he does… he pretends.

He pretends he didn’t kick you. He pretends he didn’t see you and this new guy look at each other with goo-goo ga-ga eyes. He pretends he didn’t see you give the brit the smile he knows to be your flirting smile. He pretends that throughout the past two years, he hasn’t been looking at you differently than ever. He pretends he never thought about the idea of having you by his side when he wakes up. He pretends he never caught feelings for his partner in crime.

“So that’s where Brandy comes in. Everyone got it?”

Yourself, Whiskey and Eggsy all turn your attention to Champ, the person your attention was supposed to be on in the first place. You had no idea what the plan even was, but on the hologram, you saw your name and Eggsy’s on the same game plan. Naturally, you agreed to the plan sharing a smile with the newcomer, but the celebration was interrupted by Whiskey standing up and disagreeing.

“Brandy ain’t going alone, Champ. They’ve been my partner for two years so for that reason, I’m comin’ with.”

“Daniels, I don’t need two of my agents out there. Brandy can take care of themselves.”

“Sir, with all due respect, but-“

“Whiskey. Brandy is going and they’re going alone. Do I make myself clear?”

You look at your partner’s defeated look and stand up. “Champ-“

“Brandy, I ain’t tryin’ to hear it. You and Eggsy leave tomorrow. Whiskey stays here. If it makes ya feel better, Whisk, you can have an earpiece linked to Brandy’s. Better?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, sir.”

________________

You hear a knock on your door as you’re ready to load up the jet. You knew the knock anywhere. The six-beat knock you’ve heard for two years.

“Come in, Jack.”

“Sweetheart, you ain’t goin’ alone.”

“Jack, you can trust me.”

“I know that, but it’s that Eggsy guy I don’t trust.”

You place your hands on your hips and cock your eyebrow. “And why not? He’s been nothing, but sweet.”

“That’s just the English talkin’! Why does a Kingsman need help from a Statesman?”

“Because we’re their American counterpart? We help eachother, Whisk!”

“Brandy, just 'cause trouble comes visiting... doesn't mean you have to offer it a place to sit down.” With that Jack gives you a tip of his hat and walks out. You’re left confused, but worried about your partner.

“What trouble are you talking about, Jack?” You say to yourself.

______________

“I don’t think your partner likes me very much, Agent Brandy.”

You take a sip from your glass, letting it go down before answering.

“Are you talking about Whiskey? He seems to be like that with anyone I’m asked to work with.”

Eggsy nods understandingly. “Seems to me like he’s jealous.”

“Of?”

“Everyone you’re asked to work with.” He laughs.

You smile and shrug. “He likes to be the only one who gets to bug me on missions. He can be annoying, but he has never let me down once.”

“Sounds like a great agent.”

“He is.” You say. You place your glass on the holder and stand. You wink at Eggsy and place a finger on your lips. “He’s a great agent and friend. He always likes to make sure I’m okay even if that means hiding in the bathroom.” You say as you quickly slide open the bathroom’s door.

Jack has his gun aimed, but quickly lowers it as he sees it’s you.

“I knew we had a stowaway.” You laugh out.

“I couldn’t just let my partner go to Germany alone. What kind of gentleman would I be?”

You grab Jack by his jacket and pull him out of the small bathroom and push him to sit down on an empty chair. You sit back on your own as you and Eggsy cross your arms over your chests.

“Do you really not trust me, Agent Whiskey? I’d never let a beautiful soul like Brandy get hurt,” Eggsy says.

“That beautiful soul is my partner. If I’m ever a goner, Brandy promised to be the one to deliver my last words.”

“Exactly. If you’re a goner. Not me.” You huff.

“I’m your partner, darlin’! I gotta return the favor, right?”

_________________

“Jack, will you stop? I think my outfit is fine!”

“You’re showin’ too much!”

“I’m not showing anything! That’s the only problem here”

Jack continuously tries to fix and adjust your outfit, making sure everything is covered - unfortunately.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just wanna make sure you're comfortable. Is that crime?”

You grab Whiskey’s hands, tearing them away from your outfit, and forcing him to look at you.

“Jack, it’ll be fine. I’m just going to get Eggsy into this party and my job’s done.”

Jack lets out a groan and throws his head back. “No, your job’s not done. You said you still have to stay in there and go into a room with this crime ring guy so you don’t raise any suspicion!”

“I've done it before, Jack! Why is it such a problem now?”

“There ain’t no problem” he sternly says.

“Yes, there is,” you groan out. “You’re so worked up about nothing. You were a tense mess in that office. What is it that you’re not telling me?”

Jack begins to pace around the room shaking his head. He removes his hat and chucks it on the table. You know there’s something is very bad when Jack carelessly throws his hat

“Jack! If you don’t tell me, I’ll call Champ right now and-“

His hands are suddenly cupping your cheeks. You look as Jack leans into you and droopily closes his eyes. His lips are on yours and his mustache tickles your nose. You’re in shock.

Your partner’s kissing you. The man you’ve had a crush on for what feels like decades is kissing you and you’re on such a high that you don’t kiss back. You’re scared that this may just be a daydream. You don’t want this moment to be a trick in your mind.

As he pulls away, you look at the sadness in his eyes. You’re a deer in the headlights as he shakes his head, apologizing for his actions.

“I’m so sorry. I- I just… Brandy, I just couldn’t take seeing someone actually woo you. I- I can’t lose my girl.” He rambles on and on, but is cut off by you.

You grab his face, as he did yours, and you kiss him. You kiss him and hold him tight, wishing this moment never were to end. He wraps his arms around you and deepens the kiss, mumbling please as he does so. You pull away with a final smack of the lips and smile.

“It’s about time you made a move, cowboy. Guess I really had to scare you to make you say somethin’ huh?”

“What are you on about now?”

“You really don’t know me, Jack!” You laugh out. “I don’t have to stay in a room with this guy! What am I? Crazy? I just have to help Eggsy get into this party through my contact! Then I get to have drinks on my own while Eggsy does the rest and only get involved if he messes up, which he might.”

“You’re bustin’ my balls, ain’t ya.”

“Nope. Since you’re here, we can have drinks all night until Eggsy’s done. If he messes up, that’s where our teamwork comes in.”

“So… you ain’t got your eye on this kid?”

“Well he’s attractive, yes. But I would’ve rather paired up with techie genius Ginger than work with a cowboy who can’t seem to focus on a mission when there’s people to flirt with around, if I didn’t like you.”

“I do not flirt with everyone.”

You scoff and smirk at the cowboy. “Would you like me to read out our ever-so-growing list of incidents?”

He places a chaste kiss on your forehead and you smile.

“No…”

[princessphilly]

Plain Jane Chapter 2

Word Count: 2391

CW: a mention of P K*ne, allusions to issues with alcohol, references to being in the closet

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I’m too damn stubborn for my own good. I admit it; I don’t like to lose or be wrong. I hate being wrong. Well, I hate losing money more than anything else. But I really hate losing or being wrong after that. - Journal 10/12

One year later

Jamila couldn’t help but look at Jonathan Toews as he sat at the table for this charity dinner. He really was more handsome in person than in the pictures. But the guy sitting next to him was just as good looking as him, in her opinion. He was rougher looking with long auburn hair and blue eyes and probably a good decade older than her, just the way that Jamila liked it. The only issue was… Duncs was nice but he wasn’t as exciting as Jonathan Toews. But Jamila told Shan and Mel that she was going to fuck Duncan Keith and she always got her man. Plus, it didn’t help that Jonathan always has something smart to say which made Jamila more dedicated to fucking Duncs. 

But it seemed like that wasn’t going to happen. Jamila was frustrated; she knew she was gorgeous and she was used to getting her way. But Duncs had a preference for blondes and.. Jamila had no desire to dye her hair blonde anytime soon. Plus, she hated the fact that she was going to lose because then Jonathan would hold it over her. 

Normally, Jon wouldn’t give a fuck that a girl wanted Duncs over him. He knew exactly where he stood with the vast majority of women and that he could have anyone he wanted. But he really, for some reason, wanted her. It had been over a year since they met and she was still hung up over Duncs. Granted, during that time, Jon was recovering from an injury and was at home in Winnipeg. Now, he was back and he wanted Jamila, even though she was supposed to be Cizisky’s girl. Jon had pulled the younger defenseman to the side and asked him about her and Cizisky straight up said that she was just going out with him as a friend to events. So Jon knew that Jamila was basically single and available.

Jamila was smiling in Duncs face but whenever he talked to her, she got angry and flustered. Jon knew she really wasn’t that interested in Duncs. He could tell by the way Jamila got closer to him when they argued that she really liked him. But the stubborn woman didn’t want to admit it. 

As the captain, Jon was used to solving problems. But this was a problem that he couldn’t solve and he was becoming frustrated.

**

It wasn’t fair how intense those dark brown eyes were. And they had been focused on her while Jamila attempted to flirt with Duncs. Jamila had to admit she was failing and it was annoying her. He was being polite but she knew she was being brushed off.

She could hear Jonathan; “Duncs isn’t interested. Aren’t you tired of wasting your time?” All of that paired with a mocking look. She was done doing favors for Shan’s cousin. Next time he needed a plus one, he could find someone else.

“Tired of shooting wide?”

“Really, a hockey metaphor?” Jamila rolled her eyes while Jonathan chuckled. He really was tired of watching Jamila flirt with Duncs. She wasn’t his usual type but Jonathan wanted to be her type. Once Duncs made it clear that he wasn’t interested, Jonathan decided it was time to try his luck.

“Good, you’re learning about the game! But are you tired?”

“What do you mean?”

Jonathan was tall enough that while she wore 5-inch heels, Jamila still had to look up at him a bit. He licked his lips and once again, Jamila felt those unwanted shivers. Jonathan smirked before saying, “Stop pretending you’re interested in Duncs when we both know that you really want me.”

“You’re so conceited,” Jamila retorted. A small part of her said he was right but her pride hurt so fuck him.

Jonathan gave her a devilish grin. “Fuck me? We can make that happen.”

Jamila’s eyes grew wide when she realized she said that out loud. “Captain Serious? More like Captain Dickhead!” Jamila rolled her eyes as she gave him a once over.

Then Jon shocked her. “That was a bit too much, I’m sorry,” he said. The earnest look in his eyes told Jamila he was telling the truth. “But seriously, you’re wasting your time.”

Jamila sighed deeply. She knew he was right but her ego didn’t want to let her admit it. Jamila just grimaced before pushing away from Jonathan. 

For the rest of the night, Jamila kept mostly to herself and Alex, nursing her wine. She was tempted to get something stronger, very tempted, but she kept herself to her one glass of wine. It helped that Alex was watching her like a hawk, as if he knew that Jamila was in a mood. As soon as he was able to, Alex made his goodbyes, escorting Jamila out to the valet.

“What happened, Mila?”

Jamila sighed as Alex’s car was brought up. “Nothing, buddy. Nothing.”

Alex wisely didn’t press it as he got his keys from the valet, opening the door for Jamila and closing it after she got in. Once he was in the car and driving away, he said, “You’ve been in a mood since you talked with Tazer. Did he say something that triggered you? I’ll tell him to back off if he’s triggering you, Mila.”

Jamila sighed. “He didn’t say anything that triggered me, per se, but you know I hate being wrong.”

“Yeah, because you’re very wrong about Duncs… I’ve been telling you that for months,” Alex cracked.

Rolling her eyes, Jamila replied, “Jonathan basically said the same thing. Then he hit on me, again.”

“I thought you enjoyed verbally sparring with him. It’s entertaining as fuck.”

“Fuck you too, Alex!”

Alex snorted as he said, “I would if I liked pussy.”

“Talking about that, have you thought of coming out,” Jamila asked. 

Alex looked at the road as he thought about his words. Then he said, “I could but I feel the same ones who talk about ‘You Can Play’ and all of that aren’t as accepting as they pretend to be. I mean, Tazer would be supportive, probably Duncs, maybe Kaner, Brinks, Murph, but the rest of the guys… I don’t want to risk it right now.”

Jamila reached over, placing a hand on her friend’s shoulder. That was a lot to have to deal with. “People fucking suck, man.”

“I know. Thanks for being my plus-one, Mila. I will always support you, even when people are asking me to call you names when you finally get with the captain.”

Jamila laughed, tears forming in her eyes at the idea of dating Jonathan. “That was very funny, Alex, you should become a comedian.”

Smirking, Alex turned into the parking lot of the building that they lived in. They had separate units, Jamila’s bigger and more expensive, but it was still home. “Jamila, your eyes still follow Tazer everywhere he goes when you two are at the same place. It’s a matter of time, well, it’s a matter of how stubborn you are about it.”

**

As Jamila walked into her condo, she thought about Alex and his words. She felt a bit bad for him; locker room culture was real and it sucked that Alex couldn’t fully be himself yet. At the same time, Jamila wasn’t fully open about her own sexuality. If she wanted attention, she could easily come out as pansexual but Jamila didn’t want her life to become a circus. Add on the fact that she enjoyed bdsm and was a submissive…. It would be a hot mess, she thought. However, Jamila knew that she didn’t have to worry about the potential reactions of a bunch of other people if she did decide to come out. 

One thing Jamila did have to worry about was her thesis. It was finished, turned in, it was just a matter of finding out when she would have to defend it. Since she was graduating with her PhD this December, Jamila knew it would be before then. Not knowing the exact date was just irritating to her. Maybe once she had it, her dad would respect her more. 

Jamila sighed as she looked out at the Chicago skyline. It didn’t matter anyway. He wouldn’t really care. The only ones who would were Nina, Marisa, Ms. Tracey and Mr. Vernon, Siobhan, Lauren, maybe Karesha and Desiree. Sighing again, Jamila decided it was time to go to sleep for the night.

**

Jon looked at his computer screen as he looked at his budget for the month. Coming back this season has had it’s ups and down so far. The travel and other rhythms of the season were familiar but at the same time, Jon had enjoyed being at home. For over a decade, Jon had lived under the grind of the NHL season plus the playoffs. There was something nice about being a home, not a hotel room every couple of weeks. The hotels were all the same, they stayed at the same places in the same cities every year. But staying in his own bed night after night had it’s own appeal. 

At the same time, Jon wanted a 4th cup. It still irritated him that the team had decided to rebuild without even asking if the boys wanted to rebuild. Last season, Jon appreciated that the boys didn’t give up and tank even though the front office would have preferred that they did. Odds were stacked against them this season but Jon believed that they could make it. Once the playoffs started, it was anyone’s chance to get the Cup. 

Jon sighed as he opened the Netflix app. He was starting to really feel his age this year. He was only 33 but he could feel every hit now. Plus, coming home to this new place with no one waiting for him was getting very old. “Maybe that’s why you like that girl so much,” Jon muttered to himself. He felt dumb; every time he talked to Jamila, he felt like he put his foot in his mouth. But then, it seemed like she was just looking for an excuse to tell him no. 

As he mindlessly scrolled through shows, Jon felt super frustrated and ready to give up. He didn’t want to continue asking her out if she kept saying no. Jon blanched as the idea that maybe he was making Jamila uncomfortable came in his mind. As he clicked on watching Brooklyn 911, Jon decided that he was going to leave Jamila alone.

**

Jamila felt weird. It was two weeks since the last time she saw Jon and he was keeping his distance from her. All night, all he had done was say hi and wave when she greeted him. Jamila felt strangely bereft. Unconsciously, Jamila’s eyes drifted towards Jon more often than not during the charity auction. His black suit fit him like a glove, the crisp white shirt setting off his remaining tan. Of course, Jon didn’t wear a tie and it made him look absolutely delicious. Jamila inwardly scowled as she looked down at her water. 

Jamila was attempting to be good by sticking to water instead of any of the myriad alcoholic options tonight. The last time she had wine, she had to resist the urge to down the whole bottle. Jamila sighed; she thought she could try to have a bit of alcohol but now, she was sure that was impossible. Her sobriety was worth more than trying to fit in. 

The auction went pretty quickly, all things considered. Jamila made a couple small bids, there wasn’t really anything that caught her eye. Then the auctioneer said, “For our last, and surprise, auction item tonight, a date with the captain, Jonathan Toews. The winner gets to have one night with Captain Toews, at a place of your choice. Mr. Toews is a gentleman so it will be on him. Bidding starts at five hundred.”

One woman yelled, “One thousand!”

There were a flurry of bids and Jamila knew she had a screwface as she listened. One of the bidders was that bitch Frances and it looked like she was going to have the winning bid. The bids went up to six thousand before it started to slow. The auctioneer called out, “sixty-five hundred, do I hear sixty-six hundred?”

He waited for a couple of moments for additional bids. Jamila looked at her hands as the auctioneer said, “Sixty-five hundred, sixty-five hundred, going once-”

“Seventy-five hundred,” Jamila called out, raising her placard. 

There was a hush as people turned towards her. Jamila smirked as Jonathan raised an eyebrow.

“Seventy-five hundred, do I hear seventy-six hundred?”

Jamila waited as she sipped her water. Frances called out, “Eighty-five hundred,” frustration laced in her voice. Jamila smirked; this was time for payback.

The eyes turned towards her and Jamila looked down at her phone. There was a message from Alex: have u lost ur mind?????

“Ten-thousand,” Jamila called out. 

Jon let out a whoo, pursing his lips. This night had turned out in a way he hadn’t expected. The auctioneer called out, “Ten-thousand, ten-thousand, going once, going twice, sold, to number 53.”

Jamila rifled through her purse, looking for her wallet. She hoped she could just put it on her black card instead of needing a check. The money wasn’t a problem; the way of paying could be. One of the team’s interns came to Jamila. “Miss, come this way to pay.”

Following the intern, Jamila gave Frances a wide smile when she passed her. Luckily, Jamila was able to use her card to pay for her bid. 

“This wasn’t expected,” a deep voice said to her side. 

Jamila smiled. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

“I’m a tool for revenge? I feel like shit,” Jonathan joked. 

Jamila shrugged. “I’ll let you know if I ever want that date.”

Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Jamila walked away. She still felt some satisfaction winning the bid over that bitch, but something told her she made a crucial decision in some way.

[fusrodie]

ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him.

chapter 1 - grisly reunions

SFW, canon-typical violence, blood, mention of death. 2K words.

link to ao3 (or read down below)

Nothing ever happened in this boring old village. Every day he would wake up to the same dull sky, the biting cold on his skin, the smell of blood in the air. And the chanting, for fuck’s sake, the goddamn chanting. In the silence of night, you could hear them if you listened close enough. Even cooped up in his factory, trying to focus on bringing his latest creation to life, through the humming of engines and rattling of pistons, he could hear their voices pleading forgiveness and salvation.

It paints a perfect picture in his mind: a bunch of old farts holding hands in a circle, standing over a creepy-ass painted crest of an unborn baby, pouring their heart and soul into their prayer, accepting death and giving glory to their murderer. The prayer itself never made sense to him, not really, but he had to admit it was a damn good way of justifying their atrocities. Nobody batted an eyelash when someone was taken away, went poof overnight to never return. Something about the sacrifice having been made, fate had led them to the light at the end or some shit. It used to fascinate him back in the day, when he was just a child watching everything unfold hidden behind his mother’s skirt. But he was no longer a child, and after almost a century of bullshit, it was hard not to impale every single fucker who talked about devotion and destiny.

Not that anyone would care about it, of course - sister dearest routinely kidnapped girls from the village and no one seemed to notice the Castle was a death trap. Boxes and boxes of wine would make their way into the village and out into the world, the truth right there in the label, and no one seemed to put two and two together. Dimitrescu had offered him more than a few bottles as a courtesy, an attempt to bridge the gap between them - even he had limits, however, lines that he would not cross. The very thought of bringing a goblet of blood-infused wine to his lips made his stomach turn; he had never been one to experiment much with food. He drew the line on frozen pizza and energy drinks.

It’s a wonder the village still had people in it, really; between Alcina’s obsession with maidens, the poor sods taken to Moreau for Cadou experiments and the failed vessels Miranda would discard like common garbage, he figured at this point there were more lycans than people around. More for him to experiment on, he figured, though digging up corpses in the dead of night had done a number on his back. Haulers could only do so much, and more often than not he would have to get his hands dirty. Not having a proper bed, sleeping on a bare metal cot and decades of living on borrowed time had nothing to do with it, of course.

The Castle drawbridge lowered as he approached, hammer thrown over his shoulder, one last peaceful drag of his cigar before he was thrown into yet another boring council meeting. The vineyard greeted him with the bleak vibrancy of a cemetery, scarecrows drained of color, barely recognizable but eerily preserved in chunks of ice. A waste of perfectly good specimens, really.

The halls were quiet for a change, no tormented screams and blood-curling wails, no giggling sisters running around in the hallways. It all smelled of death and old people, expensive perfume and a good dose of arrogance.

He flashed a charming smile at one of the Castle’s servants, laughing when the girl turned a bright shade of red and scrambled away from him. Heisenberg could hear the bickering as he pushed the doors open, Angie’s joints clicking incessantly as the doll moved about. Moreau’s breathing sounded as loud and disgusting as ever, yellow teeth and the smell of a polluted riverbed with a hint of fish. There they were, his beloved little family, waiting patiently for him, staring at him like he had fucked every single one of their mothers.

“You are late, Heisenberg.” Alcina began, as she always did, eyebrow raised in contempt. “As always. Mother,” she turned to Miranda, gesturing towards him with her hoity-toity, stupid cigarette.

“You are obnoxious, Dimitrescu.” He replied without sparing her a glance. “As always.”

He could practically hear her seething as she finally placed her humongous backside on her chair, having given up on chastising him when Miranda paid both of them no mind. Mother sat at the end of the golden-trimmed table, looking awkward in her great black gown and modly crow wings. Dimitrescu’s finest china was laid perfectly for their little afternoon tea party, cup handles that were too big to fit his fingers, minuscule spoons that were fit for Angie’s creepy hands. The servant that had scurried away at the sight of him had come back with a tray of hot tea, biscuits and blood - the house’s specialty. Miranda began speaking as the girl poured her drink, some small chitchat about the state of the village, the influx of foreigners and progress on her grand resuscitation project.

“Thank you darling, but I brought my own.” He started as the girl circled around the table to serve him, pointing down towards his belt buckle to the whiskey flask he always carried around. She couldn’t help but look down, and then up at his sly smile, the blush returning to her cheeks in full force. Dimitrescu’s reaction was swift, a well placed slap with the back of her hand square on the girl’s cheek. He felt sorry for her for a moment, but it was good training - if she wanted to survive the Castle, she would have to learn that it was better to be blind and deaf, and that she had much more provocation coming her way than his harmless flirting.

Heisenberg tuned out of the conversation as he poured his whiskey, pinching the teaspoon between his index and middle fingers, swirling it slowly, scraping the sides of the porcelain. Alcina’s displeasure at his use of her china for such vile beverages made it all the better. He slurped it loudly to add insult to injury, savoring the drink for a second, sloshing it around his mouth before swallowing, a satisfied “ah” escaping him when the liquor burned down his throat. If Alcina didn’t already look like a corpse, he felt like she would have turned purple. When he unceremoniously shoved an entire biscuit in his mouth, crumbs falling all over the tablecloth, he thought she would vomit.

“The latest vessel, unfortunately, has been a failure.” Miranda announced with sadness in her voice, which prompted all of his other siblings to sigh collectively in sympathy. What a bunch of morons. “However, we have made some progress. It seems my theories were correct - younger subjects are far more receptive to the Cadou.” Kidnap babies, got it. There was no limit to how low Miranda would get to fuel her quest for a daughter that had been dead for longer than she was alive. “I regret to say there are no suitable infants at the moment,” she stopped to sip at her tea. “We can only hope the harvest fares better in the coming months.” Had she seen them as nothing but guinea pigs back then, too? No doubt in his mind she did. The only reason she kept them around is because she might not be able to kill all of the monsters she created - better to keep them close than risking losing it all.

“There is but one more matter I would like to discuss, Mother Miranda,” Dimitrescu began, a lilt in her voice, the telltale sign that whatever would come out of her mouth next would be positively foul. “My girls have brought me troubling news.” Troubling, he repeated to himself, but she had a smile on her face as she said it. Miranda gestured at her to continue, which she gladly did, excitement rising with every new word. “It would seem a monster prowls near our blessed haven. There is talk among the villagers of bodies being found drained of blood, organs harvested, but without a single cut left behind.” She stood up to pace the room, one of her favorite displays of grandiose that made her look like the world’s biggest buffoon. It suited her. “At first I believed this to be a mere rumor, a lycan attacking the livestock, a corpse refusing to rest. But then,” she clapped her hands, the doors to the room promptly opening to give way to Crazy, Dumb and Ugly, giggling in their flowing black dresses, dragging a corpse along like it was a treasure they had found in the forest. Angie tagged along with their excitement, pushing Moreau away to get a better look at the stinking body thrown onto the hardwood.

There was no mistaking the lycan, all teeth, claws and complexion of the finest of silver poisonings. It smelled just as bad dead than it did alive; bruises and injuries and gums that stuck out of its mouth. How, pray tell, was this thing still in one piece? Heisenberg rose to take a closer look, pushed its stringy hair away from its face to reveal glassy eyes poking weirdly out of their sockets. He tested its consistency with a slight kick, stabbed it with the butter spreader, shoved a gloved hand in the cut to pull it apart and open. It looked fresh enough, but nothing but a foul vapor oozed out of the body. Crystal dust lined its insides, shards poking out of muscles. He pushes his arm deeper, feels around the chest cavity to find nothing.

“No cuts, no holes,” he begins as he pokes and prods. “No bites, either. Heart’s missing. This your handiwork, Alcina?” Heisenberg quips, suspicion seeping through his stoic facade. For a moment, he swears he can see the lycan’s flesh pulse, the smallest contraction of a muscle. This whole situation got weirder by the second.

“The technique is truly admirable, is it not?” She offers with a gleeful smile, picks up her cigarette and places a hand on her hip. Here we go again. “I simply must have it. Besides, we must know if it poses any threat to us.” She was right, this time. After decades of experimentation, none of them had ever managed to keep an infected subject whole after death.

His shoulders slumped as she spoke, head bowing to hide his discontentment behind the brim of his hat. He knew what this meant: being sent on a stupid adventure in the ass-end of the woods, because he was the only one out of this freak show with the brain and brawn to venture out into the world in broad daylight, without dying to the cold or stopping every five seconds to infect and pet wild animals. Some of these missions he did enjoy, like being sent to nearby towns for special supplies - or special victims. He was never gone long, nor would he stray far, but those escapades never failed to serve as a reminder that he had a reason to keep going, that maybe one day he would be free and the world would be his to explore.

The four of them eyed Miranda quietly, waiting for the verdict that was certain to come. Moreau cut the silence by volunteering to investigate, the pathetic pitter-pat of his feet filling the room when Mother smiled at him.

“I would not risk you in such a way, my son,” she patted his head without a hint of affection. “Not when we are so close to answers. You must continue your research - Heisenberg will look into this… Whatever it is. You are dismissed.” Her tone was nonchalant, her confidence rock solid. This was merely an obstacle, not real danger. At least, that is what she wanted them all to see; if one looked close enough, they would notice the slight furrow in her brow through the slits of the golden mask.

“As you wish, mother.” He tipped his hat before taking his leave, chewing on his unlit cigar, feet pressing hard against the gravel underneath.

Heisenberg never thought he would come to regret having a proper spine and a functional pair of legs.

[spaceskam]

only then i am human

Summary: Rosa and Alex have a talk.

Tags: friendship, asexual rosa

ao3

It was cold in Colorado.

Rosa felt a chill go down her spine, but it felt nice and sobering and she didn’t want to go inside to get a jacket. Instead, she swung her feet off the edge of the balcony, beneath the bars, and stared out to the nothingness around the hotel that Michael had picked.

She had listened to Alex and Michael old-married-couple argue the entire way up to the suite. Alex thought going somewhere expensive with a more obvious paper trail was stupid, but Michael had never been to a nice hotel and this was his only shot to do it with money he didn’t care about‒Jesse Manes’ life insurance. Alex stopped complaining whenever they got up to the suite and there was a separated bedroom and a pullout couch and the two of them would get to be alone for the first time since they left Roswell to go investigate.

Rosa had practically begged them to let her tag along, needing new scenery and to get away from everything that came with Isobel Evans. She was, again, too close for comfort and Rosa was starting to get anxiety whenever she came around, progress be damned. When she found out Michael and Alex were going to investigate Weird Alien Shit™, she jumped at the chance to put space between them.

But her mind was still hazy, still not liking the way she felt uncomfortable when Isobel texted to check-in. It was fine at first. She even liked talking to her for a while. And then it wasn’t fine.

Rosa flinched out of her daze as a blanket touched her shoulders and she looked to see Alex easing himself to sit beside her, placing his crutches on the ground beside him. He was in his nightclothes, his hair was wet, and he looked more relaxed than he had in a few days.

“Finally got laid?” Rosa asked. Alex snorted and rolled his eyes, but he didn’t deny it. Rosa let her eyes drift back out to the nothingness.

“You okay? It’s getting late,” he said instead. Rosa shrugged, resting her head against the bars. “Michael’s out cold, so you can talk without thinking he’s gonna overhear.”

Rosa huffed a laugh and looked back out. She didn’t actually care what Guerin heard. He was probably the only alien that didn’t make her skin crawl. She wasn’t sure if it was because Alex trusted him or if it was because he was brutally honest with her about everything, but she preferred him to even most people. Besides, he made Alex soft and fed him hot fudge sundaes and Alex deserved that.

“Isobel keeps texting me,” Rosa said.

“I thought you two were friends,” Alex said carefully. Rosa bit the inside of her cheek and swung her legs a bit harder.

“We‒are, but,” Rosa said, pausing as she tried to find the words, “I don’t know. Something is making it weird. Like, I’m not scared of her. But it’s close to fear. Or something. I don’t know, Alex, I don’t do feelings well.”

“Uncomfortable?” Alex guessed, slowly like he didn’t want to assume anything. Rosa shrugged but then nodded, though she wasn’t sure if that was the right word either. “How’s she acting?”

“I… I don’t know. She’s just too close sometimes. Leans too close and talks too close, like we’re a part of some inside joke together but I missed the memo. Kinda like it was before, Rosa tried, though it wasn’t quite right, “But not really. Like I don’t think she’s trying to make it weird. Does that make sense?”

“You think it might be PTSD?” Alex asked. Rosa instantly shook her head.

“No, it’s not just her.”

“Yeah, but you literally got murdered. Like… that can fuck someone up for more than just one person,” Alex said. Rosa’s lips twitched into a small smile and she shook her head.

“No, it’s not like that. It… It kinda happened before then. Drugs helped, honestly,” Rosa admitted, “Anyone who gets too comfortable with me in that way makes me feel weird and like I need to get away. And I usually can and do, but with her it’s a little different because we’re actually friends. And before everything, I either got high to deal with it or I pushed them away. But I’m friends with her, so I should be fine. I don’t know why I’m not fine. I don’t know, it’s weird, I don’t know how to explain it.” 

Rosa groaned, letting her head hit the bars with a bit of force. She hated trying to put her feelings into words.

“I mean, we’re close. I act close. You and Michael have been weirdly buddy-buddy. And Maria. Do you feel that with us?” Alex asked, though it sounded like he already knew the answer. Rosa eyed him until he quirked a small smile, a silent confirmation that he basically had her pegged.

“No. You two are gross, but I feel fine. Mostly.”

“So, do you think it might be, like, flirting? Is that what sets off the sirens in your head?” Alex asked. Rosa scrunched up her nose.

“Are they flirting?”

“I mean, I don’t know, I’m asking you,” Alex said, shrugging. Rosa looked more directly at him and wished he could just give her the answers. He was older than her now, so, really, he should be able to do that. “If they’re being close and stuff, it might be because she likes you. Just tell her you’re not interested.”

The idea of doing that made Rosa feel like locking herself in a small room and never coming out.

“Unless… You are interested.”

“No,” Rosa said instantly, shaking her head, “I’m not.”

“It’s okay if you are.”

“I’m not though,” Rosa said firmly, “But if I say something, she’s probably not going to be my friend anymore, right? Like she’ll get mad. And then I won’t have friends.”

“She won’t. And if she does then she’s the problem and fuck her,” Alex said simply. Rosa sighed, tilting her head back to look up at the moon. “Is this really like… a recurring problem? Where you get uncomfortable whenever you think someone might be flirting with you?”

“I mean, I’m just not interested in a relationship and I don’t want to lead anyone on and I don’t want to make anyone angry,” Rosa said, “It was much easier when I could just take something and not feel it.”

“Okay, but we’re not doing that. We’re working through it. Is it a rejection thing? A sexuality thing? Whenever I was in high school, I’d get that way when girls flirted with me, didn’t know what to do without giving them the wrong idea,” Alex offered, scooting closer as he tried to help. She appreciated it, but she also wished he’d leave her alone and go away. “You say you’re not interested. Are you, like, not interested at all… ever?”

“No offense, Alex, but I don’t want to have this conversation with you,” Rosa said. Alex huffed a small laugh.

“Who else is there to have it with?” Alex wondered. Rosa made a face and looked at him. He seemed open and earnest. He seemed grown up.

With a sigh, Rosa asked, “What does it feel like? When you like someone like that?”

“Like the scariest thing in the world and also the best. Like all the movie cliches make sense and half the time they’re all you can think about. You just want to be with them and have them pay attention to you. You just want them in anyway you can have them, like a craving you can’t satisfy. Like, with Michael, when we were younger, I was so scared of how much I wanted him, but he’d look at me and it felt like he trusted me and it made me feel brave. And, I don’t know, I guess I made him feel brave too. You just want to be close and to keep them safe and have them always,” Alex rambled, clearly trying his best to explain it.

For the first time, Rosa didn’t feel like she was drowning in confusion.

“Okay,” she said, “I’ve never felt like that before.”

“Ever?”

“No,” she said, laughing softly, “I thought that was fake.”

“Definitely not fake,” Alex said, looking at her with a soft look. Sort of like the one she tried so desperately to give him when he came to her, thirteen and miserable, to say he thought he liked boys and didn’t think he could tell anyone else.

He probably pulled it off much better than she did.

“Okay, then what does that make me? Heartless?” Rosa asked, though she didn't really feel bad about realizing what she wasn’t feeling. At least she knew that she was actually not feeling it and she wasn’t just drastically misunderstanding something. “A prude, maybe?”

“Have you ever looked into asexuality?” Alex asked. Rosa shook her head. “I haven’t really either to be fair. I actually learned about it from Michael. He apparently got really into queer literature and history whenever Max was dead, would read it to him as a way to be caring and annoying at the same time. Sometimes he’ll spout fun facts at me. Anyway, sounds like it might be something you wanna look into.”

“Okay, I will,” Rosa agreed, though she still found herself looking out to the nothingness.

“Not that you need labels. I just think sometimes knowing we’re not the only ones out there like us is helpful. And you’re already an anomaly in other ways, so might as well not make yourself feel more alone than you are, you know? It’s clearly upsetting you,” Alex said. Rosa nodded.

“I get it. Thanks.”

“And maybe talk to Isobel, tell her to give you some space.”

Rosa sighed, tilting her head back and closing her eyes for a moment. She just wanted everything to make since. She didn’t like navigating new friendships in the first place, it was scary and she was never able to gauge how they felt about her. It was easier, especially when she was sober, to just not deal with it. To just keep the friends she had now and push everyone else away.

But that wasn’t plausible or healthy and she knew it. That would lead a lonely existence and she was already lonely. She never felt like she was anyone’s person in the way she wanted to be someone’s person. And, really, it was a hard thing to request because she wasn’t sure how to explain it herself.

She supposed, however, that she would never get anywhere if she didn’t try.

“Seriously, trust me. Avoiding the tough conversations only leads to shitty situations. Like, you know, a decade of complications because you never speak,” Alex pointed out. Rosa rolled her eyes at him.

“You can’t pull that card with me, it’s you and Guerin’s fault for all that.”

Alex grinned and shrugged.

“Yeah, but once we talked, we got to a place that we’ve both been wanting for a long time. So cut out the bullshit and just tell her what you want and don’t want. Again, if she gets mad, fuck her,” Alex said. Rosa nodded and sighed all over again. Sometimes she hated having to be grown up. “Okay, I’m gonna go to bed. We’ve got a big week, so try to get some sleep yourself, okay? Love you.”

“Love you too,” Rosa said, accepting his smile as he pushed himself up and made his way back into the suite and into the room he was sharing with Michael.

It was weird hearing it put into words. She obviously knew people liked each other in a way different than she could understand, but she had never really clocked how real it was to them. She understood craving someone’s attention and presence, but it wasn’t in the way it seemed to be for Michael and Alex or even Liz and Max. She thought they were just being fucking annoying.

Maybe there was something she was missing.

Reluctantly, Rosa pulled out her phone and opened the text thread she’d had with Isobel.

Rosa: Hey, I think we should talk when I get back. Set some boundaries, maybe.

Before it could even show that Isobel had seen it, Rosa exited out and put her phone on do not disturb. She stared out at the trees and nothingness for a few more minutes before she eventually got the courage to get up and go inside. She shut the glass door and laid down on the pullout couch that Alex had set up for her. 

She hadn’t realized how tired she’d been until her head hit the pillow, a wave of exhaustion hitting her at full force. And she was thankful for that, honestly. It was easier to keep a clear head when you couldn’t stay awake.

Still, before she could fall asleep, she opened her notes app to type a reminder.

Asexuality. Ask guerin to borrow some of his books.

[alwaysmychoices]

I’m replaying book one and I was thinking what if Ethan had turned up to their housewarming party? Feel like doing a head canon/Fic ? 🤩

“House Party”

Synopsis: Tonight, Charlie and her friends are throwing a house party to relax after a tough week at work, and all Charlie wants to do is relax and have fun. She never expected to see Ethan Ramsey at the party, and she certainly didn’t expect to spend the night talking on the roof with him...

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x MC (Charlie Greene) (prequel to A Weekend w/ Dr. Ramsey Series)

Choices Story: Open Heart (set during book 1 house party)

Rating: Teen

Words: 3.5k

TW: discussions of workplace sexism

Thank you for this ask! 

Ethan Ramsey didn’t attend parties, and he certainly never attended intern parties.

So, why was he making his way through a crowded hallway to this one?

He was asking himself the very same question. Of course, it was Naveen’s fault. Only a few hours earlier, they’d been sharing dinner in Ethan’s apartment. Over a glass of brandy, Naveen ordered Ethan to attend. Ethan initially refused, but with enough pressure, Naveen succeeded in manipulating his friend into attending.

Naveen said that he wanted Ethan to make more friends in the hospital, so he should go. Ethan suspected Naveen was up to something, but he hadn’t figured out what.

The second Ethan stepped through the apartment’s front door, he felt old.

Almost everyone was at least a decade younger than him. They moved through the crowded space with ease, and they stared at Ethan with apparent displeasure and shock. Ethan didn’t recognize the song playing or even the drinking games happening around the room.

He shouldn’t be here.

He resisted the urge to run away as fast as he could.

He could see whispers ripple through the party. Everyone knew he was here anyway. He was determined to stay for a while just to prove himself.

Pushing past a group of drunk pediatric interns, Ethan searched for the bar. He knew that the alcohol would be cheap, but he hoped it would be strong enough to ease his discomfort.

He didn’t recognize most of the attendees. Most of them were residents from other departments. The few attendings were young and interacted with Ethan rarely. He knew the nurses but only professionally, so he felt strange walking up to them now.

Ethan wondered who lived in this apartment. Should he be greeting them? Was he supposed to bring a bottle of something to thank them for their hospitality? Were they his interns? Would it be weird if he talked to them here?

Speaking of interns, he saw one of them.

His favorite, arguably.

Charlotte Greene.

She was in the middle of the room, surrounded by a crowd of people that seemed to adore her. Like the rest of them, Ethan felt captivated. Outside of work, she was different. Softer, more confident. Less afraid, certainly.

And… well, beautiful, too.

He already knew she was beautiful. Even sleep-deprived and dressed in frumpy scrubs, she was pretty. But nonetheless, seeing her so stunning now was shocking. He almost felt guilty for the thought. Like his mind was overstepping some professional line – a line that frequently felt faint with Charlie.

He liked her too much.

She was too similar to him. Too talented. Too promising. Too kind. And far too friendly.

She was dangerous but in a way that was easy to keep away.

But tonight, as Ethan approached her in a crowded party, she seemed… enticing. Impossible to ignore. He couldn’t stop staring. He even had an urge to talk to her.

He was close enough now that he could see the man standing next to her.

Bryce Lahela. A surgical intern. Very promising from what Ethan’s colleagues said.

And he was all over her. Lahela’s arm hooked around Charlie’s bare midriff, keeping her pulled tightly against him. His fingertips dug into her skin, squeezing her skin as he whispered into her ear. She bit her lower lip as she listened, and he finished whatever he said with a kiss on her lower jaw.

Ethan hated it. He didn’t want Bryce to flirt with Charlie, and he didn’t know why. Eventually, he likened it to some sort of protection instinct – like he wanted to protect Charlie from the wiles of some lothario.

Not that she needed his protection.

Or wanted it.

Charlie Greene knew precisely what she was doing. This was her party, and Bryce was her man for the evening. Though if Bryce wanted to skip out on their friends with benefits arrangement, she doubted she would have trouble finding someone to replace him for the night. Charlie never got to do this. She was always working. She never got to put up her hair, put on a push-up bra, and expose her skin. It was the first time since she moved to Boston that she got to have fun like this, and she was determined to do it all.

And she was.

She was the woman of the night. In her tight jeans and skimpy top, she knew she was hot. And finally, after months of ill-fitting scrubs and stressful work, she got to be hot!

Finishing off her beer, Charlie whispered her goodbye to Bryce and smoothly exited his arms to get herself another drink. She congratulated herself as he watched her walk away.

Everything was amazing.

She forgot she was an intern. She forgot about her tough job and her long hours and her shitty boss.

Until she saw him.

Charlie felt the color drain from her face as she came eye-to-eye with her boss from hell, Dr. Ethan Ramsey.

She was frozen.

She couldn’t believe it.

He was here?

He couldn’t be.

He wouldn’t go to an intern party! Who had even invited him?

As Charlie stared at him, she realized she had been frozen hunched over the beer cooler, meaning she’d been showing him her cleavage the entire time.

She felt like she was going to throw up.

He was walking towards her.

Why???

Suddenly, Charlie did not feel hot anymore. She was an intern again – and a frightened one at that. She felt exposed and embarrassed. And so fucking angry that her night had been ruined and that he might hold this against her forever.

All she wanted to do was feel hot! Not be held responsible by a sexist man for the rest of her residency!

“Dr. Greene,” Ethan greeted her and regretted it immediately. Why was he so formal?

It was really him.

Charlie stared at Dr. Ethan Ramsey in all his glory. Annoyingly handsome, as always. More awkward than usual. And thank God, not staring at her cleavage.

“What are you doing here?” Charlie blurted out.

Ethan was taken aback.

He didn’t know what to say.

“I was just-“ Ethan began but was cut off by Charlie.

“You shouldn’t be,” she said, the emotion high in her voice.

She didn’t trust herself to stay around him.

She was upset. Her night felt like a mirage, and the façade of the confident, hot girl had slipped away. She was angry and sad, and she just wanted to get away from him before he committed her skimpy outfit to memory.

She remembered the last time a male superior ran into her when she was dressed like this.

It had been her research professor. She saw him at a bar, and the look of disgust and disappointment was burned in her memory. He never treated her the same. From that point on, she was just a silly girl. He never gave her the good projects, nor any accolades. She moved to another lab at the end of the year.

Dr. Ramsey wouldn’t be the first man to allow sexist ideals to ruin her career. He would just have more power to do it.

Tears welled in her eyes.

She had to go.

Without another word, Charlie marched off, disappearing into a confused crowd that looked at Ethan with suspicion. They all wondered what he had done to her.

And Ethan wondered what he had done to her…

The sting of rejection prickled at his skin. Maybe he should have known that she hated him. He felt… silly for thinking otherwise. He was, after all, their evil, demanding boss. What had he expected?

He never should have come.

Ethan no longer felt the need to prove himself by staying at the party.

He wanted to go and give Charlie her party back.

Ethan tried to avoid others as he crept out of the party, but they stared anyway.

He let out a breath of relief when he made it out the front door. Seeing the line by the elevator, he headed towards the stairs.

He never expected to find Charlie.

There she was. Just trying to be alone in the stairwell, planted on the third step up as she tried to control the urge to cry. Once again, Ethan had found her in a place he was not wanted.

Now, it was his turn to freeze.

Should he leave without saying something? No, that felt wrong when she was visibly upset. But he knew she didn’t want to see him. She made that clear. What was he supposed to do?

Knowing it was probably the wrong decision, Ethan took a step in Charlie’s direction and said, “Are you okay?”

Charlie’s eyes snapped to him, suddenly alerted to his presence. The pain in her face shifted to disbelief. Was he everywhere now?

“No!” Charlie snapped, too shocked to control herself, “Men like you lose respect for women like me the second they see her as anything other than professional and virginal, and forgive me if I needed to leave so I don’t have to watch my career slip away because of a revealing shirt!”

Ethan wasn’t surprised she yelled at him. Frankly, he expected it the second he opened his mouth. But he was surprised at what she said.

He had never even thought of that.

Of course, he had thought of the revealing shirt – a thought he wasn’t particularly proud to have. But if he was disappointed in anyone, it was in himself. She was entitled to dress however she wanted outside of Edenbrook, and it no bearing on her performance. She could be a competent doctor no matter what she did in her free time.

“Charlotte, your clothing – and anything else you do outside of Edenbrook – have nothing to do with your competency as a doctor. It would take a true misstep for you to lose my respect, and I’m sorry if I gave you any impression otherwise. You shouldn’t have to fear that,” Ethan apologized earnestly.

He wondered who had mistreated her along the way – what sexist man had used his position of authority to impose his ideas of women’s role in society. He wasn’t sure what he could or should say. He couldn’t relate to the experience, and he didn’t want to cheapen or misrepresent it by trying to seem like some kind of savior.

An awkward silence followed as Charlie wrestled with his words.

Against her better instincts, she believed Ethan.

And even though the threat had passed, the overwhelmed feeling lingered.

“Well…” Ethan ventured, “Enjoy your night. I was just leaving.”

She didn’t know why she said what she said next.

Maybe she was thankful for reassurance. Or she felt bad for ruining his night.

Whatever it was, she said, “You don’t have to.”

Ethan was sure he didn’t hear her right.

“What?”

“You don’t have to go,” Charlie explained, her arms wrapping around her knees as she tried to soothe the remaining fear in her chest, “We’re okay, so you can stay, if you want.”

Ethan thought it over, imagining the party left inside. He couldn’t stomach stepping back into the spotlight, and if he was going to drink alone, he’d prefer to do it in his own home.

So, with a polite shake of the head, he said, “I don’t think so. I’m not sure if the rest of the party would agree with you.”

Despite herself, Charlie cracked a smile.

He was probably right. She knew that if her friends knew she was inviting Dr. Ramsey back inside, they’d never forgive her.

But something inside her begged her to not let him go.

She didn’t want to be alone, and somehow, Dr. Ramsey ended up being the person here with her.

“I’m going to the roof,” Charlie announced, “You can come. I’ll bring alcohol if that makes it better.”

“You want me to come?” Ethan was shocked.

He liked Charlie, sure. He even thought that she could be a mentee one day, but he never expected she would invite him to share a drink on a roof. Was this something he should say no to? It crossed a line. But looking at her now, he felt like he couldn’t leave her alone.

So, against his better judgment, he agreed.

He had so many opportunities to back out.

But 10 minutes later, he was up on that roof with her, staring at the Boston skyline with a beer in hand. In the dim glow of night, Charlie was even more beautiful than before. Vaguely, he registered that he had never been in a setting this intimate with her. Something about that frightened him, but like all the times before, he didn’t know why.

He didn’t understand the pull to her, nor did he understand the accompanying fear.

A breeze interrupted his thoughts, bringing with it a gentle chill. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlie shiver.

On instinct, he slid out of his leather jacket, and he offered it to her.

Charlie stared at the jacket with mistrust. Why was he giving it to her?

“You look cold,” Ethan explained.

“Are you just trying to hide my cleavage or something?” Charlie blurted out, and she regretted it instantly. Her cheeks flushed a bright shade of red, and she promised herself to never talk about her breasts to Ethan Ramsey again.

“No, you’re shivering,” Ethan chuckled.

Chuckled.

He was amused.

Charlie was both shocked and relieved.

And instead of acknowledging either, she took the jacket and accepted its warmth.

Another silence.

“So, why did you come tonight?” Charlie asked, deciding to satisfy her own curiosity.

“A friend insisted I come,” Ethan answered vaguely, taking a sip of his beer.

“If you have a friend in there, why did you look so confused then?”

“Oh, they didn’t come,” Ethan seemed humored by the idea of Naveen forcing him to come but ignoring the party himself.

“But they made you?”

“Yes,” Ethan affirmed.

Charlie hummed her confusion but asked no more questions.

“We’re throwing the party because it’s our first real night off,” Charlie explained, “And we wanted to make some friends who could commiserate with us. Every day, I feel more and more like a terrible doctor at work, so a successful party was supposed to improve spirits.”

“Terrible doctor?” Ethan repeated incredulously, and he scoffed, “No, you’re not. Young, yes. Inexperienced and naïve, of course. But you’re a good doctor. I knew you would be when I read your file.”

Charlie blushed, “You read my file?”

“You read my book!” Ethan tried to defend himself.

Charlie just smiled wider, and she averted her eyes to the skyline, trying to appreciate the fact that her hero not only read her file but approved of it. This was something out of a med school dream.

“You’re pretty far from home,” Ethan added. However, he released belatedly that he probably shouldn’t be so obvious with remembering the details of her residency application, “Not that I would have guessed. You don’t have much of an accent.”

“You look exactly like the kind of guy who grew up in Rhode Island,” Charlie teased.

“You know where I grew up?” Ethan was smiling, too. Like this was all some game where they admitted to knowing everything about the other. He felt close to her and free to say things he normally wouldn’t.

“Your bio is in your book.”

“Yet you didn’t know what I looked like.”

“I read your bio. I didn’t ogle a book jacket,” Charlie rolled her eyes.

Ogle. He was worth ogling?

“Besides, North Carolina is only a flight away,” Charlie insisted, just like she had to her mother when she moved to Boston a few months ago.

“Oh, and do you have winters in North Carolina?”

“We have mountains!” Charlie insisted, looking affronted, but she was still evading the question.

Amused, Ethan pressed, “And did you live in those mountains?”

“… No, I didn’t,” she confessed, “But to be at Edenbrook, I’ll brave any winter – no matter how cold and bitter.”

Ethan smiled. He liked her dedication, though he would also be entertained to see her trudge through the deep snow for the first time.

As they talked, Ethan began to see Charlie as more than a promising intern. He could see her on his team one day, by his side on cases. Her insight, though needing refinement, was rare. With his mentorship and connections, he was sure she would become something amazing – probably even surpass him.

They talked for what felt like forever. They both left a sip in their beer, not wanting to end the conversation by finishing their drinks. They talked about Boston, Edenbrook, their respective alma maters, and Ethan’s experience as an intern.

They weren’t best friends by any means, but… maybe they were friends?

Or at least they were acting like friends…

And there was a moment at the end of the night when they felt like… more than friends.

Finally giving in to the night, Ethan was walking Charlie down the stairs, and they were discussing their med school days. They were nearly at the door, and Ethan looked down at Charlie, watching as she laughed and told him a story about her sleepless nights in medical school. With her head tilted back and her eyes alight with humor, she looked… so beautiful.

Unbearably beautiful.

And all those dangerous feelings started bubbling up.

He liked her. He liked the intern. As a person and as…

Oh no.

He was trying to block out the thoughts as quickly as they came, but the urge was harder to ignore.

As they stood on the landing, looking straight at each other as Charlie finished her story, Ethan wanted to kiss her. He wanted to taste the lipgloss on her lips. He wanted to feel her soft, blonde hair in his hands. His thoughts were consumed with her.

And he was leaning closer.

He was too close.

Charlie noticed, vaguely.

She was still talking, but she didn’t care what she was talking about.

Because… she wanted to kiss him, too.

And when he finally stepped back, snapping them both out of the moment, she felt disappointed.

“I should get going…” Ethan said, talking mostly to himself.

“Yeah,” Charlie agreed, her voice soft as she tried to hide her dissatisfaction. Why didn’t she want him to go? “I guess I’ll just see you at work then.”

Work.

They worked together.

Ethan was her boss.

They both knew better.

“See you then,” Ethan nodded his goodbye, too afraid of his own impulses to give any other kind of goodbye.

As he walked down the stairs, Ethan thought to himself that Charlie Greene was very dangerous. He would need to be careful around her. Even if he didn’t want to…

From inside his cab, Ethan texted Naveen that he went to the party but that it was a failure of a night out. Yet, as he typed it, something inside him said that wasn’t true.

Charlie walked back to the party silently, wishing she was still back on the roof.

She felt ridiculous.

All she’d wanted was to be a hot girl in a crowded party, but now that she stood in the crowd again, she longed for the quiet company of Dr. Ramsey, a thought she never imagined she’d have.

“Where have you been?” Bryce called out, a drink in hand. A girl stood next to him, one he’d probably been flirting with only moments before, but he left her behind in favor of Charlie.

There were perks to their arrangement. Even if they were never going to be romantic, it was nice to have someone to pick you. But it didn’t bring her the usual comfort. Because Bryce was just casual sex. Most of their hookups were in the early hours of the morning when they hadn’t showered in days. All of their other interactions were just friendly.

They didn’t make her feel like she did on the roof.

“Oh, I ran into Dr. Ramsey, and we were talking,” Charlie tried to make it sound casual, and it was casual, wasn’t it? They were just talking, so why did it feel bigger than that?

“Boooo,” Bryce jeered, “Ugh, I can’t believe that jerk even came.”

“He’s really not that bad,” Charlie stood up for him instinctually, something she would have never done only a few hours ago.

“Ooooh,” Bryce grinned, “Do you like Dr. Ramsey?”

“No!” Charlie insisted defensively – too defensively.

“I think you do!” Bryce teased.

“The only doctor I want to sleep with is you,” Charlie asserted, stepping closer and wrapping her arms around Bryce’s neck.

Instantly forgetting his teasing, Bryce looped his arms around Charlie’s waist and pulled her flush against him, “Oh?”

“Mmmhmm,” Charlie murmured, her breath hot against his lips as she leaned in for a kiss.

“How about another drink and then back to my place?” he whispered, biting Charlie’s lower lip, and she agreed.

As she shared her final drink with Bryce and danced with her friends, Charlie was able to enjoy the rest of her night.

But something had changed. Something so small that she wouldn’t appreciate the significance for quite some time. But the thing was… she still wished she was back on the roof with Ethan.  

A/N: I hope you liked this. When I started, I was super excited to go back to pre-Weekend with Dr. Ramsey and show some of the FWB with Bryce, but when I introduced the sexism plot, I got nervous. If this was done poorly or you think it just came off weird, please let me know and I’ll go back to it. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. Maybe I’m just too nervous because I loved the idea when I started, but once the writing started, I became worried.

But if you’re interested in prequel stuff, hmu! Also, my asks are open for cool ideas like this! 

[seok-jinnies]

one | myg

min yoongi x reader, jeon jungkook x reader ;

angst, light fluff ; wc : ~2.6k

warnings: some swearing

in all his years of existing, min yoongi doesn’t think he has ever loved someone as much as he loves you. after all, he knows, deep in his soul, that you’re the one for him.

however, jeon jeongguk also thinks that you are the one for him, so yoongi might have more than a few problems with that.

Just like that, Yoongi thinks, you’re slipping through his fingers once again. He wants to throw up. Or pass out. Or straight up die. One of the three would be preferable.  

He hadn’t meant to overhear… he had just wanted to come see you. Maybe surprise you with burgers from your favorite diner two blocks away. You had mentioned that you weren’t feeling well at all, and that you were in dire need of a pick me up. Yoongi doesn’t know why he immediately hauled ass to that diner you loved so much just to get you a burger and some fries, especially when you had a boyfriend who could do it for you.

Said boyfriend went by the name of Jeon Jeongguk, an irritating photographer who happened to have a knack for literally everything in the world. It’s almost a bit unfair, how good he was at everything, but at least he treated you well, so at least there was that.

On second thought, it wasn’t just a bit unfair, it was really fucking unfair. Jeongguk had loved you for what? Two, three years? And here he was, living the life of Yoongi’s dreams. Waking up with you, making breakfast with you, just being with you in general. Yoongi almost wants to cry at the thought.

Going back to the matter at hand, Yoongi recalls with startling clarity the moment he had heard Jeongguk’s voice. He was just about to round the corner to yours and Jeongguk’s shared apartment when he heard it. 

“...listen, she can’t know, alright? Whatever happens, (Y/N) cannot find out.” Jeongguk’s voice was hushed, and warning flags were raising at the back of Yoongi’s mind. Was he cheating on you? Pissed, he stopped in his tracks, listening intently. 

“...what?” Jeongguk continues. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve got the ring ready. Am I…? Of course I am. I love her. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. She’s the one, hyung. She’s the one.”

Oh, Yoongi thinks. Oh.

The burger and fries are left on the stairwell.

-

The first time Min Yoongi meets you is on his birthday. Winter was on its last breaths, and he was grateful. No one told him that twenty-five was the age when all your joints started to ache like a grandpa, and he hated it severely. The cold wasn’t helping him much with joint pain either.

It was snowing too, so Yoongi had to make sure to actually wear a coat. It looked like his days of wearing a t-shirt and ripped jeans out in the snow were long gone.

There was nothing special about the day he met you. Perhaps, it was so that you could stand out even more. Not that you needed help standing out; you were already breathtaking on your own. With cosmic assistance? You were absolutely lethal.

He had a camera that day, if only to humor his friend, Jimin, who was devastated that he was spending his birthday alone. You have to at least take pictures, okay? He had insisted through a very static-y phone call the night before. Prove to me that you went out for your birthday. Treat yo self! Jimin squealed. Yoongi had to pull his headphones off at that.

You were sitting on a bench, talking on the phone. You were laughing, and for one cliche moment, Yoongi’s heart stopped. Maybe it was the sunlight hitting you just right, or maybe it was your (frankly contagious) laughter, but he was pretty sure you were almost too pretty to exist. 

His hands moved before he could think too much of it, and before he knew it he had taken a picture of you.

There was no sign that you had noticed, and Yoongi almost felt ashamed at the action. He decided to approach you, show you the picture and then ask if he could keep it. However, you stood up the moment he took a step forward. You left, never to be seen again.

Well, not really.

You were a friend of a friend who then introduced the two of you to each other. He was overjoyed of course, but as much as Yoongi wanted to convince himself that it had nothing to do with how pretty you were and everything to do with showing you the picture, it was definitely because he was so smitten with you that he actually forgot his name when you introduced yourself.

(And that day, Yoongi decided that it was love at first sight. Or second. Whatever. He was in love, anyways.)

-

It’s at your birthday party when he decides. He’s going to tell you. He’s going to confess.

Maybe not now, not tonight, but someday.

You look stunning, he decides. You were wearing this red off-shoulder dress which fell to your knees, and some heels which Yoongi knew must be hell on earth for you. You never did like heels.

Your apartment was filled with your friends, some from college and some from work, he deducts, as he meets eyes with a couple of strangers. He smiles awkwardly and turns back to his drink, searching for a familiar face when⁠—

“Yoongi!” You call out happily. The stiff excuse for a smile he had plastered on his face melted into something more genuine as he faced you. “Hello, flower.”

Your already rosy cheeks flush more from the endearment and Yoongi chuckles. He used to tease you about your love for plants and wanted to give you a nickname related to it. Unfortunately, calling you ‘cactus’ just didn’t have that air of lovesickness that he was aiming for, so ‘flower’ would have to do.

You pull him into a hug and he grumbles for a moment, pretending to hate it. You know that he loves hugs, though, and you just laugh and hold him tighter. He can only hope you can’t tell how hard his heart was pounding.

When you pull away, he misses your warmth almost immediately. “How are you?” You grin. “Enjoying the party so far?”

He lets out a small laugh. “You know, I should be the one asking you that, birthday girl. Although, I am surprised you went for a party this year instead of the usual dinner.”

“Actually…” you pause, smiling sheepishly. “I didn’t want a party either. Jeongguk just thought it would be nice since it could double as a little celebration for my promotion as well.”

Ah. The promotion. Yoongi remembers when you had just graduated college, desperately trying to get into the industry you wanted. You used to cry over every rejection email, but now…  You were doing great, and he couldn’t be more proud of you. Regardless, he grins at your admission.

“Knew it.” He teases, and you mock grumble at him before smiling again, looking away. Meanwhile, Yoongi couldn’t take his eyes off of you. He could only pray that no one could tell he was giving you heart eyes.

“Babe!” Jeongguk’s voice cuts through the comfortable silence between you two. Yoongi can’t tell if it’s just his personal bias against the guy, but he was really fucking irritating. Add that to the fact that you used to call Yoongi ‘babe’ before Jeongguk started calling you that, and Yoongi was starting to get more than a little pissed. Another thing to add to the list of things Jeongguk had stolen from him.

But were you ever his to begin with? A voice in Yoongi’s mind whispers.

Shut up, he hisses back.

“Cake time!” Jeongguk calls out again, and you shoot Yoongi an apologetic grin as you leave his side and approach your golden retriever of a boyfriend.

People begin to gather around you as Jeongguk holds the cake for you with the candles lit up. You’re grinning, and while Yoongi doesn’t sing along, he is staring at you with the most lovesick look in his eyes that he’s sure if anyone were to see him, they would know.

His mind begins to drift as he imagines a world where he’s the one holding your cake. Maybe you would smear some icing on his cheek after blowing the candles out. Would you two be the absolutely cheesy couple everyone pretended to hate but were actually jealous of? Maybe. And you know what, Yoongi would actually love that. He would⁠—

He hears Jeongguk say your name, and when he focuses, Jeongguk is down on one knee and his heart falls.

“...you are the best thing to ever happen to me. You don’t just make me a better person, you make me want to be a better person for me. For you. I wake up in the morning and I want to cry because I feel so goddamn lucky that you chose me. Out of all the people in this universe, you chose me. You saw me, and you took care of me, and you loved me. You gave me the world, (Y/N), but I want to give you the universe.” Jeongguk pauses, and even from a distance, Yoongi can see that the younger man has tears in his eyes.

So does Yoongi. His ears are ringing, and all he can do is watch as Jeongguk asks the million dollar question:

“(Y/N), will you marry me?”

SIlence, and then:

“Yes!”

His heart shatters into a million pieces.

-

Min Yoongi was a coward, that much he knew. 

After five years of loving you silently (and multiple times of flirting with each other), he was done. Time to move on. It’s been half a decade, and he was never sure if you felt the same way. Maybe you did, but he didn’t want to risk losing you.

So he did the thing most people would do after deciding to move on: get absolutely shitfaced at the nearest bar.

Truth be told, even now, three and a half years later, he did not remember what happened that night. He assumes he had a one night stand, if the woman he woke up to was any evidence. 

What he did not expect was you barging into his apartment, demanding to see him because you needed to tell him⁠—

What you wanted to tell him, Yoongi would never know, because when you asked if the girl in the bathroom was his girlfriend, he had the stupid idea to lie and tell you that yes, she is my girlfriend. Just made it official last night.

He was too damn proud of himself being able to “move on” from you to see you deflate. In a span of seconds, you went from excited to the verge of tears. When you heard the bathroom door open, you hurriedly excused yourself and booked it out of his apartment.

What Yoongi didn’t know was that you were going to confess.

But as you power walk out of his apartment complex, you come to the conclusion, that maybe, just maybe, he’s just not into you. And you were merely boo boo the fool.

After that, texts between you and Yoongi were sparse. You stopped hanging out. You stopped sending each other memes at three in the morning. You just stopped… seeing each other.

By the time Yoongi pulled his head out of his ass and sucked it up, it had been a year, and you had a sparkly new boyfriend named Jeon Jeongguk.

-

Yoongi decided that this was, quite possibly, the worst year of his life. Nothing like watching the love of your life get engaged to someone else, and then be forced to watch her marry someone else months afterwards to really rub the salt in.

But then again, you aren’t Mrs. Jeon. Yet, anyways, Yoongi thinks bitterly. In less than twenty four hours, he will truly have lost you, and this time, there’s no getting you back.

And so, like the genius that he was, he decides to call you. In the middle of the night. To the local park. Why? Honestly, Yoongi had no idea. He just wanted, needed to see you one last time.

When you arrive, the park is silent. You look adorable, Yoongi thinks fondly, but even that innocent thought was enough to make tears well up in his eyes. God, he was so in love with you it hurt.

“(Y/N),” he begins once you’re close enough to hear. “I need to tell you something⁠—”

“Yoongi,” you whisper. You look pained, he notes.”Don’t⁠—”

“Don’t what?” He cuts you off, scoffing. The tears begin to fall. “Don’t say it? You don’t want me to tell you about how I’ve been in love with you my whole life? You don’t want me to tell you how much I wish it was me you’re marrying tomorrow?” He wipes at his tears angrily. “What do you want me to do?” 

He breathes in raggedly, looking up to the sky in desperation. When he looks back at you, your heart breaks for him.

“Flower, I can’t.” He begs. “I can’t let you go. I can’t lose you. Not again. Please⁠—” A sob tears through his throat. “I love you.”

He feels your hands cup his face, wiping at the wetness on his skin. He’s almost grateful that he can’t see you through his tears, because he knows you’re crying too. He hated seeing you cry.

“Yoongi,” you say softly. “I love you too, but we can’t. We’ve been dancing around this for almost a decade, babe. Our time has passed, Yoongi⁠⁠.” Your hands have moved, one on his waist and another on the back of his neck. When he sees your tears, he finally breaks. He collapses into your arms, sobbing, grasping at you desperately. 

When you speak next, your voice is muffled as you comb through his hair with one hand and pull him closer with the other. “I will always love you, Yoongi. Always.” You say fiercely, surely, and Yoongi almost wants to believe you. “But I love Jeongguk too. He…” You pause, trying to find the right words. “He’s the one for me.” You admit, and Yoongi hates it so much because you were the one for him. 

The two of you slowly sink onto the ground, with your arms still around him as he cries. For losing you, for being too late, and for what could have been. His sobs echo in the empty park and you cry with him.

When his sobs die down and his breathing gets calmer, he pulls away from your embrace. When your arms fall to the sides, he moves closer to you, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes closed. “I love you,” he whispers, and he’s so close you can feel his breath on your face. “I will always love you.”

When your eyes flutter open, his eyes meet yours. 

Around you, the snow begins to fall. 

“I…” You breathe out. “I should go. Jeongguk’s waiting for me at home.”

He nods slowly. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. Get home safely.”

You nod and stand up, offering a hand. He shakes his head and stands up on his own.

No words are said.

You nod, and turn to leave. When your figure disappears into the night, Yoongi lets his tears fall once more.

“Goodbye, flower,” he whispers into the night. The wind blows.

I love you.

[thedeathdeelers]

Trevor doesn’t remember when he first starts thinking of his bandmates again. His dead bandmates, that is, and just thinking the word dead makes him want to curl into the fetal position all over again like when he was seventeen. He thinks he starts remembering them when a decade has passed and Carrie is born. He was twenty-seven and there was this little baby with big eyes and small pink fingernails in his arms, when he thinks ‘She’ll never get to meet her uncles.’ He doesn’t cry then, but it’s almost as if his baby girl can feel his sadness because she starts screaming in his arms and it's enough of a distraction that he rocks her to sleep without thinking of the boys again that day.

He keeps them locked away in the back of his mind for the better part of five years until kindergarten rolls around and little Carrie with her curly pigtails and glittery Hello Kitty backpack comes home excitedly talking about her new best friends.

“Daddy, they are so cool! Flynn has dinosaur stickers and she gave me one. See!” She points to the top of her right hand where there’s a green pterodactyl cartoon sticker firmly slapped on. “And Julie has this huge purple crayon and she let me use it to write my name!”

At first, he’s beyond excited. His little girl made friends on her first day, which shouldn’t have been such a surprise now that he thinks about it since she has always been a little go-getter. Still, he ‘ooh’s’ and ‘ahh’s’ at the right moments as she talks his ear off about her new friends. By the end of the first week, Carrie has decided she wants to invite her best friends over for a small back to school party with just them and lots of pizza. She reminds Trevor three times Friday night not to forget that Flynn likes Hawaiian pizza and Julie likes orange Fanta best, and that he should become best friends with their parents because she’s decided they are all going to grow up and live together.

He laughs and a twinge of ache in his chest reminds him for a moment of a time when he was younger, not as young as Carrie maybe but just as naive. He remembers for a second flashes of running around playing tag at the park and scrapping the top of his thumb’s skin off. He still has the scar.

He can still remember Alex pulling a Batman sticker out of his pocket and taking him to the public restrooms to clean the cut. Alex the worrier, even at twelve, rambling about getting the cut infected and the proper way to tie his shoes and doesn’t he ever think about where he’s walking.

“Bobby! Oh my god, please tell me you don’t need stitches!” He can remember floppy blonde hair and blue eyes and gasping breaths. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t hurt, you idiot, your eyes are watering.”

“Maybe I’m just mesmerized by your beauty, dude,” he can hear himself replying to try and ease the rigid shoulders and deep frown on his friend’s face. “Really, man, I’m fine. Just a little blood.”

“Let’s just get you to a bathroom and wash it off, okay?” But Alex had been hiding his eye roll and curling lips and his shoulders no longer made him look like an awkwardly hanging scarecrow. It was enough to make him forget his thumb was throbbing and dripping blood.

The scrape is deep enough that it bleeds for a while into the sink, he can still picture the reddish water as it goes down the drain. He and Alex had met in the back of their sixth grade English class, Alex was shy and constantly biting his nails while he was just trying to catch a nap without getting in trouble. They’d bonded over a mutual silent agreement: Bobby held Alex’s hand under the desk when he had to read aloud in class and Alex would nudge him with the right answer when the teacher would call him in the middle of a power nap.

“Gatsby is gay,” he can remember Alex whispering to him when Miss Augustine had called him one time in class. He remembers repeating it without a second thought and realizing only seconds later what the fuck he had just said. He remembers wanting to turn to Alex because he knows there’s something important in the interpretation for his friend. He knows it by how Alex sometimes stares at that soccer player, Gabriel, who sits two rows in front of them. He knows by how Alex turns red when the guy notices him staring and the anxious way he strums a beat with his fingers. He wishes he could turn to him and say he accepts him no matter who he loves without saying it because he knows Alex isn’t ready for that discussion yet. But they’re in class so instead he turns to his best friend and gives him an overly exasperated look, hoping it conveys how he has no idea how he’s going to dig himself out of this one but Miss Augustine had smiled and just went about her lesson.

They never talk about it but a few days later, when he plops his copy of the book onto Alex’s desk before class he smiled and says, “You were right. Daisy was totally a beard. Nick and Gatsby were totally in love.” And reading shitty Fitzgerald - who stole more than half of the amazing work written and attributed to him from his wife Zelda, and as a feminist Bobby knows that’s just some misogynistic bullshit he cannot tolerate even for a school grade - is all worth it. Because Alex looks at him with a look of pure joy that makes him feel like he just scored an extra carton of strawberry milk at lunch (and that’s immense happiness because everyone loves that’s pink milk.)

He’s thinking about the park with a bloody thumb when he hears the doorbell and goes to answer it. And suddenly all the excitement of meeting his daughter’s new friends leaves his body as a chill kisses his spine. Nothing prepares him for seeing the girl from the Orpheum staring at him with a taller, blue-eyed man who must be her husband. His eyes are wide and his mouth is hanging open, What are you doing here? He wants to ask. Are you a ghost? But before he can, he feels Carrie wiggle her way past him and leap into two pairs of arms. He can just make out black, thick boxer braids, deep brown skin, and a bright mint feather boa above Carrie’s head and he knows he’s just met Flynn. The other arm wrapped around his daughter is attached to a girl slightly smaller than both of them, a huge mass of curls making her appear their height with light brown skin and a wrist covered in macaroni jewelry. And that must be Julie, which means, he looks up to see the parents in front of him - the girl from the Orpheum is her mother and he’s never going to be able to forget that night again.

“Flynn’s parents asked us to take her because they were running late for a dinner reservation they had scheduled months in advance. I hope you don’t mind just us,” the man says with a friendly smile as he reaches his hand out. “I’m Ray Molina and this is my wife, Rose.”

Rose, Trevor thinks as he briefly thinks back on that fateful night. Size beautiful, he can practically see Reggie handing her their band’s t-shirt. He can almost feel Luke leaning his arm against his shoulder and telling her that he’d had a burger for lunch. He didn’t even have to look to know Alex was rolling his eyes at how bad his flirting game was. It was like losing them all over again, only he couldn’t; this was his daughter’s day and he couldn’t wallow in pity. He has to host, so he reaches his trembling hand out and offers the best smile he could offer.

“Hi Ray,” he turns to his wife. “Rose,” he nods and watches as her polite smile fades into a softer one, a genuine one, “I’m Trevor.”

She doesn’t correct him on his name. She doesn’t even look to be affected to be honest, until Trevor leads them inside and she sees some of his awards on the walls. Ray is busy helping to serve the pizza and soda for the girls and it leaves him alone with Rose. She doesn’t mention the award for ‘Now or Never’ new hit single on the Billboard 100 or its being #1 on VH1. Rose doesn’t have to, all she has to do is look at him and Trevor feels himself turning back into the scared kid who showed up at the hospital screaming about his friends. Screaming to the nurses who told him he wasn’t looking for a hospital room, he was looking for the ID numbers of bodies at the morgue. He gives her a slight head shake, as if to plead with her not to bring it up. She nods, but he feels his guilt grow heavier as she leans up to gently smear a line across his name TREVOR WILSON next to the title for up-and-coming artist.

It’s Carrie with her signature giggle and yell that makes them head for the kitchen. “Daddy, can you come sit down! Before we eat we have a surprise!”

They walk in to find Ray sitting amusedly at the dinner table. He beckons them to sit down with him and Trevor can’t help but laugh at the scene in front of him. The girls have obviously gotten into his stage makeup and Carrie, Julie, and Flynn are wearing matching bright red lipstick and glitter on their cheeks. Flynn is sashaying with her boa as Julie holds Carrie’s pink one, and Carrie has her hand on her hip as she strikes a pose before snapping her fingers and triggering the sound system. ‘Barbie Girl’ by Aqua starts blaring in through the speakers and the three adults share a look. Should they turn off the song? It is highly inappropriate. But to do that would mean having to explain why it’s inappropriate and do they really want to ruin a song that as far as their kids are concerned is about Barbie living in her Barbie world?

“Hey!” Carrie yelps and their heads all snap back to the girls pouting at them, “We are trying to give you a concert! Don’t make us waste all of Flynn’s cool moves!”

“Okay okay,” he shakes his head, “Don’t you have more cool moves to show us, Care?”

“No,” his daughter gives him a dead serious face, “we have limited choreography.” She says it with such a puff of dismay and sass that Trevor can’t help but let out the loudest laugh he has in a while. There’s no way Carrie even knows what she’s saying but she must have heard it when he was on the phone with his agent who was arranging his next music video.

The thought pops up before he can squash it, Alex would’ve loved her sass, he would’ve loved to dance with her. But it doesn’t hurt as much, to think of Alex smiling and dancing with glitter everywhere.

It’s not long until Rose and Ray are laughing along too and the three watch the girls spin, twirl, improvise lyrics, and throw their feather boas around long after the pizza has grown cold. - 🌙 (so this is the first bit and each bit shows how I decided to headcanon bobby met the boys in school and remembering them and leads you to rose confronting him and learning about the boys before her death ahhh ok let me know if it’s ok 🙈)

excuse me this is

really good????

more please 😌

[drcrushers]

something i wrote on just for fun. it’s probably a little dumb, but here we are.

Your smile could out-shine the sun.

It had started out innocent enough. An envelope tucked into her momma’s mailbox and addressed to her while she’d been out. Not one to get messages except from Hermes, she’d opened it with some curiosity. A letter, beautifully written in an unfamiliar hand and unsigned at the bottom. Not quite a love letter, but something almost like it. A request to write back, to put it into the mailbox and it would get to the secret author in return. 

Fuck it, why not?

She knew it was probably a mortal just showing fondness; she’d gotten letters like it before. But there’s something rather . . . fine. Poetic, in a sense. Kind. Made her feel a bit silly reading it over and over again, but Persephone is in a decent mood and decides to write back to at least thank them for the lovely letter. 

So she does.

She keeps it simple. Nothing flowery. Thanks the supposed author for the flattery in the way she does all the mortals when they give her offerings. It’s nice to write a letter; she ain’t in a while. She and Hades ain’t exchanged them in years, he doesn’t have time for them. Much like he doesn’t have time for her, but that’s neither here nor there. 

She writes back, signs it sloppily and tucks it into the mailbox. 

Persephone doesn’t expect another one back. 

I can’t stop smiling when I read your letter, so I hope you don’t mind my reply.

But there it is a few days later, the same handwriting with her name on the front. Which is strange - mortals tend to refer to her by titles, not her name. Afraid of saying it, they’d said once. Invoking her wrath. She’d called it a load of horse shit, but mortals tended to do things their way and she was content on letting them keep up that practice long as they wanted. 

This one seemed different.

The letter was a direct response. The same flowery language, delicate and sweet. Flirty, if she didn’t know any better. How flattering. But now she’s just curious - and part of her is spiteful, too. If Hades knew, she could only imagine his fit of jealousy. Good.

Persephone replies. 

And so a summer long fling begins. In words of course, nothing more. The letters become a brightness in her days of work. She looks forward to getting them, reading them, and drafting up replies. She develops a collection of them in her vanity drawer and the stack only grows as the summer goes on. A hidden secret, almost. Something her momma or Hades can’t intrude on or say she can’t. Maybe it’s selfish or stupid, but she doesn’t care. Not like it’ll matter come winter. The poor mortal will be dead or have forgotten her, surely. They often do when she goes down to the underworld. Back to her husband who’ll no doubt drive her to the depths of insanity again. 

Hell, she might not even make it to the end of the summer. Maybe he’ll come get her early - again. She tries not to think of it, and spends her days bringing the summertime to those who need it most. That’s how she operates. The letters are a nice break and she loses herself in them late into the evenings. Rereading them. Writing back. Pretending she has a friendship-maybe-more with someone who certainly doesn’t build capitalistic hellscapes for what is supposed to be her benefit. 

It’s not the butterflies she got from first meeting her husband, but the feeling is something similar. She can’t deny it. She genuinely smiles for what feels like the first time in years when she reads the letters or replies. 

We should meet before you go.

The request comes as the summer begins to fade. Fall and winter are close on it’s heels. She thinks immediately it’s a bad idea - but Hermes, who knows now, only encourages it oddly enough. A night out before she’s confined in darkness for six months. It’s not a bad idea. 

So she accepts.

---

Persephone hates her reflection. 

It shows too many lines, too many wrinkles that have shown up over the years. Her hair is unruly, curlier than her momma’s and it snags everything in the fields in it’s grasp that leaves her plucking foxtails and other burrs out of it for ages. Even down to the shade of her skin - none of it seems particularly beautiful compared to her momma or their other relatives up top. Most of the time she doesn’t give a damn; some days she stares at her reflection and wonders what others must see in her. What her husband had seen in her that day in the garden some centuries ago. What made her so different? So beautiful when there were a plethora of other nymphs, demi-gods, and outright goddesses who outranked her in that regard. 

She huffs, drags her fingers across her face. She’s getting old. Too old. Vaguely she wonders if, as a goddess of life, if she’ll end up grey and decrepit and still trying to garden? An old crone, meant to be the embodiment of life. Hera is as old as her momma and still somehow looks decades younger - then again, Hera doesn’t live in the mortal realm, and doesn’t do physical damned labor. Frankly she wonders how a woman like her survived ten years of war, but that’s besides the point. Much as she loathes her own reflection, Persephone would rather be wrinkled and grey than live on that mountain half the year. 

She toys with a small pot of dark charcoal eyeliner, well used and worn before picking up a small brush with which to apply it with. She remembers using wild berries to stain her lips long before her momma ever let her near an ounce of make up, trying to make herself look like what she imagined the ones up on the mountain looked like. Ethereal, beautiful, striking women - as a girl she’d had no idea how awful and cruel they could be at the time and simply wanted to embody them. Now she mostly tries to be everything they aren’t out of sheer spite. She uses a rich plum color against her lips, and decides she looks decent enough in the reflection that blinks back at her. 

She doesn’t know why she’s doing this - it’s stupid. But she’s just bitter and angry enough at her husband to spite him, too, and Persephone ain’t always made the best decisions sometimes. Hermes had only encouraged her, clearly eager to get her out of her own mind for a night and forget about her crippling marriage. 

Harmless night of flirting could do her good. Remind her she ain’t an old washed up hag. Morale boost and all that. Not as if she wasn’t spending the evening in his bed - though the more bitter part of her says it might do her husband some good to think so. Sober his ass right up to keep him acting like a damned moron. Besides, she’s been writing with this stranger all summer. The letters have been her life and Persephone would be lying if she said she wasn’t curious and intrigued. Eager to meet this stranger who’d spent his summer writing to her as well. Clearly he cared and if Persephone could give him a night of enjoyable company (sans anything below the belt) before winter claimed him, so be it. 

Huffing, Persephone tries to fuss with her hair - and decides it’s a lost cause. Why does she care so much? She shouldn’t. But she tries. Because Hades ain’t given her the excuse in a while. Might as well enjoy the night, even if it won’t lead to nothing. She ain’t that type - even if she wanted to be. Persephone has been fiercely loyal to her husband and knows he’s the same; they’re just a damned wreck when it comes to communicating. Maybe she can practice on this little date.. It’s the first time she’s given in to Hermes’ encouraging in a while - who she knows would rather see her happy than anything and thinks Hades is the source of all her misery. He’s half right. Truth is she does a lot of misery to herself because she can’t swallow her own damn pride or some other bullshit. Much as Hades has built the wall between them, Persephone’s been supplying him with the bricks for years. 

She doesn’t dress fancy. Her usual is good enough, still smelling of the flowers and pollen and the warmth of the sun stitched into the fabric. It’s her favorite. Maybe that’s why Hades had replicated it in black for down below, the dusting of diamonds a nod to how he viewed her as a gem to be displayed. A gown of darkness that was everything her favorite summer dress wasn’t. She doesn’t remember where she got it, just that it’s comfortable and flows freely enough not to restrict her. In the other she feels caged, chest tight and pained when she tries to breathe too deeply. It’s in her head, she knows, but the difference still matters. 

Satisfied she looks semi-decent enough to mingle with mortals, Persephone half gallops down the steps in the way she always has at her momma’s house. Ain’t been her house in a while. Ain’t felt like home since she ran off down below. Still, it serves as a roof over her head when she’s up top and her momma is still kind enough most of the time, eager to have her home. Demeter is out in the fields so she isn’t there to throw a comment her way as she leaves the house, the evening air slightly more crisp than usual. A sign that winter would be coming on soon - a sign that she’d be headed back down below in the not too distant future. Frankly she’s surprised Hades ain’t come for her already. Her stomach twists at the thought. 

Hermes’ bar isn’t far, the town a small scattering of lights in the growing dim light of day. Small houses gathered together, a quaint little place that had been perfect for Demeter, apparently. The bar was one of the larger buildings, music and voices already adrift out the open door. She can’t remember a time when it wasn’t crowded. Since she’s frequented crowds have only grown - Persephone remembers being worshipped at altars carved of marble and stone; now there’s only the bar that carries her token of favors, her mortals far too eager to buy her a drink in some parody of once bloody sacrifices. She doesn’t complain; they’re good at picking wine. 

As always there are gazes that turn her way as she approaches and Persephone plasters a smile across her face. She’s well practiced these days, pretending to be happy. The mortals don’t notice and greet her as always. Raise their cups, toast to their patroness who tries - but it’s hard when old man winter comes early and won’t let her go until late. Hard to keep an entire world going when she gets a fraction of time to bring decent harvests. Still seems no matter how hard she tries there are always ones who don’t make it through the winter. The ones missing from the tables in the bar. She may not remember their exact faces, but she knows they’re missing. Knows these places should be filled by healthy warm bodies - and instead there are only fleeting ghosts in the chairs instead. 

“Was wonderin’ if you’d show up.” Hermes remarks lightly, pouring her drink before she can even reach the bar proper. “I always do. Show up. Reckon it’s like clockwork these days.” Persephone replies, grabbing the glass as he finishes and taking a long swig. Immediately the warmth spreads from her belly out, and she knows she’ll be numb by the end of the night. Hopefully. 

“Sit yourself down. Or make the rounds. Whatever ya like. Your friend ain’t here yet.”

She snorts. “Of course not.”

Holding tight to her drink, Persephone does a turn about the room. The mortals are usually pleased to see her, leech off the warmth she naturally radiates. A smile, a laugh, a dance - it’s all too familiar to her and she’s happy to help in the ways she can. If they’re gonna die, they might as well die happy. Either way in the end they all come to her in the underworld. Once she could have granted them some semblance of the afterlife, but now they all toil away in those damned factories and mines. But they don’t need to know it. Not yet. Not now. 

She loses track of time as some point, because Hermes suddenly grabs her by the elbow and they do a little twirl. Her body is less tight, the alcohol already working easily into her system to let her at least enjoy the night without struggling to forget about her shithole marriage. 

“Your date is here.” He grins. 

“Ain’t a date.” She teases. “Least, better not let my man hear you say that.”

“Won’t hear it from me, sister.” Hermes winks, and turns her nearly into the arms of another. A sharp, delightful feeling races up her arms and down her spine the second her hands touch the rough ones of the other figure. 

She knows who it is without question, without even looking up. A smile comes unbidden before she can stop it. 

“It’s you.” She whispers, one of those hands coming up to tuck beneath her chin, to bring her gaze to his. Her heart races and she wants to laugh.

Hades smiles.

“It’s me.”

[jamielea81]

Just a Simple Lie

Chapter 7

Description: Having worked on small independent films for the better part of a decade, your friend tells you about an opening for a script supervisor with a large studio. Wanting to advance your career, you apply and get an interview. The only downside, they prefer to hire crew who are married. It’s just a simple lie, right?

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Warnings: Cursing, pining, fluff

A/N: This fic is simply for fun. I know nothing about the personal lives of the two actors in this series and mean no harm. I am also totally guessing regarding the studio talk. Comments, reblogs, and likes are always welcome.

Word Count: 3,959

Catch up with Chapter 6

**

“You so owe me. BIG time.” Travis said, getting into the Uber you ordered.

You had taken an Uber to the airport and grabbed another to go back to the hotel. Chris had offered up his driver, but technically that driver was paid by the studio and you didn’t want to take advantage like that. Besides, having a car on your own terms meant you and Travis could talk in private, minus the stranger driving you.

“I know. I know. And I appreciate you so much.”

When you texted him a week prior telling him you needed him to be your fake fiancé, he called you immediately. That call had been uncomfortable to say the least.

“So, let me get this straight. You told everyone your fiancé was named Travis? And then you showed Chris Evans a picture of me, Travis?”

“Yes, you, Travis,” you muttered. “It wasn’t on purpose. I wasn’t thinking and thought of you, one of my dearest friends. You should really take this as a compliment that I consider you husband material.”

“Ye-ah, sure. Compliment. What do you need me to do?”

A week later you were picking him up for the airport for his three-night stay in cold Vancouver. The plan was to get a room at a different hotel away from everyone else, but Monica had insisted on you taking the room while she bunked with Maggie who had her own room.

“Just don’t fuck on my bed,” she had said.

**

“What’s the plan today?” Travis asked.

The two of you had just gotten back to the hotel. Travis was laying across your bed with his arms behind his head.

“I’ve gotta be at the studio in two hours, so I thought we’d just hangout and catch up. We can order some food or eat at the studio when we get there.”

The plan was to have Travis come with you to the studio, meet everyone, and then head back on the shuttle bus to the hotel. He was then free to do whatever he wanted, but was not allowed to bring a girl back to the room. You didn’t even want to think about that scenario. It would frankly be a nightmare.

“Let’s order something. I’m kind of starving,” he said, sitting up and pulling out his phone from his pocket.

**

Monica, David,” you began, Travis’ fingers entwined with yours.  “This is Travis. My fiancé.”

Boy, was that hard for your lips to spit out.

The fiancé. Finally, in the flesh,” Monica said.

“Thanks, for offering up your room,” Travis responded with a smile. It was too nice of a smile. You had seen that particular smile when you had been out with Travis. Your group of friends had called it his “take me home” smile. He needed to tone it down.

“Yeah. No problem,” Monica said, apparently not picking up on his subtle flirtation.

“So, this is the fiancé. ‘Bout time you came by for a visit.” David said, patting an arm on Travis’ shoulder.

“Trust me, I’ve tried, but this one won’t let me.” Travis said, putting his arm around your shoulders.

You scoffed and pushed on his chest. “You know that’s not true, babe. Our schedules just haven’t lined up.”

You and Travis always called each other babe, so saying it in front of your colleagues, no, work friends, wasn’t that big of a deal.

“Well, either away, it’s good to see her smile about something other than work. Are you as big of a workaholic as she is?” David asked.

“No one loves working more than this one. But she keeps me motivated, so I can’t complain,” Travis said, kissing your temple.

This is going better than I thought.

**

Hugh, the assistant director Steven, and Travis were all huddled together discussing shop. Travis was still and up and comer so he wanted to pick their brains since they both worked on major studio projects. You took the time to go over the scenes for today. Having found an unoccupied chair, you envisioned the scenes in your mind as you read through them. It was something you always were able to do and it worked well in your favor.

“Travis go home already?”

Chris

“Funny,” you deadpanned. “Yeah, he said it’s too cold here. Turned right back around for the airport. He’s one of those odd ones that’s actually from Los Angeles.”

Chris grinned, taking a seat on the table next to your script.

“That him talking to Hugh?” Chris asked pointing in the direction of the three directors.

“Yep. That’s him.”

Travis looked up and saw you looking in his direction. He raised his hand and gave you a wave. Boyish smile present on his face. He was good at that. Of course, you two had been friends for a long time, so it wasn’t too hard to pull off. He said something to Hugh and Steven and then jogged over to you.

“Hey babe,” he said, stopping in front of you.

Chris hopped off the table and got to his feet. Travis stuck out his hand.

“Travis, this is Chris,” you said as the two men shook hands.

“It’s great to meet you, man. Love you work.”

You internally rolled your eyes. You really hope he wouldn’t fan boy out and you could tell Travis was just on cusp.

“Thanks, man,” Chris replied.

What’s with the word man? Must be a guy thing.

“What time did ya get in?” Chris asked.

Travis looked at you. “Like, ten. Right, babe?”

“Yeah. Picked him up and we ordered some lunch before coming here,” you smiled back at Travis before looking at Chris.

Chris nodded his head absentmindedly. This whole interaction just felt weird and you couldn’t figure out why. It didn’t feel this way when you introduce Travis to the others, but you kind of just wanted to run away now.

“Travis is actually going to take off though. You’re going to nap, right Trav?” You got to your feet and wrapped an arm around his back.

“Yeah, figured I’d nap for a bit and then maybe go explore the area while I wait for you to get back.”

“I’ll call you when I’m on my way back,” you said, leaning into his side. Travis wrapping his arm around your front, giving you a squeeze.

Travis turned to face Chris offering him his hand again. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“For sure. ‘M having people over tomorrow actually, so I’ll see you there,” Chris replied.

He is?

“You are?” you asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yeah,” Chris gave you a questioning look. “It’s a whole thing.”

You honestly had no idea what the hell he was talking about, but you weren’t going to have that conversation in front of Travis.

“Cool. Looking forward to it.” Travis looked back at you. “Walk me out honey?”

You nodded your head, and then looked back at Chris. “Be back in a few.” Chris nodded before heading to the table that held coffee and hot water for tea.

When you were safely out of view from prying eyes, you pinched Travis’ side. He yelped and released his hold on you, rubbing the offending spot with his hand.

“What the fuck was that for?”

“You need to control those flirty eyes of yours.”

Travis shook his head but kept pace along side of you. “I didn’t flirt with Chris.”

“Good one Trav,” you said with a roll of your eyes. “I’m talking about Monica. I work with lots of pretty people. You need to rein in the flirtiness. I don’t think you even know when you’re doing it.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you close. “I love you, button. My eyes are only for you.” He touched his free hand to your nose. “Boop.”

You chuckled lightly and shook your head. “No wonder we didn’t work out.”

“Ouch! That hurt.”

“No, it didn’t,” you replied.

“You’re right. It didn’t,” Travis chuckled.

You snuggled into Travis’ side while you waited for his hired card in the cold. To anyone walking up to your exchange, they would buy that you were indeed a couple. The two of you were just close. It was no wonder his name was the first to pop in your head when you needed a name for your fiancé. You were lucky to have him as your friend and even luckier that he didn’t have anything going on this week.

“I’ll shoot you a text when I’m on my way,” you said, patting his head.

“Have fun at work dear!” he called, getting into the car.

You blew him a kiss before going back inside.

**

Filming had ended for the day which was great because you were beat. Waking up early to pick up your fake fiancé from the airport really took a lot of a girl. You sent a text to Travis to let him know you were on your way back.

Travis: I’ll order more food

Y/N: Chinese?

Travis: Anything for you dear

You chuckled to yourself, sliding the phone into your back pocket.

“What’s so funny?” Chris said, approaching you.

“Uh, nothing. Travis said he was ordering more food. That man can really put it away.” Chris hummed in reply. “So, you’re having people over tomorrow?” You gave him a questioning look.

“Well, I’d like to get to know this young man that plans to marry my friend. Figured having you guys and some others over would be a good idea.”

“He’s not that much younger than me. You really need to knock it off.”

You weren’t sure why it bothered you so much, but it did. It was such a double standard. What if you and Travis were really together? Him being five years younger wasn’t that big of a deal. Plenty of guys date and marry women ten or twenty years their junior.

Chris held up his hands in surrender. “I was only implying that he is a young man compared to me.”

“Yes, because you’re so old Mr. Evans,” you sassed.

“Older than you.”

“Ah, yes. That’s true. A whole what, four years? Tell me about the world, old wise one.”

“You offend me greatly, Y/N. I’m having a special get together in your honor and this is how you treat me.”

“Shuddup,” you mumbled.

“Make me,” he replied. Roughness ever present in his voice.

You let out a slow breath. He was too close to you. So, damn close.

“I, ah. I ah…have to go,” you stuttered out. “See you tomorrow?” You chuckled. “Of course, I’ll see you tomorrow.” You started to walk away.  “See you tomorrow morning.” You were nearly to the exit and still couldn’t get your damn head on straight. You turned around to face him in the distance. “Night, Chris.”

Fuck me. I mean, really.

**

Thank goodness for an outdoor shoot, even if it was cold out. You bundled up as much as you could and still have the ability to walk. Keanu was filming with Maggie this morning on a couple of scenes, then she was shooting one scene with Chris before you wrapped for the day. You had some work to do back in your cubical slash office, but that was only because it was impossible to work with Travis in the room. He was technically on vacation, that you paid for, but you still weren’t going to ask him to turn down the TV. He was doing you this huge favor after all.

Since you were busy going over scenes with Keanu, Chris didn’t have the opportunity to talk to you for most of the morning. You sent him a wave from across “the stage” which was really just an open field. He returned it with a megawatt smile on his face. He sent you a text an hour later of him in makeup getting an open wound applied to his face. You sent him a GIF back of someone’s head in a toilet. There was such a comfortability there that you hadn’t experienced before.

You couldn’t get him out of your mind. This was not a good thing. Had this been another studio. Had this been another movie. Had you not lied to everyone you had gotten to know and worn your grandmother’s ring on your left-hand finger. Then maybe. Maybe you wouldn’t be scared out of your mind. Maybe you would flirt right back. Maybe you’d ask him to have a drink with you. Maybe you’d ask to see him after filming wrapped. Maybe in a year you could say that you and Travis called it off. But that couldn’t happen. How often did you keep in touch with the actors you had worked with? Maybe one. It was hard to do when everyone was working on other projects with a new group of people. He’d move on by then. Chris was too in demand. He’s too good looking. Too charming. There’s no way he’d be there a year from now. Let alone, interested in you.

**

Pressing the doorbell for the second time, Travis shook his head and turning the door knob on Chris’ condo door until it opened. Someone had propped open the door into the building, so you hadn’t buzzed to be let in.

“Trav!” you scolded.

“It’s a party. Relax.” Travis said, shrugging his shoulders.

Walking in, you waved as you saw a few people from the crew sitting on chairs and the couch in Chris’ living room. Kings of Leon’s Sex on Fire played in the background and you wondered if this was Chris’ playlist or someone else’s.

Maggie, Monica, Daisy, and Joe were our on the balcony with drinks in their hands. Monica spotted the two of you and motioned for you to come out there. You mimed a drink in your hand and held up the pointer finger of your other hand indicating that you’d be out after getting a drink of your own. Only one drink, of course.

You moved to the kitchen, spotting Chris, Keanu, David, and a few others from wardrobe and makeup. Essentially the people you interacted with the most.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Chris jested.

“My fiancé is pretty. It takes time for him to get ready,” you teased.

Travis smacked your butt. “Not true. She couldn’t keep her hands off-” You cut him off by putting your hand over his mouth and shaking your head.

“Give this man a drink! Please.”

David grabbed a beer from the fridge and passed it to Travis.

“Thanks, man,” he replied getting a nod from David. “And thanks for having us over,” he said to Chris.

“Oh yeah. No problem. We all kind of like this one and wanted to get to know you.”

“Such flattery. Kind of like. You’re going to make my head explode.”

Travis wrapped an arm around your back and kissed your temple. “Not you, my love.”

He was good. You had to give him that. He remembered all the little touches, things you were totally forgetting. You leaned into him a bit more and smiled at your friends.

“Beer me please,” you said.

**

When Harry Styles’ Adore You came on, you knew it wasn’t Chris’ playlist.

“Whose phone is playing this music?” you asked Monica.

“Chris’ actually. He found your Spotify playlist and added a bunch of your songs.”

You were pretty sure your eyes had popped out of your head. Okay, not really. But you were sure you resembled a cartoon character.

“Again. I don’t understand why he’s single. Most importantly, why hasn’t he asked me out?” she whined.

“Um…Not sure. I think he’s just really professional,” you replied with a shrug of your shoulders.

“Well, I wish he would get a little unprofessional with me,” she whispered.

You chuckled awkwardly looking around the room. “Have you seen Travis?”

“I think he was talking to Maggie last time I looked.”

You nodded. “I’m going to grab another. Do you need one?”

“Of course. Thanks,” she replied.

Travis wasn’t on the balcony and he wasn’t in the living room with you, so you headed to the kitchen where the beer was. You spotted him immediately, a glass of dark liquid in his hand, one elbow leaning on the kitchen counter talking closely with Maggie. You rolled your eyes and shuffled to them.

“There you are babe.”

Travis looked up and held his free hand out to you. “Perfect. Y/N, come here. I was just telling Maggie about that script I got a hold of. Don’t you think she’d make a perfect Erika? She’s the right age and height.”

Maggie had the decency to look a little ashamed. Granted, you were sure nothing happened, but Travis was doing the lean in thing that no doubt led to the moving a strand of hair behind her head, which led to the hand hold.

Fuck, Travis.

“You know, babe, I haven’t read it in a while so I can’t recall at the moment. Could I actually talk to you for a second?”

“Sure, love,” he said sweetly. “I’ll talk to you about it later Maggie. We should exchange e-mails or something.”

“Uh, yeah. I’ll give it to Y/N to pass on,” she replied.

You gave her a tight smile and pulled Travis down the hall into the guestroom you had stayed in.

“Travis,” you said shaking your head.

His arms crossed over his chest. “What?”

“What?! Dude, you’re totally flirting.”

“I can’t just turn off the charm.”

“Could you at least try?” you asked. “I know you’re the one helping me out, but Trav, it looks so bad when you’re flirty. Why not just try flirting with me?”

“Ick! You’re like my sister.”

“Har-har. You’re so damn sweet to me.”

Travis pulled you into a hug. “You know I’m kidding. I promise to be on my best behavior.”

“I know,” you sighed. “That’s what worries me.”

**

You gave up on the whole one drink about an hour ago. You were on your third and it was helping. Travis was being very cuddly with you much to your relief.

Jonas Brothers’ What a Man Gotta Do came on and you physically clapped because it was one of your favorites.

“I'm not tryna be your part time lover. Sign me up for that full time, I'm yours, all yours,” you sang.

Travis grabbed your hand and spun you around causing you to erupt in giggles. He had always been into swing dancing. His mother owned a dance studio and he was required to choose one type of dance and he went with swing. You had no idea how to dance, but you had grown accustom through the years of Travis spinning you, Emma, and Joanna when he had the chance.

So what a man gotta do? What a man gotta do? To be totally locked up by you What a man gotta do? What a man gotta prove? To be totally locked up by you

“You guys are so cute!” Daisy cheered.

**

David along with Elaine from styling had both gone home in the last twenty minutes, but everyone else was hanging out in the living room. A couple of people sat on the floor. Travis and Joe sat in the two upholstered chairs, no doubt talking shop while Maggie, Monica, Daisy, Chris, and you all sat cozy on the couch.

“We should play a drinking game,” Monica suggested, handing you a new beer. There was a small cooler on the floor in front of the couch you hadn’t noticed before.

A sourpuss look flashed across your face causing Chris to chuckle. “Okay, that’s a no from Y/N.”

“What’s next for everybody after we wrap?” you asked, trying to change the topic.

“I’m filming in New Mexico. It’s a thriller, but I haven’t really read through the script.” Daisy said quietly. “I usually just let my manager handle all that.”

Maggie raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

“I’ve got couple of months off. Didn’t want to jump into something else right away,” Chris responded.

“You and I will be on the next project they put us on most likely. David said they liked us as a team,” Monica said, bumping you with her elbow. “I don’t see it.”

“Bitch,” you said, glaring at her.

“You love me,” she replied.

You popped a shoulder while taking a long pull from your beer. At least they were considering keeping you on.

Lizzo’s Cuz I Love You started to play on the speakers.

“Turn it up!” you shouted. When everyone turned to look at you, you ducked your head. “I really like Lizzo. Okay?”

“I don't know what I'm gonna do. I'm crying 'cause I love you, oh. Yes, you,” erupted from your mouth.

Maggie gasped out a laugh.

“It’s the best part of the song,” you replied bringing the bottle to your mouth once again.

Conversations continued, but when the chorus started again, Monica, Maggie, and Daisy all joined you.

“I'm crying 'cause I love you, yeah. I'm crying, hey,” the four of you sang out.

Chris gave you the most endearing smile causing you to lose any focus you may have had.

“What?” you asked softly.

Chris shook his head lightly, bumping his knee against your own. “You’re just cute.”

The chorus came around again and you sang it along with the other three, but your eyes were on Chris. “Cause I love you…” His eyes widen and you realized your error. You turned your head to Travis who was still deep in conversation with Joe. “Trav, I think we should head back to the room.”

He looked to you, seeing the worry in your eyes. “Everything okay babe?”

“Ye-yeah. I just want to spend some more time with you,” you said getting up from the couch.

A chorus of oohs echoed around the room. You promptly stuck your tongue out and spun around. Okay, it was safe to say you were a little drunk.

“Cars ordered. Says the driver is ten minutes out.” Travis said holding up his phone to you.

Chris promptly got up, turning his back to you as he promptly moved down the hall. “I’ll grab your coats,” he yelled over his shoulder. You were about to offer to help, but Travis offered before you could.

A minute later the two men were back. Travis promptly helping you with your coat. You gave Chris a hug but it was awkward as he hands just lightly tapped your back. It was an impersonal hug and you knew he was doing it for Travis’ sake. The two of you had been pushing boundaries without even trying.

**

Travis was on his way home and you were at work. The two of you had stayed up late as you confessed your feelings about Chris. Travis, the ever-supportive friend held your hand throughout as you relayed your fears about your job and your heart. That’s the funny thing about love, you never truly knew how the other felt. Love involved risks.

Chris was back to texting you several times a day. When Travis was in town, he didn’t text at all as he wanted to give you and Travis time together. Neither of you spoke about the get together at his place and you took at as a sign that it was all one sided. Filming would be ending soon and everyone would be back in Los Angeles where the spell would be broken. You lived in California full time and Chris was in Massachusetts eighty percent of the time. You wouldn’t see each other. In a matter of months, he’d be promoting this film and you’d be on to the next one.

**

Chapter 8

A/N: Tumblr wasn’t letting me tag a few of you. If your name is crossed off below, please check to make sure you can get tagged. Thanks!

Tag list: @chrisevansfanfic​ @zsuzstyina​ @peach-acid​ @hista-girl​ @trynnabemultifandom​ @mrsshiddleston​ @tfandtws​ @heyyouwiththeassbutt​ @evanlys19​ @cheeseburgersstuff​  @evemej​ @whymalu​ @straightforwardly @deidrashouseofpain​ @samsgoddess​ @fanfictionaffair​ @sweet--rabbit​@lakamaa12 @imaginesofdreams​ @captnstarryeyed​ @the-walking-daryl​ @illi-vanilli​ @benedictcumberbabe​ @the-walking-daryl @dezzylou24​ @jennabenna12​ @tinycertain​ @oncloudnani @tanelle83​ @pinknerdpanda​ @allaboutthebooz​ @estillion14​ @panicfob​ @patzammit​ @heartislubbingdubbing​ @collinsstanharbour​ @twittytelly​ @linki-locks11​ @ab-baybay​ @rda1989 @impalaimages​ @jesseswartzwelder​ @rainbowkisses31​ @xostephanie​ @smoothdogsgirl​ @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk​ @xxloki81xx​ @thenormreedus​ @firstangeldragonranch​ @soitmightgetweird​ @maeleeme​ @denisemarieangelina​ @rvgrsbrns​ @icanfeelastormbrewing​ @velvetwonderbucky​ @kitkat1690​ @smilexcaptainx​ @suppu97​ @dangerouslovefanfic​ @dwights-new-plague​ @kelbabyblue​@sweetlittlegingy @chrisevansforever​ @evansxxx​ @southerngracela​

[highdramas]

cherry - part two 🍒

a javier peña / little women au

hi all! i hope you enjoy this part. let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list 💖 xoxo, dee

summary: your hot hazy summer continues, but not without a bit of drama. warnings: age gap ( reader is ten years younger than javier ), language word count: 3856

part one

javier and pauline returned from the supermarket within an hour, soft cloth bags filled with ingredients for the evening. pauline had always been a great cook; seemed to be able to whip something up from nothing, but when she had a recipe, it was magic. you, on the other hand, could hardly make a bowl of cereal without fucking it up somehow. so, you sit on the counter with your feet resting in the sink and watch as pauline skillfully cuts vegetables. her hands move with such a sharp precision, and there are a few moments where you worry she’s going to cut her own finger off. she must be able to feel your eyes on her, because she glances over at you. “you should really get your feet out of the sink. you’ve been outside all day, that’s disgusting.”

a lightbulb goes off in your head. there’s nothing you enjoy more than getting under your sister’s skin, and you’ve just found the perfect way to. “what, you don’t like my feet?” you beam and nudge the side of her face with your toe, making her jaw drop. she turns to you with a look of half repulsion and half amusement, as if she can’t believe you’ve actually just done that.

“you are intolerable.” pauline says it with a seriousness but you know she doesn’t mean it. well, you hope she doesn’t. but the small smirk on her face as she turns away from you gives you all the affirmation you need. “set the table.”

“sure thing, cruella.” you hop off the counter and can feel the glare on your back. you grab a stack of plates and are suddenly distracted, the sound of raucous footsteps crashing down the stairs. it’s just javier, in fresh clothes, walking with a pep in his step. “make yourself useful, javi, and help me.”

javier’s eyes aren’t on you, they’re on pauline. there’s a moment of silence before your sister looks over her shoulder at him, nodding towards her. “you heard her. help her.”

it’s not his help you want. it’s his attention. and with the reaffirmed knowledge that you don’t have it, suddenly you have no problem making haste at turning on your heel and setting the plates onto the outdoor table. the sun is setting but still illuminating the backyard-- it’s beautiful, in a different way than new york. it’s beautiful in a homey way. margot comes up beside you and rests her chin on your shoulder, looking at you with a smile. “pauline kick you out of her kitchen?”

“javi’s kitchen,” you correct, to which margot scoffs. margot is two years older than you, but there’s something about the softness of her demeanor that begs you to protect her, nurture her. and so you did, you always did. someone pushed her down in the dirt and you were the first one on your feet. “yeah. i put my foot in her face so she made me set the table.”

you both turn as javi steps through the threshold, silverware in hand. “is she fixing dessert?” margot asks him.

“she bought a cheesecake,” javi says knowingly. margot lights up. it’s her favorite.

you all do little things to protect margot, you suppose. even just to make her smile. where nora is kind in a maternal and popular sort of way, margot is kind in a way that is entirely innocent. a musician by nature, she was humming and being drawn towards a piano early on in childhood. your parents had saved up enough to purchase her a keyboard for her seventh birthday, and she made it last up until she was sixteen, making some of the most beautiful music you had ever heard. she went to a small state school in music theory and was now teaching lessons to the children in your hometown, and you couldn’t imagine a better career for her.

your sisters, they were pleased with the simple lives they were living. well, not pauline, you knew she wouldn’t rest until she was the next donna tartt. but pauline liked to flirt with her desires, not speak them plainly the way you did. margot is pleased teaching with the simple comforts of your hometown, nora settled down fast, a married stay at home mother with a little girl and another on the way. those were the lives they wanted. but not you.

simple had never been in your nature. your voice filled every room that you stepped into, your bedroom was covered in paintings and drawings, shelves full of knick knacks from your travels and books on color theory. you wanted your life at one hundred percent volume, all the time. and most of the time, it felt as though your grandmother was the only one who saw that in you. “you have potential, cherry. don’t let that go to waste.”

pauline comes out in a rush of dark hair and steaming plates. “everyone, sit,” she says, and it’s a command, not a question. and, you all do as she says. you sit down and lean back into your seat, pushing your sunglasses atop your head. it’s not lost on you how javier sits next to you. it feels like there’s a crackle of electricity between you two. perhaps you’re the only one who feels it; if javier does, he certainly has the perfect poker face. pauline finally sets down a large salad before sitting across javi, a proud smile on her face. “alright, well, don’t just stare at it.”

slowly, your family slips into their usual ways. talking and laughing, passing plates and smiling and enjoying the company. it’s all decadent and delightful, and it reminds you of the summer days in your childhood home. certainly not with this level of grandeur, but the energy was the same. sometimes you missed the simple nature of childhood. but the idea of adulthood was so enticing. being able to do what you wanted, when you wanted to. twenty years old and it still felt so new. so enjoyable. you never wanted this feeling to go away.

the chatter settles down and nora’s husband, finn, clears his throat and looks to you. “so, are you liking new york?”

pauline scoffs. you don’t say anything, looking down at your food before your eyes slowly go to your eldest sister. “what?”

“oh, nothing.” pauline cuts at the steak on her plate. “poor finn just doesn’t know what question he’s asked. we’ll be on this for hours.”

you set your silverware down and rest your wrists on the edge of the table, tilting your head at her. “i’m sorry, i guess i don’t know what you mean.” you furrow your eyebrows. “would you like to give him the cliffnotes version, since you seem to be so tired of the story? if you’re going to complain about it, i hope you’ve committed it to memory.”

“cherry…” margot says lowly from the other end of the table, already sensing what’s about to ensue.

pauline gives that smirk you’ve gotten to know well over the years, and turns to finn. “cherry is thriving in the city, with the coolest roommates, sneaking into the trendiest bars. all on our grandmother’s dime.” she looks at javier with a proud smile, but it slowly dissipates when she gazes at him. you turn to sneak a look, and his brows are furrowed, jaw set as he looks at pauline.

you can tell that finn is uncomfortable and you give him a smile. “well, she about covered it.” you clear your throat and toss your napkin onto the plate, looking back to pauline. “you’ve always had an attention to detail. you should go take a look in the mirror, you’re looking a little green. must be the envy.” pauline is already halfway through a rebuttal when you stand and turn, stomping back into the house.

the room you’re staying in has your things strewn about everywhere-- clothing and makeup, your sketchbook open on the bed. you huff and collapse face first onto the soft duvet, taking in the clean scent. like lavender. it’s dusk and the last glimpses of the sun are illuminating the room. pushing yourself up from the bed, you settle back against the headboard. you pout at the sound of knocking at the door. “can i come in?” you hear javier’s voice on the other side of the door.

suddenly, your heart is pounding in your chest. you adjust your hair and sit cross legged, sucking in a breath before saying, “come in.”

the door creaks open and javier’s on the other side with a small smile. “you two put on quite the show.” there’s no malice in his words and you know it, and it’s the only reason that you allow yourself to break with a smile. “can i sit?”

you nod and he sits on the edge of the bed, hands resting in his lap. “if you’re going to tell me i should go and apologize to her, i--”

“that’s not what i’m going to say.” javier shakes his head, eyes settled on you.

“so are you here to pity me?”

“it’s not that, either.” javier scoots closer to you. “i just thought you needed someone on your side.”

the words nearly split your heart into two. javier, who had always picked pauline… picking you? it was the sort of thing you had dreamed of, longed for, desired, for so long.

and that’s when you knew you were falling in love with javier peña.

--

“holy SHIT!” the exclamation takes you by surprise. it’s midafternoon days after your fight over dinner with pauline. nora and finn and the baby have gone home, and your friends were on their way from the city. they were the sort of people you’d always hoped you would meet-- nearly as opinionated as you, loud, boisterous, a terror on the new york city club scene. they’re your best friends. your hair is a mess atop your head as you draw on the front porch, awaiting their arrival. but once you hear the voice of sam, your freshman year roommate and absolute best friend, your drawing is the last thing on your mind. there the three of them are-- absurd amounts of luggage behind them, blowing a kiss to the uber driver. “look at you, fucking artemisia over here.”

a snicker leaves you and you’re coming to meet them in the middle, throwing your arms around them. “oh, i’ve missed you guys.” you say in a hushed and relieved sort of tone. but when you pull back, your face is full of delight and your eyes have a new sparkle in them. “let me help you put your stuff away.”

sam was the sort of person that you never knew that you needed in your life. brash and full of life and spirit, matching your energy from the moment you two met. but down the hall were teddy and esther, and it was when the four of you got together that everything seemed to click. you loved your sisters, truly, you did-- but there was something about the bond of female friendship that was a different sort of sisterhood. you chose each other, every single day-- every single night out, morning spent piled into teddy’s bed with a hangover, gossiping over cigarettes and cheap wine. you chose the bond.

“so…” teddy slips her arm through yours as you step up the stairs, each carrying a suitcase or carry on, your sketchbook tucked beneath your arm, wheels colliding with hardwood. “where is he?”

you smirk knowingly, raising an eyebrow in her direction. your friends had heard all about sweet javier. his charm, his wit-- you’d given explicit details of the mustache over facetime days before their arrival. “he’d gone into town for work, but i think he should be home soon.”

work is a relatively loose term, you note. javier works as an “entrepreneur”, but he plays much more than he works. when you’re born into the sort of wealth that javier has been born into, you figure it’s easy for you to get away with that. for your family, it was never that way. sure, your grandmother was paying for your schooling, but that didn’t mean it was all so simple. you were constantly working your ass off at two jobs, pouring yourself into your art to show that you deserved what your grandmother has given you. prove yourself not to be a failure. great, or nothing, you always said. you wanted to be great or nothing.

javier never had to worry about such things. sometimes you wished you could take the silver spoon from his mouth and put it into your own.

oh, to be wealthy. oh, to not have to worry about how you were going to pay your rent, how you were going to buy groceries for the week. you remember once telling pauline, “i’m going to be a rich man. like cher said.”

javier certainly doesn’t leave you waiting. he enters through the vast front doors just as you all gather at the top of the staircase. one by one, you turn, you standing in the middle of your friends. “welcome back, workaholic.” your lips quirk up and you tilt your head to the side, as if daring him to come up with some sort of rebuttal.

he glances up and his brows are furrowed as he begins climbing the stairs, easily brushing past your friends without a word. your heart drops and drops and drops, straight down to your stomach. being brushed off is bad enough, but being brushed off in front of your friends? you open your mouth to say something to them but pauline comes through the door after javier, slamming it behind her, storming into the kitchen. you can already feel margot’s curious voice asking what’s wrong. with a glance at your friends, you shrug your shoulders and nod them towards your bedroom. “oh, this is normal,” you say with a coy smile, despite it not being normal at all. you can tell something’s off. “they’ll be fine by dinner.”

--

they weren’t fine by dinner.

the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife-- and not just any knife, either. one of those fancy bread knives your mother always wanted that was advertised on qvc. your friends pick at their food and you glance between javier and pauline, wondering what on earth possibly could’ve happened. they each sit at an opposite head of the table, refusing to look at one another. just as you open your mouth to try and break the tension, margot says, “food’s delicious, ladies. thanks for cooking.”

you’d all piled into the kitchen and cooked an excellent pasta dish while pauline and javier each sulked in their respective rooms, margot’s piano a delightful soundtrack. but, once margot had made her way into the kitchen to help with the garlic bread, a disco tune was playing from someone’s phone and each of you danced. for a moment, you had forgotten whatever odd animosity was between your sister and her best friend. but once she had come back down to the kitchen, it was hard to ignore that something was up.

“you did the garlic bread,” you say. dripping with olive oil and delicious in every way-- if food wasn’t a love language, what was?

the rest of the evening is much of the same. margot and pauline do the dishes since you all had cooked, and javier retires to his bedroom. you can tell that your friends are somewhat disappointed-- they’ve heard all about charming and effervescent javier and all they’ve gotten is a grump. really, you can’t blame them for being disappointed. you’re disappointed too.

the summer home has no air conditioning and gets relentlessly hot in the evening. and with four giggling girls all piled into one queen bed, it’s no surprise that it’s sweltering. esther is asleep on the cool hardwood and teddy and sam are asleep atop the covers. it’s nearly two am but you still couldn’t sleep, sitting at the desk, a soft golden light illuminating the pages of your sketch book.

slumping back into your seat, you find yourself distracted by the sound of water splashing outside. standing, you peek out the window to see javier in the pool, rubbing his hand over his face. it’s difficult to see him, but what you can see is beautiful. tanned skin and a sharp jaw, brows still downturned. you turn away and stand at the desk for a few more minutes, looking over at your sketchbook.

you flick the light off and close the door behind you quietly.

--

javier doesn’t notice you at first. you’re barefoot and lingering in the doorway, trying to plan your next move. but he sees you, and when he locks his eyes with yours, it’s the first time you’ve seen him smile all day. “can’t sleep?”

you shake your head and move closer to the pool as he swims to the edge, resting his forearms on it. his cheek is in the palm of his hand and god he’s gorgeous-- you appreciate his beauty because you love and adore him, but you also appreciate it as an artist. hard and soft at the same time, a conundrum that you could stare at all day. you sit beside where he rests, your bare legs dipping into the pool. the coolness is a perfect contrast from the fading summer heat. “no. you know, you’re a rich man, javier, you should invest in some air conditioning.”

he scoffs and chuckles to himself, pushing off the edge. you watch as he dips back below the surface, the silhouette of his body just barely being caught by the moonlight. when he comes back up, he’s beside you again, wiping at his eyes. “i’ll keep that in mind.”

the silence sits between you two, but it’s different than the silence that had filled the air over dinner. it’s quiet in a comforting way. the pavement begins to hurt your palms as you lean back on them, kicking your legs in the water. finally, you lean forward, splaying your hands on your thighs and looking at javier. “why are you and pauline fighting?”

if he’s caught off guard by your question, he doesn’t show it. he sighs and clenches his jaw once more, and whatever happened, it still is visibly affecting him. he looks up at you slowly, lips almost forming a pout. you wish you could kiss him and rid him of whatever emotion is causing him to feel this way. he looks as though whatever it is, he doesn’t want to admit it to you. his brown eyes are wide and you nearly hold your breath. “i told her how i feel.”

you don’t need to ask how he feels. you already know, of course you do. javier would go to the ends of the earth for pauline, and everyone in your lives knows it. javier is in love with pauline and you have sat on the sidelines and watched him love her.

but of course javier would never look at you that way, right? you are the youngest sister, the spoiled one, the comic relief-- even if it’s occasionally a mean-spirited jab towards your sister. javier is a thirty year old grown man and you’re a twenty year old student, and it feels like miles and miles of distance between the two of you sometimes. but most of the time? you look at him and you see your equal.

you can mull over how perfect it would be to love javier however many times you want. it doesn’t mean you’ll get the chance.

you don’t speak, but you don’t have to, as he continues. “she said she doesn’t feel the same, but i just--” he shakes his head and looks up to you. “i don’t understand.”

javier gazes at you and you can see the pure desperation in his eyes. he longs for pauline, in a way that you’ve never seen someone long for another. you nod your head and slowly, reach out to place your hand on his shoulder. “i don’t understand either.”

he turns to look at your hand, manicured nails and all. slowly, he takes it into his hand and he squeezes it, a small smile on his face. “but you know what i do understand?” your words are soft and he raises his eyebrows to urge you on. “she’s lucky to be loved by you. even if she doesn’t see it that way. one day, someone will.”

i would, you think. i will.

javier’s hand still holds yours and it’s delicate and lovely. “when did you get so wise?” he teases.

you shrug your shoulders and before you can comprehend what’s happening, he’s tugging on your hand to bring you into the water with him. you gasp as you go down, completely caught off guard, bobbing up for air. his laughter is a beautiful melody in your ears and you splash him, pushing the hair away from your face. “you’re such an asshole,” you tease, still trying to catch your breath while javier swims around you. “a grade-a asshole.”

“oh, really?” he still moves around you and you turn your body to watch him as he does, nodding your head.

slowly, he stops, coming before you in the water. “yup,” you say, and you pop the p. javier is still coming closer and it’s hard to comprehend. when he’s close enough that your chests are nearly brushing, you can feel your heart thumping like a drumbeat in your chest. “what’re you doing?” you whisper.

he shakes his head and pushes your wet hair back, off your shoulders, his large hand coming to the back of your neck. “i don’t know.”

you look up at him with confused eyes and he looks vulnerable and soft and god you just want to kiss him--

you don’t have to want for it anymore.

his lips are soft and full and perfect for kissing, and god, does he know how to kiss. his grip on the back of your neck is both firm and gentle, keeping you close but not trapped. you feel stupid with your arms at your sides and you place them on his arms. when he pulls away, you already miss the absence, but you don’t have to for long. javier is capturing your lips again and this time it’s needier, desperate, your legs wrapping around his waist in the water and your arms around his neck.

“javi…” you murmur against his jaw when he pulls away.

“fuck.” it’s hot and it stirs something in your belly but he pulls away from you, taking his hands and unwrapping your limbs from his body. he slumps back against the edge with his face in his hands, and you stand there, wet and confused and hoping. when he finally looks back up to you, you can see there’s tears pricking his eyes, and he shakes his head. “i’m sorry, cherry.”

he climbs out of the pool, and for once, you’re entirely speechless.

taglist: @ariespedro​ @gooddaykate​ @and-drew-101​ @thinemineours​

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Handshake

Sam Winchester x Harry Styles (Yes, really.) 

Word Count: ~1k

Warnings: Nothing, really? Some suggestive dialogue?   

A/N: So a while ago @deanwanddamons​ requested a rockstar AU, and my brain ran the fuck off with that, leaving all the original details in the dust and giving me this cracktastic pairing instead. @fookinghelljensensthighs​ sent me a picture of Harry Styles in a collar and encouraged me, so I think this is mostly her fault. Idk. Rockstar AU! 

You can now read more in this ‘verse (with more coming soon!) right over HERE. 

The afterparty is in someone’s hotel suite, and as far as these parties go, it’s a little mellower than Sam expected. Not that there aren’t any dilated pupils in sight, obviously, but nobody’s dancing on a table yet, or anything. 

Sam feels high enough on the adrenaline of the show. He’s just been sitting on one of the couches talking drum equipment with one of the techs and he still feels giddy in that warm, floaty, really-good-Ecstasy way. Cas is listening to something Lindsey is saying, with rapt star-struck attention, and he doesn’t seem to notice his empty glass. Charlie’s flirting shamelessly with a pretty girl Sam hasn’t met, drinking water as usual. 

Dean’s pacing himself pretty well, too, sitting across the room playing acoustic duets and occasionally sipping on his whiskey. He’s wide-eyed and twitchy, but it’s just from excitement. Stevie hasn’t come in yet; Dean sneaks a glance at the door every few minutes, looking breathlessly excited, and it makes him look like a teenager again. 

Granted, they haven’t had the best luck with Christmases, but when the invitation came in to open for Fleetwood Mac at Madison Square Garden, Dean’s expression was everything Sam imagined a normal kid might look like on Christmas. Puppies and candy and Christmas, all over his face. 

Sam’s at the makeshift bar someone’s set up when the door opens, and there’s Stevie herself, sweeping through the door in a whirl of black fringe. She’s shepherding a younger guy who looks vaguely familiar, but Sam can’t place him; he’s half-hidden behind his long hair, slouching, head ducked like he’s trying to be inconspicuous. 

Stevie looks a little different from the poster of her that hung over Dean’s bed for a decade, but she’s still striking, and she’s the sort of person who lights up the entire room with her smile. She shakes hands with Cas and leans in to whisper something to a very overwhelmed Charlie, and then she heads for Dean. She kisses him on the cheek as he greets her, clearly complimenting him, and Sam’s slightly concerned Dean will pass out from happiness. 

He watches Dean for a minute before smiling to himself and turning back to the table, looking for the whiskey. Someone else reaches for the bottle at the same time, and Sam gets a glimpse of blue nail polish and chunky rings before a low, accented voice is apologizing. 

“No, go ahead,” Sam says bemusedly, looking down at the guy who’d come in with Stevie. He’s young enough to be her grandchild. Sam debates asking if that’s the case, for a second, before reminding himself of the cringeworthy time he’d asked a similar question to someone who turned out to be a Rolling Stone’s wife. 

“Here, then,” the guy says, with a little smile, and he fills Sam’s glass before grabbing his own. 

“Thanks.” 

Sam’s slightly distracted by his outfit; there’s lace involved, and a sturdy leather cuff on each of his wrists that bears the stamp of one of Sam’s favorite companies. It’s a company that makes bondage gear, to be specific. Sam’s torn between being a little bit turned on (he tells himself it’s just Pavlovian conditioning to the sight of those cuffs) and being even more curious (and mildly concerned) about how this kid knows the band.  

“Cheers,” the guy says, and lifts his glass in a quick toast. 

Sam clinks it with his own and takes a sip. “I’m Sam.” 

“Yeah, I know,” the guy says, looking up through his lashes and smiling. 

Sam’s more than a little taken aback, at both the smile and the recognition. He loves being able to hide behind the drum kit, not least of all because of the relative anonymity he enjoys from casual fans. 

Besides, those dimples are pretty startling. So are the eyelashes. Huh. 

“Good show,” he says thoughtfully. “I like what you guys did with ‘Woman In White,’ changing it up like that. Keeps the old stuff fresh.” 

“Thanks,” Sam says, grinning. Apparently the surprises are just going to keep on coming tonight; most of the sort of people who end up backstage at Madison Square Garden don’t actually listen to the opening band. He hesitates and asks, “How do you know her?” 

“Stevie? I was just a big fan,” he says, with a familiar hero-worship sort of smile evident on his face. “I brought her a carrot cake, we got to talking. She was nice enough to give me some advice. You know.” 

Sam doesn’t know, because that’s not the sort of thing that just happens to people.

“Cool,” he says. Sam doesn’t ask the biggest question on his mind, which is who the fuck are you? People who are that sort of famous tend to get huffy when they’re not recognized. 

This guy just looks amused. As if he knows exactly what Sam is thinking, he says, “I’m a musician. Well, I sing, mostly... and play guitar. Can’t drum, though. That’s probably obvious.” 

“Obvious?” 

“Soft hands.” It sounds like a secret in his quiet, husky voice. He holds one hand out between them, palm-up. “Can always recognize a drummer. It’s the calluses.” 

“Ah,” Sam says, and holds up his hand for comparison. 

“Speaking of, I don’t think I properly introduced myself.” He takes Sam’s hand, now, and shakes it slowly, holding eye contact in a way that makes it feel almost outrageously flirtatious. 

“No, you didn’t.”   

“Sorry, was excited to meet you, forgot my manners,” he says, without letting go of Sam’s hand. “Harry.” 

“Mind me asking if I’d recognize any of your music?” 

“I don’t mind, no,” Harry says. The sparkle in his eyes makes Sam feel like he’s missing a joke. “But… probably not.” 

“Why do I feel like you’re lying?” Sam asks, with a teasing smirk. “Nice cuffs, by the way.” 

Harry’s eyes light up delightedly for a split-second, but he just laughs, finally letting go of Sam’s hand to tuck his hair behind his ears. 

“Nice to meet you,” Sam adds, and means it. 

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Follow-up is here! 

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If you enjoyed this, please reblog or leave a note here! 

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[a-student-out-of-time]

Connections Review Part 1

Happy 2021 everyone! Well…the year’s off to a terrible start due to how bad last year was but I hope that most of 2021 will be good and not be 2020 Part 2: Electric Boogaloo. But enough of that, another arc ended, another review due. Now I am quite conscious of length here and I’ll try to make these reviews a bit easier to read, it will still be split into 3 parts as there I can cover the main themes which are; Time Travel, Harems and Maverick ‘Motherfucker Hellspawn’ Storm. My initial plan was to have a quick lightening recap of everything that doesn’t fit into these categories and then review the Time Travelling and Harems but Storm became so big he needed his own part. Oh, and it should go without saying, but I will not cover the Mistletoe Asks. They are not relevant to the arc and are basically shipping fluff. No in-depth analysis required there. And with that said and done, let’s get right into it.

Its Recap time

So, as I mentioned before we get into the 3 big themes of this arc, I’ll cover really quick, and I promise it will be really quick here, anything that doesn’t fit into those categories. So firstly, we see that Kazuichi went around the Void Warehouse and helped fix their lights. Now that all of Class 77-B are aware of Void’s existence, they can help out with any problems they might have in their living quarters, which leads to a funny scene of Kazuichi getting attacked by a crow. This could be random but given what has happened with another seemly random event (more on that later) and the fact that Monocrow exists, this could be sinister foreshadowing for things yet to come. We also see Kazuichi getting ideas to build a robot with Chihiro as that’s his way of romance. Given Chihiro’s crossdressing tendencies, I wonder when the truth comes out and how confused our shark boy would be. But yeah, Kazuichi out all of the new Class 77-B members seems to have the most focus in this arc, not that I’m complaining as he was the most ‘pointless’ survivor from DR2 so him getting actual character development and focus I’m more then welcome for! There’s also Yoruko rekindling her relationship with her mentor Minako. This went better than expected then again it happened years ago, both Yoruko and Minako had time to reflect on it and both wanted to make up, but thought the other wouldn’t accept it. We also see some parallels here with Hiroko from UDG as Kizuna is revealed to be the result of a teenage pregnancy. As I mentioned in an ask, not to bog you down with personal details but teenage pregnancy is a serious problem where I live and too many people I know fucked as teens, didn’t use protection, and boom! Babies! Good thing I have a passion for Danganronpa so I DON’T get wrapped up in that kind of stuff eh? So, I completely understand Minako’s rational here, and Kizuna’s more troublesome behaviour as one of my RL friends was also the result of a teen pregnancy, and this led to her having…issues. And yeah, Kizuna shamelessly flirts with the Anons and talks about Josuke, no not THAT Josuke, simping hard for her. Naturally we have bigger problems to content with but once the weather calms down, we need to sort out Kizuna, especially now that Yoruko and Minako have made up. And that’s the two things that happened which weren’t relevant to the main themes. Now they are out of the way, time to move onto Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey Stuff. Hey, Emma made a Doctor Who joke already, so it’s okay!

Back to the Visions

Despite Time Travel being one of the main themes of this blog, not a lot of research has gone into it at the moment, so in this wind down time, it’s the perfect time for Umeko to do some experiments into time travel. Last Arc dropped the reveal that Mikako has being getting dreams of the future, and as Koroko and Umeko pull up at the Kisurugi household, we see that Mikako just had a dream of the Tragedy, which understandably horrified her. Because of this Umeko and Koroko were forced to tell Mikako, Yamato and his father the truth about the future. They omitted Kasugano and him changing the timelines as its not needed but well…when one dreams of an apocalyptic future you know is coming, there’s no sense in lying about it. Umeko then explains about the time travel and basically that since the brain surgery, Mikako’s brain has become a tachyon receiver that can pick up tachyon from different timelines, not just the one you are on. But it goes beyond being able to see the future via her dreams as if Mikako focuses, and someone touches Mikako during this time, they are hit with a vision of the future that involves them. The first vision was with Koroko and she caught a glimpse into a future much more distant then the 2017 that Hajime, Yoruko, Sora and the other 2 time travellers came from, as it seems to be from the Year 2020-2022 so pretty close to our time then. Here Koroko and Kanata, who not only went through a growth spurt like Hiyoko (Poor Hibiki, she is forever going to be the short one) and has married Nagito, are giving vaccinations to a young girl named Sayuri Hinata. Sayuri herself is very familiar to some people as during the last Arc when Akane was trying to comfort Nikei, one Anon asked about a timeline where she and Ayame had a child. This was a reference to Nextgenronpa which is a Nextgen AU on Instagram created by Mikwithnoando, if you happen to have an Instagram account, I highly recommend reading it, it’s really good! The character in question is called Sayuri Otonokoji the Ultimate Sculptor and in Nextgenronpa she’s the child of Hibiki and Iroha. Koroko looking through her medical records noticed her mother’s name is Hibiki Hinata so Hibiki obviously changed her last name, makes sense as she wants to probably be as far away from Otonokoji as possible now but no mention of the father and yes Sayuri looks a lot like Iroha. This has a few possibilities.

The first theory is that Sayuri is Hibiki and Hajime’s child, but both are very busy. Hibiki would have very likely restarted her musical career around this time and we don’t know what Hajime would be doing but he would be very busy as well, and thus not a lot of time to raise Sayuri. Now Iroha would have a very sedimentary lifestyle and given she is looking after Jataro at the moment, this would probably make Iroha one of the more experienced caretakers/mothers of the cast, so maybe Sayuri was often babysat by Iroha, and if Sayuri was spending a lot of time with Iroha at a young age, she would start to view Iroha as a second mother and start copying her behaviour and mannerisms. But that doesn’t evade the fact that Sayuri PHYSICALLY looks like Iroha as well. The second theory is something happens to Hibiki or Hajime and they are unable to reproduce but want kids. With Kyoji, making kids would not be an issue, but a surrogate mother would be required and maybe Iroha volunteered to be a surrogate. However, the big issue there is that Iroha is much younger than the Goodbye Despair cast, and as Mikan later points out legally, you need to be 21 to be eligible. Sayuri looking to be 8-10 years old means Hibiki and Hajime must have banged around now-2014 and Iroha won’t turn 21 until 2017 and Sayuri looks way older than 3-5 years old. But there is one more theory and the one I believe in. Just because Mikako can see the future, doesn’t mean it’s the timeline we are currently on, and you guys remember that awful, awful period during Oncoming Storm when Iroha was crushing on Hajime and wanted to join the Cuddle Puddle despite there being a significant age gap between him and Iroha? In our timeline, Yoruko was able to slap some sense into Hajime, he was able to see he was developing a Saviour’s complex and was able to grow and develop, and it also system shocked Iroha as well as she learnt that she needed to grow up as well. But what if that didn’t happen? I think that timeline is from one when the sense slapping didn’t happen and Iroha did wind up being part of the Cuddle Puddle, and Sayuri was the result of science from Kyoji and Iroha and Hibiki wanting kids. In addition to this we also see Kotoko in her teen years and she looks brilliant all grown up and the way she talked about ‘our mothers’ and Sayuri referring to Kotoko as a big sister, makes one believe that Mikan is successful in adopting Kotoko. Overall, while Sayuri is going to be a headache to decode, that future was nice and sweet, even if it gave Mikako mild seizures.

After Mikako recovered, Yamato wanted to see the future as well, and thus we get the second vision which is from the OG Timeline in 2014, as it shows some Class 79 tomfoolery with Haruhiko ‘testing’ Yamato’s jetpack and crashing into a tree, and Teruya being concerned for his bro. I know its 2014 because Class 79 was formed then and they didn’t bond for long before Utsuro showed up with an army of Monokumas and was like ‘Knock knock, it’s the upupupu train’ and we get the Proto Killing Game. At least Yamato gets to see his future friends for the first time. And Mikako doesn’t get that much of a headache this time so it seems that the further in time she looks, the bigger the side effects. The first vision was a decade into the future so the side effects were quite big but the second one was only a couple of years so the effects were reduced.  It remains uncertain if Mikako has to trust the person in question for the vision link to be done because as much of a force of good this seer ability is, it can also be used for evil. Overall, lots of discoveries on Mikako’s abilities and some hope that not every future out there is filled with despair and there exists a timeline where the Quantum Crew do win. Now it’s a case of seeing if that’s the timeline they are on or not.

That summarizes part 1 with the recapping of minor details and the time travelling science! It’s a longer part then I wanted but with the recap at the beginning it cannot be helped. When we come back, I’ll talk about the Harems and the events surrounding them and hopefully that would be the new length I wish to aim for because this is more of my old length. Stay tuned people! - Review Anon

[period-dramallama]

A skim read of jean plaidy’s St Thomas Eve

For @thalassodromid bc this is our Niche

General thoughts on quality (TLDR)

-First off, I should give this book something of a pass because it was written 60+ years ago. Historical research, like science, Marches On.

-I skimmed it because i was not loving the style. There’s very little description, the pacing feels like This Happened And Then This Happened. With this story, you should have a sense of the stakes, the tension. It lacks atmosphere.

-This book really didn’t spark much emotion in me. I was heartwarmed and amused, but never frightened, horrified, fascinated or upset. I felt no panic when Meg got the sweat. 

-Honestly i was so bored I started wondering if maybe this is too difficult a story to tell, because i came in loving these historical figures and wanting content. How bored must the unobsessed reader be?

-Show don’t tell, Jean! Don’t tell me everyone’s very upset, show me them upset. Don’t tell me Meg loves Thomas, show their bond. Don’t tell me everyone loves Thomas for his honesty, show me him helping his neighbours.

-To be fair, there’s a lot to get through in 260 pages.

-I just love how historical fiction pulp novels have Book Club questions at the back. It just feels rather cocky, imo. Like you think your book is Deep enough for me to sit and ponder the characters. Like there was a question that was something like: “do you prefer Katherine of Aragon or Anne Boleyn” which was kind of hilarious because the whole book it was Poor Loyal Old Ugly Katherine and Six Fingered Anne Boleyn Is A Minx And Wants Thomas More Dead

Pet peeves

-at the beginning of the book, it says “Secretly Henry VII was unbothered by his wife’s death” or something along those lines. Given that Henry VII locked himself away after Elizabeth died and his mum had to step in and rule because he stopped functioning, this left a bitter taste in my mouth. Henry VII in this book is a Mean Evil Miser so of course he can’t love or be loved by a Good Woman.

-John More jnr being described as the family dunce. To be fair, maybe the book came out before we knew he was a translator too, but STILL. Don’t put John down to raise the girls up. He is valid too. 

-the language is what my old tutor would call ‘mock Tudor’. I think it was expected at the time that you had to try and make the language authentic- The Blanket of the Dark and the Man on a Donkey both use Tudor language. It really made the dialogue annoying. Lots of ‘tis and ‘twas and it was this close to beshrew me verily and hey fucking nonny nonny. Every time Alice said fuckign ‘Tilly valley’ I went AAAARGGGH. JUST HAVE HER SAY THE WORD ‘NONSENSE’. There’s a happy middle, imo, between too Tudor and too modern, and it’s quite a broad middle, you can move around a lot in it, but there are limits. 

-SPEAKING OF ALICE. Her character introduction was so good- first described as ‘an authoritative feminine voice’ *chef’s kiss* she stops a fainting Jane from being trampled at Henry’s coronation, accompanies her home and cares for her while simultaneously lowkey roasting her interior decoration. But then she becomes a bit of a caricature. When Meg gets the sweat she nags her for going near anyone who might have the sweat. The book club questions say ‘there’s more to her than meets the eye’ THEN SHOW ME MORE THAN ONE SIDE OF HER. Also Thomas loves her even though she’s ‘rude and stupid’ but Meg doesn’t understand why. Grr. 

-”mistress middleton will hear you [2 year old John] crying and box your ears” NO NO NO NO NO!

-also i get a 1950s Spanking Children Is Good Parenting vibe because Alice hits the Morelings with a slipper if they don’t study, and Tm’s described as too much of “a coward” (literally the word coward is used) to hit his children other than with peacock feathers.

-Utopia being described as an ideal state...it’s really more than that. I don’t like the idea that Meg and Thomas were okay with religious toleration but then Thomas became Consumed With Hate and he says “well religious toleration would be great in an IDEAL state...”

-Meg being horrified by heretic burning. Maybe the evidence of her views wasn’t yet available and so social mores of the 50s meant that writers and historians assumed that Of Course Being a Delicate Woman She Would Have A Natural Desire For Peace And Mercy. Grr.

-Too romancey. To be fair, Jean Plaidy wrote a lot of historical romances so maybe that’s just what she’s comfortable with (and these are historical figures that never get a chance to shine) but between Meg and Will, Clement and Mercy, Joan and Thomas, Giles and Cecily... it’s a bit like Pearl Harbour in that it’s hard to care about the cute romance when men are getting burned alive in the background. A good historical romance is more like Titanic: the lovers are directly connected with the Big Historical Events ongoing. Skip!

-in this book, Mercy thinks to herself that Meg would have Tm sign the oath, but Mercy would prefer tm to do as his conscience dictates...that feels like the wrong way round.

-Erasmus and Thomas More speaking in English...Doubt.jpeg. 

-Thomas More muses on how Complex men are because there’s Proud Cold Thomas Howard who is Soft for Simple Launderess Bess Holland...yeah given the multiple colossal power imbalances in that real-life affair, I’d be very surprised if it never strayed into abuse.

-baby Meg is a lil too precocious.

-dying Joan tells Meg to look after her father, no Joan stop I love you but don’t give a six year old responsibility, I don’t care if she’s six but acts eleven, looking after TM is Alice’s job not Meg’s. 

-Tm using the phrase ‘our little secret’ with Meg. The context is not abusive, but the phrase is so weighted, it’s like referring to something as “a final solution”: the famous meaning is too horrifying to feel comfortable with that combination of words in any context at all. 

-Joan’s younger sister being described as beautiful and flirtatious, and the whole bit about More fancying the younger sister but going for the older out of honour. The book says that More’s fascination with joan’s sister is the reason he realised he couldn’t be a priest. Given Joan’s 16, her sister’s 15 at the oldest, possibly 14. So a 26 year old can’t be a priest because he’s lusting after a 14-15 year old girl who is attractive and who has been flirting with him. Squick. 

-also no mention of erasmus at the end of tm’s life. Boo. I think a dude in the tower would think about his BFF of 30+ years who he hasn’t seen for 10+ years 

Good bits

-It’s obviously unintentional, but given how the word ‘gay’ has changed, i gave a little cheer every time a character was described as gay. Cecily and John are both gay, Thomas More is very gay, and later in the book wishes he could go back to being gay again. Loving the accidental representation 

-”a boy who is not worth the tossing” i have a dirty mind ok

-Joan getting something of a personality! She even feels insecure because she’s a normal person stuck in a family of geniuses.

-George Boleyn is described as being ‘a bright boy’ and later the girls joke that if they meet him they’ll probably fall in love THIS SO REFRESHING. Otoh, Mary Boleyn is slutshamed and Anne is a scheming minx so the double standard does spoil it a little. 

-Thomas More makes puns! At one point Alice says “more’s the pity” and then immediately says “don’t you dare make a pun out of that. i know u will. DON’T I AM NOT IN THE MOOD FOR PUNS” Granted, Plaidy stresses that his wit is never cruel or mocking (Doubt.jpeg) but i think this is maybe the funniest More. 

-It acknowledges the heretic burning! Not bad for 1950-something. At the end there’s a sort of Hm Thomas More Is A Complex Dude How Do We Approach Him page from H8′s POV.

-More’s father getting all misty-eyed when his son becomes Chancellor

-Henry VIII kissing tm’s forehead

-the flogging of the mentally ill upskirter being depicted

-Wolsey not being a caricature but a worldly and practical man. He’s explicitly described as “not a bad man”

-”He [TM] was no Erasmus, who, having thrown the stone that shattered the glass of orthodox thought, must run and hide himself lest he should be hurt by the splinters” not a very fair way to depict Erasmus (as he spent a lot of the last decades of his life arguing against Luther and trying to mediate between religious factions, esp in Basel) However, I like the metaphor

-Meg talking about how she and her sisters will always compare men unfavourably to their father... understandable.

-More explaining why Heretic Burning is Good Actually is done well

-Meg pointing out that More and Erasmus both criticised the Church, only it’s a bit half-baked because More never experiences any doubt or crisis over it. 

-Meg being torn between the Lutheran and the Catholic men she loves is at least some conflict and stakes when it finally shows up.

-Alice standing trial for dogknapping on page 195. A Big Lipped Alligator Moment, and I’ve no idea the source (i doubt Plaidy would make it up completely, it’s so out of nowhere) but it’s fun. It feels like one of More’s ‘merry tales’

“[Erasmus] read aloud to Thomas when he came home; and sometimes Thomas would sit by his friend’s bed with Margaret on one side of him and Mercy on the other; he would put an arm about them both, and when he laughed and complimented Erasmus so that Erasmus’ pale face was flushed with pleasure, then Margaret believed that there was all the happiness in the world in that room.” my emotions! my emotions! my ship is sailing, i repeat, the ship is sailing!

-”Meg, this is one of the happiest days of my life. it is a day I shall remember on the day i die. i shall say to myself when i find death near me: ‘the great erasmus said that of my daughter, my meg.’”

-”So the King likes verses!” said mistress middleton, her voice softening a little. 

“Ah, madam,” said Thomas. “What the King likes today, may we hope Mistress Middleton will like tomorrow?” Do I smell... flirtation...

-”His face was pleasant and kindly, [Alice] concluded....She would like to feed him some of her possets, put a layer of fat on his bones with her butter.” Does this version of Alice have a feeding kink I definitely think, in this ‘verse, Tm and Alice are 100% having sex.

-John Colet’s in it, though described as tm’s confessor (who i think was actually grocyn or linacre)

-Alice clearing a path for a fainting Jane with “Stand aside, you oafs.” alexa, play X gon give it to you.