#I’m going to cross post my snippets here

[caffeinewitchcraft]

[maroonshirt81]

hey! did you see that post going around with drunk!Oscar looking completely out of it, some guy's hand around his waist? I remember you mentioned somewhere you like writing drunk scenes. could you write something carcar with this kind of dummy!drunk Oscar? that would make my day ❤️

You are completely right about my tendency to write fics where the characters are drunk. After this one, there are at least 3 more coming up. Clocked! And I don't even drink alcohol, hah! (also write a lot of porn for an asexual, so... make of that what you will.)

I didn't find the exact post you're referring to, but I'm guessing you meant this flavor of Oscar:

I've already postet a snippet of this, but here's the full, almost 6k of dummy!drunk carcar, rated M

----

Carlos let his gaze wander across the opulent, marble-columned room. It was the kind of space that belonged in a palace, but was in fact just the banquet hall of a local luxury hotel.

He wrinkled his nose, finding it all a bit tacky. This was a fundraiser for a school, for fuck’s sake! Granted, a fancy private school, but still. Not the goddamn royal wedding. Yet the board had spared no expense to impress the parents and grandparents of their future students.

The hall was lined on both sides with tables, overflowing with canapés and champagne flutes, from which an army of waiters continuously filled their trays, gliding from guest to guest to ensure not a single throat went dry.

Clearly, the master plan was to get everyone drunk enough to leave a generous check with their signature on it before the night was over.

Carlos had no idea why the teachers had to be part of this farce. They stood out in their ill-fitting suits like ducklings at a swan convention, clearly out of place.

His eyes landed on Charles, surrounded by a group of older ladies, his gaze silently screaming for help. A bit farther off stood Max, sulking in a corner with his arms crossed, shooting death glares at anyone who dared approach him. And in the opposite corner, Carlos spotted his least favorite colleague, Oscar – who he’d bet was having the worst time of all, trapped among privileged older people, forced to make small talk about what blessings their spoiled children were.

Instead, he found Oscar with a big, dopey smile on his face, eyes narrower than Carlos had ever seen them, a deep flush on his cheeks. He held an empty champagne flute in his hand, and there... there was an arm, slung low around his waist. Far too low. It belonged to some older man whose face was way too close to Oscar’s to be appropriate. Especially considering Oscar was clearly drunk out of his mind.

Before Carlos had even formed a proper plan, he was already striding across the hall, setting his empty glass on a passing tray.

Just because he didn’t like Oscar didn’t mean he’d let him get groped in the middle of a work function. As private school teachers, they already gave up enough dignity to these kinds of parents, money often speaking louder than real effort or basic decency.

“Good evening,” Carlos said politely once he reached the group of older men surrounding Oscar. “I’m terribly sorry, but I need to steal Mr. Piastri for a moment – we’re supposed to prepare the presentation later and he’s the only one who knows the password for the file.”

Oscar turned to him, that big, stupid smile still plastered on his face. “Wot?”

It took serious effort to keep his own fake smile in place, especially since the massive hand resting at the curve of Oscar’s ass didn’t even twitch.

“The presentation, Oscar,” Carlos repeated, enunciating pointedly. “I sent you an email about it earlier today.” When Oscar just gave a slow blink in response, Carlos turned to the men with exaggerated exasperation. “Math guys,” he sighed. “Famously terrible communicators.”

The overly hands-on man beside Oscar broke into loud, boisterous laughter, and Carlos swore he saw that giant hand slide even lower in his peripheral vision. He might’ve blacked out for a second. Abandoning the high road, Carlos grabbed the stranger’s hand and pulled it off Oscar’s ass, slipping an arm around his colleague’s back instead to steer him away from the predatory crowd. There was a chorus of surprised gasps and awkward chuckles behind him, and Carlos could only hope the guy wasn’t going to file a complaint with the higher-ups.

Oscar stumbled along with him, his side easily melting into Carlos’s, which was strange, because Oscar was usually stiff as a board, groaning like he was seventy every time he stood up from a chair. Now, he felt like liquid, easily guided across the room and out a side door. Carlos paused for a moment, getting his bearings. They’d ended up in a dim corridor, but there was light to the left, so he followed it, rounding the corner and finding an entrance to a long sunroom that opened into the hotel’s rear gardens.

He maneuvered Oscar’s boneless body through two sliding doors until they stood outside on the terrace, the summer evening breeze brushing soothingly against their skin.

Oscar made no attempt to free himself from Carlos’s arm. He probably needed the support. His head tilted as he looked around with slow, confused blinks.

“Is your laptop out here?” he asked.

“Oh my god!” Carlos took the empty champagne flute from Oscar’s hand and set it down on a mosaic table, then rounded on his hammered colleague. “You do realise that old creep’s hand was basically kneading your ass, right?”

Oscar gave him wide eyes – at least as wide as they would go in his state, which wasn’t very wide at all.

“Oh, no, he was just being a little overly friendly,” he waved it off with a shrug. “You know. American.”

“Yeah? Is that so? Do Americans usually stick their tongues in your ear at professional functions?”

Oscar, unbelievably, giggled like Carlos had just made a joke and didn’t even follow up on it. Instead, he slowly sank down to the tiled floor, his side dragging against Carlos’s. Apparently, the groaning like a dying animal wasn’t limited to getting up – it made an appearance even when he was sitting– or rather, lying down on the ground.

“What are you doing?” Carlos asked, incredulous.

“Head’s spinning a bit,” Oscar said, eyes closed.

“Yes, no shit. Are you going to throw up?”

Oscar snorted, opening one crinkly eye to peek up at Carlos. “From what?” he asked. “I didn’t drink any alcohol. I’m at work! I only had that funny, sparkly orange juice.”

“You mean the mimosas?” Carlos groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “Oscar! How many?”

Oscar gave him a blank look, then visibly blanched.

“Why do they have mimosas at a fancy gala?” he whined, instead of answering Carlos’s question. “Aren’t they for brunch and stuff?”

“Yes, but what kind of clientele do you think the parents of our students are? They made sure to have everyone’s favorite drink on hand!”

Oscar mumbled something unintelligible which Carlos was 90% sure was “They are pretty good…” and Carlos shook his head, pulling his phone from his pocket.

“I’m calling you an Uber,” he said, resolute.

Oscar didn’t even try to argue. He folded his hands over his belly and closed his eyes, face relaxed and content, very unlike his usual expression of mild constipation.

The nearest Uber was still a while out. They were on a secluded hilltop overlooking the ocean – an ideal setting for a whodunit, and Carlos could only hope Oscar didn’t drop dead and leave him as the prime suspect – miles away from the city.

“Don’t fall asleep now!” he warned, nudging Oscar with his foot. “I won’t carry your drunk ass all the way to the parking lot!”

“Hm yes, because you couldn’t,” Oscar murmured, clearly half-asleep. Of course he’s out of it enough to let some randy retiree grope him in the middle of a gala and not even register the violation – but God forbid he miss a chance to throw shade at Carlos.

“I teach sports,” Carlos reminded him, offended despite himself. “I’m fit! Of course I could carry you!”

“Really?” Oscar cracked open his eyes again, squinting up at him through the terrace lights. He looked Carlos up and down, then smiled. In a soft voice, he said, “Prove it?”

And honestly, Carlos would not have. He would not have fallen for it – if it weren’t for that soft voice and that stupid, froggy smile, a reminder of just how utterly wasted Oscar was. He would have laughed in his face and said, “You wish,” and then abandoned him on the terrace floor while he found Lando to dump the responsibility on.

Instead, he crouched down and hooked his arms under Oscar’s armpits.

Oscar’s hands wrapped around his neck without needing direction. And even though he looked like a sack of rice left on the ground, he lifted easily – body loose, melting into every curve of Carlos’s frame. He was warm against the breeze. And he smelled… surprisingly good. Carlos couldn’t place it. Something sweet. Something that made him feel hungry.

He was tempted to just throw Oscar over his shoulder and carry him toward the garden, where he knew there was a gate leading to the parking lot. At the last second, though, he decided that Oscar had already lost enough dignity for one day. So he merely set him upright, wrapped an arm around his waist for support, and gently nudged him in the direction of the stairs.

“You call this carrying?” Oscar grumbled, dragging his feet.

“I just decided I’d prefer not to have your puke dripping down my back,” Carlos said. “Careful! Steps.”

Oscar nearly didn’t make it down the obstacle of the three narrow steps into the garden, because, incredibly, a series of bubbly giggles burst from his throat – the kind usually reserved for Lando’s antics. It caught Carlos so off-guard that he almost missed a step himself. Thankfully, he managed to catch both of them in time, steadying Oscar by pulling him back into his side.

“Are you okay?” he asked, because Oscar giggling at something he said could only mean something was seriously wrong.

Oscar let out a low hum and allowed Carlos to guide him gently into the garden. It was darker here, though the stone path was lit by a row of soft ground lights. The way to the parking lot had to be somewhere nearby, but everything looked so different in the dark that Carlos briefly lost his sense of direction.

He stopped at a junction, glancing around.

“Can you stand on your own for a second?” he asked Oscar, who took a reluctant step back so Carlos could fish his phone out of his pocket. Google Maps wasn’t particularly helpful, but at least it confirmed the parking lot was somewhere to their left, and he should be looking for a gate on that side.

He had just stuffed his phone back in his pocket when Oscar sagged forward against him, forehead pressed to Carlos’s shoulder. Carlos barely caught him in time to keep them from toppling over backward.

“Whoa! What are you–”

“Sorry, just got dizzy for a sec,” Oscar mumbled into his shoulder, warm breath seeping right through Carlos’s shirt. There it was again – that sweet scent, stronger than the surrounding rose bushes. Carlos had to fight the urge to bury his nose in Oscar’s hair and take a deep breath. Instead, he carefully wrapped both arms around Oscar’s waist to steady him.

“Idiot,” Carlos murmured, but it came out far too fond – maybe because of the low voices they were using, or because it was hard to fall into their usual rhythm when Oscar was being so unusually soft and vulnerable. This whole side of him was completely derailing Carlos. He hadn’t known Oscar could be warm or affectionate. He hadn’t known Oscar smelled good. He hadn’t known his breath would feel hot through layers of clothing. If he had known, he definitely wouldn’t have carried him out here, into the garden, where the lights were dim, the insects buzzed lazily in the bushes, and the two of them were alone, pressed together from head to toe.

“Better?” Carlos asked after a moment, unable to stop his hand from drawing slow, soothing circles on Oscar’s back.

Oscar hummed an affirmative against his shoulder and finally pulled back slightly – not out of Carlos’s space, not really, but at least his lips were no longer touching him. When Carlos dared to meet Oscar’s far-too-close eyes, he spotted that same froggy little smile again.

“You’re being too nice to me,” Oscar said, barely audible despite how close he was. “It’s freaking me out.”

“I am always nice!” Carlos protested – relieved, honestly, to return to some form of arguing, even if his hands still hadn’t gotten the message and kept tracing slow circles on Oscar’s back. “You’re the one always picking fights with me!”

Oscar looked amused by that. His eyes crinkled even more than before, pale skin rippling with too many lines – not just around his eyes, but at the corners of his mouth, too. He looked like a different person. Then again, he’d looked different all night, ever since showing up with his hair brushed and in a suit, albeit a slightly-too-small one that hugged his ass so tightly Carlos had been distracted even before this drunken debacle began.

Maybe it was time to admit that Oscar was… actually really good-looking. And good-smelling. God, what a terrible thing to realize about your least favorite coworker.

“I’m sure I was antagonizing you when you scratched up my car in the parking lot, huh?” Oscar said, predictably, since it was the origin of their strained relationship. But for once, there was no real bite to it.

“You were parked like a jackass!” Carlos shot back with his usual retort. It was so worn out now it barely held any weight. “How was I supposed to see you sticking halfway out of the space?”

“Maybe look into getting some glasses if you’re that blind,” Oscar said, and then, without warning, went off-script. “Might actually look good on you.”

“Yeah?” Carlos breathed, too thrown to come up with a good comeback.

“Mmhm,” Oscar hummed again, one hand rising to brush against the place where the frame of a pair of glasses might sit. His long nails dragged gently under Carlos’s eyes, too light to scratch. Very, very slowly, Oscar leaned in further, his body melting into Carlos’s, one knee sliding between his legs.

Carlos inhaled sharply and let it out in a slow exhale. “Jesus, Oscar,” he finally said.

Oscar’s thumb drifted down Carlos’s cheekbone toward the corner of his mouth. He didn’t speak, just stared at the movement of his own hand like it was hypnotic. By the time he reached Carlos’s lips, both of them were breathing hard. No more laugh-lines on Oscar’s face – just the pale glow of his skin, only disturbed by a smattering of moles and the plush, pink hint of what hid inside his open mouth.

A shrill ringtone made them jump apart just in time. Carlos scrambled to pull his phone from the pocket of his suit pants, which suddenly felt much tighter than before.

Shit. He’d completely forgotten about the Uber!

“Sorry! We’re on our way!” he barked into the phone, then grabbed Oscar – who was giggling – by the arms and dragged him down the path.

They nearly walked past the small garden gate, which wasn’t lit at all. Fortunately, Carlos caught a flash of headlights from the waiting car and managed to deliver his completely wasted coworker to the parking lot before the driver could leave due to a no-show.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” he apologized to the man, who was pacing impatiently in front of his car. “We got lost in the garden.”

Opening the back door, he gently maneuvered Oscar onto the seat, where he slumped against the window, soft like mashed potatoes. He didn’t move a muscle as Carlos half-climbed over him to pull the seatbelt across and buckle him in. The car’s back seat was mostly dark, but a bit of light caught in the whites of Oscar’s eyes, and on the soft curve of his lips. He was looking up at Carlos with that quiet, contented smile Carlos had never seen before today.

As Carlos started to pull away, Oscar grabbed the sleeve of his jacket.

“Where are you going?”

“Back inside, obviously,” Carlos whispered, matching Oscar’s soft voice. “I can’t just ditch work. If anyone notices you’re gone, I’ll cover for you, okay?”

Oscar didn’t let go. Still smiling, he said, “Then I can’t go either.”

“What? Do you not trust me, or–”

“No, I don’t,” Oscar said, though he was clearly just teasing. “But I also can’t go home. Sophie made me put all my stuff in her purse because she said my bulging pockets ruined the fit of the pants. I don’t have my house keys on me.”

Carlos suppressed a groan and tried to ignore the driver growing more impatient behind him.

If he had to stumble all the way back to the hotel now, find Sophie in the massive hall, all while avoiding their bosses and the old men he’d antagonized…

“You’ll have to take me to your place,” Oscar whispered, tightening his grip on Carlos’s sleeve.

“Oh,” Carlos said.

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. Horrible. Catastrophic.

He found himself settling into the middle seat before his brain could come up with more disastrous synonyms, buckling in while Oscar’s limp hand dropped from Carlos’s sleeve, right onto his thigh.

“Ready?” the driver called from outside and shut the door before Carlos could reply.

Two minutes later, they were on the road to Carlos’s apartment. A slow song played on the radio, streetlights flashing sparsely past the windows. Oscar’s hand stayed on his thigh, unmoving. A radioactive weight, pressing him down into the seat and keeping his pants tight.

He couldn’t even see Oscar’s face in the dark – just the occasional flicker of silhouette when they passed a streetlight. After a while, Oscar’s head tilted bit by bit until it rested against Carlos’s shoulder.

Had he fallen asleep? Probably not, judging by the steady, deliberate strokes of his thumb across Carlos’s inner thigh. Oscar’s hair tickled his nose, wafting that sweet scent again. Carlos hadn’t really clicked with the Uber driver, but suddenly he wished for some pointless chatter, just to defuse the tension in the car.

The drive felt twice as long as it had on the way here. And just when Carlos thought Oscar had dozed off, his hand moved again, dragging along the bulge in Carlos’s pants, drawing a surprised, breathy whimper from him that he really, really hoped the driver hadn’t heard over the music.

The next streetlight illuminated Oscar’s eyes again. He was looking up at Carlos from beneath a curl of hair, gauging his reaction. There was a glint on his lips where he’d licked them.

Carlos was going to die.

He’d had no idea the tension between himself and Oscar had been sexual all this time. Maybe it hadn’t been – maybe it had just turned upside down tonight because Oscar was being nice for once, and all dressed up, and… groping him in the backseat of the car.

No, not groping. Not exactly. His hand was just lightly brushing against him, irregular, almost by accident. The only reason Carlos had to assume intention was that Oscar’s face was tilted upward, presumably looking him right in the eyes.

Carlos closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the headrest. He could feel Oscar’s hot breath against his collar, making him reach up to loosen his tie. He felt like a teenager, one glass of champagne too many, bubbles dancing in his periphery, probing hands, blurred lines. It was just a twenty-minute ride, but by the time they finally re-entered civilization, Carlos felt like he’d lived half a life – hard and hot and on the brink of snapping.

He wasn’t sure how much he tipped the driver in the end. He just shoved his hand into his back pocket and pulled out whatever cash he’d stuffed in there, leaving it in the center console without a word. Then he got out and walked around the car, collecting Oscar from the other side.

The Uber driver stuck his head out the window, suddenly looking a lot friendlier than before.

“Thanks, ‘ppreciate it!” he said, waving the wad of cash Carlos had left him. There was definitely a twenty in there. Oh boy.

But Carlos didn’t have much time to mourn his hard-earned money. Oscar was heavily leaning into him, eyes half-lidded – no, three-quarters lidded. Actually, they were slits, at most. He was smiling again, as if he’d never been happier in his life than right now, with Carlos’s arm around his waist, insistently maneuvering him toward the entrance to his building.

He lived on the ground floor and had never been as glad about it as today, because there was no elevator in this building, and carrying Oscar up a flight of stairs might have ended in disaster.

Not that this wouldn’t end in disaster.

“Okay,” Carlos said, drawing in shallow breaths in a futile attempt to calm himself down. “This is… this is me.”

Oscar’s eyes crinkled, amused, as he walked over the threshold, right into Carlos’s life. Carlos was mostly an orderly person, but there were hints of him not expecting any visitors strewn around. A blender cup left to soak in the sink from where he’d hastily thrown together a smoothie that morning. A few discarded tie options hanging from the back of the couch. A sports magazine, flipped open on the coffee table.

“It’s nice,” Oscar said, which was probably the most un-Oscar-like thing he could’ve said about Carlos’s apartment, reminding Carlos once again of just how far gone he must be.

Stalling for time, Carlos wandered into the kitchen, hoping Oscar wouldn’t just collapse to the floor without his support. “You want anything to drink?” he asked, opening a random cupboard. “Water? Coffee?”

Oscar’s brows arched, but he followed, leaning with his elbows against the kitchen island.

“Water’s fine,” he said, and Carlos reached for a tall glass, filled it from the faucet, and handed it over from the other side of the island, so they didn’t have to touch.

Oscar, ignoring the message, sidled along the island’s edge until he was right in Carlos’s face again. The light was low, but bright enough to highlight the flush sitting high on Oscar’s cheeks, right on the fleshy part under the eyes. It looked pretty. He looked so fucking pretty when he wasn’t being a prissy bastard, nagging Carlos for literally just existing. So pretty when he smiled.

“Thank you,” Oscar whispered, finally taking the glass from Carlos’s sweaty hands. He didn’t break eye contact as he took a long sip, swallowing audibly. The half-empty glass gave a soft clink when Oscar set it down on the kitchen counter, and the sound went straight through Carlos, bone-deep.

It was so fucking hard to be ethical when Oscar looked the prettiest he’d ever looked, wore the tightest pants he’d ever worn, and stared right into his eyes while licking his lips.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” Oscar continued, when Carlos could do nothing but stare back, unblinking.

“Yeah, uh,” Carlos coughed, only just realizing how dry his throat had gotten. “It’s no problem, rea–”

Oscar grabbed his tie and pulled him in, a lot more coordinated than Carlos would’ve given him credit for. There was no miss, no awkward clack of teeth – just Oscar’s soft, freshly-wet lips, and then, already, his tongue, slipping into Carlos’s open, desperate mouth.

Carlos immediately lost the fight against his own morals.

Oscar’s body was fusing itself to his again. Mouth-to-mouth, chest-to-chest, bulge-to-bulge. They seemed to be about the same height, which, for some reason, was the hottest thing to Carlos right now. He’d never thought a lack of height difference could be a kink, but he was discovering a lot of new things about himself tonight.

His hands were busying themselves with Oscar’s shirt, fiddling with the buttons, which refused to open. They were just as stubborn as their wearer, so Carlos gave up and went straight for the belt instead. Oscar groaned into his mouth when Carlos peeled his pants down, past his ass, and the weight of the belt carried them further, until they pooled around Oscar’s ankles. It was probably a terrible idea to leave a drunk man with fabric shackles like that, but Carlos was too distracted by the firm grip of Oscar’s ass in his hands, and Oscar somehow managed to step out of his shoes and pant legs just fine. Maybe the alcohol was wearing off.

Spurred on by that idea, Carlos gripped Oscar’s ass harder, pulling him close, and up, until Oscar got the message and wrapped his legs around Carlos’s waist.

‘See? I can carry you. Easy!’ Carlos would’ve liked to say, as he transported Oscar around the kitchen island and across the living room blindly, until Oscar’s back hit the bedroom door. His mouth was still too busy to talk, so he hoped the quality of his neck-sucking conveyed the proper amount of smugness as he pushed down the door handle and stumbled into the room with Oscar in his arms.

The unloading wasn’t very elegant, unfortunately. He banged his shins on the bedframe and dropped Oscar into the pillows like a sack of bricks. 

Oscar landed with a muffled “Ooph!” but didn’t complain. He just looked up at Carlos, the flush even more widespread than before. It went all the way down into his loosened collar, tie hanging on by a thread, the first three buttons undone to reveal surprisingly shaped pecs.

“Fuck,” he groaned, as his narrow eyes raked across Carlos’s body. Carlos wasn’t sure what he was seeing that was so impressive – he wasn’t the one lying on the bed with naked, spread legs, light grey boxers tented and damp at the tip, ready to be devoured. Not even in his wildest dreams could Carlos have conjured up such a sinful image of Oscar Jack Piastri, bane of his existence.

But there Oscar was, one hand reaching down to squeeze his dick, still staring up at Carlos, voice coming out rough and breathless as he said, “Jesus! Why do you have to be so fucking hot?”

Suddenly, there was a record-scratch sound in Carlos’s brain.

Because it wasn’t just the picture in front of him – it was the words, too.

Oscar Piastri, in his right mind, would never say those words out loud to Carlos Sainz’s face.

One time, when it was just the two of them in the break room, Oscar had caught Carlos checking himself out in the reflection of the coffee machine and rolled his eyes so hard Carlos had genuinely worried about the strings holding them in place.

“Regret to inform you, you’re not as hot as you think you are,” Oscar had told him.

That was what the real, actual Oscar Piastri thought of Carlos. He couldn’t trust anything this mimosa-brained, dummy-drunk temptation was telling him. It was just the alcohol talking. And if Carlos ended up taking advantage, he wouldn’t only break his own morals – there’d probably be a murder in this house the moment the real Oscar returned to his body in the morning.

So, as hard as it was, Carlos took a step back – away from the heavily breathing, clearly aroused man sitting on his bed with spread legs – mumbled a quick, “Good night, Oscar”, and stumbled off toward the bathroom as fast as his legs could carry him.

It took about five minutes for Oscar to process what had just happened and show up at the closed bathroom door, banging his fists against it and yelling what the fuck was wrong with Carlos – and another five minutes until he gave up and shuffled back toward the bed, muttering a few choice words under his breath.

Carlos stayed in the bathroom for the rest of the night, not trusting himself to face Oscar again. He took a long, cold shower and built himself a nest out of a few towels.

It was a terrible night. He barely slept at all. Different scenes from the evening played on the inside of his eyelids like a movie screen every time he closed his eyes. At one point, he even had to take a second cold shower. He could still feel Oscar’s ghostly hand brushing over his thigh, again and again, grazing his bulge through the suit trousers.

He woke up when the sun shone through the small bathroom window, way too early, and half-hard.

There was no sound coming from outside, though, so he dared to slip out of the bathroom.

The door to his bedroom was closed, and Carlos gave it a wide berth, heading to the kitchen instead to make himself a coffee.

Two hours later, there were still no sounds coming from the bedroom. Carlos decided it was time to face his fate.

He grabbed the glass Oscar had abandoned on the kitchen island the night before and filled it with fresh water. Then, very carefully, he went to knock on his own bedroom door.

No reaction.

He knocked again, but nothing changed.

Had… had Oscar left after Carlos had locked himself in the bathroom? Unlikely – he didn’t have his keys, or his phone, and Carlos had found his pants abandoned on the kitchen floor this morning.

Oh God. What if he’d fallen asleep on his back and choked on his own vomit, like some kind of drug victim?

Carlos opened the door and found the room mostly dark. The curtains were drawn, but they didn’t manage to keep the sunlight out completely.

The bed was a mess, but the body sprawled half-over, half-under the pile of blankets and pillows Carlos kept in his bed was clearly still breathing. Carlos was greeted by a perfectly shaped ass, clad only in underwear, sticking out of the sheets, one bare leg tossed carelessly over the blankets. Oscar’s hair was sticking up in all directions, defying gravity.

Slowly, slowly, Carlos walked into the room. He just wanted to set the glass of water on the bedside table and sneak back out, but he must have made some kind of noise, because just as he reached the bed, Oscar’s eyes snapped open, staring up at him.

There was a moment of silence as Carlos didn’t dare move a muscle, hoping against hope that Oscar would simply close his eyes again and go back to sleep. Instead, he sat up in bed.

He didn’t look especially disoriented for someone who had just gotten blackout drunk the night before, but then, Oscar never really looked fazed by anything.

“What are you doing?” Oscar asked, voice deep with sleep.

Carlos hesitantly lifted the glass of water in his hand. “Bringing you a glass of water?”

“Hm. That’s considerate,” Oscar said, without even a hint of a smile. “I really need that right now.”

Good. Good! Carlos handed him the glass with slightly trembling fingers.

A second later, the entire contents of the water glass splashed into his face. Carlos didn’t make a sound. He just let it happen. He kind of deserved it.

“Thought you really needed that,” he mumbled, once the majority of the water had dripped off his chin.

“Yep. That’s exactly what I needed it for,” Oscar said.

Carlos nodded, understanding. He sat down on the edge of the bed, drying his face with the hem of his T-shirt.

So. Oscar was clearly furious with him, and he had every right to be. Unfortunately, Oscar was also sitting there in his underwear and rumpled dress shirt, tangled in Carlos’s sheets, with the most adorable bedhead the world had ever seen, looking soft and warm, like a murderous kitten.

“Look, I’m very sorry–” Carlos began, but Oscar didn’t seem interested in hearing him out.

“As you should be!” he snapped. “Jesus Christ, Carlos! You were flirting with me all night! Do you have any idea how humiliating this is for me? I’ve been practically throwing myself at you and you were giving every sign, including taking me home! Only to run away the second I’m half-naked on your bed? At least have the decency to explain yourself! I’m a grown man – if you’re not actually into me, just say it!”

What? In what world would Carlos not be into him? He was getting hard just sitting here, being told off.

“That’s not what–” he started, stammering. “I mean, I just suddenly realized you were blackout drunk, and–”

“Blackout drunk?” Oscar snapped. “I wish!”

“Okay, so maybe you remember some of it, but you were clearly drunk, Oscar! I couldn’t… I couldn’t risk it, okay?”

Oscar still looked like he was actively considering tearing Carlos’s head off and using it as a flower vase.

“I wasn’t drunk,” he said icily. “I had, like, two mimosas. I’ve seen you drink twice that much right after arriving, mate.”

“Uh–” Carlos faltered like he’d just been punched in the stomach.

“I was tipsy, at best!”

“But… but you were smiling!”

“It’s called ‘having a good time,’ Carlos!” Oscar snapped. “Not something I usually experience around you, granted, but not exactly unheard of!”

“And you were letting those old American guys grope you in front of everyone!”

Oscar’s mouth dropped open in protest. “You mean Zak?” he groaned. “Mate, that’s my old boss. He got me this job! And he wasn’t groping me – his hand was on my mid-back, at best. You were the only one groping me in front of everyone, Jesus Christ! I only let you because I thought it was hot when you suddenly got all territorial!”

“But… but…” Carlos was running out of arguments. “You couldn’t even move without me supporting you!”

“What?” Oscar rubbed at his eyes like a headache was starting to form – one that had nothing to do with last night’s drinks. “I was supporting you just as much! Mate, I just thought we were both a little tipsy off the champagne, in the mood for a stupid mistake that wouldn’t even matter in the long run, because we already don’t get along.”

“Right,” Carlos said, gears finally turning.

“Right,” Oscar echoed.

“So,” Carlos said carefully, scooting just a little closer along the edge of the bed, “does that mean… you’re not mad at me for taking advantage of you, but rather mad at me for not taking advantage of you?”

“Hardly taking advantage, is it?” Oscar said, narrowing his eyes.

“Right,” Carlos said again, and shut up, waiting.

Oscar eyed him warily, and then, after a beat of silence, leaned back, his dress shirt falling open just enough to reveal the faintest glimpse of a nipple.

“Right,” Oscar repeated, a glint in his eye.

Carlos tackled him back into the sheets.

[chvoswxtch]

epilogue

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: you and frank start a new chapter together.

warnings: swearing, angst, mentions of pregnancy, the world flooding from my tears bc this is the final chapter, explicit sexual content (minors dni)

word count: 3.8k

a/n: i'm not going to get emo in this section (there will be a separate post for that when i've processed my feelings about this ending), but i want to say again from the bottom of my heart to all of y'all, thank you. this is for you.

[previous chapter] | [series masterlist]

One year later.

Stepping through the familiar threshold, a light breeze entered behind you, bringing with it a crisp chill of autumn and the lingering smell of impending rain. There was a soft clink when you tossed your keys into the small emerald green ceramic bowl on the side table in the foyer. Slipping your long gray wool coat off your shoulders, you can smell freshly brewed coffee wafting in the air, and there was a murmur coming from the kitchen of two distinct voices you’d recognize anywhere.

A tiny smile graced your lips catching snippets of the conversation, and you shook your head with a light chuckle, hanging up your coat on the hook by the front door before making your way down the hallway adjacent to the spacious living room.

“This could be a huge bust. I mean, it’s five years worth of intel, and there’s a small window of opportunity here-“

Leaning against the entryway of the kitchen, you crossed your arms over your chest and cleared your throat.

“Dinah.”

Both heads of dark hair suddenly turned in your direction. Upon seeing you, Dinah straightened up, a fleeting expression on her face resembling that of a child getting caught doing something they’re not supposed to. Arching one of your brows, you barely suppressed an amused smile that briefly tugged at the corner of your lips.

“My husband is retired.”

Dinah’s lips parted to speak, and then she abruptly closed them. Her brown eyes flicker over towards Frank sitting across from her at the dining table, silently asking him for back up. Catching her eye, Frank gave a subtle shake of his head, bringing his mug of coffee up to his lips with one hand, and making a gesture of surrender with the other, attempting to hide his smirk.

“You heard the woman.”

Dinah gave him a pointed, exasperated look and pursed her lips at his lack of cooperation.

“I’m just asking for a consult-“

“You got the whole goddamn CIA under your belt, ask one of them. You want a consult ‘bout a remodel, you let me know.”

Frank set the mug of coffee down on the table, shrugging his broad shoulders covered in worn dark green flannel. Dinah faintly narrowed her eyes at him, letting out a deep exhale through her nose. 

“Fine.”

As she stood, the chair scraped against the hardwood, and she looked down at him in subtle defiance with an arch of her dark brow as she buttoned the middle button on her navy blue blazer.

“I’m thinking about redoing my kitchen. Let me know when you’ve got time in that busy schedule of yours, Castle.”

A deep rumble of laughter sounded in Frank’s chest at the dripping sass in her voice, and his eyes crinkled in amusement as he gave her a faint nod.

“See what I can do.”

Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes and turned around to leave the kitchen, her heeled boots clicking against the hardwood floor. When she reached you, she paused and gave you a light smile, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder gently.

“Good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Hearing the front door open and shut, your eyes drifted over towards Frank, narrowing your gaze with a look of faux accusation. Frank’s hand paused midway in bringing his mug up to his lips, and his dark brows furrowed as his face scrunched slightly. 

“What?”

Arching one of your dark brows, you bite back a smile as Frank set the mug back down and leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking under his weight, bunching up his shoulders and loosely gesturing with his large hands in a show of defense of his innocence.

“She called me-”

“Mhm.”

Frank pursed his lips in lighthearted annoyance, scrunching up his face adorably, and you finally broke. Your laughter filled the kitchen, and he shook his head and rolled his eyes, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip before he turned to look at you again, his dark eyes wandering over your figure.

“You ever not gonna be a pain in my ass?”

“Nope.”

Grinning, you walked over towards where he was sitting, and a grin stretched across his own lips as he reached out immediately to grab your hips, pulling you down onto his lap to straddle him.

“S’pose I signed up for that, yeah?”

Frank nuzzled his large nose against your neck, and the coarse dark hair of his beard brushed against your skin, tickling and sending a shiver down your spine as you laughed.

“Legally.”

Leaning back slightly, you gazed at him adoringly, bringing your hand up to brush back some of the loose dark curls that were laying against his forehead, carding your fingers through his grown out hair. Your hand slowly slipped down his temple, caressing the full beard covering his cheeks and the lower half of his face, a smirk spreading across your lips.

“You know, this whole…hipster thing is really working for me.”

Frank blew out a puff of air through his lips, shaking his head and rolling his eyes in moderate annoyance. Pursing his full lips, he looked at you, his warm brown eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes.

“Yeah? Think I should go full man bun?”

A deep laugh escaped you at the dryness of his voice, shaking your head as you ran both of your hands through his soft hair from the thick roots down to the loose curls at the base of his neck. Leaning in, you brushed your lips against his gently.

“I like it just the way it is.”

Frank’s large hands splayed against your back as he pulled you further against his firm chest, but before he could kiss you, suddenly you perked up and leaned back.

“Oh! I have something for you.”

Patting his chest, you untangled yourself from Frank’s arms and got off his lap, slipping down the hall. Frank’s dark brows knitted in confusion, glancing down at his lap where you just were and then flickering his gaze towards the entryway of the kitchen you’d just disappeared down, craning his neck as he listened to your footsteps.

“I’d rather have what you were just about to give me.”

Hearing his grumble from the kitchen, your laugh echoed from down the hall, and as you reappeared in the kitchen, you couldn’t contain your grin seeing him sitting in the wooden chair and pouting like a petulant child. Shaking your head slowly, you resumed your position on his lap, placing a soft kiss to his large nose.

“Hey, the role of the impatient one in this relationship is already filled, thank you very much.”

“Has been since the beginning.”

Rolling your eyes at Frank’s sassy remark, you smile as you pull your hand out from behind your back, holding out a small velvet black box in your hand. Frank glances down at it, his face contorting in an expression of pure puzzlement. He glanced between it, the ring on your finger, and the band on his own left hand before looking at you, arching one of his dark brows.

“You know we’re already married, right?”

“Just shut up and open it.”

Rolling his own eyes in return, Frank grabbed the small box in one of his large hands, keeping one of his arms wrapped around your waist. Flipping it open with his thumb, you watched in amusement as the temperate confusion previously on his face shifted into pure convoluted perplexity. Frank stared down at the little T-shaped plastic device displayed upright in the slit of the velvet square.

“Oh…wow. That’s…this is…it’s a…really nice-“

Frank blinked a few times, eventually lifting his head to look at you in a mixture of apology and uncertainty.

“-sweetheart I got no idea what the hell this goddamn thing is.”

Letting out an amused laugh, your lips spread into a soft smile as you brush his curls back with your fingers. 

“My IUD.”

Frank blinked a few times, his face a blank canvas. There wasn’t a shred of recognition in his eyes.

“My intrauterine device.”

His dark brows rose up his forehead slightly, glancing between the small plastic device and you, eyeing you curiously as he spoke hesitantly.

“And…you’re givin’ me this…because…?”

Realizing that Frank genuinely had no idea what the significance of the small thing he’s holding was, you decided to take mercy on him.

“Frank, it’s my birth control device.”

Frank’s rugged features were twisted up in confusion as he repeated your words slowly.

“Your…birth control…device?”

“Modern medicine has come a long way, big guy. Birth control isn’t just pills. It’s also that.”

When you pointed to the small box in his hand, his dark eyes flickered down between it, your patient gaze, and the tiny plastic device again.

“And it’s…in this box.”

You could see the gears turning in Frank’s head, piecing the new information together. Nodding, a smile leisurely spread across your lips as you suppressed your laughter.

“Which means it’s not inside of me.”

All of a sudden, it was like a light bulb went off, and you could see Frank’s eyes light up with understanding.

“Wait, you mean-“

Hearing the hesitant hope and excitement in his voice felt like a fist tightening around your heart, squeezing it in a vice. 

The idea was still new. Over the past year, you’d seen that desire steadily building in him. Whenever the two of you went somewhere, the sound of a child’s laughter would grasp his attention and hold it captive. At first, you thought the look in his eyes was lingering grief, reminiscing on that sound in his memory that had come from his own lost children once upon a time. 

But in the last few months, you’d come to realize that the emotion in his gaze wasn’t just nostalgia, it was also longing. You saw the way his eyes softened as he stood at the sink, watching the neighborhood kids playing in the street out the window, his eyes faintly crinkled as a tiny smile graced his lips when he didn’t think you were looking. All the kids in the neighborhood were drawn to him, and he was all too eager to fix a bike chain, or demonstrate a perfect football spiral.

The interactions granted you a glimpse of what Frank had been like as a father, and it sent a crack through your own chest that he’d been robbed of something he was so good at, something he should’ve had more time to do. You could see that it was something he wanted, but you could also see the hesitance. You didn’t know how to bring it up. Frank was happy, and he’d found a semblance of peace in this new life, but that void of loss would always be there. That pain would never truly go away.

You wanted Frank to know that it was okay, that it wasn’t wrong to want to try again. You wanted him to know that moving forward didn’t have to mean forgetting. You’d eased him into the idea of visiting the cemetery, something he hadn’t done in years, and you’d held his hand tightly as he placed three sets of flowers on the headstones, encouraging him to talk to them, to get out all the words he never got to say. 

You’d hung up the worn photograph of Maria and the kids he’d been carrying around for the last few years, the only one he had left, in the living room so he could see them everyday instead of hiding them away in his memory. You wanted Frank to know that they had a place in your shared home, that they were still a part of his new life, even if they weren’t physically here. That he could talk about them, share fond stories of them, and include them.

“We don’t have to start trying right away, but-”

“The hell we don’t.”

Frank grabbed your hips with renewed vigor and stood up, setting you down on the edge of the dining table he’d built himself. A bubble of surprised laughter erupted from you, but was quickly cut off by Frank’s lips as he kissed you deeply, slotting himself between your parted thighs as his calloused hands hiked your skirt upwards. When his thumbs hooked into the sides of your panties, brushing the pad along the skin of your hips, you shifted them upwards to assist him in slipping them down.

Your fingers swiftly sought out the buttons of his flannel, popping each of them with growing urgency, shoving the worn green fabric off his broad shoulders and down his arms. While you reached for his belt buckle, Frank untucked your blouse, tugging it up your waist and over your head, carelessly tossing it onto the hardwood. Your heels slipped off your feet, falling to the floor with a soft thud, and the sound of his zipper being undone echoed in the kitchen as Frank pushed his hips forward against your welcoming hand, cupping your breast and squeezing as his lips latched onto the juncture of your neck.

Feeling the blunt head of his cock nudging at your slick entrance, you pressed your palm against his firm, warm chest and panted breathlessly.

“Frank.”

Pulling his head back slightly, his warm brown eyes darted back and forth between your own, dropping to your lips before looking at you with hooded lids.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

Letting out a soft breath, you brought your hand up to cup his bearded cheek, biting down on your bottom lip gently as you gazed into his eyes and spoke softly.

“If…if you’re not ready-”

Frank gave a faint shake of his head and dipped down to kiss you tenderly, murmuring against your lips.

“I’m ready.”

Pushing his hips forward, Frank filled you in one swift thrust, and your head dipped back as your mouth hung open, your eyes fluttering shut at the euphoric sensation of being so full. Frank let out a quiet grunt as your tight warmth enveloped him, wrapping his arm around your waist to hold you firmly to his chest, slipping his other hand in your hair to cradle the back of your head as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

Wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, you grabbed onto the back of his neck, slipping your fingers into the loose dark curls as you brought your legs up to lock around his waist. Frank nuzzled your neck reverently, flexing his hips forward, thrusting in slow and deep strokes. Letting out a desperate moan, your lips brushed against Frank’s bearded cheek, seeking out his kiss, and he turned his head to capture your mouth passionately, gliding his tongue along the seam of your lips and seeking entry.

He swallowed every noise of pleasure you spilled into his mouth, sensually caressing your tongue with his own the same way his hands caressed your body in dedicated worship. The wooden table creaked as Frank pushed you to lay flat on your back, bending to press his chest flush to yours, grabbing your wrists gently to guide them upwards and pin them above your head. He interlaced his fingers with yours and squeezed your hands, pressing his forehead against yours as he gazed deeply down into your eyes, his warm breath caressing your lips as he panted.

“Frank-”

“I know.”

Your eyes fluttered shut and your back arched as he nuzzled his nose against your throat, trailing warm open mouthed kisses along your jawline and neck, dripping praises and sweet nothings into your ear like honey. You gripped onto his large hands, using them as an anchor to his moment, tightening your legs around his waist to eliminate any space between you.

As your breathing got quicker and more shallow, and your moans grew in volume and pitch, Frank increased his pace in tandem, grunting into your ear. Feeling the tremble in your thighs and the contraction of your tight walls signaling your impending release, he brushed his lips against the shell of your ear.

“I love you.”

You never got tired of hearing those three words in his deep gravelly voice. All at once, they made you shatter into a million little pieces, and your body seized up as an intense wave of gratification crashed over you, nearly knocking the breath out of your lungs. Your eyes rolled and you writhed beneath him as your prayer of his name echoed in the kitchen, repeating those same three words back to him over and over and over again.

Frank was right there behind you, his hips stuttering as his rhythm faltered, letting out a guttural groan and holding his hips still against your own as the seed of a new beginning was planted deep within you. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, both of you panting heavily as you clung to each other tightly. Frank felt a buzzing bliss spread throughout his body, reveling in keeping himself buried within your comforting snug warmth, but he also felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time.

Hope.

»»———　　———««

Laying in bed with the sheets draped over your naked figure, your head was propped up on your elbow, and you watched as Frank stood in front of the sink in the bathroom and brushed his teeth. Your eyes wandered over his body slowly, taking in his tan skin littered with various faded scars. When you’d first met him, you hadn’t known how many were still healing internally, but you could see it now. There was a lightness to him, in the way he carried himself now, brick by brick of trauma and grief slowly being lifted from his shoulders. 

Frank didn’t have nightmares anymore. Attending Curtis’ Veterans group had given him the space to divulge the things he didn’t know how to say to you. As hard as you tried, there were just certain things he’d been through you couldn’t fully understand to offer comfort, but they could. He still had his moody moments, and that familiar brooding expression would shroud his features, but it wasn’t as hardened as before. That impenetrable steel guard had been slowly dismantled over time, and now it was nonexistent. You knew that broken man was still in there, still healing from wounds you couldn’t see, and maybe he always would be. There would always be that jagged piece of him that had donned a bloodstained, bullet filled white skull and waged a one man war on a world that had taken everything from him, but the curvy edges were softening to fit somewhere. 

It was such an interesting dichotomy, that Frank could be so familiar to the stoic broody bodyguard you met two years ago and yet so different as the loving husband that built you a dining table with his bare hands on his day off because you couldn’t find one you liked.

Shutting out the light in the bathroom, Frank turned to walk into your shared bedroom, and he raised one of his dark brows when he caught you staring at him.

“What?”

Lifting your gaze from the tantalizing view of his gray sweatpants draped low across his bare hips, you looked up at him with a faint smirk, lifting one of your own brows.

“I can’t admire my husband?”

Frank’s lips always split into a goofy grin hearing you call him that. In two short strides, he was crawling onto the bed, climbing on top of you and placing his hands on either side of your head as he leaned down to nip at your bottom lip playfully.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that, you’re gonna be pregnant by sunrise.”

Letting out a soft laugh, you leaned up to brush your lips against his teasingly with a grin.

“Promise?”

Frank gave you a wide, tooth-bearing smile as he leaned in and captured your lips in a soft and sweet kiss, letting out a deep exhale of content through his nose. After a moment, he pulled back slowly, caressing your face tenderly with his knuckles before he brushed your hair back and cupped your cheek. For a minute, he just stared down at you, taking you in like it was the first time he’d ever seen you.

“Thank you.”

A soft furrow nestled between your brows, and you placed your hand on top of his gently.

“For what?”

“Givin’ me a second chance.”

Frank’s voice was so soft and quiet, full of genuine gratitude and admiration, and it tugged at your heartstrings. Gently grabbing your left hand, he gazed down at the ring on your finger, and slowly lifted your hand to press a soft kiss to it.

“I don’t…I don’t know how much of this I deserve, and I don’t know what I did to…to get here after…ya’know. I just…I wasn’t plannin’ on makin’ it this far, or makin’ it here ever. And I don’t know why you didn’t give up on me, God knows I gave you many reasons to, but you didn’t. And I…I don’t know if I've ever thanked you for that. I mean…all of this…I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

The vulnerable honesty in Frank’s voice had tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You understood the deeper meaning behind his words. He didn’t just mean here in this bed with you. Frank hadn’t cared about living since the day he lost everything. Everyday that followed, he’d been prepared to join his family. From the day you first met him, and even the night everything went down with Billy, he had been ready. You couldn’t even bear to think about a world that Frank Castle didn’t exist in.

Frank gently brushed a stray tear away from your cheek that had slipped, gazing down at you with nothing but pure and honest adoration and commitment. To you, to your marriage, and to this next chapter of your life together. By some cosmic force or grace of a merciful deity, he’d been granted a second chance, and he wasn’t going to waste a second of it. He was all in.

“Thank you, for all of it. For bein’ patient with me, seein’ me, puttin’ my ass in check when I need it.”

Both of you shared a small laugh, and Frank gently brushed the pad of his thumb along your cheekbone.

“Thank you for lovin’ me the way you do.”

Staring up into the warm brown eyes of this magnetic force of a man you were lucky enough to love, and to be loved by, you gently cupped his bearded cheek and brought him down for a reverent kiss, allowing your lips to linger before slowly opening your eyes to look at him, a gentle smile gracing your lips.

“It’s my job, baby.”

tags:@thyme-in-a-bubble @day-dreaming-goddess @messymissy @itwasthereaminuteago @strawberry1042 @queenofthenoobs @wanda2themax @xcastawayherosx @avengerstower-houseplant @stevenknightmarc @ponyosmom35 @babygal-babygal @wellwwhynot @oldermenaremyreligion @combustiblemeow @tired-night-owl @fairykiss32 @danzer8705 @calkissed @fxckahs-blog @lemon-world1 @polskiperson @imperihoe @v4leoftears @harperdoodle @spideyvibez @joalslibrary @cherry-berry-ollie @sorrowfulfragmentation @kdogreads @sumo-b98 @blackhawksfanatic @gloryekaterina @whistle1whistle @starbritestarlite @callmebrooklynbabes @hallway5 @scarletfvckingwitch @bifuriouslatina @soupyspence @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @wonwoosthetic @linguist-breakaribecca @nerdytreeflower @mrs-bellingham @smhnxdiii @s3riou2 @slavic-empress

[ladykailitha]

The Last Dragon Slayer Part 5

Wasn't that just the funnest cliffhanger ever?! No? Well I enjoyed it. ;) And that twist? I loved coming up with that!

Here we have a change in story and this means that I can start posting dragon slayer snippets on WIP Wednesday again. That will be nice. Too bad all my other stories are hitting critical spoiler territory soon if not there already (side eyes Street Racer).

In this we have some backstory and some sad stuff. I apologize for the sad stuff.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

~

It was heart breaking for Steve when Joyce decided to pack up Will, Jonathan, and El to California. And if Steve hadn’t been sure in his ability to protect those kids at any cost, he would have been very upset with her.

She was the only adult who knew about the Upside Down left and she was leaving Steve in charge if anything happened. He had barely graduated from high school when she dropped this on him.

“I know it’s hard,” Joyce said after they had loaded everything into the moving van the government had provided. “But this really is best for everyone, especially Jane. She doesn’t have her powers anymore and deserves to live a life away from Hawkins and all the bad things that happened to her.”

The unspoken “Now that Hopper is dead," lingered in the air between them.

“And what happens if the Upside Down comes back?” Steve asked crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“It won’t.”

“That’s what you guys said the last time and the time before that,” he reminded her.

“Then Jane will be far away from it and will never know,” Joyce said simply. “It’s not her mess to deal with.”

Steve bit down hard on his lip to avoid spitting vitriol at her, the feeling like ash on his tongue. So he threw his arms in the air and saw something that broke his heart.

“I doubt I’ll be able to find anyone who plays D&D out in California,”

Will said shyly, looking down at the bag in his hands, “and I know you’ll take care of them.”

Erica stared at the bag with a quivering lip. “They’ll never let me play. You know they won’t.”

Will smiled at her sadly. “Then you’ve got to recruit your own friends into playing. You’ll find people.”

“You might be able to find someone to play with you too,” she insisted, holding the bag against his chest firmly, refusing to take it.

“It’s yours,” Will said letting go of the bag.

Erica lunged forward to stop it from hitting the ground, but by the time she looked up, Will was at the car. He waved at her and slid in the back seat next to El.

The Byers had already said goodbye to everyone else and so Joyce got into the car. She smiled sadly at Steve, then shook her head and began to reverse into the street.

~

“Come on, Lucas,” Steve huffed with laughter. “You want to make the team, you’re going to have to be faster than that!”

Lucas fell face first on to the cool grass in front of Steve’s house.

“How are you faster than me? You’re so old!”

“Fuck you!” Steve bit back. “I’m not old, I just graduated in June.” Lucas rolled over onto his back and threw out his arms spread eagle.

“Why am I even doing this? It’s not like I have a chance to get on junior varsity, let alone varsity as an incoming freshman.”

Steve leaned over him with his hands on his hips. “Which you don’t actually know for sure until you actually tryout. Now on your feet, lazy boy. We’re going to do that again, but with less tripping over your own feet.”

Lucas covered his face with his hands and let out a long sigh. He then reached out his hand and Steve took it, helping him to his feet.

Steve picked up the basketball and began dribbling. “How are things going at Hellfire since Will and them left?”

“Eddie’s been using that weird dragonborn character as an NPC,” he said, dusting off his backside and getting into to position in front of Steve. “Which is absolutely driving Mike and Dustin bonkers.”

Steve made to pass Lucas but he deftly got in the way. “Why? I don’t understand the game, like at all, but if it’s not a player character then why should they care about the dude’s backstory?”

He went for the layup and it went in. “Nothing but net!”

Lucas turned around with a groan. “I swear you must have been playing this game for years to be as good as you are.”

“Quit calling me old!” Steve protested with wry smile. “But seriously what’s their problem with Eddie’s dragon thingy?”

Lucas shrugged as he went to go pick up the ball and dribbled it back to Steve. “They just don’t like that Will allowed it and then moved to California.”

Steve’s shoulders slumped. “Ah.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “So it’s less about Eddie and more about being upset Will isn’t there anymore.”

“Yep!” Lucas huffed, popping the P.

They continued to practice.

~

Jeff dug in his heels. “I just think the volcano is more interesting then going into the town.”

“But there isn’t any reason to go to volcano,” Gareth said with a frown. “It will cut the session short if we go that direction.”

The room’s temperature dropped a full ten degrees.

Eddie rested his chin on his threaded fingers and stared directly at Jeff. “Yes, Jeffy. It’s almost as if you want to cut the session short. Now why would that be?”

Jeff squirmed in his seat but didn’t rise to the bait. “I’m not trying to cut the game short. I just don’t think we have to go to the town is all. At least not yet. It’s clear that that’s where Eddie wants us to go. But this isn’t do everything Eddie says game. This is Dungeons and Dragons. So let’s go dungeon it up.”

Dustin peeked over at the man in question and it was like literal smoke was coming out of his ears and he would swear on his mother’s life that his eyes flashed crimson.

“So you want dungeons and dragons, do you, Jeff?” came the cold, calculated voice of their DM.

“Yeah,” Jeff said leveling him with a glare. “That’s what I want.”

Eddie turned to the rest of the club.

“And what say the rest of the party?” the voice was still cold and it sent shivers down everyone’s spines.

“I think we should go to the town,” Lucas said. “Because besides in character reasons of trying to get clues to where we need to go next, you’re asking Eddie to pull dungeon out of his ass with no prep time.”

Gareth growled. “Eddie could do it. I vote for the volcano too.”

Mike shook his head. He saw the gleam in Eddie’s eyes, he knew that look all too well. “You know if you go, the chances of your characters coming out alive are slim to none, right?”

Then it was Brian’s turn to bristle. “You think we can’t handle anything Eddie throws at us? We’ve been playing with him for years. We can handle it.”

Everyone turned to Dustin.

“You either split the party,” Eddie said darkly, “or you all go to the volcano.”

Jeff grinned as though he had won. “What’s the first rule of D&D?”

“Don’t split the party!” Brian and Gareth cried together.

Dustin shook his head. “Yeah, but I’m not suicidal and actually like my character thanks. I vote for splitting up the party. They can go explore the dungeon and you do them first then do us in the town.”

“Done!”

Jeff, Brian, and Gareth all groaned. They were doomed.

~

“Eddie was so mad when Jeff wanted to go check out the volcano,” Dustin huffed, when Steve picked him up from school. “If looks could kill Jeff would have been dead on the spot. Like his eyes almost looked red that’s how angry he got.”

Steve snorted as he pulled into traffic. “Brown eyes can sometimes look red in the wrong light.”

“Your eyes don’t go red,” Dustin groused, folding his arms.

“That’s because they’re not brown,” Steve said rolling his eyes at him before turning back to the road. “They’re hazel, so they can look green or brown or even yellow sometimes.”

“Anyway,” Dustin said, rolling his eyes back at Steve, “the volcano was a bad idea because it turned out to be the home of an ancient gold dragon who was pissed they broke into his house.”

Steve grimaced. “I’m guessing from your tone that’s not a good thing?”

“Oh yeah,” Dustin said, “if they hadn’t made their reflex saves they would have been flambeed and eaten for dinner.”

“How much do you want to bet that had they gone into town like Eddie had wanted,” Steve said with a weary tone, “that the volcano would have been far less dangerous?”

Dustin giggled. “No bet. That’s what we kept telling him, but he did it anyway.” He paused for a moment. “I think Jeff was trying to derail the session because he had a hot date.”

“Ouch!” Steve said shaking his head. “If there is anything Eddie hates more than someone rescheduling last minute, it’s someone trying to cut the session short.”

Dustin just hummed his agreement and they lapsed into a comfortable silence.

“How do you know so much about Eddie anyway?” Dustin asked after a couple of miles of not talking.

Steve risked a glance his direction. “I did go to school with the guy. He’s very loud and very opinionated about everything.”

“But still,” Dustin said rolling his eyes again, “you still seem to know a lot about a guy who is like your social opposite.”

Steve rolled to a stop in front of Dustin’s house. “Dude, you literally don’t talk about anything else but Eddie since you joined Hellfire.”

Dustin blinked at him for a moment and then half shrugged. “Yeah, okay.” He opened the door and hopped out. “Bye, Steve! Thanks for the ride!”

Steve shook his head as he pulled away from the curb. He dreaded the day that asshole got his driver’s license. Then he really would be a menace to society.

Steve got out of the car, roses in hand. He hadn’t thought anyone thought Nancy and him were dating. He really didn’t want to date anyone. But Nancy had seemed so nice and he was just such a tactile person. Always picking people up and swinging them around, huge hugs, kisses on the cheek.

Then last night at the Halloween party she thought their love was bullshit. That they were bullshit. And when she couldn’t even remember saying it the next morning but doubled down on that she never really loved him. Which is when he caught onto the fact that they thought she they were a couple.

So here he was bringing her roses as an apology for accidentally stringing her along. He hadn’t meant to.

After he broke off being friends with Tommy and Carol, he had latched onto Nancy and Jonathan for their friendship and now he learned that she had only been nice to him because she thought they were dating.

He had never felt so stupid before in his life. He kept repeating the apology over and over to try and get it right so he didn’t trip over his words.

He didn’t even get to the door.

Suddenly Dustin, who had just come from the house, spotted him and beelined straight for him.

“Great!” Dustin said brightly. “You can help me!”

“What now?” Steve asked in confusion.

Dustin yanked the roses out of his hands and tossed them over his shoulder. “You won’t need those, she’s not home.”

“What?”

And just like that Dustin had barreled into his life to chase the monster that ate his cat. Dragging Steve back into the world of the Upside Down.

~

Tag List: FOUR SLOTS OPEN

1- @niniel-karenine @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs @chaotic-waffle

2- @gregre369 @tartarusknight @cryptid-system @kultiras @themoonagainstmers

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @oopsallgender @fearieshadow @stedestielfrattficlover

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gutterflower77

8- @just-a-tiny-void @beelze-the-bubkiss @wheneverfeasible @notaqueenakhaleesi @w1ll0wtr33

9- @stripey82 @estrellami-1 @gloomysoup @steddieislife @ollyxar

10- @eyehartart

[quintessenceofdust88]

Wip Wednesday

I was tagged by @bidisasterevankinard and @typicalopposite for this one (thank you my loves!). I have gotten quite a few things that I'm writing, and y'all had me motivated for new things with your asks, so thank you sooo much for that! ♥ But for this one I'm going with my priest!Tommy AU, so here's the first scene complete. If some stuff looks familiar it's bc I posted snippets a few days ago!

Buck loves LA, but he hates days like this one, where it feels like the whole city is a greenhouse. The heat is sticky and humid, clinging to his skin and making him sweat in his uniform. All he wants is a cold shower and a minute to breathe. And, okay, maybe a cold beer wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Instead, he’s crammed in the back of the 118 fire engine, heading to San Pedro for one more call. And Buck loves his job, he does, but they’ve been on back-to-back calls for the last three hours. 

“Christ, I feel like I’m gonna melt” He whines, and Eddie smirks at him from the front seat (he had won rock paper scissors fair and square, the bastard), pushing his sunglasses up his nose. His Texas-raised ass does just fine with this horrible weather, and Buck hates him for it. 

“Yeah? Better start working hard to go to heaven then, cause you would not survive the eternal flames” He quips. Buck crosses his arms, too stubborn to let himself be influenced by the collective chuckle.

“I already work hard to go to heaven, don’t I? Saving lives and stuff” He says with a shrug, absolutely not pouting, thank you very much.. 

“I don’t know, Buckaroo.” Chim says, a playful smirk on his face. “When was the last time you set foot in a church? That’s supposed to be a big deal for the guy upstairs”

“Well, if that’s the dealbreaker, we’re all screwed” Hen says dryly, even though she doesn’t look particularly concerned. “Except for Cap, of course.”

Bobby chuckles from the driver’s seat, taking a turn to the right and stopping the truck. 

“Well, here’s your chance to make up for it” He says, and Buck comes down from the engine to find out they pulled up to a small stone-walled church. 

The doors are open, and most people are outside or at the very back of the church, chatting agitatedly, their eyes widened as most people when they find themselves witnesses to a 911-level emergency. It’s a sizable crowd, he thinks, considering it’s a Wednesday afternoon (which, as far as his Episcopalian-raised knowledge goes, is not a church day). 

As they rush up the church’s steps, he notices half of the crowd are the usual elderly ladies, but half of it are people around their 20s and 30s, and a few teens, which surprises Buck. They’re all whispering fiercely to each other and keep stealing glances inside the church. One of the ladies approaches them, relief clear in her eyes. 

“Oh, thank God you got here so fast!” She says, wringing her hands together. “It’s Mrs. Bellini, you see, she has low blood pressure, and this weather…”

“Ma’am” Bobby cuts her off as gently as possible. “Were you the one who called 911?”

“No, it was father Kinard.” She clarifies, leading them inside. “He’s already tended to her forehead, but he didn’t want to risk moving her until you arrived to check her situation.”

The church is relatively small, but the ceiling is high, and their footsteps echo against the walls. It’s a lot cooler inside, and Buck lets out an involuntary sigh of relief as they get out of the intense sunlight.

The woman leads them to one of the front pews, where they find another lady who’s sitting down, looking pale and sheepish. There's a white gaze pressed against her forehead, and a small red stain seems to have formed against it. Sitting by her side is a man dressed in white robes, a green-colored long scarf-looking thingy around his neck. 

He stands up when they approach, and Buck’s taken aback, because he’s ridiculously tall; a little taller than Buck, even, and that’s no easy feat. His features are sharp, a jawbone that could probably cut through glass, and he has a cleft on his chin (why did Buck notice that, he wonders? Is it weird to notice a priest has a cleft?). He’s looking at them with widened blue eyes that are filled with concern. 

“Father Kinard? I’m Captain Nash.” Bobby says, and the man nods sharply, his stance almost militarily. "Can you tell us what happened?" 

"He is exaggerating is what happened" The woman quips, her voice a little trembling, but her glare towards the priest is very firm. Father Kinard, however, doesn't seem intimidated. 

"Calling 911 after you passed out and hit your head is not exaggerating, Gloria, and you know that" He says gently, then puts a massive hand on her bony shoulder. "I'm your shepherd, I have to make sure my sheep are doing alright, don't I?" 

Buck smiles a little at that; it shouldn’t sound that endearing, but it does, and even the lady seems convinced, because she shakes her head resignedly, and doesn’t protest when Chim takes her arm and wraps the pressure cuff around it. 

“She fell unconscious during service and hit her head on the pew.” Father Kinard elaborates, still looking at Mrs. Bellini worriedly. “I figured the heat brought her blood pressure down, so I asked everyone to step outside and called 911 immediately. I applied pressure to the wound and it seems to have stopped the bleeding. I made sure to keep her awake and she’s not showing any signs of confusion or dizziness.”

He knows it’s not polite to stare, but Buck can’t help himself. It’s not common for someone to give them this level of information with so much calmness when they arrive on a call. Usually they try to gather what little snippets they can through tears, yelling and fainting over the sight of blood. But father Kinard is collected and eloquent in what he says, and Buck's astounded. 

“And you're right, her blood pressure is a little low. The wound looks fine, though.” Chimney says, gently removing the gauze to inspect the cut. “Wow, looks like your priest cleaned this up real well, didn't he, Gloria? My job is already done for me.”

“Father Kinard is great whenever anyone gets hurt.” Gloria gushes, and the priest blushes under the attention, shrugging sheepishly.

“I had first aid training in the army.” He says, and when they all turn to him with widened eyes, he gives them a wry smirk. “Which was obviously before I joined the seminary.”

“Well, you were trained well, father.” Hen says approvingly, inspecting the wound herself and dabbing at it with a cotton swab covered in anti-septic. Gloria flinches a little, but sits still as Hen gets it cleaned and then places a band-aid over it. “This won't need stitches, it's very superficial. How are you feeling, Mrs. Bellini?”

“Oh, I'm perfectly alright now.” She says distractedly, her eyes turning back to her priest. “But I am so ashamed you had to stop service because of me, father! I'm very sorry! And for such a small thing too.”

“We’re lucky it was small, but it could have been bad. I wouldn’t risk it.” Father Kinard says patiently. “And don't worry about the service, Gloria, it was after Communion; we'd already done the greatest bits anyway.” He winks at her, a blinding smile on his face. 

Buck doesn’t get the joke, but apparently it’s funny, because both Eddie and Bobby chuckle at it. Chim is removing the cuff from Gloria’s arm and patting it jovially. 

“Well, looks like you’re all set, Mrs. Bellini.” He tells her. “If you experience any dizziness or headache, you should look for a hospital, but otherwise, you’re fine.” 

“And thank God for that!” Father Kinard adds with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle, squeezing Gloria’s shoulder with genuine affection. “And thank you, first responders, as well. Come, I’ll walk you out before giving Gloria a lift home.” He says, and then strides along them to the back of the church, the smile still lingering on his face.

Buck has a hard time reconciling this laughing priest to the buttoned-up, serious-faced ministers he knew in childhood, from the few times his parents made him attend church. This man is full of joy and confidence, Buck can tell right away, and he just thinks he’s so cool. 

“You quite literally have nothing to thank us for, Father.” Bobby adds warmly, smiling at Kinard. Buck knows his captain has a close relationship with church, and he seems completely comfortable striking up a conversation with the priest. “You had done half our job for us before we were here.”

He shrugs modestly once more, walking alongside Bobby, and Buck is irrationally envious of his boss for a second or two. They stop by the church’s entrance, and the man extends a hand to Bobby. 

“Thank you, captain…” He says, trailing off, and Bobby firmly shakes his hand, smiling warmly. 

“Nash. Captain Bobby Nash. Your blessing, father.” Bobby asks respectfully, and the priest makes a cross sign over his head. 

“God Bless you and your team, Captain Nash. May He keep you safe in your very necessary jobs.” He says warmly, and then turns to Hen. “And thank you, firefighter…”

Buck watches in increasing despair as her, Chim and Eddie introduce themselves to the priest, shaking his hand, and realizes that soon it’ll be his turn.

He thought the church was cooler than the outside, but all of a sudden he's feeling hot all over again. Should he ask for the man’s blessing? He didn’t offer it to the others, and they didn’t ask, but should he? Is he even allowed if he’s not a Catholic? Does he even want the man to touch his sweaty forehead? 

And then the priest looks at him with that crunchy smile, an inexplicable blush creeps up to his cheeks. Buck thanks God - yes, he’s fully aware of the irony, and he does not find it funny - that he can blame it on the heat and his heavy uniform (never mind that father Kinard's clothes also look heavy and he's still perfectly composed, but Buck definitely won't think about how he'd look all sweaty).

“Thank you, firefighter…” He says, trailing off and extending a hand, and it takes Buck a second to realize he's supposed to shake it and offer his name (not his phone number. Definitely not his phone number).

“Evan. Buckley. Buck!” He blurts out like a complete idiot, and wonders if it's wrong to wish for a five scale fire so they can rush out of there.

Father Kinard raises an eyebrow at him, a smirk on his curved lips. That's when Buck notices he's still shaking hands with the man, and he lets go clumsily. 

“My, that's a mouthful” Kinard says, and Buck almost blurts out that he has something else that's a mouthful before his eyes clock the white collar around the man's neck. 

As it is, he just snickers awkwardly and mutters a goodbye, his voice high-pitched and strained.

Buck's at the truck before anyone else, mentally preparing himself for being teased all through the shift they just started. 

His only saving grace is that, as much as he made a complete fool of himself in front of father Kinard, it's not a problem. Buck'll never have to see the man again, will he? So it's not like it matters.

Naturally, the priest shows up at the station the next day.

Np tagging @agentpeggycartering @unhingedangstaddict @fairytalegonewronga03 @laundryandtaxesworld @mmso-notlikethat and whoever else would like to do it!

[ladysussurbloom]

someone posted a pic of the hansry kiss with a brand on henry's neck and i went a little bit feral, so here's a snippet from a much longer thing set just after henry finds hans during that one poaching mission

“What did you even do to deserve that?” Hans winces at his own words, a flicker of shame crossing his face.

“Already assuming I deserved it, I see.” Henry rolls his eyes. Typical.

Hans wrinkles his nose and looks away. “I only meant—”

“Forget it, alright?” Henry rummages in his satchel and procures a small bottle of thick honey mead he’d acquired from a local herbalist. He uncorks it and takes a long swig before wordlessly handing it over to Hans.

“Thanks.” Hans accepts the bottle and takes a swig, nearly choking on the pure strength. He takes another look at Henry’s scar and furrows his brow. “I’m not dropping this, I hope you know.”

“Oh, I know, Sir.” Henry’s voice is short and clipped. One of these days, Hans is going to push Henry to his breaking point and Henry is going to let it fucking happen. Maybe then Hans will actually have to deal with some consequences for once.

“Go on, then.” Hans says. “Tell me.”

Words echo through his head—how can I ever refuse you anything?—words he’s said before and will say again. He’s sure they’ll carve something like it on his gravestone.

“Thieving and fighting.” Henry lists off his crimes in a far more palatable manner than the executioner did when he was on that stage, white-hot iron inches from his throat.

Hans stills, brow twitching ever so slightly, struggling to find the right words. It’s unnerving to see him so uncertain. “Surely they're not so barbaric in these parts that they’ll brand you for petty thievery?”

“No, they don't.” Henry huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “They'll brand you for doing all that, assaulting six guards and bedding the wrong person, though.”

Hans’ eyes widen. His lips part slightly, tongue darting out to wet them. Henry shifts uncomfortably on the forest floor. He’s used to people sneering at him and spitting at his feet as he walks past; the quiet, subdued shock is a new one. Hans remains stone-still, like he’s vehemently containing some kind of reaction and succeeding. He’s unreadable. Somehow, this hurts more than the brand ever did.

“Whose daughter did you—?” Hans starts, then nearly bites his own tongue trying to contain himself. “No, I don't think I want to know. Forget I asked.”

“What, surprised I bedded someone important enough for them to brand me?”

“No, I just—” Hans huffs, shoulders tensing and a strange look in his eyes. He bristles under Henry’s analytical gaze. “I’m wondering who I need to execute for branding my page. Christ, you should’ve run, for once.” 

Henry huffs and looks away, staring off into the dancing flames of the fire.

[yoonkinii]

Sukuna letting y♡u doll him up!

Warning(s): minor cursing Requests open (for this AU only) Masterlist (check for more AU content!) Note: I'm sorry this one is so short. I really wanted to post another chapter so you guys weren't waiting so long for the next update. (This snippet takes place after further into their relationship. Remember there is no order- they are just snippets.)

“This is stupid,” Sukuna grumbled from where he sat on the floor, legs crossed like he was back in elementary school.

Rolling your eyes, you grab his outstretched hand. “It is not stupid.  If it is, why did you agree?” 

“Lapse of judgment,” he muttered. 

Just then, the front door to Sukuna’s house opened, revealing a familiar pink-haired high schooler. “Uncle, I’m home.” Yuji rounded the corner to the living room, his face brightening when he spots you. “Oh! I didn’t know you were coming over today, y/n.”

You shrug, turning back to Sukuna after greeting Yuji. “It was unexpected.”

“More like you showed up at my doorstep, ” Sukuna added, his brows narrowed in mock annoyance. Wrinkling your nose teasingly at your boyfriend, you resumed inspecting his nails. “You shouldn’t have given me your address then,” you jeered. 

“I didn’t know you were  insane.” he muttered, clicking his tongue.

You looked at Sukuna through your lashes. His eyes followed your hands as they gently held his. Despite his grumbling and complaining, he sat perfectly still, letting you do whatever you wanted with his hands.

Dropping his backpack beside the couch, Yuji plopped down and curiously watched the two of you. His eyes flickered to the open pink bag beside you, spotting a nail file. He gasped and leaned forward to get a better look. 

“Are you doing his nails?” he asks. 

“Yes!” you answered enthusiastically. 

“No,” Sukuna interjected. 

You deadpanned, looking at Sukuna, but he didn’t meet your gaze. Instead, he cast his narrowed eyes onto his nephew. You sighed, releasing Sukuna’s hand. He glanced at you, wondering why you let go. Turning to Yuji, you smiled,

“I can do yours, Yuji since your uncle seems to be very against me doing his.” 

Yuji beams, nodding his head furiously in agreement.

“Hell no.” Sukuna's deep voice cut through the happy atmosphere. 

Yuji whined, begging his uncle to let him get his nails done. Siding with Yuji, you also demanded answers from your boyfriend, claiming that he obviously didn’t want his nails done, so it should be okay for Yuji to get his done instead. 

“I don’t want her to touch your grubby hands.” Sukuna said, smirking. 

“Grubby hands?!” Yuji shrieks, his voice cracking slightly. “My hands are not grubby.” Yuji waves his hands in the air, almost as if he was showing the world his clean hands. 

“I live with you. I know you’re grubby.” Sukuna teased, a faint smile playing on his lips. His arms were crossed over his chest, his posture poised with amusement. 

“Enough.” You interjected, cutting off the two males. They both look at you, their matching colored eyes meeting your irked expression. “Here is what we will do,” you begin, leaning back until your hands brush against the fabric of your tote bag. Grabbing the bag, you retrieve a slim green packet. “Since your uncle has suddenly had a change of heart,” you state, eyeing your boyfriend watching the frown form on his lips at the implication of your words. You knew full well he was jealous of the thought of you doting on Yuji instead of him. “You can use this.” You hold up the packet, watching Yuji take it and inspect it with a raised brow.

“It’s a face mask,” you inform him. Yujis mouth formed into an ‘O’ in recognition, his eyes once again beaming in delight. He jumps up from the couch before you can say anything else, exclaiming how he had heard about face masks from Nobora before he runs off to the bathroom.

Once again alone with Sukuna, you finally face the man. Holding out your palm, Sukuna grumbles but follows your silent demand, placing his hand in yours. Grabbing your nail file, you set to work, practicing the well known motions from doing your own nails. 

“You would think at 32 you would be more mature.”

“Watch it, brat.”

Giggling softly, you focused intently on his hands, unaware of Sukuna’s gaze fixed on your face. You don’t notice the way his eyes soften as you tug your bottom lip between your teeth in concentration or how you hunch over, completely immersed in your task. To him, it was an endearing sight, though he would rather die than admit that. 

“What color do you want? I only brought three, so you can only choose from those,” you chirped after filing his nails to your liking. Raising his brow, Sukuna eyed the options you presented. 

“What the hell are those?” he grits out, practically oozing annoyance. The three colors you offered were pink, yellow, and purple- shades Sukuna would never have chosen to wear, much less have painted on his nails. 

“What?” you drawled, feigning innocence. You knew exactly what you were doing when you grabbed these specific colors before leaving the house. Raising the bottles into his direct line of vision, you urge him to pick. “C’mon, c’mon, or I’ll pick for you, and trust me, I think this pink will match your hair perfectly.”

Cursing under his breath, Sukuna motions toward the purple polish, the darkest shade you had brought, closer to indigo. At that moment, Yuji returns, no longer in his school uniform but in comfortable house clothes. What caught your attention, though, was the tiger-eared headband keeping his hair out of his face as he wore the face mask. 

“Oh my God, Yuji! That’s so freaking cute!” You squealed.  Yuji sits on the couch, unresponsive, looking at you with a serious expression. Before you could ask what was wrong, he shoved his phone in your face, showing you a message on the screen.

‘I called Nobora. She said I can’t smile or talk with the mask on or else I’ll get wrinkles :( ‘

You couldn’t help but snort in amusement, wondering if Nobora actually believed that or just wanted to tease Yuji. You were certain it was the latter. Turning back to Sukuna, you resumed your work, meticulously cutting his cuticles, shaping his nails, and doing everything needed to make his hands look perfect. Much to Sukuna’s dismay, he was forced to stay in one sport the entire time you worked on him. 

It got to the point where Yuji turned on the TV, watching a random show, and even Sukuna began to watch as well. He had no idea who people enjoyed this- sitting in the same spot, working on such delicate things as nails. Time passed in silence as you focused on your task, allowing your boys to watch TV without interruption. Sukuna didn’t move an inch as you coated his nails in the deep purple nail polish. You were positive he hadn’t even realized you had already painted his nails; there was no other explanation for why you were getting away with what you were currently doing. 

A little over an hour passed before you finally finished. Yuji was now asleep on the couch, his face mask half-off as a result. Admiring your handiwork, you nudged Sukuna gently. He peeled his eyes away from the TV, his gaze slightly bloodshot from staring at the screen for so long. 

“I’m done,” you grinned. Sukuna arches an eyebrow and looks at his nails for the first time since you began. His face instantly fell, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a sneer. “What the hell is this?”

“Aren’t they cute?” you replied. 

“You put fucking… what are these?” He hissed, his voice dripping with incredulity. 

“They’re nail charms.” you say it so simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Each nail was adorned with a various Hello Kitty themed charm, a pink bow on both of his middle fingers. He couldn’t even recall when you had brought out the nail glue to do all this. 

“I’m going to kill you,” he snarls, lips curling back in distaste as he stares at his nails. 

“Sure, sure,” you reply, unfazed by his empty threats. Grabbing his hand, you take out your phone. “Now hold still. I want to take some pictures.”

Snapping  a few photos, you laugh to yourself in excitement as you review them. You were too busy admiring your work through the screen to notice Sukuna examining his nails more closely, cocking his head to the side in contemplation. Despite the initial shock, he had to admit they weren’t badly done at all. 

Bonus!!

“Um, Boss?” A nervous voice called out in the eerily silent office. The man tasked with assisting Sukuna with work documents shifted his weight from side to side, unsure of what to do. He had been talking to his boss for the past few minutes about the upcoming meeting, but it was clear that Sukuna was not listening. Sukuna’s focus was on his hands, specifically his nails. He watched the office lights glint off the charms, his thoughts entirely captivated by you. 

“You will have to come back later,” a female voice interjected, startling the man. Uraume, Sukuna’s personal assistant, now stood beside him, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. She observed her boss with a blank expression, her eyes following Sukuna’s gaze to his hands. 

“It seems Mister Ryomen is preoccupied by staring at his girly nails.”

The male visibly shrinks in fear at Uraume’s words, which seemed to snap Sukuna out of his daze. His palms slammed against the desk in anger, a dangerous snarl on his lips. “Get the hell out before I rip out both your spines.”

“Yes, Sir,” Uraume replies calmly, exiting without another comment. The man hastily follows, terrified of what might happen if he were trapped in the office alone with his boss. Only after the office door was completely shut did Sukuna sit in his chair, a deep sigh escaping his lips. He ran a hand through his hair, wondering just how much of a lovesick idiot you make him. 

-

Tag List (open):@kalulakunundrum , @fushipurro

[endwersed]

Snippet Sunday ☀

So! I'm currently working on the edits for my divorcee Derek/hot-for-older-men Stiles AU, and, whilst it unfortunately isn't as ready to post today as I had originally hoped, I do have a li'l snippet I can share until it is fully edited (fingers crossed, that'll be next weekend!) 🤗

-

“So, class,” Professor Boyd continues, “I’d like you all to meet – Mr Derek Hale.”

A man walks through the open doorway along with the introduction. Stiles’ jaw drops all the way down to the freaking floor.

What he was saying earlier, about his thing for older men? Well, this guy – this Mr Derek Hale – is every-fucking-thing that has made Stiles’ dick hard since pretty much he was old enough to know what to do with it.

Short, dark, soft-looking hair that is patched with spots of grey, his sharp jaw covered in a beard that is thick and coarse and close to being more salt than pepper. Even from where Stiles is sitting, even from this row way at the back of the room, he can still see the lines of age that show on his face, the faint wrinkles in his forehead, the creases around his pale eyes.

He is wearing a dark green sweater, tight across the strength of his broad shoulders, the fabric an expensive cashmere to Stiles’ inexperienced eye. Underneath it sits a crisp, white shirt, its starchy collar folded neatly along the line of his clavicle and a tie knotted snugly just below the prominence of his Adam’s apple. His legs are draped in the dark material of his slacks, skimming close enough to the muscle to reveal the definition of his thighs, and Stiles cannot fight back the thought that he kind of really wants to bury his face between them.

This guy is well into his forties, easily, and he is also, to put it bluntly, the middle-aged man of Stiles’ wettest fucking dreams.

There is no ring on that left hand, either. Interesting. Very, very interesting.

From her place next to him, Stiles can feel the searing heat of the side-eye that Lydia throws him the moment Derek steps into the room. If he cared even one lick about her judgement, he might be cowed into at least trying to hide the raging heart-eyes he probably has going on right about now.

Unfortunately for her, he lost any shame long, long ago – and that’s if he ever truly even had any in the first place.

She wouldn’t get it, anyway. Her taste in men has always been much more mainstream than Stiles’. Has been, barf, Scott, all the way since high school. She likes a nice boy her age, and she found that boy back when they were still stumbling their way through the awkward years of puberty. He is happy for them, of course, but that does not change the fact that his preferences have always taken him well, well beyond those years.

“Hello, everyone.”

The sound of Derek’s voice snaps every fibre of Stiles’ focus back up to the front of the class. The cadence of it isn’t as deep and as growly as his appearance might suggest, those thick eyebrows and that bushy beard, but it’s – nice. Really nice, actually. Stiles is, perhaps, more than a little bit interested in learning how it might pant and grunt and moan when a mouth is wrapped around his cock.

Pausing after just those two words, Derek slides a hand into the pocket of his pants, knuckles visible through the fabric as he rummages around. Eventually, he retrieves a long, rectangular box, flipping it open and pulling out –

Oh, fuck. Pulling out a pair of dark-framed glasses that he slips onto his face, sitting them low across the strong slope of his nose, peering over the top of them with that light, captivating gaze. Stiles thinks he may actually be fucking drooling. He dazedly ignores Lydia’s knee digging pointedly into the side of his thigh.

“Thank you for having me,” Derek carries on, both hands now tucked into his pockets. “As Professor Boyd said, my name is Derek Hale and I’m new to town. I hope you don’t all find me being here today as boring as I told your professor you definitely would.”

A light ripple of laughter filters around the class. Stiles is too entranced to join in with anything but a faint uptick at one corner of his mouth. Like anyone could find being in the presence of someone this freakishly hot boring. Stiles is growing less and less certain with each passing moment that he will even make it out of this class alive.

Stiles’ eyes are wide, his eyelashes fluttering ticklishly against the height of his cheekbones with his rapid blinks, and he leans forwards, pressing closer for more, more, as much as he can get. He rests the bend of his elbow against the solid plane of the table in front of him, his palm flat and open for him to lay his cheek against. It is the best position for gazing dreamily at the aging hunk gracing the next hour of his life, after all.

“I thought I’d start by talking about my years as an associate,” Derek says, light eyes sweeping slowly across the room. “I started with Pearson and Howe straight out of law school, and I –”

His words cut abruptly off. Quicker than a heartbeat, his entire body freezes, a visible tension in the square of his shoulders, a stunned-slack parting of his mouth as he stops, and stills, and stares out ahead of him, stares out at… something. It takes Stiles a few seconds of blinking confusion to figure out what the hell he is staring at, what the hell has made him react like some deer about to caught up in somebody’s bumper.

A grin spreads wickedly across Stiles’ mouth as soon as the realisation lands.

It’s him; it’s Stiles. He is what Derek is staring at, he is what has made Derek apparently lose control of his ability to speak, he is what has Derek gaping like a fish in front of a whole room of law students. Derek’s gaze is snagged with his and Stiles’ heart is kicking up into overdrive inside of his chest.

Lifting his face from his palm, he makes sure to hold Derek’s eye, sure and steady and still smiling stupidly. The room around him murmurs in confusion, and Professor Boyd has an eyebrow quirked that looks more amused than anything else, and Lydia is scoffing a quiet laugh beside him, but the only thing Stiles has the attention span for right now is Derek’s eyes, locked with his.

Heat pools around the flutter of his stomach. He bites his bottom lip and dares to throw out a wink. The tips of Derek’s ears burn brightly as he closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“Sorry,” Derek says, the word coming out low, a little choked, raw until the pointed clearing of his throat. “Sorry, I just, uh… I lost my train of thought there for a second. But anyway, uh – as I was saying.”

-

No pressure tags! @dear-massacre @heavensenthale @like-lazarus @myrrhhymns @renmackree

[polaroidhugs]

Dancing with Myself

'When there's no one else in sight/In the crowded lonely night/Well I wait so long for my love vibration/and I'm dancing with myself' Chapter 1 - Dancing with myself Chapter 2 - Poker face Chapter 3 - Rhiannon Chapter 4 - Hotel California

(SERIES MASTERLIST)

Summary: While late for work the 3rd time this month, in Hano's kindness, she takes some extra time to give a man crossing Shibuya his wallet, and when he barely even reacts to her gesture, it makes her mood even worse. Not as bad as when the entire city disappears, and it's just her and wallet guy left, though.

A/N: First post!! I finished AIB like 2 days ago, and I just got the biggest urge to write a fic after watching it, so... here it is! (Excuse my typos I’m still trying to get better at writing.)

Warnings: swearing, mentions of criminalistic past-juvie, in the last little bit of the chapter, a noose and gambling are mentioned.

BTW: the character has a given last name (Hano) but her first name is up to you.

Happy reading! WC: 4618

Shit. Late for work again. And for the third time this month, too. It's really not my fault: My alarm didn't go off, and when I tried beating on makeup, my apartment's fire alarm went off and everybody had to evacuate. This is most definitely a sign I need to wake up earlier. But will I? No. Whatever, there’s no use dwelling on it; I’ll just do my makeup at the office. 

Man, the city really is a beautiful place. I always find myself studying the passers-by as I wait for the light to turn. There's a dishevelled man seemingly in the same situation as me: his glasses perched awkwardly, not even having enough time to fix them, and he’s begging somebody on the phone to listen. Or, a more wicked idea, He might be a cheater, kicked out on the street, begging for his wife to let him explain.Then there’s three school girls clustered together, their voices bubbling with laughter about, from snippets of the conversation I can catch, boys.

That's the beauty of life for me. Everybody is so different. Everybody in this city has completely different lives from each other. Unless, all you do is stay in bed all day. But even those people have differing ideals. So, maybe that guy was a cheater. Most likely, he was just late for work. But I’ll never know.

My thoughts are interrupted by a soft thud, the sound of something hitting the pavement. My eyes flick to the ground to see a thin, black leather wallet, scuffed from use. The ID in the clear slot catches my eye, and it invites me to take a closer look. I can feel my purse slip from my shoulder to my elbow as I squat down to pick up the wallet.

I glance down at the wallet, the owner’s name "Shuntaro Chishiya" catching my attention as I stand back up. "pediatric cardiovascular surgeon" Damn, this guy is young for someone with such a fancy title. To be honest: his photo on the ID doesn’t do him too good: The angle of the light causes his face to be partially obscured by shadows, making eyes looking like two black holes. Whoever decided it’s basically a requirement for people to look bad on their ID needs to be locked up forever.

I slide over to a nearby pole to get out of the way. When I open the wallet a stack of crisp 10,000 yen bills greet me. Stacked neatly against eachother. Why’d I even do this to myself? Why’d I open it? The temptation to take them hit me like a punch. Three years ago, I wouldn't have hesitated to grab these bills up, maybe even bought some new designer for me and my friends with the card. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, snapping the wallet shut. My fingers linger on the leather, the temptation gnawing at me. 

No matter how much I think I’ve changed, that pull always comes back. But then guilt creeps in, and the fact that I’m even struggling with this disgusts me. I should be better than this by now. I remember those years. I was a disappointment. Stealing, smoking, getting in fights, in Juvie- almost, if i wasn’t bailed out. I think of my family, their faces twisted with disgust in the car mirror as they drove me home. I don’t like to remember it. I can’t remember it.

As the light signals to cross, I spot him: It’s impossible to miss this guy, really, his bleached blonde hair makes him stand out like the sun in a surrounding sea of black hair. He’s wearing a white cardigan and some shorts, hands in his pockets. How’d he not notice his wallet? His shorts don’t have a back pocket as far as I can see. I don’t even think about it as I make a beeline for him even though he’s walking away from my office building, I just have to return this to him.

“Excuse me, sir!” I yell, pushing my way through the crowd. About a dozen tiny apologies come from my mouth before I finally reach him, tapping him admittedly rough on the shoulder.

The man turns around and, thank God, it’s him alright. “Sorry for bothering you, but I believe this is yours.” I hold out his wallet, flipping it so he can see his ID. He stares at me for a moment before glancing down at his wallet. Much to my surprise, his hands aren’t cemented to his pockets: He reaches out one to take his wallet back to his pocket. “Thanks.”

And he turns head and begins to walk away. Surely he heard me yelling for him in the street? I wasn’t expecting him to grovel for me, but just that nonchalant thanks? Not even a “Thank you, maam.” Man, why do I ever bother being nice to guys?

I grit my teeth, my irritation somehow building even higher. Whatever, I begin booking it for my office building. Finally, I made it. The glass doors slide open agonizingly slow, like they know I’m in a time crunch. I wave a quick, distracted hand at Ageda, who’s cheerfully greeting me with her usual good morning as I rush to the stairs. I can’t even think about the elevator right now. My heels clack loudly against the metal steps, and as I get up to the fourth floor, I’m breathless with my legs burning from all that running.

I weave through the sea of cubicles, a bit of me dying inside when I see the stack of papers on mine: If any other jobs would give me the delight of an interview, I would go there instead in a heartbeat. Not that I’m not grateful for Hageda, he’s the only person that would give me a job looking at my past: I’m forever indebted to him. 

Once I get to my bosses office, I practically crash through the door. I stumble in, hands choking the coat rack by the door as the only possible way to keep me from collapsing. “I am so sorry!” The words barely even make it out of my mouth, and I shoot the most pleading look I can to my boss. “I-I swear it wasn’t my fault this time, my alarm didn’t go off and-and-”

“It’s fine, Hano-san.” He laughs softly. Him and this office always had a way of calming me down. I’ve known Hayashi for years; he’s a family friend, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him get angry. He’s just as cool as this office, with all the brown rustic furniture. 

“Do this again, however, I’ll have to tell your father to wake you up himself.” Oh, God. I can never be late again. I can already hear my father’s voice: ‘My friend gives you this job after your life of gangster-ness and this is how you repay him? Why did, God give me this disappointment as my daughter?’ The image of his face churned in disgust is seared into my brain.

I fix my bag back onto my shoulder as I bow. “Thank you, Buchou.” I should definitely be going now, getting to my job. My hand reaches to push the rustic wooden door open, but the power going off stops me in my tracks.

I guess I can’t get to work. What should I do, then? Go home? That thought places a grimace so big it hurts my mouth. Well, I guess it’s up to Hayashi. I turn around, my face brighter than the sun.

What the fuck? My boss isn’t there, and it’s not like there’s anywhere for him to hide in this office- I’d know. As a kid, me and his daughter would be so bored waiting for him to return from a meeting we’d play hide and seek to pass the time. There wasn’t any spots for us to hide well, so there sure isn’t any for him.

 Everything else in the room is just as it was a second ago; except for one thing. His glasses. They’re resting on the desk, abandoned. On top of that, one of the lenses looks like it’s been shot through.

“Hello?” What am I doing? There’s no way he would respond to me even if this was somehow a joke, and if it was, why? For being late? I’ve known this guy since I was little, he wouldn’t go through all of this just to scare me from being late again, he doesn’t care enough to do that! The whole room seems to be pressing in on me, the walls narrowing, the air growing colder.

I burst out my office, looking frantically from one cubicle to the next for anybody to explain what just happened, but there’s no one. No one is here.. My office is empty. Everyone that was here a minute ago, is gone. Even Tokuda, who hasn’t missed a single day of work in 12 years, is nowhere to be found. “Hello? Anyone? Is anyone there?” I quit my running, standing in the middle of the room, spinning in circles to spot someone that might not be a great hider. Nope.

I speed walk to the stairs, noting how the elevator is down, and every single computer is turned off. I blaze down the winding steps, the straps of my bag slipping once again. When I reach the main floor, there’s something I’d thought I’d see: Emptiness. there’s nobody crying in their seats about how they got scammed by a prince overseas, or somebody yelling at the lady upfront about how its her fault their card declined. It’s so… refreshing.

I have always been fascinated by how different people are, how different their lives are, but don’t get that confused with some sort of admiration for the differences. If I’m being honest, most people annoy the living hell out of me, I’d say about 8 in 10, being generous. They all just get under my skin.

The streets are the same as my office building: Desolate. And, if I’m not mistaken, I think the starbucks has moss creeping up on it? The hell? That would take a shit ton of time to happen normally, right?

The silence of Shibuya Crossing is almost too loud. Normally, the streets are filled with the incessant humming of just about a million different sounds. But now? It’s silent. It’s almost relaxing. I’m sure there are other people here- there must be at least one or two. But right now, I feel like someone just took their hands off my throat.

No more condescending coworkers giving me those pitying looks and snacks, no more parents lecturing me how I should be like my brother, no more fake smiles for the customers that have more complaints than sense; I’m free as a bird. I don’t even have to be wearing this sad office attire- Dress suit, skirt, and heels. The convenience store in the distance is humming my name.

I don’t give a damn how bad my heels are digging into the sides of my feet I sprint there, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ll be free of these horrible creations soon. Hopefully for good: I don’t know what it is, but ever since I was little, heels have been my worst enemy. I know some girls can stand them or build a resistance to them, but that’s not me. They feel like nails for me, and no amount of being in them has ever lessened that fact for me. Maybe my feet are just shaped strangely.

I practically teleport to the home section of the store, and there I see them. A simple pair of light blue slippers. Sitting on the shelf. The soft texture of the slippers feel heavenly in my hand as I pick them up. It’s like I’m a kid again, and the slippers are those huge rainbow swirl lollipops. Relief washes over me just imagining it.

Maybe I’m a bit dramatic, but I feel like I’m in utopia. With nobody I can do whatever and take whatever I want. Who’s going to stop me? I swing my feet into the air, my heel going along with it, and making a big thud as it touches the ground. But when I do the same thing with the opposite feet it hit’s something soft, Like flesh. I didn’t check if there was anyone in here, did I? I was too caught up with putting these slippers on. That’s mighty embarrassing.

What a coincidence: Wallet guy. Chinchilla, I think his name was? It already slipped my mind. Chinchilla has his hand in his pocket, posed like he’s waiting for the bus. His lips are curled into a small smirk- the kind that’s not really a smile, but kinda is. My heels are between his feet, but he doesn’t care about that. He’s just staring at me with that slight curve in his mouth.

What do I even say? “Sorry I just kicked you with my heel, man. My bad?” I don’t know this guy, I just returned his wallet to him earlier and all he gave me was a pathetic thanks. Do I say sorry? Do I ask him what’s going on? Why would he know?

“Oh, you.” That came out of my mouth much more sharply than I intended. I’m not that salty about the wallet thing, I think. Nothing about Chinchilla changes at all, it’s like he’s a greek statue. Quite frightening, if you ask me. “Sorry, I didn’t it like that.” I sigh, bending over and slipping on my new stolen slippers: I’m not trying to be barefoot infront of this guy.

After a moment, his lips twitch and his smirk deepens. Just a fraction, but it’s noticeable. “It’s just you and me, then?” His voice is casual, like he’s commenting on the weather. His eyes make their way back to me, and the smile fades out of his face. I feel like I shouldn’t be talking with him. Why is he and I the only two people here right now? Then again, what could I lose from responding?

“As far as I can see.” I vaguely gesture to store’s window, though in my view it’s covered by cleaning supplies and chargers. There’s this long silence that stretches between us as he stares out the window. I hate silence.

“Hey,” I say, slightly shifting my body. He raises his eyebrows for a split second before looking back to me. 

“Why are you and I the only people in Shibuya right now?” That’s what’s been in the back of my mind this whole time. Why am I the only one who hasn’t disappeared? I’ve never been particularly special. Mid grades and a delinquent for 90% of my life. It’s not like I’m special. Maybe he is: He’s a young long-title doctor. Definitely sharper than a sword. But I’m not.

“I don’t know.” He answers back to me, quite matter-of-factly. There’s not hint of confusion is his voice, or maybe a bit of nerve as to why him and this random girl are the only two people left in Shibuya. He just doesn’t know. Point blank period.

I’m unsure how to respond to thst. He simply just doesn’t know. Do I get mad and start barking at him for answers? I shouldn’t: He is most likely just in the dark as I am. And if he is, then I’ve missed out of a valuable warm body. Maybe I should ask him to pair up with me, investigate together. 

“We should stick together.” He states blankly, like he was reading my mind. I meet his eyes for the briefest moment before nodding. “We should.” I move to the front of the store, where a stack of shopping baskets wait for me. I can hear Chinchilla’s footsteps loosely following mine. I grab a basket and head straight for the food aisles. I don’t waste time, shoving anything with good shelf life into my basket.

I can feel my new partner’s eyes on me as I shove everything useful on the shelves into the basket, and it grinds my nerves: I just can’t stand when people watch me but don’t do anything. “Don’t just stand there, put those pockets to good use.” I snap, giving him the bitchiest look I can muster. Damn, I feel like my boss from when I was a delinquent. Demanding and impatient.Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Chinchilla flash that signature smirk as he walks somewhere out of my sight. Damn, this guy has absolutely zero urgency

It takes me a minute, but I fill my basket up the the brim, along with my purse. When I step out of the aisle, I can see Chinchilla casually leaning against the cashier counter, his pockets weighed down with snacks. Without a word, I push the door open, hearing the little ding of the bell as I exit, . That would mean, that everything powered by electricity is useless right now, and I can tell Chinchilla feels it too, I can hear him let out the quietest ‘hm.’

I stop at Shibuya crossing, it feels free not having to worry about a car hitting me. An apartment would probably be the safest bet for a place to put all this shit in, but for some reason, my body feels a strong gravitational pull to Starbucks. That convenience store was rather low on water for some odd reason, and the Starbucks would definitely have a shit ton, plus caffiene, which could be nice, too. Wouldn’t be the first time that happened to me. But, since we’re partner’s now, I guess I have to ask for Mr. Mysterious’s thoughts.

“Starbucks or an apartment?” I ask, my voice flat. “We’re low on water, and I’m guessing taps don’t work anymore,” He’s behind me, but I can imagine his face not changing.

“Astute observation.” 

I feel quite bullied by what he said just now. Is he making fun of my intelligence? Not cool, man. Or, this could be an answer with his own personal touch of mockery. If he acknowledges my observation as astute, then he probably thought of that too, meaning he’s thought of the apartments being a subpar place to go aswell. I don’t ask another question, I just begin walking and hope he follows.

We make it to the Starbucks and just like every other place, it’s empty, with no indication this place ever opened in the first place. There’s just one singular round chair fallen over, but that’s it. For a second, I’m stunned. I can’t believe it’s the first time I’ve been here: It’s right next to my work. I put the basket off supplies and my purse down onto a booth, and Chinchilla follows suit, slowly as ever taking the snacks he shoved in his pockets out and placing them next to the basket.

I look to the counter. Why not? Nothing’s stopping me. “One large espresso coming right up!” I announce as I grab a large cup, some water still in it, and pretend to make the most extravagant coffee in the world. I shake the cup like I’m some sort of bartender. My laughter rings out, care free.

My mood should be much darker right now. The city’s empty. Everyone’s disappeared. Any sort of technology is useless. But I’m loving this. Sure, it’s unsettling, but also so fun.

“I don’t drink caffeine.” Chinchilla’s voice cuts through my thoughts. Very late reply, indeed. He’s staring at me, and I’m staring right back at him. “You’re a doctor,” I shoot back as I set the cup down. I lean on the counter, elbows digging into the surface. “Of course you drink caffeine.”

“Med student.” He corrects, like that’s going to change anything in my point. If anything, it makes my point richer.

“Oh, a med student?” I laugh, bobbing my head as I click open the register; nothing. Aw, man. “And you already’ve got such a fancy title? You’re smart.”

He doesn’t reply to that, but I can tell it boosts his ego as he looks through the basket of snacks, settling on a yellow packet of cookies.

It’s about an hour later. I’m just sitting on a stool, looking out at the beauty of the silent city while God knows what Chishiya is doing in the back. Oh, yeah. Me and him exchanged names before he went off to somewhere in this cafe. His name is Chishiya. Where’d I get Chinchilla from? 

I’ve thought a lot over this past hour, about who I am. I’m an idiot. Through and through, all my life. What my family has said hurts, but it’s true. My friends and I, damn, we were all so fucking stupid. But I guess there’s nothing I can do about it now: What’s done is done.

A faint glow of pinkish-white spills to the corner of the window. It’s nearly blinding to my eyes, which have gotten quite accustomed to the darkness. Where is that coming from? I climb onto the table, cranning my neck to get a better angle. The light illuminates a pub me and my friends used to sneak into: It was a good experience, but I still have a year until I can legally re-visit. Not sure if that matters much now, though.

“Yo!” I yell out to Chishiya, hoping he hasn’t escaped to some intricate labyrinth where he can’t hear me. “Check this out!”

There’s a few seconds of silence shared between us before I begin to hear him shuffling out of the back. I watch as Chishiya walks out from the back, through the counter and over to me. As he begins to inspect the light, my attention too wanders back to it. “Should we check it out? Could be more people.”

It also could be a risk: I know that, and obviously someone as intelligent as him knows that. But if it entails more people, maybe they know what’s going on. That seems like a good risk to take. “Sure.” He answers, immediately moving towards the exit. I scramble off the table, my slippers minimizing the sound I make when I hit the floor. I also don’t miss out on slyly snatching a few snacks as I follow him out the door.

An impossibly bright and obnoxious arrow points down to the door of the pub. As if we’d miss it in the absence. Without a word between us, Chishiya and I step forward into the pub. The pub is exactly how I remember it from three years ago: A huge bar stretches in the back, looking tiny in comparison to the massive array of gambling tables scattered across the room. At the spot where the bouncer would usually be standing, there’s only a round table. On it sits one singular phone, the screen white. We get free iphones now? Whoopee. 

Chishiya’s doesn’t hesitate to pick up the last phone. A corporate ding sounds from the phone as words show up on screen.

It read’s “Error has occurred: too many players. Partner up. If you are eliminated, chosen partner is eliminated with you.”  

Game? Eliminated? What the hell? For the first time since I’ve met him, which hasn’t been long, Chishiya’s face is slightly confused. Of course, still with that signature smirk as always. It’s starting to grow on me, I have to admit. I peek around the corner to see the infamous Black Jack table with four other people people sitting around it. That’s where my old boss won the money to treat us all to dinner at the fanciest diner in Tokyo. Well, I couldn’t call it ‘won,’ I would say he scammed the poor dude, but when it comes to gambling, same thing, right?

Chishiya ambled to the circular table, and I follow him. At first, his uncaring nature really creeped me out, but now it’s kinda calming. He’s not scared, and I’m sure in his mind he has a rational reason for not being. So why should I be?

I know why now; I rebuke that. As we get closer, I notice every person there has something around their neck that isn’t a beautiful family heirloom, at least, I hope it’s not: They all have nooses tied around their neck. Not tight enough to choke them, but if those things got even a few centimetres higher it sure would. Just the thought of that makes my throat tighten in discomfort. I look to Chishiya, expecting him to back away, or show some sign of being scared, but nah. He pulls the chair out, and carefully puts his head in the noose. Great job, man. Great job.

It takes everything in me to stay quiet, to put on the best poker face imaginable. Everybody else are blank slates that give nothing away. Except for the fact that they think we’re weak: They’re looking at us in a disgustingly predatory way, like we’re the mice and they’re the cats.

Two people there are smoking, one a middle aged man and another an older lady. The guy has a laughable goatee and a fat cigar dangling from his mouth, the end of it chewed as if it’s life support: He’s a total show-off. The lady, however, isn’t. Smoke pours out from her nostrils, cigarette dangling from her middle and pointer finger as she steadies her eyes on me. She’s what I strive to be when I grow up: Her clothes are colorful and she has these gorgeous gold earrings I know she had to take money from a will to afford. Man, something about the way she tilts her head like she’s just figured something out about me is terrifying, but also breathtaking.

Then there’s two other men. To the left of Chishiya is a guy about our age- 18 to 25 I would guess, and he has very tall black hair. Not too-bad looking. There’s nothing special about the other guy, he looks to be an average office worker, glasses and a buzzcut.

After a while of everyone handing out sharp stares, a ding comes from all of their pockets. I walk closer to Chishiya, looming over his shoulder to see what popped up on his phone. 

“Regristration closed. There are a total of 5 - 6 participants.” Is me being here a glitch? This thing doesnt know how many people are supposed to be in this game. Holy shit, this is trippy. “The game will now commence.” Poker face is usually something I’m great at- but now? I feel like I’m transparent. ‘The game will commence’ with nooses around peoples’ necks? I would be lying to say this didn’t frighten the shit out of me.

The show-off has a grimace on his face while he looks around to study everyone elses’ face. But he can’t find anything out, their eyes are all blocked by their phones. Then, his eyes lock into mine. I don’t hold it, my eyes flickering down to Chishiya’s screen. But he clearly found something out about me: I can hear him elicit a laugh straight from his gut.

Another pinging sound comes from the phone. “Difficulty: Six of diamonds” 

I’m scared shitless right now, but I have to admit, ranking a game based on cards is pretty badass.

“Game: Blackjack. Rule: One winner remains before time limit is reached.” Seems easy enough, my guy can do this. Even if he doesn’t know how to play, I’m sure he can learn. “Game over conditions: Time limited reached. The loss of all of your chips mid game. Illegal transfer of chips. Illegal restraint.”

“Game start.”

Next chapter!!

[djarins-cyare]

I thought it would be harder to pick and then I saw "Be-All And Endor pegging bonus scene" and anyway here I am. 😍

Ahaha, I hoped someone would ask about this one from my WIP folder! 🧡💚

This is set several months after the main story ends. My plan was – and still is (eventually) – to write some random scenes from Din and Reader’s future in lieu of a sequel.

Several readers commented they would’ve liked to have read the scene in the final chapter where Reader tells Din to go shower and meet her in their cabin to cross off another item on their “things that’ll happen eventually” list, which suggests some type of ass play for Din, based on an earlier comment in chapter 37 where he indicates he’d be interested in trying it.

As usual, the smut slowed me down when I started drafting it. Honestly, I don’t think I know enough about pegging to adequately describe it, so I put it on the back burner until I could do sufficient research.

That said, when I got your ask, I went back and checked how much I had already written, and I realised I actually have a decent-length scene leading up to the smut… it just fades to black (again) when they’re about to start.

So, Kate, since it’s you and you definitely deserve a reward for all your cheerleading of Be-All (for which I’m forever grateful), I’ve decided to give you not just a snippet but the whole of the 1k+ word scene that I’ve got so far. I’m not posting it on AO3 yet – I’ll do that later once I’ve written the second half of it and converted the AO3 version into a series – so for now, please enjoy this Tumblr exclusive bonus content!

⚠️ Please note the following contains heavy spoilers for anyone who hasn’t read the original story!

Be-All And Endor Bonus Chapter (excerpt): The Solace

Rating: Mature (18+) Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader Word count: 1,150 Tags/warnings: References to sex, anal play, pegging (nothing explicit); brief reference to a past attempted SA; the dildo is referred to as a cock; some swearing and explicit language; one (1) Mando’a insult

You find the toy tucked away in the back of your drawer, hidden from prying eyes for weeks. Even though Din knows you acquired it before leaving Glavis, you’d insisted on keeping it a surprise until you could finally try it out.

But things had got in the way.

His painful Darksaber injury, worse than Nantoogen’s concussive blaster bolt on Endor. His discovery of that mythosaur marker in Kolzoc Alley, faded and ominous. His bitter disappointment at reaching the lowest level of the substrata and finding it empty. The thrill of uncovering hastily painted coordinates that revealed his tribe’s new location.

Just like that, your fun and games were on hold.

In the weeks since, everything that’s happened has overwhelmed you both – physically and emotionally – for better and for worse. The covert, the recognition of your union, your shiny new helmet… Din’s exile.

The Armorer’s final words and your defiant retort still ring tragically in your ears almost a day later, as if your helmet has trapped them there:

“You have not yet sworn the Creed; therefore, you are not an apostate. You may stay.”

“But I have sworn riduurok to Din Djarin and the gai bal manda to Grogu; therefore, I am a wife and mother. I am loyal to my clan and could never abandon them for a tribe that exiles one of its own despite his wish to atone. You taught me that loyalty and solidarity are the Way, and I will honour that. So, I thank you for your offer, but nariti lo’shebs’ul.”

You can still feel the sting of tears on your cheeks, still see Din’s dejected body stiffen as you told his alor to shove her offer up her ass. Amid the grief, you sensed a spike of shock – even pride – flicker within him for a fleeting moment.

Now back in hyperspace’s safe and superluminal embrace, you both need the relief of the release you’re about to partake in. But he needs it more.

He still hasn’t really talked. Not properly – not like you know he can. He’s been barely responsive, stiff, twitchy, and every subtle quiver speaks of his deep turmoil. Apostate. It’s an awful label. His inner storm has been yours to share through your connection, but you’ve resisted. You saw his need for solitude on Anantapar, so you’d granted him several hours alone in the cockpit – helmet on.

After several failed check-ins for food and comfort, it was to this suggestion alone that Din had responded. Once you’d assured him that Grogu was asleep in his cubicle, he’d immediately risen from his chair, awaiting instructions. You’d told him to shower and to meet you in the cabin without his helmet, where you’d unveil your purchase from Glavis.

Now, with a determined breath, you face the final hurdle: figuring out how to attach the damn thing.

You’d liked the look of the ‘strapless’ versions, but the vendor had advised that a strap would be best. More stability and a better experience for your husband, she’d insisted. Fewer distractions for you while it’s his turn, she’d winked. Fair point. You’re not sure you could concentrate solely on his pleasure with something nestled inside your pussy, rubbing your G-spot to distraction.

It takes a few minutes of fiddling, but you successfully secure the harness. It’s actually more comfortable than it looks.

You turn back to the drawer and run your fingers along the dildo’s length, marvelling at the silky texture. It cost a kriffing fortune, so it’d better be worth the credits. A snort escapes you at the thought that Nantoogen’s bounty reward paid for this. It’s almost poetic that the man who tried to sexually assault you has now purchased you your very own cock.

Once it’s nestled securely within the harness, you spend several minutes pacing around the cabin, watching it bob along in front of you. Kriff, you’re oscillating between nervous, curious, and aroused. It makes you feel… powerful.

You and Din have an established sexual dynamic, though, and he’s always in control, even when he’s seemingly not. He has also previously rejected the idea of using toys in the bedroom, fully confident that (for you, at least) he can do better with his own dick. But as much as he’s enjoyed taking your fingers in his ass on occasion, he’d eventually agreed that something more substantial would guarantee him a more gratifying time.

Given his general dislike of sex aids, you’d asked the vendor for a realistic dildo to match your skin tone, especially since you know he’s been attracted to men in the past. Hopefully, this will help him feel less like he’s having something plastic shoved up him and more like he’s enjoying someone’s body.

With the trusty Tatooine lube at the ready on the nightstand, you strip off everything but your bra and your new appendage, then perch on the edge of the bed and wait.

You’re so accustomed to every rattle on the Crest by now that even his bare feet can’t hide his ascent up the ladder, and your pulse quickens in readiness. You stand, wanting to present him with the full spectacle upon entry to the cabin.

Din steps through the door as it slides open, but he stops dead the second he catches sight of you. His uncovered gaze plummets straight down to your cock, eyes widening in surprise, brows rising in tandem with a sharp inhale.

He swallows, staring… staring…

You gulp, hoping… hoping…

And then you see it – the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s nothing compared to the wide grin you’re used to seeing on your husband’s face, but you reach out with your mind, trying to decipher that almost-smile. There’s still a heavy soup of grief, but there’s more now, too. Intrigue, anticipation… a hint of excitement. Sexual excitement.

“Do you like it?” you venture, gently steering him toward those positive feelings.

He swallows again and nods, still staring. “It looks… real.” Taking a careful step forward, he comes within touching distance yet still only uses his eyes. “I like how real it looks.”

A rush of relief pulses through you. Those credits were well spent.

With a grin, you comment, “Well, it doesn’t have balls, but I don’t need those to fuck you. My metaphorical ones are big enough.”

Din’s eyes finally rise to meet yours as he steps even closer, the smirk on his lips now more obvious, and you catch another spike of his pride over how you handled your exit from the covert. “I fucking love you,” he declares, pressing a hard, grateful kiss to your lips before pulling back abruptly. “Where do you want me?”

“On your knees, on the bed,” you command, knowing full well that this is an illusion of power he’s giving you. “I wanna see that tight little ass in the air.”

His smirk grows. “Yes, Sir.”

Mando’a translations, in case they aren’t obvious:

riduurok [REE-doo-rok] – marriage agreement

gai bal manda [guy bal MAN-dah] – adoption ceremony (lit. “name and soul”)

nariti lo’shebs’ul [nah-REE-tee loh-SHEBS-ool] – shove it up your ass

Notes:

“Trusty Tatooine lube” is a reference to the scene in the final chapter that I mentioned above – Reader picked some up before they left, which is why she suggested that particular activity as soon as they’d left the planet.

In case anyone’s forgotten, Din tells Reader in chapter 30 (after their shower sex) that whatever sex aids she used before he came along have no place in their relationship, indicating his general dislike of sex toys. I don’t think he’s a prude, but this version of Din has a preconceived notion that he needs to be the best lover he can be without any ‘cheating’. Reader could easily talk him into using toys on her, of course, simply by educating him a little better – just as she’s done regarding other things he’s been somewhat naive about. But here, she decides to respect his prior avoidance and give him an experience that feels as ‘real’ as possible. Perhaps this will help him realise that toys might be fun for her, too!

Reader also refers to having “seen his need for solitude on Anantapar”, which, as a reminder, refers to when he had a teensy bit of an emotional breakdown at the tail end of their honeymoon in chapter 38.

I adapted the lovely insulting Mando’a phrase from a previously existing phrase in Karen Travis’s novel ‘Order 66’ – Kovid lo’shebs’ul narit – which is supposed to mean ‘shove your head up your ass’, but the grammar is a little off. So I put the verb in the correct place and properly conjugated it, then removed the word for ‘head’ (it doesn’t need an object as she’s just said the word “offer”, so it’s clear what she’s talking about).

Holy crap, I’m scared now I’ve put this up. This is the first new Be-All content since July 2023! 😭 Fun timing, though, because I have another two Be-All bonus posts coming out in the next few days as the fic is about to hit a milestone, so stay tuned!

Permanent tag list lovelies:

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@howhighwepose @kirsteng42 @leithatnight @lilac-boo @lucienofthelakes

@pigeonmama @punkygreeny @roughdaysandart @sadisticheskiy @samarys

@syd-djarin @wrathkitty

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[mokulule]

A Pinch of Salt - snippet 2

Okay, so I have been reminded by @clockwayswrites that I could post some things instead of just hoarding them like the dragon in my icon. So here ya go. Maybe I'll even get around to updating Catnip in the coming days who knows. Previous

Fuck, Danny cursed internally as he struggled to keep up with the long-legged stride of Trenchcoat. Whatever had happened to that ghost to make it into something like that was not good, he needed to do something! But as long as Trenchcoat was here he couldn’t exactly do as he usually would: transform and punch it. The man had seemed very ready to do something to Danny and the unspeakable soul situation going on had Danny extremely leery of finding out what that something was.

At least getting eaten seemed unlikely from the man’s earlier horrified response.

So running.

They went down a hallway, up a staircase, down another hallway and into a would have been shop. They stopped for a moment in the square space catching their breath. Trenchcoat let go of him to go peek back around the corner. Finally Trenchcoat’s shoulders relaxed.

“We lost it for now.” Actually it was more like the ghost lost interest in them; as they’d gotten further and further away from the central plaza of the mall the ghost had stopped following them. Not that Danny was going to tell Trenchcoat that. He had no idea how he’d explain it in a way that didn’t make him extremely suspicious. His hair was dripping salty water making it hard to forget he’d already been assaulted twice - he did not wanna know what else the man stored up his sleeves.

Preferably, somehow he’d get Trenchcoat to leave.

The moment of inattention cost him as he was grabbed once again by Trenchcoat and towed through the would-maybe-someday be a store to a door in the back. This led to a store room and a door to the outside. It was unlocked it turned out and Danny realized this was probably how the man had gotten in.

“Alright, kiddo, time to leave.”

Trenchcoat opened the door and pushed at Danny’s back.

“No way!” Danny exclaimed digging his heels in.

“Yes way,” Trenchcoat mocked, “go home kid, I’m a professional.”



 There was no way Danny was leaving, not at this point. Ghosts were his area of expertise - or well, Danny couldn’t really claim to be an expert, but they were his responsibility at least! He had a unique skillset and no matter what Trenchcoat claimed, he did not look any sort of professional. He made his opinion of his claim known by giving the man his most dubious look.
 - 
John hated teenagers and this teenager in particular.

He didn’t know what it was about teenagers, but they were just merciless in their judgment in a way adults were probably usually too polite to be. In any case that little up and down there, with the slightly raised eyebrow made him feel like he’d worn a clown costume to an accounting job.

“Bloody Hell, will you just leave before I decide to feed you to the specter!”

The boy crossed his arms, standing his ground. “You can try.”

John dragged a hand down his face, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

“What are you even doing here?” “I’m here for the ghost.” Plain, even, said with not a smidge of hesitation. “You’re here for the-“ John cut himself off, hands opening and closing, inwardly cursing children and their stupid dares. “And what pray tell where ya gonna do when you found the ghost?”“I figured I’d try talking to them.”“You what?!” John spluttered. He’d expected him to say he hadn’t expected to find a ghost, there went his theory of this being a dare.

“There is no talking to that!” He pointed vaguely in the direction they’d lost the spectral storm. “Of all the sodden-“

“Them.”

John’s thoughts screeched to a halt. “What?” “Them. They are a them, not an it or a that.”

John opened and closed his mouth. Was he really getting a lecture on pronouns?

“It is a spectral storm. Whatever poor spirit it used to be, is not there anymore. There’s no mind there, it’s pure emotion out of control. There’s no way back from that.”

The boy scowled at him, clearly disagreeing. It didn’t matter. 
John pointed at the door.

“Leave.” “No.” They stared at each other neither giving an inch.

Urgh, this had to be why Batman was so grumpy all the time. John could not do this. He threw up his hands and turned around. He worked around things, not through them and here he was engaging in the folly of arguing with a bloody teenager.

“Suit yourself.”

Gods, he needed a smoke. He’d hardly finished the thought before he was pulling the package of smokes out of its pocket with practiced ease. He was lighting the smoke by the time he noticed the unimpressed look he was getting. Satisfied, he took a deep drag and slowly breathed out the smoke. The kid grimaced and John smirked.

“Those are gonna kill you.” “As opposed to the rest of my lifestyle?” He returned with a nod in the direction of the Storm that probably couldn’t kill him, but the kid didn’t know that. Satisfied at the way the kid’s nose scrunched, he walked back the way they came from.

“And what are you supposed to be?” Kid asked falling in step with him, and John just knew he was being annoying on purpose with that tone of voice. He was not gonna bite. He was an adult. He kept his gaze straight ahead as the kid started guessing.

“Excorcist? Ghostbusters wannabe?”

There was a pause, then a flash of a sly smirk John only caught because he’d stopped to look down the hallway.

“Ectologist?” The suggestion hit John like a metaphysical sledgehammer and he recoiled in disgust.

“Fuck. No.” He shuddered an extra time as if that would remove the oily feeling. “I’m an occult detective. You happy now? Shit kid, you don’t pull your punches do you?”

-

“So what’s the plan, Trenchcoat?”

“Trenchcoat,” John mouthed to himself before shaking his head. “The plan is you keep out of the way and I deal with the raging ghostie.”

“Yeah, no, you’re gonna do better than that. This is not my first time dealing with a ghost. But I don’t know what occult detectives do.”

John pondered the statement about this not being the first time he’d dealt with a ghost, and maybe there was something to the death magics he gave off after all. He groaned internally, why was he doing this?

“Standard practice, kid. Contain and banish.” He held up first one finger then two.

Danny rolled his eyes. It didn’t sound too different from his approach to ghosts, he caught them and sent them back to the ghost zone, but Mr Occult Detective didn’t exactly carry around a Fenton thermos.

“And how do you contain? No,” he offset the clearly sarcastic response. “I mean what are your requirements?”

Trenchcoat rolled his eyes, but humored him.

“I need a large enough open space and a small moment of preparation, then just gotta lure it in and do a binding spell.”

Danny narrowed his eyes and looked towards where he felt the raging storm of ghost energy. “Like the plaza.”

“Ideally yes.”

“So you need a distraction.” Danny started walking. A hand fell on his shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going? If you’re so insistent to stay, you’re not leaving my sight.”

Danny shrugged off the hand and turned around.

“The plaza is the center of the their power. You need someone to lure them away.” Danny watched the emotions flash across the man’s face with a small bit of amusement. He really didn’t want Danny involved if he could help it. Finally the man’s face settled on exasperation.

“I will figure something out.”

Danny smiled, taking a step backwards.

“No, you will give me a ten minutes headstart to lure our ghost friend far enough away they won’t immediately notice your stench so close to the heart of their haunt.”

As if sensing his intentions Trenchcoat made another grab for him which he dodged. And then he ran. He was sure it was only the threat of the ghost that prevented the man from yelling after him.

He just hoped he’d listened, because Danny was about to go piss off an already raging spirit. Trenchcoat better be ready.

Fun times.

[hypnobeauty]

a chance encounter - a cho hyun-ju x reader fic (part 14?)

summary: a story about how you and hyun-ju met and the following years of your relationship. masterlist cw: no use of y/n, reader is afab, fluff, reflections, my rusty writing. a/n: hi…. is anyone here? *blows dust off blog* i’m back, i guess! sorry for taking so long. this is not an actual update, just a little snippet—future in thailand, more reader focused! honestly, i’m not happy with the way the “official” story went lol so these past months i’ve been writing on and off, random things; planning on posting them. i hope you enjoy it! this piece was slightly based on me: the stray cat, the moving countries, the kettle left by the previous renter owner. as usual, comments are always welcome xx love, lika taglist: @strayteez3staner @dekiruxxx @jeongteen @sunnysurvives @3leni @etta-huracan @honeyhyunju @basoressia @antisocial-aina @googie-jeon @christinamadsen @deernat @vvlwvvy @psychobitchsthings @dikeu-yoiz (are u still interested? lemme know!)

part 14. stamped and sealed

the air was thick with the kind of warmth that settled in your skin and stayed there, fragrant with lemongrass and sun-warmed dust, a familiar welcome you’d come to expect each morning. a breeze moved lazily through the still air, carrying the sharp, peppery scent of grilled skewers and roasted chili from the street vendors three blocks down, who had already begun firing up their stalls in preparation for the dinner crowd. you stood barefoot on the porch, sipping iced tea from a glass that sweat in the heat, condensation trickling slowly down your fingers.

the stray cat with the stubby tail—now semi-adopted, unofficially christened meatball—padded through the garden with a sense of haughty ownership. she sniffed the bougainvillea blooms, then went in your direction, weaving through your legs with a lazy meow. you had tried to move her in completely, but she scratched the door the whole night until you gave in and opened it at 3 am. meatball is perfectly content in existing around you two, asking for food or chin scritches, and napping on the sofa during the afternoon, but refusing to let go of her freedom and right to come and go as she pleases. you often wondered if it could be a metaphor for something.

all of it was. this house, with its stained concrete, and one light switch that always sparked if you flicked it too fast. it wasn’t love at first sight. at least, not for hyun‑ju. you’d seen the house online first, in a grainy listing photo that made her scoff. “it looks like a ghost lives there,” she had said.

still, when you’d arrived for the showing—her trailing behind with her arms crossed and a skeptical scowl—you’d pushed open the metal gate, walked up the overgrown path, and something about it had clicked into place. as if it had been waiting for you. as if you had been waiting for it.

the house sat halfway down a sleepy residential street in lat phrao, flanked by a gleaming white villa boasting a koi pond and a stately two‑story residence with ornate columns and a marble mailbox. and then there was this—your potential forever home. it looked like it had been abandoned for decades or forgotten by time as a deliberate act of defiance. 

you stepped onto cracked porch tiles; each footfall stirred up dust motes that danced in the afternoon sun. the yard was a jungle of overgrown grass and defiant weeds. the paint on the façade had surrendered years ago, flaking in tired strips. half the floor tiles in the entryway were either cracked or missing entirely, and the roof… 

“skylight?” you said, pointing at the bizarre sheet of cloudy plastic covering the ceiling, one hand on your hip, the other waving dramatically.

hyun‑ju’s eyes widened in disbelief. “that’s a tarp, babe. a tarp glued to the ceiling.”

the owner, an old woman with a bent back and warm, crinkling eyes, came forward with surprising grace. she rubbed her hands together and smiled at you both. “my son bought me a nice condo close by, and this old thing… well, i’m too old to take care of it now. it needs someone strong. someone young. someone who can make it happy again.”

her voice was gentle, her affection tangible—a mixture of joy and longing, and suddenly you missed your mom so much. that unexpected tenderness softened the moment. hyun‑ju’s brow furrowed as she watched the way the woman traced her hand over cracked wood and you noticed her jaw soften by the slightest millimeter.

back in your bangkok rental—a shoebox of an apartment wedged between a laundromat and a perpetually closed café—you both had to shuffle sideways to move past one another. the walls were thin, the fan made a noise like a dying blender, and your bed was only a mattress on the floor, pressed up against a window that didn’t close all the way. still, it was home for the moment. the kind of home that madehyun-ju long for something a little more permanent… but also made her break out in hives every time she thought about the financials.

you sat cross-legged on the laminate floor, legs brushing hers, while she opened her laptop like it was a vault of secrets. her expression was all business, pencil already wedged between her teeth like a cigarette. “okay,” she muttered under her breath, flipping open the calculator and opening three different tabs simultaneously. “roofing first. that tarp is not a long-term solution unless you want a waterfall feature in the bathroom.”

“it’s basically a spa experience already,” you offered with a toothy smile.

she didn’t look up. “no.”

“fair.”

she began listing line items aloud as she punched in numbers. “roof — professional job, has to be. i’m guessing 50,000 baht minimum. plumbing... looks okay. pressure’s decent, no obvious leaks. electrical? might be old, but no shorts, no sparks. so far, not terrible. cosmetic stuff we can do ourselves if we plan it out right.”

you peeked over her shoulder. “see? that’s not so bad.”

she side-eyed you, “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

you giggled and leaned forward, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “that’s what i’m banking on.”

still, she soldiered on. for over an hour, she ran different combinations—worst-case costs, best-case budgets, everything in between. she triple-checked estimated contractor fees and local supply prices, even converted it all to won just to see the damage in your own currency. “it’s still cheaper than anything else we’ve seen,” she admitted at last, voice softer now, more measured. “and at least we’d have space to breathe. i’m so sick of tripping over our laundry basket every time i turn around.”

you sat up, blinking at her. “so… is that a yes?”

she narrowed her eyes, but her tone had already turned. “you’ll help with the renovations?”

“i’ll lead them.”

she rolled her eyes in fake annoyance. “you’re impossible.”

you clasped your hands together like a cartoon character. “and yet so lovable!”

hyunju took a long sip of water and finally—finally—gave you the smallest nod.

“alright. fine. but i swear, if a raccoon falls through that tarp ‘skylight,’ i’m divorcing you before we’re even married.” you didn’t need more than that.

you lunged forward, wrapping your arms around her and tackling her gently to the ground, peppering her face with kisses. “you won’t regret it! you won’t! this is going to be our house! our home!”

she laughed beneath you, heartily this time, not the soft chuckle of skepticism but the real thing. her eyes crinkled at the corners as she pushed your hair out of your face.

“yeah,” she murmured, smiling. “ours.”

you bought it that same week. the old woman had insisted you take the kettle she kept on the stove. “for luck,” she said in thai, smiling as she patted your hand. you still used it, it whistled a little off-key when it boiled, like it was trying to sing.

after you left the games that november, bank accounts heavy and heart heavier, you and hyunju had counted every won like it was prayer. the money had never felt real—not when you received the non-descriptive cards with your names on it, or when you stacked it in front of you. but the moment you paid off the debt collectors, the hospital bills, the loans, and the tiny balances that haunted both of your inboxes like ghosts, the sum that remained—₩152 million—finally took on shape.

it wasn’t life-changing in seoul. not anymore, not in a city that churned ambition for breakfast and swallowed dreams by dinner. there, it would’ve barely gotten you a studio apartment in a decent neighborhood, it would’ve dried up before you had time to exhale.

but in bangkok?

in bangkok, it was a door cracked open.

it was enough to buy the house, outright—decrepit as it was. enough to pay for visa work, for paperwork translations, for the endless bureaucratic loops you had to leap through in a country that wasn’t yet yours but was slowly becoming home. it was enough to exhale, for once. to put down your bags without preparing to pick them up again.

and that was what you wanted now; not the sleek life, not the sterile shine of high-rise condos with fingerprint locks and white-leather everything, not the rooftop bars or instagram dinners or stilettos worn to impress. you had chased that version of adulthood once—when success looked like gloss and your worth was measured in how many nights you worked overtime without crying. you didn’t want it anymore.

you wanted the slow.

you wanted mornings that began with birdcalls and sunlight slicing through broken blinds. you wanted afternoons sticky with heat and iced tea sweating in your hand. you wanted cicadas in the trees, rain drumming soft on metal, the smell of fish sauce wafting from the neighbor’s open kitchen window. you wanted to sit on cracked tiles and argue over paint swatches, to fall asleep with the ceiling fan humming above you and her leg tangled with yours.

you wanted to hear hyunju’s laughter ring out in echoing, empty rooms, you wanted to fill them together.

even if the walls needed mending, even if the plumbing groaned and the roof still leaked when it rained too hard, it didn’t matter.

because you wanted her.

that had always been the constant. from the moment she pressed a drink into your hand at the edge of some party neither of you belonged to. from the first time she rolled her eyes and called you dramatic while secretly tucking your hair behind your ear. from every night she pulled you in closer instead of away.

you wanted her in every version of your life: the old ones, the ones you left behind, the ones you were building now.

and everything else—the ghosts, the names you still couldn’t speak aloud, the final click of the game’s vote on november 24th, the gunshots that still made your shoulder flinch in your sleep—all of it slowly began to dissolve in the soft hum of your days together.

there were hard nights, sure. there were moments when the silence felt too wide, when one of you would wake up gasping from a dream neither could explain, when you remembered young-mi. but you held each other through those, too. you learned to live in spite of the memory. maybe even because of it.

because of cho hyun-ju.

because of the way she always handed you the second-to-last bite of her food, saving the last one for herself like a secret. because she left you little notes on the fridge when she left early—terrible drawings of cartoon animals or scribbled reminders to eat the food she made. because she  reached for your hand under the table when in a room full of strangers, and never once let go until you told her you were okay.

because of her, your life had become something warmer, gentler.

because of hyunju, you had a partner who stood beside you, not in front, not behind. someone who built with you, laughed with you, argued and cried and tried with you. she made the ordinary feel like magic. and you loved her in the quietest ways—through laundry folded without being asked, tea poured before you even reached the kitchen, a towel warmed and waiting after every shower.

and she loved you right back. fiercely, patiently, like you were worth everything she had. your name wasn’t next to hers on any official document—not yet. but it was written into her habits, her language, the way she said "we" when planning anything. it was in the way she said "you first" and meant it.

the tea was growing warm in your hand when you heard the gate rattle: the metal screeched and the lock gave its familiar clunk. you turned, smiling already, heart rising with the familiar sound of her gait.

not because of where you were, or what the house looked like. but because she was here and  with hyunju, even a half-finished house felt like a whole world.

[cuubism]

Can I pressure you to work on the 'having a job sucks ass' math AU fic?

yeah 😂 i started working on it when i was annoyed with my job. which is always

here's a snippet from earlier in the fic, because i think the later part i'm working on won't make a ton of sense out of context

[ make me work on one of my fics if you want ]

-

Dream shuts his laptop as Hob approaches. Oh, yeah. He was definitely waiting for Hob, specifically. Hob is getting the sense that he’s in trouble. And he’s not stupid. It’s not hard to guess what has Dream upset.

“Look,” he starts, “don’t even—”

“Hob Gadling,” Dream interrupts. Yep, that’s the trouble tone, the one Hob used to get when he did shit like giving himself a concussion playing pick up football on the quad. “It is ten p.m.”

“I own a watch too, Dream,” Hob says tiredly. Does Dream think he wants to be working this late? He’s just trying to stay employed.

Dream’s lips press into a thin line. And Hob knows him well enough, can read him well enough to recognize that what’s underneath the annoyance is concern. But what exactly does Dream expect him to do about it?

Hob sits down—more like collapses—into the armchair diagonal to where Dream is on the couch. God, what he really wants is to just fucking face plant into bed, not deal with this.

Christ. When did he start thinking about talking to Dream as dealing with?

Then again, this is less talking to Dream and more arguing with Dream, and he fucking hates doing that.

He scrubs his hands over his face. “It’s far away, alright?” he argues, though it sounds more like a whine. “It’s not like I can teleport.”

“It is not acceptable that they keep you so late,” Dream says. Then his tone softens. “I worry over your level of exhaustion. That is not even mentioning the commute.”

“Honestly, the commute’s not the worst part,” Hob says. “Gives me more time to get stuff done. Or fall asleep.”

Dream gives him a flat look. “Precisely.”

“I don’t want to hear judgment about work ethic from you of all people,” Hob snaps. God, he hates arguing with Dream, he hates it. It’s not like when they bicker. And it’s not like arguing with anyone else. The thought that Dream is upset with him is genuinely distressing.

“I think I of all people am uniquely qualified to give it,” Dream says.

He’s not wrong. Dream is a workaholic if ever there was one. It’s something Hob’s had to talk to him about in the past. Frequently, in the past, Hob was the one who was better about it.

It’s just that having this job is a level of relentless he couldn’t possibly have anticipated.

Hob can’t just quit though, even if he is overworked. It’s a good job, career-wise, and it pays really well, and he wants Dream to be able to keep his post-doc position without worrying about the salary because Dream is just quite frankly not cut out for anything where he isn’t able to work independently at least ninety percent of the time and Hob doesn’t want to see him suffer, and he wants them to be able to buy a house someday—

“Look,” he says, before Dream can suggest that he actually quit or something, “Dream, we’re making fucking bank, okay?”

Dream raises an eyebrow. “We are?”

“Yeah, we’re married, or did you forget?”

“It’s your money.”

“The joint bank account says otherwise. Half of it is yours.”

Dream frowns, then gets a wicked look in his eye. Oh no. “Does that entitle me to half of your suffering as well? Do I get half a say in whether it continues?”

“That’s not the point—”

“Are you going to watch me suffer half your exhaustion and do nothing about it?” Dream challenges, steamrolling right over him. He’s impossible to argue with when he really gets going. And great, now he’s employing that look. That pleading look that he knows Hob can’t say no to, eyes wide and helpless. “Will you leave me to my agonies?”

“Alright,” Hob says, pressing his hands to his eyes. “Enough. Stop joking around.”

“I’m quite serious. I don’t wish to see you suffer.” He crosses the room, kneels in front of Hob’s chair, and takes Hob’s hands, bringing them down from his face. “Your unintended comparison was more apt than you realize. When you prosper, I prosper. When you suffer, so equally do I.”

“Should have been a fucking poet instead of a mathematician, Dream,” Hob says. It shouldn’t come out as bitter as it does.

Except— “Maths is poetry,” he says, echoing it just as Dream says it, too. Hob had known he would.

It makes him smile, that he can predict Dream like that.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

WIP Weekend

Weekly WIP Update

Hoping to finish ch 9 of Saltwater Symphony this weekend, so things are looking good for an update next week. The new chapter will be extra long and juicy, and I quite like how it turned out. ❤️

The birthday fic I was working on is done and posting next week, so now I'm actually scrambling to get the Get Lucky bonus card for the Steddie Bingo completed. 🍀

I also started working on my @steddiebbang fic. 🥳 Any snippets from this one will need to be redacted until claims, but feel free to bully me about it anyways. 😉

Send me an emoji, and I'll write and share three sentences for that project.

🏰 The King's Gift 🦭 Saltwater Symphony 🎲 Steddie Bingo ❓ Steddie Big Bang Fic

Snippet from 🎲 (CW: omegaverse; nudity; bondage)

Eddie is already there when Steve walks into the room. On the bed as usual, wrists already cuffed to the sturdy steel bar mounted to the wall in place of a headboard, muted lights caressing his naked skin and bringing out the lines of his tattoos. 

“Hey, big boy,” he smiles, stretching as well as the restraints will allow. “You’re back early. Thought you weren’t due for another heat for at least- … ow, shit, rough month?” 

“You have no idea,” Steve mutters, pulling off his shirt and tossing it in the direction of the armchair in the corner, not bothering to check where it lands. His joggers and boxers go next, carelessly discarded in a heap on the carpet as he crosses the room and climbs into the bed, straddling Eddie’s legs. He’s hard and good to go already, a condom rolled snugly over his flushed cock, and Steve feels the familiar, hot wetness of his own slick leak from between his thighs. “It’s okay,” Eddie says, and he realizes with a sharp jolt of humiliation that he must’ve made a sound. “Just take what you need. That’s what I’m here for, right?” 

Something in the empty pit of Steve’s stomach stirs, and for a moment or two, he thinks that today’s the day he’s gonna spit out the question that has been burning at the back of his throat for months. 

Why?

[numinousmysteries]

A Revelation

Okay, deep breath. I know what I'm about say isn't going to win me any friends in the X-Files fandom (and I'll probably lose more than a few) but it's time I be true to myself.

I've had this feeling bubbling up for a while that I've been trying to suppress because I know it's not a popular opinion but I figure now is as good a day as any to let everyone know....I am a noromo. I don't think Mulder and Scully are a good match. I just like the show for the scary stories and Chris Carter's genius plot.

Wow, just writing that gives me so much relief. I know I've been reblogging shippy gif sets and writing MSR fics but recently it's started to feel hollow. I'm so excited to live my truth as a born-again noromo.

If you like any of my fic, consider saving it now because I'll probably be taking it down and replacing it with stories that are more aligned with how I view the series now. I'm telling you, the ideas have just been FLOWING since I freed myself to write what I truly feel. I have two snippets I'll post here just as a taste of what's to come.

Here's an alternate take on the Amor Fati ending, and one for the Memento Mori hallway scene: AMOR FATI ALTERNATE ENDING

When Mulder opens the door to his apartment, bandaged head barely hidden under a New York Yankees cap, Scully feels nothing but professional respect. He has been her coworker for seven years after all. 

“Scully, what are you doing here?” He asks. “Actually, I was just getting dressed to come see you but I... I couldn't find a tie to go with my victory cap.” 

She knows he doesn’t really mean he was going to come see her, but rather come to the office where she also happens to work. 

If he were her romantic love interest and not just a coworker, Scully would consider taking his cap off and playfully tugging at his tie, but that would be completely inappropriate. They are just professional coworkers afterall. 

“Diana Fowley was found murdered this morning,” Scully tells him. Since Diana was the love of his life, she wanted to tell him this in person as soon as possible instead of in an official FBI memo as she originally planned. It does cross the line of professionalism, showing up in his personal space like this, but she knows how much Diana meant to him. Unlike herself, who is just a coworker to him.

“Thanks for letting me know, Agent Scully,” Mulder says, sadly. Diana was the love of his life afterall.

“Of course, Agent Mulder,” Scully says. She thinks about shaking his hand but instead just hands him the paperwork she brought with her. “Please make sure to file this PTO request for your brain surgery in a timely manner. Have a nice afternoon.”

She turns and walks away. 

**

MEMENTO MORI ALTERNATE HALLWAY SCENE

After retrieving Agent Scully’s ova from the Lombard Research Facility, Mulder decides it would only be polite and professional to let her know what he’s found. He returns to the hospital where he’s greeted by a stern nurse.

“Can I help you sir?” She asks.

“I'd like to see my professional work colleague, Agent Dana Scully. She’s a patient here,” he says.

“Are you family? Her husband?” 

“Oh no,” Mulder laughs. “I’m just her professional coworker.”

“Well then you’ll have to come back in the morning. Visiting hours are over.” 

Mulder nods. That makes sense. Why would he visit his totally platonic coworker in the middle of the night? He feels silly for even considering it now. 

“Thank you,” he says politely to the nurse. “I’ll return at a more appropriate hour for someone just visiting a colleague.” 

He turns and leaves.

[illustrate-her]

I’m so enjoying getting back into fanfic writing, and the BBC Musketeers fandom. I know it’s been - god, over ten years now - and it is largely a ghost town in that particular community, but I know there are a few of you out there. I’m determined to post more here, even if I’m only talking to myself, but if you want to chat Musketeers please say hi because I am ready and willing to fangirl with someone.

Anyway, I have a number of fics that have been stuck in the WIP folder for ages - as I said: over ten years now - that I’m picking up and dusting off and trying to familiarise myself enough with to actually finish. In many ways I think the last decade has given me a bit more to draw from when writing them, so maybe it was always meant to be this way? Like, I can do them the justice they need now?

Anyway anyway. I’m currently working on what looks like it will be the penultimate, or one-before-penultimate chapter of Chanson d’Automne, my WW2 French Resistance Musketeers AU. And I am LOVING being back in this world, let me tell you.

Here’s a little snippet of something from the latest chapter posted, which comes just a bit before things start going boom and people start getting whumped:

‘Aramis looks at the armband, smoothing his fingertips over the fabric. It’s been painted roughly in the tricolour stripes of blue white and red, with a black Cross of Lorraine drawn in the middle.

“Also…” Athos says carefully, and then sighs, “There is…some thinking, that if we are caught wearing the armband we will be treated gentler than if we are caught carrying out action behind enemy lines whilst not in uniform. But,” he brings up a hand to rub at the back of his neck, “We all know that the Geneva Convention will likely not save us if we are caught.”

Athos looks at them all now, his eyes dark and very serious. “So don’t get caught.”

His voice breaks, just slightly. “For God’s sake - please - don’t get caught.”

“Ninon gave me these,” D’Artagnan says, drawing a small packet out of his breast pocket. “They’re…the British give them to their SOE agents, to take if they’re captured.”

They hold out their hands, solemn, and d’Artagnan puts one in each of their palms. They don’t speak. Aramis contemplates the little white pill. It seems so small and innocent, and he wonders that something that small could be so effective.

“Suicide is a sin,” he says, though he feels curiously blank at the thought.

“Not in these circumstances,” Athos says immediately, and there’s something fierce and hard, worn smooth like a stone under water in his voice.

Aramis just nods, and puts the little pill in his breast pocket. He tries not to look but can’t help himself, shooting a glance under his eyelashes as Porthos puts the pill into the folded cuff of his boilersuit and rolls it upwards, tucked right against the crook of his elbow.

It’s an oddly private moment, intimate, as they consider the way this might go. But all Aramis can think as he watches Porthos is a fierce and defiant no.’