#The best thing I've ever written

[wolfythewitch]

If. At any point. You see me make ocs and a story/comic/animation/whatever that looks a LOT similar to my old sbi zombie au. You look away. You don't say a word

[shinuko]

tw/cw: cursing (the one that rhymes with duck, x1), kissing (it's like the entire point actually, sorry), reader intended to be shorter, suggestive(!!!) + read tags for more info! (expect nonsense and mistakes lol it's like 12am okay i'm delirious ;-;)

you're peppering kisses all over his face, and he chuckles, his cheeks still squished in between the palms of your hands.

"missed me that much, huh?"

"isn't it obvious?" you roll your eyes but you smile, pressing a longer kiss on the tip of his nose. "now be quiet, i'm busy."

but he's not listening anymore. he falls back onto the bed, taking you with him. and you yelp, both of your hands outstretched on the mattress as support, caging him under you. you look down at him, glaring. to which he laughs but his gaze soon drops to your lips and his chin lifts slightly, and he appears unable to restrain himself any longer. his eyes return to yours, "give me one more?"

you huff but oblige, closing the distance between the two of you, your lips meeting his softly—slowly—at first, his lips moving in tandem with yours, but you were beginning to get swept away in the ocean called geto suguru. he's kissing you greedily, with a hunger like that of a starved man seeing bread again. he slides a hand down to your lower back, steadying you as he hoists himself up again. you respond immediately, wrapping your legs around his waist and arms around his neck. his other hand is placed naturally at the nape of your neck as he gently sets you against the wall.

he groans into the kiss, moving a hand to angle your chin. breaking away, he trails kisses down your jaw and to your neck, stopping at your collarbone. you let out a shaky breath, eager with anticipation, your hands find their spots in his hair, brushing through and twirling the ends.

you whine and he lets you drop down, both of your feet standing at the tips of your toes as you lean in further into the kiss. his hands slide down again, feeling you and this time squeezing in places that made your knees weak. you bite down softly at his bottom lip, tugging at it, and you giggle at his confused expression.

"should i stop?" you whisper teasingly as you pull away just enough to break contact as you flick your gaze up to his.

"fuck no," his voice is hoarse and he pulls you closer to him, finding your mouth again with his, "come here."

koi's notes: i dropped 2 of my 2k+ (wc) wips for this because i was CRAVING physical intimacy and oh my god... please don't perceive me >.< (also sorry for the poorly placed cut and name drop, it was the most natural place to introduce the name to me and yeah ;-;)

[unclewaynemunson]

Something’s off. Steve notices it as soon as he gets home. It’s nothing major, really, but something’s definitely off. There’s this weird silence in the hallway, instead of the usual metal that Eddie is basically blasting 24/7 whenever Steve isn’t home. There’s the absence of Olly showing his little face around the corner of the door to the kitchen upon hearing Steve coming in. There’s also the absence of some crazy scent explosion emerging from the kitchen like on a usual Tuesday evening.

Steve calls out Eddie’s name, questioning, not sure if he should be worried.

“Here!”

He releases a relieved breath and gets into the living room. Eddie is his usual messy self, wild curls hanging over one end of the couch and feet wrapped in colorful socks over the other, with Olly curled up and purring on his chest.

“Hey there,” Steve says. It isn’t until he comes closer to lean down for a kiss on Eddie’s forehead, that he notices something is most definitely very, very wrong. Eddie’s eyes are swollen and red-rimmed, salty traces covering his cheeks and used tissues scattered all over the floor next to the couch. His hands are clenching into Olly’s fur, his chest is heaving unsteadily.

Eddie looks up at Steve, blinks once, twice, to get the water out of his eyes, a fresh tear rolling down his cheek.

“What happened, love?” Steve covers Eddie’s hands with his own, creating their familiar pile of Olly-Eddie-Steve, his thumb stroking over the back of Eddie’s hand.

Eddie takes a deep, shuddering breath, squeezes his eyes shut for a second. “Wayne’s sick.”

XXX

The thing is, Wayne has always been the strong one. Always. He was the arms that caught Eddie, the hands that wiped away his tears, the lips that kissed his bruises better despite his prickly beard. And now he’s - frail. There’s simply no other word for it. And Eddie doesn’t think he’s ready to be the strong one yet. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. Of course he knows that Wayne isn’t some immortal being, that he’s lived a life of harsh physical labor and cold Indiana winters, of canned beans and breakfast cigarettes since he was only a boy... But this is different. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. And Wayne knows that, too.

“I always thought it was gonna be my lungs that’d do me in,” he tells Eddie.

Eddie never thought of his uncle as an old man. But now, sitting next to his hospital bed, both his hands clasped around Wayne’s, he sees it. He sees the lines on his forehead, the near-white shade of grey of what little hair he has left on his head, the tired look in his eyes, the age spots scattered all over his arms...

Eddie releases one of his hands to wipe over his eyes. He feels another pair of hands squeezing his shoulders from behind him, reminding him that he isn’t alone, that there’s still someone else who can be the strong one when Eddie can’t.

He takes a breath.

“Nothing’s doin’ you in, man,” he manages to choke out, strengthening his grip on Wayne’s hands. Those strong, calloused hands, that have lived through so much. The hands that caught him countless times. The hands that held him tight whenever he needed it. The hands that wiped away his tears. The hands that fixed his van. The hands that ruffled his curls. The hands that held a fishing rod like a pro. The hands that tirelessly drilled holes in walls and assembled furniture when Eddie moved out of the trailer and into the apartment he and Steve got in Indianapolis. The hands that are currently resting limply on top of white hospital sheets. Frail hands.

“Ed...”

“No, I’m serious,” Eddie says. He’s always been good at running. No way in hell he’s gonna stop that habit now. "You're gonna get better. And when you do, we'll take you back home, okay? Not to Hawkins - to your real home. You, me, Steve and the van, right? You’ll see the mountains again. We’re gonna drive all the way across them, get you back to the other side, ya hear me? It’ll be this great adventure, just the three of us. We’ll stay there for as long as we want to. And then we’ll go back to Indy, and you’ll move in with us, and we’ll take care of you. And you’ll be there when we get a real house, you’ll be there when we get our first little nugget, and every next one of them, and you’ll get to play with them and see them grow up and see us goin’ grey and gettin’ old and wrinkled and fat, and you’ll be there when Lord of the Rings gets made into a movie and when world hunger gets solved and when gay marriage becomes legal and when we get our first black president and when The Police reunites... That’s how it’s gonna go, you understand?”

There’s this look in Wayne’s eyes, this look that completely terrifies Eddie, and he can’t do a thing except for collapsing onto his uncle’s chest, breathing in his scent and crying against his shirt as Wayne’s hand tangles itself in Eddie’s curls. And it doesn’t matter - it doesn’t matter that Wayne is weak and sick and lying in a hospital bed. Because he’s still the strong one. He’s still the hands that catch Eddie when Eddie breaks down. Even now.

XXX

They should’ve known that Eddie would be right. Of course they should’ve known. No God can turn down someone as stubborn as Eddie Munson - not even a God Eddie doesn’t believe in.

Wayne missed the mountain air, the perfectly prepared corn fritters, the drool in the voices around him, the natural hospitality. It’s good to be back, to get to share his roots with his boys. But it’s not like coming home. Home is where his own parents moved him some fifty years ago, with dreams of a better future that didn’t quite hold for them. Home is a rickety trailer park that doesn’t have warm water most of the time. Home is the woods around Hawkins, the rolling hills, the chilly autumn wind. But most of all, home is the smile of the boy who took him here. It’s long dark curls and big brown eyes that are currently tearing up because Wayne is standing next to him and getting stronger by the day and very much alive. It’s the memories they share, of Wayne opening his arms to catch Eddie when he was so much smaller than now; of going fishing at Lover’s Lake in the weekends; of cigarette stubs and beer bottles and metal boxes that Wayne chose to not know the contents of; of laughter and crying and fear and comfort and a whole shared lifetime, a boy growing up and still needing to be caught again and again and again.

And Wayne still does it. He still catches his boy. His two boys, now. And he’s planning on keeping to do that for a long, long time.

[thelordofgifs]

Ilimbë

Written for @tolkienrsb, as a treat for @ismeneee's stunning art!

Rating: T

Characters: Fëanor, Nerdanel, Finwë

Relationships: Fëanor/Nerdanel

Words: 15k

“There was an Elf,” said Finwë, “of great beauty and cleverness; but he had no wife.”

Fëanor had frowned. Sometimes his father’s stories felt too much like parables; and he did not much like the way his mouth turned down on describing his hero’s marital status. Impossible sometimes not to feel that Finwë was not entirely satisfied with Fëanor, that he was not yearning for something more than what his son could give.

Setting this aside for now, he asked, “What was his name?”

Finwë smiled. “The story does not say,” he said. “Perhaps he had none.”

Fëanor was not much impressed. “All the Eldar have names,” he said.

“I stand corrected!” said Finwë, with a laugh. “He had a name, then, but it is lost to us now. May I continue with the story, please?”

“All right,” Fëanor had said graciously. He did like his father’s bedtime stories, after all.

“The Elf did have a great tusk of ivory,” said Finwë, “near as tall as he was, from one of the mammoths that roamed the lands to the north.” He caught Fëanor’s doubtful look. “They are beasts like the elephants we saw on the plains — but bigger by far, and woolly all over!”

“Why have I not seen any?” Fëanor demanded. “I thought all the beasts of Arda dwell in Aman.”

“They do,” Finwë said, “but mammoths cannot thrive in the warm climes of Tirion. If you journey to Araman one day, you will find them there.” And when Fëanor nodded, placated, he went on, “As I said, this Elf was clever with his hands indeed — perhaps even as clever as you, my Curufinwë! And so from his tusk of ivory he carved an elf-maid of surpassing loveliness; and her beauty was such that he fell in love with her.”

[Keep reading on AO3]

[sparxwrites]

The Body Shots Incident

A prequel-ish to this nonsense, aka "the origin story of the Hermitcraft server party tequila ban". cw for lots of alcohol consumption and excessive innuendo [ao3]

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” asks Mumbo, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. He’s trying to delay the inevitable – primarily, being shirtless in front of a lot of people with Scar ‘Godlike Abs’ Goodtimes right next to him for comparison. It’s not working very well. “Just, I can think of, off the top of my head, oh, sixteen ways this could go wrong. At least three of them end with us respawning. At least.”

“Oh, no!” Scar, already reclining across a table in a distinctly louche manner, is nude from the waist up and looking distinctly self-satisfied about it. If anybody present knew who Jeff Goldblum was, multiple comparisons would have already been made. “It’s a terrible idea, and it’s going to go horribly wrong.”

Scar, unlike Mumbo, had taken his shirt off with precisely zero shame and absolutely maximum enthusiasm as soon as the whole concept had been suggested. It had taken three people – Bdubs included, remarkably – to stop him from removing his belt and pants as well.

Mumbo’s unclear whether the nearly-double-digits-worth of brightly coloured cocktails are to blame for Scar’s enthusiastic stripping, or whether this is just a Scar Thing. Probably just a Scar Thing, if he’s being honest. The man’s shredded. If Mumbo had pecs and abs like that, he’d take his shirt off all the time too.

“Okay, both of you, lie down,” says Pearl, officiously. Or as officious as one can be, after multiple bottles of Prosecco and a round of Jaeger bombs – which is frankly not very. She’s wielding a salt shaker in one hand, like it’s a hand grenade; two lime slices in the other, like– some other kind of weapon. Or something. Mumbo’s not exactly sober right now, either. Similes are a little beyond him at this point.

Scar, already draped elegantly across his own table, gestures to Mumbo with a raised eyebrow.

Mumbo, very reluctantly, sheds his shirt.

Grian, loitering next to Impulse, wolf-whistles in what Mumbo assumes is supposed to be a supportive sort of way. It doesn’t feel very supportive. Doesn’t do much to actually support him, either. Mostly, it just makes him go bright red – brighter red than he’d already gone, anyways, at having so much skin exposed in a room full of people.

Though admittedly not that many people, realistically. There’s him and Grian, as a team; Scar and Bdubs, as the opposing team; and Impulse, the judge of this ill-conceived competition. And Pearl, of course, as his self-proclaimed beautiful assistant. But pretty much every other Hermit is on the other side of the room, busy getting drunk and being noisy. Usual server party stuff.

It’s only them over here, with the two tables in the room not currently covered in alcohol and cups, because Grian and Bdubs had had a stupid argument, and decided that clearly the best way to solve it was a body shots competition, of all things. Which, yeah, sure, tracks as far as drunk Bdubs and Grian logic goes, but– Mumbo’s not even sure how you score a body shots competition.

That’s what they have Impulse for, though. Impulse knows how to judge a body shots competition. Probably.

So there’s not that many people watching, by the grace of any god paying attention. It’s just that, well. Mumbo has his shirt off. Right next to Scar Goodtimes, abs god extraordinaire. And Mumbo’s got no abs, and skin pale enough a vampire would flinch from it, and a soft little belly, and enough body hair it probably technically counts as thermal insulation.

And, to put the icing on the misery cake, pert little nipples. It’s not his fault it’s bloody cold with his shirt off but, for some reason, he doesn’t think that’s going to stop anyone from commenting on their pertness.

“Nice nips, Mumbo,” says Grian, as though he’d read Mumbo’s mind in the worst, most malicious way possible. He cackles when Mumbo turns self-consciously pink. “Hey! That was a compliment!”

Impulse clears his throat. “No– no commenting on competitors’ nipples without their explicit consent. Well-established rule of body shots competitions that I definitely didn’t just make up. I mean. Preferably no commenting on nipples at all but–”

“Don’t worry, Grian,” interjects Scar, cheerfully. “You can comment on my nipples all you like.”

“Thanks, Scar. That’s great. I appreciate the offer.” Grian does not, under any possible stretch of the imagination, sound like he appreciates the offer.

“Hey!” snaps Bdubs, immediately, outraged on a reflex. “No commenting on my competition partner’s nipples, okay?! Get your own!”

Grian, moderately drunk and visibly bewildered, flounders. “Get… my own nipples…?”

“Yeah! Get your own nipples, Mister!”

“Anyway,” says Impulse, loudly, clapping his hands together. Several Hermits look over. A few drift over for a closer look. Mumbo’s insides curl up like a dying spider. “If we could, uh, get things started…? Pearl–?”

Pearl crosses her arms.

“–sorry, my beautiful assistant, Pearl, could you do the salt, if our contestants want to lie down…?”

“On it!” says Pearl, with entirely too much glee. She approaches, menacing, salt shaker and lime slices in hand.

Both Scar and Mumbo, rather hurriedly, scramble to arrange themselves appropriately for their salting, and then endeavour to lie very, very still. They get a lime slice placed besides their head for their troubles.

Mumbo is chosen as the first victim for salting. He holds himself frozen on the table – deer-in-the-headlights frozen, even – as Pearl, tongue between her teeth in concentration, begins to tip salt in a line down his chest, right between his pecs. It’s a pretty wobbly line. Mumbo blames the Jaeger bombs.

“This is ridiculous,” mutters Grian, watching his half-naked best friend get salted like a slug by a drunk Australian. This, Mumbo feels, is a bit rich coming from the man who enthusiastically agreed to the idea when Bdubs proposed it.

Bdubs glowers at him by way of reply. Impulse just looks tired.

When Mumbo has had the appropriate salt applied, Pearl moves onto Scar. She wields the salt shaker like a loaded gun, and is doing a poor job of muffling her giggles. Those in her way move out of the way, very quickly, as she heads to Scar’s table.

“Do not get that on my nipples, by the way, Pearl,” says Scar, firmly, craning his head up as she approaches to watch the proceedings. “I don’t want any chafing!”

Pearl, already struggling to keep anything so much as approaching a straight face, barely manages to set the salt down before she doubles over in hysterics. “Im– Impulse–” she manages, wheezing, her grip on the edge of the table the only thing keeping her upright. “Gonna– tagging– tagging you in, mate, oh, oh my–”

Impulse, with an apologetic twist of the mouth in both Mumbo and Scar’s directions, takes up the salt.

His attempt at setting up a line of salt down Scar’s chest goes significantly better than Pearl’s did with Mumbo, primarily because he’s not a bottle and a half of prosecco down and sloppy drunk with it – just a few beers tipsy, instead. In short order, the pair of them are salted, with a lime slice ready to go in their mouths when the competition begins. Then he heads off to fill shot glasses of tequila, with the tongue-between-teeth concentration and unsteady hand of the moderately inebriated.

Bdubs and Grian take the opportunity to approach and examine their victims.

“Cute,” says Grian, and pokes Mumbo in the bellybutton.

Mumbo yelps, raising a hand to swat at him, before freezing when he remembers the salt. “Hey! No– no. I am sensitive. No poking.”

“Ooh,” interrupts Bdubs, peering nosily over at the competition. At Mumbo’s chest, specifically, and the thick fuzz of dark body hair growing across it. Much of the salt has ended up across it – or, rather, beneath it, within it, and amongst it. Mumbo’s not looking forward to tomorrow’s shower. “Look at that. Very nice. Lucky you!”

Grian raises an eyebrow. “Lucky?” he asks, disbelievingly. “I– look, no offence, Mumbo, I’ve got nothing against a good bit of chest hair, but… I’m just not convinced licking it is going to be the best sensation in the world.”

“Lucky,” repeats Bdubs, firmly.

“You want to swap…?” Grian is once more visibly bewildered. Though, admittedly, that’s not an uncommon expression to find people around Bdubs wearing. “Because that’s fine, I don’t mind–”

“I do not want you two to swap,” mutters Mumbo, nervously.

He’s concertedly ignored by everyone involved.

“Aha!” Bdubs grabs Grian by the front of his jumper with both hands. “So it is true. You are trying to steal Scar from me, and you do want to lick his– Scar! Stop laughing, you’ll ruin your salt.”

Scar manages to muffle himself down to stifled sniggers, with what looks like a Herculean effort of drunken willpower. “C’mon, Bdubs. Leave poor Grian alone. We can discuss him licking me when I don’t have salt, uh, perilously close to my delicate nipples.”

“How’re you managing pel– perir– pelirousy after nine cocktails?” demands Mumbo. “You can’t even bloody say that sober!”

He is, once again, ignored.

“I don’t want to discuss him licking you! I want him to not lick you! That’s not his job.” Bdubs sounds aggrieved. He does, however, obediently release the front of Grian’s jumper, stepping back to give the other man the stink eye. “He’s not Deputy Mayor, now, is he.”

Bdubs is, technically speaking, not Deputy Mayor either. It’s several months and an entire world since he was Deputy Mayor. But everyone present is aware that, for Bdubs at least, Deputy Mayor is less a job title and more an eternal-obsessive-crony-to-Mister-Scar-Goodtimes state of mind.

“Since when has licking the Mayor been part of the Deputy Mayor’s job?” asks Mumbo, of no one in particular, though he suspects the answer is since Bdubs got the job.

“I do not want to lick Scar,” says Grian, firmly. “I’d just, you know, prefer not to lick Mumbo’s chest hair. No offence, Mumbo.”

“Some taken, mate, I’m not gonna lie.”

Scar pouts. “You don’t want to lick my–?”

“Ladies, gentlemen, and uh, sentient mosses,” says Impulse, returning with the shot glasses. Pearl has given up on proceedings entirely, sinking down to sit against one of the table legs and looking distinctly out of it. Not out of it enough, however, to have surrendered the prosecco bottle she has in a death-grip. “If we could maybe get back on track with the competition…?”

“How’re we scoring this?” asks Grian, because of course he does. Grian plays to win, after all.

“Uhhh.” Impulse, preoccupied with setting the slightly precarious shot glasses down on Mumbo and Scar’s belly without spilling them, flounders. “I was thinking maybe, like, speed, and style, and… Spanish-ness…?”

“Tequila’s from Mexico, idiot,” interjects Bdubs, helpfully.

“Mexican-ness, then.”

“None of us are from Mexico, though,” Grian points out. “Or Spain. Or anywhere in South America or Europe, actually.”

“Fine! Fine, speed and style, fine, can we just– god, I need a drink. Can we get this over with so I can get a drink?” Impulse’s voice has picked up the whining desperation of a man powerfully regretting several recent life choices.

“Yes,” agrees Bdubs, emphatically. “I would really like to get started, oh yes.” He’s looking at Scar, laid out on the table, as though he’s a slab of particularly well-cooked steak. Scar – somewhat worryingly – preens beneath his hungry gaze.

Mumbo’s relieved when Grian, deciding for reasons known only to himself to be reasonable for once in his life, tosses Impulse a casual salute by way of agreement.

“Alright.” Impulse inhales, and exhales, as though to centre himself. Or perhaps brace himself. Either way, it adds an unexpected gravity to the situation which Mumbo could really do without. Bad enough he’s shirtless on a table covered in salt, without it feeling like some big deal. “Ready, everyone? Right. Lime slices in your mouths, Scar and Mumbo. Bdubs and Grian– On your marks. Get set. Go!”

Grian goes for speed. He’s done the shot, licked the salt, and bitten the lime out of Mumbo’s mouth before Mumbo even really knows what’s happened. He’s kind of grateful for it, honestly – like ripping a bandaid off.

Bdubs, of course, goes for style.

The noise Scar makes as Bdubs drags a tongue up his belly is positively pornographic. Bdubs is flushed red-cheeked from the shot, and Scar is flushed red from a tongue dragged across sensitive skin and taut muscle. By the time Bdubs cranes his head up to take the lime from Scar’s mouth, it’s more of a lewd, open-mouthed kiss than anything else. It’s like watching a train wreck. None of them can look away.

“…Well.” Impulse clears his throat, awkwardly. His nose looks a little pink. Even odds on whether it’s from the alcohol, or the display he’s just witnessed. “I, uh… I think I’m gonna have to call that one for Scar and Bdubs, guys? Um.”

Scar whoops, gleeful. “Yes! Bdubs, it’s official. We’re the best.”

“I,” announces Bdubs, with the smug delight of a man who’s just licked a line of salt off of Scar Goodtimes’s abs and gotten an award about it, “am going to find us some more tequila. To celebrate.”

He’s gone before any of them have the time – let alone the inclination or recovered cognitive faculties – to point out that that’s probably a bad idea.

There’s a long moment of silence, as they all slowly come to terms with what they’ve just done.

“Oh, god,” says Grian, miserably, breaking the quiet. He sticks two fingers in his mouth, and comes back with something dark and wiry clutched between them. “I’ve got bloody– Mumbo hair, in my mouth–”

Mumbo is not looking at Grian. Mumbo is busy staring at Scar, still laid out across the table and looking quite pleased with himself. “Yeah, well,” he says, “I think the rather more pressing issue is that Scar’s got–”

“Absolutely no need to comment on that,” says Scar, cheerfully, finally sitting up. There’s still a little salt clinging to his abs, shimmering and crystalline. It draws the eye to it, and then encourages the eye to move further down, to his happy trail, and then on to his– “Perfectly natural reaction to getting your stomach licked. You wouldn’t shame a man for his natural reactions, now, would you, Mumbo?”

Suddenly unable to make eye contact with Scar, Mumbo averts his gaze. As he does, he mutters something that sounds remarkably like, “Bloody well would.”

He is, once again, ignored.

Scar is saved from having to discuss the particulars of his natural reactions by a loud crash from the opposite side of the room. Grian, sensing trouble occurring that he’s not yet involved with, whips his head around with velociraptor-like enthusiasm and speed.

“Bdubs, please, I just really think you don’t need any more–”

“I won!” Bdubs is yelling, holding the bottle of half-full tequila above his head as high as he can – which, given his height, is not very. Somehow, despite being far taller and significantly more sober, Xisuma’s attempts at grabbing it are going exceedingly poorly indeed. “I won, I licked Mayor Scar so, so good and I won, which means I get to celebrate, okay? With tequila.”

“No– no, Bdubs, you– come on, please, that’s very– you know what you get like when you drink too much of that, please, I really don’t–”

“Let him drink!” yells Keralis, from the sidelines, with both his characteristic lasciviousness and the motivated enthusiasm of a man who had an excellent time last time Bdubs drank too much tequila. “It’s a democracy, Shishwammy. Let Bubbles drink! Or at least let us vote on whether he can drink. I vote yes.”

If it goes to a vote, Mumbo knows, Xisuma will lose. Keralis is not the only person who had an excellent time last time Bdubs drank too much tequila. Far from it, in fact.

“Bdubs–” wails Xisuma, now weeping openly. Bdubs is stanced for combat, knees bent and arms wide like a sumo wrestler, the neck of the tequila bottle gripped in one fist. His moss hoodie and undershirt, somewhere in the proceedings, have vanished from his body. A circle of interested Hermits, sensing the evening’s entertainment, is beginning to gather around the scene.

Scar, Grian, and Mumbo watch from the other side of the room in companionable silence for a long moment – soaking up the general chaos, and attempting to process what’s just happened, respectively.

Then Scar swings his legs off the table, and stands up, with an admirable amount of grace and balance for a man nine cocktails down and counting. It’s an ongoing, server-wide mystery that Scar somehow becomes more coordinated and better with his words when drunk, and it’s always struck Mumbo as deeply unfair. “…Do you think we should go help?” he asks, mildly, watching Xisuma make yet another failed grab for the tequila.

“Absolutely not,” says Mumbo, immediately and very firmly.

As he watches, Bdubs downs two large mouthfuls of the tequila without flinching, and manages to duck Xisuma’s lunge with the poise of a ballet dancer. Xisuma, regrettably helmetless, lunges head-first into a table full of bottles instead. The resulting crash shakes the floorboards. “I do not want to get mixed up in that, thank you.”

“I think we should go and make it worse, actually,” says Grian, brightly. He is, Mumbo notices, holding a prosecco bottle – prised from Pearl’s now-empty hands where she’s slumped half-snoring beneath the table. He takes a sip, directly from the bottle, and hums appreciatively.

“Why,” says Mumbo, weakly.

“‘Cos it’ll be funny. Duh.” Grian offers the bottle to Mumbo, and wrinkles his nose when Mumbo doesn’t take it.

“Excellent point, Grian.” Scar swipes the bottle instead, tilting it up and taking a hearty chug – because that’s the part of the evening they’ve gotten to, apparently. Chugging prosecco from a bottle. “See! This is why you’re the brains of the operation. However, consider– you could also go make out in the bathroom.”

“With who?”

Scar strikes a pose, arms out, abs flexed. “With me, of course!”

“Eww. No,” says Grian, as though he hasn’t made out with Scar at nine out of the last ten server parties. Mumbo should know. He’s been keeping track. For the Boatem Pool, of course. It’s important to have those kinds of numbers to crunch, when you’re trying to work out how and when your best friend and your other best friend are going to have sex for the first time. Which is, of course, a perfectly normal thing to be trying to work out, thank you very much.

“I just want you both know,” Mumbo interrupts, “that I want no part in this.”

Grian turns to look at him, and Mumbo quails beneath the intensity of the mischief in his gaze. “What,” he says, “not even the bathroom makeouts?” as though he hadn’t been objecting to said makeouts mere moments ago.

Mumbo is just a heartbeat too slow in his denial.

“Mumbo. Mumbo!” says Scar, brightly. He’s grinning at him, a salesman’s smile, a snake’s smile, all teeth and smirk. “If you want the rewards of bathroom makeouts, you have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of doing crimes with us! You should know that by now.”

“What does that mean?!” Mumbo’s beginning to wish he’d taken the prosecco when it was offered.

“It means you should come with me and we can both take our pants off in front of Xisuma,” whispers Scar, secretively. “As a distraction. So Grian can do crimes, while everyone’s distracted by our ahmayzin’, uhhh– underwear.”

Scar’s natural reaction, Mumbo cannot help but notice, has not quite subsided yet. And, despite his trousers sitting low on his hips, there’s not so much as hint of underwear peeking out above the waistband.

“Underwear,” Mumbo repeats, slowly. “Right.”

“Absolutely not,” says Grian, but Scar is already gone, sprinting towards the Hermits ringing Xisuma and Bdubs’ ongoing tequila battle. “No! Scar–! Keep your damn pants on!” And then he’s gone, too, chasing after Scar. Or the promise of chaos.

Or, more realistically, both.

In their aftermath, Mumbo sinks – miserable, shirtless, belly hair still faintly damp from being licked – to the floor. Consumed by his own bewilderment, it takes him a moment to realise there’s a hand on his head. Pearl, apparently awake again, is petting his hair gently.

“There, there, mate,” she says, sympathetically. Her eyes are bleary, but her hands are remarkably steady as she pulls a fresh bottle of prosecco from god-knows-where and uncorks it with her teeth in a manoeuvre that leaves Mumbo staring, impressed. “Prosecco?”

“…Yeah, actually,” says Mumbo, as the noises of tequila-based disaster from the other side of the room increase, abruptly, in volume. “Yeah. You know what? Why not.”

They sit in silence for a moment, watching the chaos unfolding. Xisuma is on the floor, weeping. Bdubs is shirtless, teeth bared, wielding a now mostly-empty bottle of tequila. Scar is invisible through the throng of other hermits now watching, heckling, egging them on – but Grian is yelling, “Scar! Put your trousers back on!”, which gives them a pretty clear mental picture.

“They’re going to have sex in that bathroom, aren’t they?” says Mumbo, absently, after a while. The prosecco has settled, warm and fizzy, in bottom of his already thoroughly alcohol-lined stomach. A pair of trousers just flew out of the middle of the Hermit huddle, which is rapidly looking less like a circle and more like an active, good-natured brawl.

“Yeah. Probably.” Pearl pauses, thoughtfully, and makes grabby hands at the prosecco bottle. Mumbo obediently passes it over. “That is, if they don’t just give up and fuck right in the middle of the party.”

Mumbo ignores that last bit, because if he starts thinking about that then he’s a bit concerned he’s going to have a natural reaction of his own. Across the room, Bdubs has begun wailing in misery, in the way only Bdubs can. “I should probably be there,” he says. “If they are. For Boatem Pool purposes, you know?”

“Boatem Pool purposes,” repeats Pearl, solemnly. “Totally.”

She passes the prosecco back, and fist-bumps the bottle in solidarity when he takes it. And then they sit there, in silence, sharing the rest of the drink between them as the sounds of tequila-based disaster fill the rest of the room.

[museumgiftshoperaser]

80s New York Art Scene AU for @steddiebang Now on AO3

Written by me with art by @melonalemonade & @dreaminginpencil Beta'd by @lihhelsing & Nevertheless

If Eddie had known that sharing his art studio with Robin would include her buddy Steve, he never would’ve offered it in the first place. There. He said it. If that makes him a bad friend, so be it. Because Steve is around all the time. Pastel and prissy. Sculpted from marble, yet dressed like a Macy’s mannequin. Always hovering. They got Robin’s potters wheel up the stairs last week, a three man effort he can still feel in his lower back, and now she’s fucking teaching him. Full on, arms wrapped around his waist, hands guiding hands. Someone grab him a bucket, ‘cause Eddie’s about to throw up. He’s not even good at it. Steve can barely get the hump of clay centered on the wheel and he refuses to get stains on his clothes. It’s fucking clay. It comes out in the wash. Steve’s shirtless approach to pottery is borderline offensive to the arts.

More information under the cut:

The posting date is less than two weeks away and I'm beyond excited to start sharing this fic with you guys! I've been working on it since January and it's the longest thing I've ever written. This story is absolutely drowning in 80s neo-expressionist art, graffiti and street art. Think Jean Michel Basquiat and Keith Haring. Everything about this fic is covered in paint <3

Posting Schedule: Nov. 7: Prologue + Chapter 1 - "Takes One to Know One" Nov. 10: Chapter 2 - "You've Done This Before" Nov. 14: Chapter 3 - "The Boy From California" Nov. 17: Chapter 4 - "A Regular Thing" Nov. 21: Chapter 5 - "You Don't Have to Tell Me" Content warnings for: Past abusive relationship, mentions of abuse during childhood, addiction, slighty toxic relationship, period typical homophobia and mentions of homophobic parents, mentioned death of a parent, explicit sex scenes with dom/sub undertones I've got a little snippet for you here:

“Ta-dah,” Robin says with a big smile and an even bigger hand gesture.  She stretches her arms like a big reveal, which only highlights how small the studio is. Both of her hands almost touch a wall. Eddie’s normally fucking proud of this space, but Steve’s presence is ruining it. It’s one of the reasons he hates rich people. The world always looks like shit through their eyes. A crease forms between Steve’s eyebrows, an expression Eddie has seen him make several times in the thirty minutes he’s known the guy. “This part is mine!” Robin says, sounding genuinely excited. She’s the only rich person Eddie respects. He cleared out the room directly to the right of the entrance for Robin. It’s slightly smaller than his own, but she agreed to it before she left to spend all of June and July with her mother in California. She said it had better light anyway, which Eddie doesn’t give a fuck about.  There’s something twitchy about Steve’s movements. He baby birds his way across the space, like he doesn’t realize he has wings yet. Anxious, which, what the fuck? What did Eddie do to deserve that? Steve’s nose scrunches like he smells something he disapproves of. “I really don’t like this part of the city,” he says and he looks out the window like that proves his point. “Do you have to work here?”  Eddie bites the inside of his cheek. He promised Robin he’d play nice, but surely these are extenuating circumstances.  “We don’t all have daddy payin’ our bills,” he says with a pout and a lilt that borders on sexual. Just to piss him off. Just to make everyone uncomfortable. Robin blinks a few times fast and shakes her head. Count that as a win.  “I don’t…” Steve stutters before collecting himself. “I just want Robin to have a nice place to work.”  “And I’d like a pony and a private jet, but we can’t all get what we want,” he says and he really should stop there. But… “Isn’t that right, pretty boy?”  He doesn’t even have to wink this time. A blush stretches all the way to Steve’s ears. His eyes deepen from shock to anger like a bruise turning dark purple on day three. Yup. Worth it.  “Eddie, could you please just behave,” Robin groans. “We still have to get the rest of my stuff.” “I can help you with that tomorrow,” Steve says, still flushed, but pretending like he isn’t. It’s a sweet offer until he turns to look Eddie up and down and adds: “So we can get out of here now.”  “That would be great.” Robin looks up at Steve. “I could really use a drink, you?”  There’s those puppy eyes again. Steve’s whole face lights up and he nods quickly.  “You coming, Eddie?” She wiggles her fingers at him. “First round on me?” An offer to get drinks with his best friend and this random guy who makes him want to rip his own hair out? Fuck no. He has some sense of self preservation, thank you very much.  “I’m just gonna work on my painting for a bit.” Robin rolls her eyes at him before pushing Steve back toward the front door. “Go home on time, okay?” she yells over her shoulder. “The painting’s gonna be here in the morning.”  “Yeah, yeah…” He waits by the door until he can no longer hear their footsteps on the stairs. Once he’s confident they’re gone, he grabs the sheet turned blanket from the crate behind his easel. He never bothers with pajamas, just unbuckles his overalls and lets the pants sag around his hips as he sinks into the couch. It’s easier that way. If Robin comes back he can just tell her he was taking a nap. Sweatpants and a sleep shirt would be a dead ringer that sleeping here isn’t just a one off. He’s been doing it since he got evicted in April, but what Robin doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

[iobsesswaytoomuch]

Numbing The Pain (or: everyone gets knocked unconscious :D) [Ninjago] 

Soooo.... I kinda wrote a oneshot based on a headcannon by @jinxed-ninjago. I haven't really ever shown my writing to others, so we'll see how it goes. >:)

Cw: injuries, numbness, electrical injury and violence, uhhhhh... Overall angst?

In Jay’s opinion, being injured was less than preferable, for a number of reasons. Being stuck on bedrest every second of every day. Not being able to join the others for dinner as he listened to the laughter and joking echoing down the hall while he stared at the tray of food resting in his lap. 

It wasn’t the other ninja’s fault he was lonely, he just really wished he didn’t have to stay in bed all the time. On the bright side though, he got to play video games all day, and he got out of the usual work to maintain the monastery. After all, nothing like the power of positive thinking!

It was a stupid injury. Why were legs so breakable?

They’d been training, like usual. He didn’t remember much, but he recalled being hit by something, then waking up to his leg in a cast and Cole apologizing profusely. 

Apparently, Cole had accidentally lost control of his powers, and hit Jay with a boulder, causing him to land on top of Kai, unconscious. 

He didn’t blame Cole though. He knew as well as anyone what it was like to lose control. It made him think of when they used to fight over Nya, as Cole had apologized. It was strange how far they’d come from that.

A sudden crash startled him out of his thoughts. More followed after that, banging and thudding and shouting. He heard the others rushing to meet the cacophony, and resisted the urge to leap out of bed and join them. They could handle it without him, and he’d (grudgingly) promised to stay put. 

The sounds of fighting resounded through the room, and he grit his teeth. They’d be fine. He wondered what the heck was attacking them this time. The serpentine again? Nindroids? Maybe Garmadon had somehow come back again and was attacking? Some other random villain they’d never even heard of before? The questions raced through his mind like a river as he listened to the combat growing closer. 

Abruptly, his thoughts were once again interrupted as Cole was thrown through the air, crashing against the wall beside him and crumpling as his yell broke off upon impact.

“COLE!!” Jay screamed as he slumped to the floor. “Hey, I already passed out this week! Don’t tell me you’re stealing my thunder,” he tried to mask his wrangled nerves with humor, but Cole didn’t answer. 

“Oookay, so this is bad,” he mumbled to himself shakily as he considered his options. He could sit here and listen as the rest of his family was potentially defeated and/or hurt. He could try to help Cole (who hadn’t stirred yet but that was fine it’d be fine) somehow, without injuring himself more. Or, he could ignore his stupid broken leg and the pain that would undoubtedly follow, and go help them fight. 

As he debated, Zane decided to join the party and hurtled into the room, landing on top of Cole. As his motion stilled, Jay gasped and held back a second scream as he took in the damage. 

Half of Zane’s face looked as if it had been chewed on by a large, feral dog, ripped apart and unveiling the robotic parts underneath. One of his arms was missing, and there were open gouges displaying sparking circuits and wires, making sharp buzzing sounds. His eyes flickered as he spoke.

“S-system-m mal- mal-function- circuits-s ove-er loadd-ded-” his voice glitched before his eyes went dark and his body still. 

Jay stared, open-mouthed, before he made a decision. Jolting upright, he leapt to his feet. Or at least tried to. As soon as any tension was put onto his foot, instant agony engulfed him, and he collapsed back onto the bed. Clenching his jaw tightly, he breathed through the pain as it slowly subsided the tiniest bit. 

“C’mon Jay… You can do this!” he said, voice wavering, before trying again.

The pain was worse this time. His teeth grated against each other as his breathing became labored, but he managed to keep his footing this time. White hot knives felt like they were slicing up his leg, eventually getting so bad that it went numb.

“Well. That’s not good,” he said to the empty air as his voice quivered more. It still hurt, but now more like pins and needles gently poking him. Within a few more seconds, a lot of the feeling in his leg subsided, but he couldn’t stand any longer. Sagging against the bed, he slid to the floor. Now that he was off his foot, it started throbbing, making spots cloud his vision for a moment. 

As he looked across the room at Zane and Cole (both still unresponsive, but at least Cole’s chest was rising and falling), an idea struck him.

“Huh… circuits… nerve circuits,” he said out loud as the idea developed. Sure, it was a very very stupid idea and could very well lead to bad results. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and by the First Master he wasn’t going to stand by! The shouting had intensified in volume, and he could make out the panicked voices of the other ninja. Besides, he and the others joked that his second elemental power was stupid ideas. That was his thing!

Mind still fuzzy from the aching torture he’d experienced moments before, he remembered Zane once infodumping about how nerves operated on electrical signals from the brain, and that when overloaded, could be numbed to pain (wow, he’d actually remembered that! See, he did pay attention, Kai).

Well. He was the master of lightning and therefore electricity after all. 

“Oh boy. I’m definitely getting yelled at later for this,” he said under his breath as he closed his eyes and focused.

How was he going to do this? Could he even do this? Was it possible to shock himself? He’d never tried before, but had been shocked by other lightning on occasion.

He thought about it as he concentrated on his power. Using his element was like sneezing; almost instinctual, quick, and slightly jarring, pushing it outside of himself. So… he’d have to reverse that. Ignoring the feeling in his gut that this was going to be very terrible, he shoved the growing anxiety down.

Taking a slow, deep breath, he imagined he was inhaling electricity as well as oxygen, and it being distributed through his nerves. 

A slight tingling sensation started circulating throughout his body, and he tried it again.

A blue glow emanated from him for a second behind his eyelids, sparking.

Then everything stopped.

The throbbing hadn’t just faded away. It was completely gone. Abruptly and instantly. And it wasn’t just the throbbing either; all feeling was absent. As he opened his eyes, he discovered that he couldn’t feel his clothes rubbing against his skin, the cold floor he was sitting on, the air stirring around him; it was all gone.

“Was this how Cole felt when he was a ghost?” Jay wondered, marveling at the numbness (and slightly panicking. He desperately hoped this could be reversed later).

Getting to his feet, this time without the agony part of it, he glanced back at his unconscious brothers one last time, then sprinted out the door and down the hallway, ignoring the way his foot crunched with every footfall. Doors blurred past him as he followed the sound of voices, now reduced to an alarmingly quiet level. There was no commotion anymore, sound just as absent as sensation. He drew nearer, then skidded around a corner and out into the training yard to observe the devastation that had transpired.   

Wooden practice dummies had been splintered and broken apart, scattered everywhere. Sparring targets and weapons had been mutilated, somehow embedded into the walls and ground like shrapnel. Burn and scorch marks littered the scene, a part of the monastery wall crumbling. The sky was a deep gray, casting long shadows.

About thirty enemies were scattered around, standing at attention with their backs to Jay and seemingly waiting for something. Or someone. They wore dark, blood red kasas that cast their faces into shadow, obscuring them. White robes accented with blacks and oranges flowed around them, with brass cuffs wrapped around their wrists. Glowing gold fire designs engraved into the cuffs were arranged artistically to resemble flames wrapping around each other. Sleek black, braided hair fell down to their waists, with vivid, fiery ribbons interwoven into them. He guessed they were all female warriors. They stared straight ahead, toward the gate and eerily motionless. The voices he had followed were whispers, drifting and tangling with each other in the air and incomprehensible. It made the hair stand up on the back of his neck, but he shook it off. 

Frantically, he cast his gaze around the yard, until he finally spotted the others. They were all dumped over in the corner, bodies splayed across the ground and faces contorted with pain, yet their eyes were closed and they all lay inert. After studying them for a moment, he noted with relief that they were all breathing.

Rage boiled inside of him, and his face hardened. 

No one. Did. That. To the people he loved. 

He turned back to the warriors spaced around the yard that still had not moved, hardly noticing the electricity starting to spark around his hands.

His emotions felt amplified. Stronger. His fury grew, consuming every other thought in his mind. 

He started vibrating as the neon static spread from his hands to circulate and jerk around his body, intertwining ropes of blinding blues and whites.

Lightning flashed around his feet as he took slow, deliberate steps.

Finally, the enemies turned, and instantly and simultaneously crouched into fighting stances, raising various weapons.

Too bad for them, that did nothing but amplify the surge he finally let loose. 

Sharp, blue-white cords arced toward each opponent, turning the air white and scorching. No sound escaped them as one by one, the strands of lightning hit them, causing their bodies to convulse. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement from the direction of the others, but paid no heed.

He ignored the way his body was steaming, and searched deeper as the unfortunate warriors still spasmed, unable to move and leave the current that he was feeding. There was no way he could stop now. He’d opened a door, and a thousand-pound waterfall had come gushing out. 

He searched deeper still, disregarding the horrifying scene as he tapped into the energy stored within himself that he had put there in the first place.

Instinctively, hardly acknowledging what he was doing, he wrapped it into a twisted, contorted ball, then pushed everything out.

When it finally ran out, satiated, the air returned to normal.

Thuds echoed around the now-silent training yard, as each female warrior crumpled and hit the ground, steam spiraling from their clothes and skin.

Everything was bleached white, except for a small circle around the other ninja, where they lay untouched.

Nya was propped up on her arms, head lifted to gaze at Jay. He couldn’t tell what emotion it portrayed. There was admiration, and affection. But fear and horror was also painted across her face, and it pained him to know that he was the reason for it. She started to stand up, but Jay couldn’t think anymore.

Feeling had come back.

Everywhere was in excruciating anguish. His hands and arms were burned, with protruding raised zigzags of scorched skin beginning to turn red. He stumbled, wincing as he was suddenly very aware of his leg again.

“Nya. I-I’m sorryh…” he trailed off as his knees gave out.

“JAY!” she yelled as she dashed over to him, catching him before his head could hit the ground.

The last thing he remembered was being encircled by her arms as muffled shouts rose up around him. Trusting Nya to take care of him, his eyes shut, and he drifted off into oblivion, chasing away the agony.

Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. Just unconscious :)

[fearandhatred]

thank u so much to my beloveds @crowleys-bentley-and-plants and @seven-stars-in-his-palm for tagging me, kissing u both for this omg <3 i'm doing two of each because i can

For as many as you want of your published works, pick your favourite line/paragraph and post it up here. Let yourself feel proud of your creations.

transitional heart taxidermy [5986 words, wip]

They fit so perfectly together, the both of them, always. Not side by side like pieces of a puzzle, no, but like molten lava over sand; one over the other, one mellowing the other, changing its chemistry into something different, stronger, useful. The kiss tastes of Aziraphale, of copper and saliva and something holy. It's a taste he'll come to get used to, bloodied and bruised, a taste he chases after as the angel pulls back.

and one from an unpublished chapter:

It's been a day, two, maybe three. His hands are stained with blood and phantom glass, reeking of alcohol and rot palpable enough to taste. Aziraphale doesn't come for him, and he feels relief but also a pain so deep it's paralysing. It's a revelation in itself.

blood in my eyes [1953 words]

This is the first time in years he has stepped foot back into this place. It's a spontaneous decision, driven by a mellow melancholy and a soft wistful night. Muriel isn't in, so the bookshop is dark, and the streetlights cast an eerie, lonely glow on the ancient hardbacks. The rearing statue that once held his glasses every other day is coated in a thin layer of dust; he leaves them on.

Crowley wipes away a tear from Aziraphale's cheek with his thumb. It leaves a bright red streak. After, hours pass by before Aziraphale washes the blood from his face, imprinted in the vague shape of Crowley's hand. In those hours, when he sits in the quiet of a bookshop once again burned to ash, the blood stays there as a reminder, maybe, or as punishment.

sub-consequence [11567 words, wip] — six of crows

He wants to say everything he could possibly say to persuade Kaz to change his mind, because if he says everything in the world, strings together every word in every possible combination, there has to be at least one thing that would convince him to stay.

Sometimes Inej thinks Kaz cares about himself less than he cares about getting what he wants. It feels sometimes as if he's completely detached from himself, his own person becoming just another means to an end. People would scream at her that this isn't selflessness. It's ruthlessness, or psychopathy, or numbness. That's how the name Dirtyhands came about, after all. The willingness to do anything no matter the cost. To get his hands dirty with blood, be it others' or his own. But what is selflessness, really? A lack of selfishness, or a loss of self?

to sleep, perchance to dream [662 words] — the sandman

God, Calliope. His heart, face of cloud fields and white lily springs, a hope so blinding in contrast to his shadowed being that he had known from the start the hands of The Fates would pull them apart to opposite poles.

His lifetime of constraint allowed him to face the knowledge that any selfish will to see her in the wake of remembering all he had forsaken, all that had been ripped from him, would seal the vestibules to acceptance and he would beg with no dignity to stay by her side. And his heart burned, scorched unpleasantly at her parting words, just as the skin she touched and had once touched long after she was twice gone.

tagging those whose words i'd love to see (no pressure!!): @actual-changeling @sentientsky @irispurpurea @springofviolets @demonsandpieohmy

[psychicvoidtale]

If you receive this frog plush from me, it means that you are my best friend and that I love you very much.

[compacflt]

question: how do you find your research/sources? yours and dancing disasters' icemav fics are so inside baseball i love it, but how do you go about doing research?

I just read a lot & google stuff I don't know & am curious about. not that hard to start learning. and in terms of reading I've been interested in military history & milfiction my whole life. mostly related to the US army, actually--im extremely new to naval history and naval literature; all of that interest was driven by top gun. I've also been fortunate enough to visit a lot of the places I write about--ive been to Pearl Harbor a couple times & San Diego MANY times, for instance, and I've toured a few aircraft carriers and military bases. I've also finally bitten the bullet and kinda shifted my career path towards aerospace, so I've been learning a lot just by working in the aerospace & defense sector/spending a lot of time with people who do.

that's obviously not to say that I am somehow Educated in all this stuff. im pretty open on this blog about me being young & naive & wrong much of the time about how the real world works. so, you know, a lot of shit I just Make Up according to my preconceived notions of the military & the world.

here is my recommended military/navy reading list, some fiction and some nonfiction.

someone also asked recently if I had read anything good in the last 6 months--yes!! three new additions to my reading list: a) Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk by Ben Fountain. So goddamn good. If you have to read only one novel about the Iraq War, make it this one. It's more about America than it is about Iraq. b) Redeployment by Phil Klay. This one is a collection of short stories about Marines in Iraq, written by a USMC vet, talk about inside baseball. Crazy amounts of jargon in here, basically a "to-google" list. won the national book award which idk if it deserved, but it's good. c) No true glory: A Frontline Account of the Battle of Fallujah by Bing West. currently reading this one, really well done so far, talks a lot about how fucked the US strategy was in Iraq with Fallujah serving as a metonymy/case study for the war itself.

again... this is all mostly close-quarters-combat (infantry) literature, I really am not that interested in the navy/Air Force that much outside of top gun lol

though I did recently remember that in early 2022, before I was into top gun, I read "Wingmen" by Ensan Case, which is actually a gay US naval aviator romance set in WWII published in 1979! it's really authentic and kind of sad, obviously, since it was a 1940s navy gay love story published in 1979. I don't actually think Wingmen influenced how I wrote wwgattai or how I think of TG/TGM but I just remembered that I read that book in February 2022 and going "oh my god they were wingmen" so maybe you might find that book interesting.

[gardenofnoah]

until the wheels fall off

summary: you’ve all worked hard to see your dream come to fruition—but nothing can last forever, and there’s poison in the water that runs deeper than you knew. it doesn’t matter what katsuki says—everyone has a limit, and you seem hell bent on finding his.

♡ will be posted on 2/11 — send me a message to be tagged♡

wc: 11k (expected)

tags: band!au, drummer!bkg, denki and shinsou play the guitar, vocalist!reader, reader drinks to cope, absent parent/abandonment, jealousy, smut, hurt/comfort, childhood best friends to lovers (hints at soulmates but no direct mention of it), fluff, anxiety, mentions of vomit, happy ending ♡

[secondbeatsongs]

iCarly Meta, Part 5: Socko, Nominative Determinism, and How I Spend My Free Time

so, you may remember that I've made four separate iCarly posts before, because I am just way too into this dorky, ridiculous children's show.

well, over a year ago, I wrote this fifth one. and after some introspection, some really deep self-evaluation about what I want and where I'm going in life, I've decided that it's time to share it with the world at large

so...let's talk about Socko's family!

to catch you up: Socko is Spencer's best friend, who designs all of the fun socks that Spencer wears! he's first mentioned in s01e07 (iScream on Halloween), though some of his socks are shown as early as s01e02 (iWant More Viewers).

(technical note: production-wise, s01e09 is listed before s01e07, and I think that was intended to be Socko's introduction, and it would make sense, considering how Spencer describes him in that ep. but I can't prove this, and so we move on.)

while Socko is mentioned consistently throughout the show, he's never fully shown on screen. but, he does technically appear in an episode, because you can see part of his arm in s04e11-s04e13 (iParty with Victorious) when he hands Spencer the keys to his van.

Spencer and Socko have known each other since at least 1999 (as mentioned in s02e12, iRocked the Vote) when Spencer would have been 17 or 18. and despite Socko almost never being shown, it's clear that he spends a lot of time with Spencer, and that they're close. if Spencer needs something, Socko is always willing to call in a favor from one of his family members.

and boy, does Socko have a lot of very interesting family members.

let's go over some of them real quick:

Bernie is a welder, Otto is a used car salesman, Tyler designs neckties, Taylor is a tailor, Rob is a thief, Arty is an artist, Isaac is an optometrist, and Ryder is a motorcycle enthusiast.

are we noticing a pattern here?

every single one of these is an aptronym – a personal name that is aptly or peculiarly suited to its owner. and since all of these people are in some way related, this is fascinating to me.

it seems like Socko's family is really into nominative determinism – the idea that people tend to gravitate towards areas of work that fit their names. whether or not this is true of people in real life is unclear, but in the universe of iCarly, this is something that Socko's family is all about.

when did it start, I wonder? who was the first in the family to have a job or hobby that related directly to their name? and who continued that pattern? because someone named Bernard going by "Bernie" and taking up welding is one thing, but an entire family of people going into fields that have to do with their names is unsettling.

is this on purpose, now? do the parents in Socko's family choose names for their children based on what they want them to be? is there an expectation that each child will have to choose a profession based on what their parents name them?

I think there is. and I think it's fucked up.

imagine growing up knowing that your name would control your future career options. that no matter how you felt about your name, choosing a career or hobby that matched it is what would make your parents happy. that at least some portion of your parents' love is tied to the idea that you will be what they named you.

and depending on the name, the kids aren't always left with a lot of options! someone named Bernie could be a welder, a woodburning artist, a firefighter, etc...but for Taylor, there's really only one path to take.

what if a kid is trans? I just have to wonder, would they be judged more for not identifying with their assigned sex at birth, or for changing their name?

and one of Socko's cousins is named Mary. think about that with me for a second – Mary.

imagine that the only dream your parents have for you is that you get married. and not just fall in love! no, you were given this name because their express purpose, their biggest hope for you is that you get legally married.

what if Mary had been gay? what if she grew up with fear in her heart, knowing that the only thing her parents had ever wanted from her wasn't possible, was actually illegal, because of who she was?

or what if she had been aro, or ace, or just otherwise not interested in relationships? or what if she was interested in relationships, but not the serious, legal commitment of marriage?

my hope here (my one fragile hope) is that Rob, Mary, and Josh are siblings, and that their parents were trying to escape this part of the family legacy. maybe they named their kids Robert, Marian, and Joshua, and tried to steer clear of any obvious career choices – but then their sons started going by "Josh" and "Rob" and causing trouble, and "Mary" started talking about her upcoming wedding, and they knew that they would never be free of the family curse.

'cause it's gotta be a curse, right? I feel like at this point, it has to be.

but hey, worry not! because I think there are some loopholes.

Penny, for example, had a lot of choices – she could have minted coins, or built fences, or designed ball-point pens, or been a cashier (etc, etc). but she didn't do any of those things! she started a t-shirt company, and made shirts with fun phrases on them like "church pants" and "parole baby" and "chest words" (all shirts I would wear for real).

her job didn't have anything to do with her name – but she still followed the family pattern. she named her t-shirt company "Penny-Tees", and sewed a single penny into each of her shirts. instead of finding a name-based occupation, she made her own.

I really think it's brilliant – she got to do what she wanted, and her parents couldn't complain, because it still suited her name! and if this pattern is curse-based, she found a way around it by following it to the letter (but not exactly the spirit), and because of this, she got to make her own choices.

and speaking of jobs that may or may not suit one's name: let's talk about Socko.

early in the show when we're introduced to him, we know three things about him:

he knows where to find huge pumpkins

he sells Spencer all of his wacky socks

his name is Socko

but, thinking about that third point…is it?

like, is his name actually Socko?

let's look at Socko's family tree for a moment:

(ID in alt text)

(yes, I made this. it took over two days. I skimmed through many episodes, looked through a large amount of the old iCarly website on the Wayback Machine, and as far as I know, this is canon accurate.)

(shhh, this was absolutely a valuable use of my time. don't worry about it.)

look at his family. look at the names.

almost all of them are, well…normal names. names that could belong to any acquaintance, friend, or relative in your own everyday life.

the only real exceptions here are Freight Dog, Boomer, and Dr. Paxil – but if we're being real? "Freight Dog" is almost definitely a nickname, "Paxil" isn't that strange-sounding of a surname, and I have actually seen people named "Boomer".

so that just leaves…Socko.

"Socko" is not a people name. it sounds mean, but I don't know how else to word that – it's just not a name for a human person.

it would be a great name for a cat or a dog (especially if they had paws that were a different color from their body – man, that'd be so cute!), but it is not a name that many parents would willingly give to a human child. especially when all of the other siblings in the family have relatively normal names.

my theory, my hottest take: I don't think "Socko" is his legal name.

think about it: Socko and every single one of his siblings went into the fashion industry. even accounting for the fact that they probably wanted Penny to have a different career, would Socko's parents really want all three of their other children going into the same industry, especially one as tumultuous and challenging as fashion design?

I think not. I think they gave Socko a different name, one that they believed would lead him down a completely distinct career path. and then, like Penny, Socko found his own true calling – but instead of changing his occupation to match his name? he changed his name to match his occupation.

it is my belief that Socko's birth name…the name his parents gave him…

(drumroll please)

…was "Socrates".

now hold on, just stay with me here. because I swear that this does make sense, really!

so, back at the beginning of this post I mentioned nominative determinism, but that term wasn't actually used until 1994. before then, it was called "onomastic determinism" or "die verpflichtung des namens" ("the obligation of the name"), but it wasn't really…a thing? it wasn't something that people really studied, and when they did, nobody could seem to come to a solid conclusion about whether or not your name does actually influence your career choice.

I think that in some way, Socko's parents wanted an answer. they wanted an explanation as to why their family tree reads like a joke book. and by naming their kid "Socrates", they were sending that question out into the world, hoping for a response.

because there were really two options here – either Socko would grow up to be a philosopher, someone who could search for meaning in the pattern of family job-finding, or he wouldn't. and if he didn't, if he threw off the shackles of his name and did something else entirely, then that in itself would be an answer.

and sure, maybe his parents should have thought about how "Socrates" might be abbreviated. maybe they should have considered that he could grow up to design socks. but hindsight is 20/20, and I don't know if that's something any parent would expect of their child, so I won't hold that against them.

I will however, judge them for naming two of their kids "Taylor" and "Tyler" – like, my god. can you imagine how often people got them mixed up? it's inhumane.

even worse if they were twins! though actually, that would make some kind of twisted sense – to give twins names that not only match, but that would lead them to careers in the same industry. maybe they wanted them to go into business together? hoo boy.

anyway, sorry, I've gone off-topic. back to Socko – or should I say, Socrates.

"Socrates" is a pretty fun name. two parts of it are σῶς (sôs, “safe and sound”) and κράτος (krátos, “power”), which is an interesting name meaning for a dude who was executed for corrupting the youth.

(I'm talking about the philosopher here – as far as I know, Socko from iCarly was not executed for corrupting the youth. at least, not yet.)

and if we keep thinking about Socrates (the philosopher), I think there's another reason that this name fits: we know fuck-all about Socrates.

sure, he's well-known – lots of people know about his ideas, and the Socratic method – but…he never actually wrote anything. everything we think we know about him, we learned from somebody else.

all of Socrates' interests, his skills, his beliefs? they were all things we learned from Plato, Xenophon, or (I guess) Aristophanes. we have no idea what the dude was actually like, outside of that.

just like we have no idea what Socko is like, outside of what Spencer says.

Socrates is a vital figure in the history of western philosophy, but all of the things we know about him are altered by the opinions of other people, filtered through the lenses of their perception.

and Socko is a vital character in the show iCarly, but all of the things we know about him – his hobbies, his opinions, his wants – are things we've heard second-hand from Spencer.

(you're laughing. Spencer Shay is a stand-in for Plato, and you're laughing.)

so in a very fun way, Socko (Socrates) did live up to his name…by being unknown to us, the audience.

us, watching this TV show the way chained prisoners watch shadows dance on the wall of a cave.

continuing down this rabbit hole…does this mean that one of the iCarly crew is Aristotle?

no…perhaps that's taking it too far.

(it'd be Gibby)

final notes:

I haven't seen all of the iCarly reboot yet (I'm on episode 3! I have mixed feelings, but I think one of the writers ships the thing that I ship, so that's fun), so if it mentions something about Socko lore, I unfortunately do not know about it.

fun fact: the ancient Greeks did often have names that were meant to have sway on their lives! for example: Hedistē ("most delightful"), Demotimos ("honored among the people"), Hippodamas ("horse-tamer"), Nikomachē ("victorious in battle").

additional fun fact: I asked one of the mods of the iCarly wiki, and they said I could put the family tree I made on the page for Socko's Family! :D

look! it's my thing! the thing that I made! how cool is that?!

(I'll be real; I am way too proud of this)

yes, two of Socko's family members have inaptronyms instead of aptronyms: Harry (bald) and Jean (allergic to denim). but in my mind, they still count – the names are still weirdly suited to their specific lives.

since I'm pretty sure "Freight Dog" is a nickname, I also took a crack at what I think his legal name might be. my theory? "Aaron".

(get it? Aaron? because he's in the air? okay, I'll see myself out.)

anyway, my new hobby is coming up with more family members for Socko to have. descend with me into the deepest reaches of The Headcanon Zone, and behold:

Lisa: She's a landlord (she leases apartments). Socko hates her.

Barry: A big ol' bear of a man. Or he could work for Gund or Build-a-Bear or something. That could be fun!

Mike: Audio technician

Amy: Sharpshooter

Summer: Camp counselor

Tony: Orthopedist. (toe-knee)

Marty: Owns and operates a supermarket

and because it's fun, my friend @wonderbound joined in and came up with these super great ones:

Drew: Illustrator

Cody: Programmer or hacker

Pete: Bryologist (he studies moss!)

Norm: He's just a guy

Flo: Plumber – or maybe, an expert in fluid dynamics

Hattie: Milliner (she makes hats)

Howl: Werewolf (or perhaps, the owner of a moving castle 👀)

Will: Estate planning attorney (he writes wills)

anyway, I think that's about it. thanks for coming with me on this adventure! I hope it was as much of a rollercoaster to read as it was to write, because yeah, it was a weird one over here.

I mean, it started out normal? but then the next thing I knew, I had gotten invested, made nine edits to the iCarly wiki, and designed that whole family tree. so I think maybe I went a little overboard with this one. xD

tune in next time, for…I dunno. I think my brain needs a break after that. but, eventually I would love to write more meta! just…maybe not all for iCarly? I have some things to say about Gravity Falls that I think are gonna blow your minds.

(not really; I just think it's great)

[anitalianfrie]

sento il cuore a mille (girl!bezzetti au)

italiano

vestiti da uomo ossa da uccellino quelle robe lì

english

vestiti da uomo ossa da uccellino quelle robe lì

[velidewrites]

A messy breakup forces 20 year old Feyre Archeron back to her old hometown of Forks, Washington—back to the life she thought she'd left behind. What she doesn't know, though, is that Forks has changed in her absence, its blue-tinted fog stained by fresh, crimson blood. Luckily, Feyre is ready to join the hunt.

🩸Pairing: Feyre x Rhysand

🩸Rating: Explicit

🩸Tags: Twilight AU

Chapter 2/5 || Read on AO3

Or continue for a snippet below!

***

This time, Feyre is prepared.

She feels him before he even speaks—feels the magnetic pull of his presence, as if his very soul is calling out her name. She feels the soft claws, prodding at the gates of her mind, and she no longer has any doubt they belong to him.

“I had no idea you were such a hard-working student,” Rhysand teases behind her.

She doesn’t turn to face him—she knows he’ll join her side whether she asks for it or not. “You’re back,” she simply observes.

“My family and I went on a brief vacation,” he explains, and sure enough, she feels him slide into the seat beside her. The movement is quiet, almost silent despite the heavy fabric of his jeans scratching the polished wood. Still, the library seems entirely empty of any sound. Not exactly a good cover for the conversation she’s planning to confront him with.

“It’s not very common to go away just before midterms,” Feyre tells him, hating to admit that she’s stalling.

Rhysand’s smile is positively feline beside her. “Well, maybe I’m an excellent student, too.”

Or maybe, Feyre thinks, fingertips brushing over the old book before her, you’ve already gone over this course dozens of times. Hundreds, even.

She finally looks up—looks at his youthful, handsome face.

How old are you?

Rhysand actually shifts in his seat under her scrutiny. “Are you okay?” he asks, brows knitting together, as if struggling to concentrate. “I can never tell what you’re thinking.”

Feyre angles her head an inch. “Well, how could you?”

Rhysand clears his throat. “You’d be surprised how easy some people are to read. But not you.” He looks into her eyes. “No matter how hard I try.”

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added/removed, I’m basing it off the announcement post 💕): @azrielshadowssing @damedechance @melting-houses-of-gold @rosanna-writer @itsthedoodle @reverie-tales @sanfangirl @separatist-apologist @asnowfern @thelovelymadone @foundress0fnothing @thesistersarcheron @wilde-knight @popjunkie42-blog @areyoudreaminof @fieldofdaisiies

[inmyheadimobsessed]

what kind of drugs was i on omg

[koushuwu]

» it’s you, and it’s him — kuramochi youichi x reader *:･ﾟ✧

18+ content | 6,1k words | your best friend will do just about anything to help you, when katsuyuki breaks your hearts. even if it hurts to please you, when he knows you’ll never reciprocate his feelings. or will you?

tags: afab!reader, pet names (specifically; bug.), emotional porn, implied friends to lovers, seemingly unrequited love, childhood friends, light angst, hurt/comfort, vanilla sex, praise, virginity loss, fingering, masturbation mention, unprotected sex.

the first thing youichi heard when he picked up the phone was a poorly concealed sniffle followed by a shaky breath. “bug? what’s wrong?” it’s late. he’d been laying around on his bed and throwing ball with himself for a while, not really ready to hit the racks just yet when his phone buzzed beside him. the familiar pet name he liked to use for you, lighting up the screen with a little bug-emoji next to it. you’d asked him to remove it more than once, and every time he’d laughed it off. the moment he heard, he sat up on the edge of his bed, ball dropping to the floor and rolling underneath the bed. not that he noticed though, when another hiccup carried through the speaker, before you could hide it.

“it’s nothing,” you lied. you blatantly lied and youichi knew. of course he did. because it was you, and it was him. how could he not know? that, and the fact that you were a horrible liar to begin with. but right now you did, and if the alarm bells weren’t already ringing in youichi’s ears, they were now, flashing red lights and all.

“liar.” he called you out. of course he did. because it was you, and it was him. you didn’t lie to each other. not anymore. hadn’t done since you were kids. “what happened?” he pressed.

“it’s over.” your words were thick and youichi couldn’t help but noticed the way it sounded like the words were choking you on the way out. you were crying, and his heart shriveled at the thought. you were crying. he didn’t say anything just yet, waiting for you to continue, which you did, after swallowing audibly on the other end of the line. “katsu. it’s over.”

katsuyuki. of course. youichi never liked katsuyuki. of course he didn’t, because when the two met for the first time, their teams were rivals, and katsuyuki was such a pain in the ass to play against. he never liked katsuyuki. but it only got worse when the two of you started dating. and now. well hate is a strong word, but youichi might very well be inclined to use that specific word for what he was feeling towards katsuyuki in that moment.

“what?” youichi’s voice was so thin when he spoke, he hardly recognized it himself. “i thought you liked him?”

“i do. i did. i think,” there it was, the little quiver in your voice that he hadn’t heard since the two of you were much younger. that little quiver that threatened to shatter his heart entirely.

“where are you?” youichi asked, voice shaking a little, even as he tried to hide it.

“home.”

“i’m coming over.” he’d already gotten up, rummaging around and pulling out on the first pair of sweats he came across. he heard another sniffle on your end. thick and heavy, the exact picture of the feeling weighing down at the pit of youichi’s stomach.

“no,” you objected, but there was no real fire behind it. “mochi, it’s late.” youichi’s heart felt like it might burst from the sound of your nickname for him, choking with tears. he never wanted to hear you say his name like that, ever again. even if he wasn’t the source for your crying. never again, he promised himself with his hand on the door handle.

“i’m coming over,” he repeated the words, firmer this time. “i’m already out the door. wait for me.”

the moment the two of you hung up, he set off into a sprint. he was fast and he knew it. it was one of few things he could really be proud of as a baseball player. his speed and his stamina. he could run, and he could keep running. not that he would need the stamina much right now, since thankfully you didn’t live that far away. but he ran. he ran as if it was the final play that would ensure a win in a baseball game. no. actually, he ran as though the most important thing in the world, depended on him running. which, in some sense, was true. because it was you, and it was him. so he ran. he ran until he reached the end of your street, and he kept running, until he reached your doorstep. and he sprinted, two steps at a time, up the stairs, until he abruptly stopped in front of your door and rapped his knuckles against the wood before even catching his breath. something that you didn’t give him the chance to do either, before the door creaked open, revealing your tearstained face.

“mochi.” and there it was. he’d promised himself that you would never utter his name again, like that, but– “you’re here.” the door slammed behind him, when he rushed into your apartment, pulling you into him, arms around your middle. you responded to him just as quickly, arms wrapping around his neck and your face burying in the crook of it.

“shh, it’s okay. it’s okay, i’m here.” youichi murmured the words against your hair, entirely enveloped in your scent, and you hiccup against him, shoulders shaking when a new wave of tears washed over you. “please, don’t cry. bug, you know i can’t stand it when you cry.”

of course you didn’t stop crying, just because he asked you not to. he knew you wouldn’t, because that’s not how these things works, but oh did he wish it was. for a while the two of you just stood there. youichi holding you close, firmly pressed against his chest. you, sobbing against him, burying your face deeper into his chest. he didn’t know when he did it, or why, but he realized how his hold on you had grown even tighter as he hummed against your hair, repeating again and again, that he’s there. that he’s got you. shushing you gently, and letting his fingers lightly dance over the fabric of your shirt where he held you. it wasn’t the first time youichi hugged you. far from it. you had been in his arms more times than he could count. you were best friends after all. he’d soothed your crying before, and each time it pained him just the same. he’d hugged you countless times. in greeting, in joy when his team won a match or you passed that exam you were sure you’d fail, and sometimes just because. he’d hugged you so many times, your frame felt so familiar in his arms. fit perfectly, as if you were actually made for him to hold. but you weren’t. you were so perfect, but not for him, so he squashed the thoughts firmly. you needed your best friend, and he was going to give you what you needed. whatever you needed. but even so, your scent engulfed him so wholly. your frame pressed to his. no matter how much he tried, it was impossible to completely shot down the reaction his body had to yours. but he tried. he really tried to force it down, but even then, it wasn’t enough. because it was you, and it was him.

youichi held you, until the initial surge of tears stilled. your sobbing quieted and your shaking frame grew still against him. and then he held you just a moment longer, and willing his body to relax. for the blood rushing south to seize its charge, and for the tingling under his skin to yield.

“come on,” youichi finally spoke up, starting to pull away and lead you further into the apartment. but he didn’t make it far before you placed a hand against his chest, hand curling into the fabric of his hoodie and held him back. youichi had to fight the initial jolt of electricity from your touch. then he looked at you, eyes locking on your red rimmed ones. “am i–” you started, and youichi waited. he waited because he knew that you would read his silence. the words of encouragement that he didn’t speak. youichi was known to be quite the loud-ass, and he was. he really was. but with you, things were different. with you, he didn’t always have to say the words he wanted to convey, because you would understand. just as you accepted his flaws, he would show you sides of him, that no one else saw. sides that no one else could see, because they belonged solely to you, and you alone. because even if he tried, those sides of him refused to show themselves to others. so he waited. and you took a breath. and then one more. “am i boring?”

“what?” it took him a second to really understand what you were asking and why. but then he did, and something started bubbling under his skin, something different entirely, than the excited tingling from just moments before. “did he tell you that?”

he saw the way you curled in on yourself at his words. in shame, maybe? you didn’t answer. at least not verbally. but he saw. he saw the little movement of your head. a nod. barely there, but a nod nonetheless, and youichi never hated katsuyuki more. there. he said it. or thought it, really. he hated shirakawa katsuyuki.

“bug–” never once did he think he ever spoke so softly. but you just looked so small right then, and it was ripping at his heart looking at you like this. “no. you’re not boring. of course not. now come, and tell me what happened.” this time, when he started towards the living room, you followed along. when he plopped down on the couch and pulled you down with him, catching you slightly off guard, and you landed next to him. close. oh so close, that you had almost landed on him. he hadn’t intended for that to happen, but he firmly ignored the way your touch against him, set his skin ablaze just like it always did. instead he pulled you into him, folding himself around you once more, and urged you to tell him everything.

and you did. you told him everything, and you spared not a single detail. occasionally swallowing thickly and sniffling when the fresh wounds ripped open, you told him about how katsuyuki had been neglecting you for a while. how he was never there. how he didn’t reply to your texts. how he’d stopped wanting to be intimate when he actually was with you. how it left you feeling increasingly more and more insecure about yourself and your appearance. you told him about how katsuyuki had called that same night and ended things, and you didn’t spare the details about how that went down. and youichi listened. he listened as all the words came tumbling out, trying his hardest not to notice how you slumped against him. how your hand rested against his thigh only just shy of his crotch and he hoped to everything that was good, that you wouldn’t move, because if you did, he was gonna have a problem explaining himself. instead, he forced himself to focus solely on your words, and for the most part he succeeded. and then, when you’d poured yourself on him, you placed your hand against his chest and looked up at him. and he down at you. the redness of your eyes, and tremor of your lower lip made his heart beat louder against his chest. even like this, you were still the most beautiful thing he ever saw. and he wanted nothing more than to dip his head down and kiss the trembling from your lips. but he didn’t. of course he didn’t. not that he would’ve had the chance before you spoke, doe eyed and vulnerable.

“am i unattractive?” you asked him, and youichi nearly choked on his own spit. unattractive? you? “am i that undesirable?” you pressed, pulling the rug from underneath his feet. your brows drew together and youichi cupped your face in both his hands, carefully cradling the entire world between his palms.

“no,” he started, breathless but more desperate than ever to speak his mind. yet, he know he needs to tread carefully. you don’t need him accidentally revealing his feelings for you, or what you’re doing to him. but he does need you to know that your ex was a fool. “no, you’re not unattractive. you’re not undesirable. bug, you are beautiful, you’re breathtaking. anyone who doesn’t desire you has got to be blind,” and that’s when he should have known he messed up. that’s when he should have known that he’d said too much. but realization only happened a moment later.

“do you?” and that was when he knew he’d said too much. and you were looking at him with those big eyes, and he just… he couldn’t lie to you. one thing was to dance around the subject of his feelings, but he couldn’t lie to you. he was quiet for a moment. hesitant. unsure.

“yeah,” he said, voice uncharacteristically low and unsteady despite his attempts to remain calm. “yeah, of course.” it doesn’t mean anything, he knows that. you’re sad and you’re in need of validation. he’s offering you just that. validation. it doesn’t mean anything to you, and he knows. but he’s looking into those eyes of yours and it may not mean anything to you, but it means everything to him. everything. everything. and he wants to kiss you so bad. but he doesn’t. youichi gives you what you need, even if it hurts him to know, that it means so much to him, and yet so little to you. he gives and he doesn’t even care about the hurt he feels. because it’s you, and it’s him.

those thoughts run through his head when you press closer. youichi feels his eyes widen, the way your hand on his thigh moves like he feared, inching closer along with the rest of you. he watches your approach in disbelief, like it was some kind of cliché slow motion romance movie, and yet he doesn’t stop you. this wasn’t a romance movie. you couldn’t actually be moving in to– your lips tasted salty from your tears when you press them to his. he inhaled sharply, hands almost falling from your cheeks the he still held gingerly. lips firm and soft, and if that hand of yours moved any further, youichi was definitely going to have a much bigger problem than he already did. a much bigger problem than having to push you away right now. but he had to.

“wait, wait.” you pout at him and he’s not even sure you realize how entirely inthralled he was by you. how his lips tingled from just that one kiss. he sees the hurt flashing across your face. “you don’t really want to do this–”

“yes, i do.”

“you’re upset, i know. but i can’t let you do something you’ll regret tomorrow.” youichi tired to be firm, but with you looking at him like that. with the memory of your lips against his, he could only muster half-assed at best.

“i won’t. not if it’s you. please don’t reject me right now.” and that was it. he really wasn’t going to take advantage of you, but your voice was so thin and your eyes so big and watering with fresh tears and how was he supposed to say no to you? how was he ever supposed to not slip a hand into your hair and pull you back up to meet his lips once more. and how should he have known that it would cause your hand to slide up further? the breath caught in his throat when you brushed against the bulge in his sweats, that he’d been trying so hard to ignore, and why weren’t you removing your hand? why did– your lips moved against his and the entire world spun. that was the moment that he knew that he would do anything for you. 

how and when the two of you made it to the bedroom, youichi genuinely had no idea. he remembered stumbling slightly as you dragged him with you. or maybe he guided you? he remembered your hands trembling against the collar of his hoodie. or maybe it was his own trembling he felt? he couldn’t tell for sure and honestly it didn’t really matter either. not when your lips was on his. not when everything he’d wanted for so long, was finally within his grasp. but it wasn’t really, was it? because this wasn’t ever going to lead anywhere, and he ought to remember that, lest he’d want any hope of saving his heart from shattering completely.

“are you sure about this?” it wasn’t that he was searching for an out when he asked. every part of him was yearning for you, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. nervous, because he didn’t want to take advantage of you. nervous, because this would be his very first time. and nervous, because he was finally going to have what he’d shamefully fantasized about on so many lonely nights with his hand fisted around his cock and your name like a prayer on his lips.

“i’m sure.” you nod at him from your spot on the edge of the bed. he saw the way your lower lip tucked between your teeth, and he wished that you’d stop doing that because it was definitely not making things easier on him. “i want you.” you tugged at his shirt when you said that, and youichi’s heart fluttered before he had time to stop the surge rippling through him. you didn’t mean it like that. of course you didn’t. but you wanted him right now, and that was enough for him. it had to be enough. and so, his knee dipped into the mattress and you scooted further up the bed. he followed, soon hovering over you with his eyes locked onto yours.

“i want you, too.” he hadn’t meant to say that, but never had he uttered truer words. the smile you sent him was so soft and maybe he would have had time to decipher that flash of emotions in your face, if you hadn’t pulled his face to yours and kissed him right then. kissing you didn’t feel like fireworks. he’d imagined it would, but it didn’t. no, it felt like a missing piece of him finally clicked into place, and he probably should have pushed that feeling aside as well. squashed it like a crispy leaf under his shoe on an autumn day. that way it would be less painful when he had to rip that piece out again come morning. but he didn’t. he welcomed the way you felt familiar, yet new and unexplored. he welcomed it, and he let it happen. in every movement as he picked off piece after piece of your clothing, he let the puzzle piece sink in further. in every piece of his own clothes discarded, he let it take root. let it manifest itself deeper in his being, and with every quivering touch of his fingertips on your skin.

trouble. youichi was in trouble, but right now he just couldn’t care less. with his lips trailing down your neck, youichi really was in big trouble. “you’re beautiful.” he murmured the words against your skin. “you’re so beautiful,” he repeated, fingertips trailing down your side. “the most beautiful in the world.” those same fingers ghosted over your hip bone, slowly crossing south. anticipation weighed heavy in the air, and the moment his fingers reached your core, his mouth went utterly dry. his mouth dropped open and he glanced down to where his touch lingered against you. then his eyes flitted back up to yours. you were smiling at him, something that made him ache even more than the feeling of your skin under his fingers could do. more than the wetness between your thighs could do. but your smile. it made his cock twitch and impatience gnaw away at his strength to take it slow. he was going to be patient. he was. he– a whimper sounded through the room when youichi pressed a finger inside. your face scrunched up, and for a moment he was scared that he’d hurt you when grabbed onto his arms. hard. but when he pulled back, your eyes opened wide and looked straight at him.

“no. don’t stop.” your fingers tightened on his arms and youichi felt the very air being pulled from his lungs. and you looked at him with those eyes, and with that little smile on your face, and how could he not oblige? how could he not feel his restraints slipping? so of course he gave you what you asked. because it was you, and it was him.

the thing with youichi was, that while he had obviously seen his fair share of porn. while he’d pushed himself to the edge with you on his mind, on numerous occasions. and while he’d had opportunities to be intimate with girls before, he’d never actually taken them. he knew the basics, and yeah he knew what he was supposed to do. he knew that if he curled his finger just right, he should hit something. he knew that stretching you properly was essential. both towards the end goal, but also to make you feel good and seen and relaxed. but what he lacked was the experience to tell how long he was supposed to keep going. how it would feel when you were ready. it didn’t matter much actually, at least not to him. because you were writhing underneath him and you were moaning. you were moaning, your nails were digging into his biceps, and he swore that he heard his name tumble over your lips once. his name. on your lips. 

his name.

on your lips.

his name. breathless. needy. inviting.

“shit.” youichi’s teeth clenched hard. he really was going to be patient. he was. but you were moaning his name, and how did you expect him to hold back when it was you. he really tried. but–

“youich– please.” 

“shit. shit, shit, shit!” his lips pressed hard against yours, fingers pulled from your core and he swallowed up your whine with a deeper moan of his own. he didn’t want to ever stop kissing you, but that last threat of his sanity bid him to pull back, even for just the shortest of moments. “please–” the words didn’t form properly as he spoke, but it didn’t matter, because you were already nodding and he was diving back in to once again capture your lips with his own. he desperately needed to be inside of you, and he needed it now; the thought completely overshadowing anything else. you. and when he settles between your thighs and you legs spread further for him, he was just about losing it. he almost lost it, and– a deep groan ripped from his throat when he felt your touch. a delicate, eager hand wrapping around the base of his cock, guiding him as you drew him nearer with legs wrapping around him. for the shortest of moments, youichi wondered if you knew this was his first time. but how could you? the two of you didn’t lie to each other, but the topic hadn’t actually ever come up. so he never told you. so why did you–

oh fuck. oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. youichi knew you were wet. he knew. yet it still took him by surprise when the tip of his cock caught against your wet pussy. you were so wet and you felt so good and he shuddered. oh fuck. you drew him even nearer and youichi was absolute positive that he was going to go utterly insane. the way you invited him in, hips raised in a wordless welcome home. the way your hands felt on his body, one slipping into his hair and the other clawing at his shoulder blade. the sounds you made when he finally pushed inside you for the first time. the first, and probably the last. the pang of hurt in his heart quickly subsided when you clenched around him, throwing your head back against the pillow and arched your back in the most deliciously alluring curve.

youichi wanted to savor the moment. he really did. but there was something so utterly desperate in the way you locked him in, thighs forcing him closer, and the way your nails scraped at his skin. like you were feeling good. he wanted to savor it, but how did anyone, least of all himself, expect him to manage that, especially when it was you. because that was the reason why, and he knew it. because it was you, and it was him.

there was something equally as desperate in the way youichi moved against you. trapping him against you, all he could really manage was rolling his hips, rutting into you, over, and over, and over, and over. and there was something equally as desperate in the way his forehead fell to your shoulder, eyes scrunched up and voice hoarse. you felt so good.

“even better than i imagined.” words spoken breathlessly against your skin. thoughts pulled from his lungs, muffled and broken in pleasure. your moans more beautiful than the song of a siren urging him to keep going, to what he readily obliged.

he gave and he gave and he gave, everything that you wanted, you could have it. and he took and he took and he took. anything you were willing to give, he took it all. maybe he should have felt ashamed to be so greedy in your time of need. but then you keened and your pussy pulsed around him, clenching, releasing, clenching, as if sucking him in deeper, and he was sure he’d never ever felt anything this good in his entire life.

“i love you.” that’s when he knew he fucked up. but he didn’t care. he locked his lips onto your to avoid any further confessions to escape him, and kept taking. he kept taking and giving and taking and giving until the familiar pleasure of his own high crashed over him, painted in new breathtaking colors he’d never expected to see. youichi ground into you. sloppy. messy. needy. greedy. even in the middle of his orgasm, he still wanted more of you. everything. he wanted every last drop of your pleasure and his. he wanted it and he was going to take it. he took. took. took. rutting through his high until there was nothing left for him to give. until he’d poured all of him into you and slowly came back down from his intoxicating high.

youichi didn’t know when he’d released your lips and placed his forehead against the warm skin of your decolletage. he didn’t even realize that he’d done it, before he felt your lips against his hair. he lifted his head with a groan and looked up at you. you were smiling at him, and he even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his own lips, still in a slight daze.

“hi.” his smile softened and he let his head fall back where it was, before mumbling a hi in return. for a second you allowed him to stay there, and he steadied his breathing. tried to banish his many contradictory feelings before they could manifest. urged time to stop. to slow down at the very least, so he could stay here. preferably forever. but at least for a little while longer.

“come on,” your voice was quiet but firm when you patted him on the arm, leaving him so heave a sigh. of course time wouldn’t stop for him. he should have known. “we gotta get cleaned up.” and he knew that you were right, and even if he never wanted to move and face reality ever again, he knew that you were right. he knew. he knew. so he obeyed. reluctantly at that, but he obeyed, and soon enough as you did, the feeling had crept back in, settled and taken a firm hold around his heart. and soon enough, he found himself perched at the edge of your bed, while you sat, cross legged, and watched him. he was watching you too, one leg bent up on the bed as he faced you.

“are you–” youichi started to speak but his voice broke. hoarse. it was so hoarse. he desperately tired to look everywhere but at you. eyes skitting around the room. but as cliche as it sounds, he felt his gaze drawn to you like a moth to a flame. he couldn’t help it, so his eyes landed on you once more as he cleared his throat. “are you okay?” the words falling from his lips left him feeling very silly. that was a dumb question, he knew. he knew, so he opened his mouth to say something else. anything that sounded less dumb. something. anything.

“i–” you looked into his eyes, and youichi was stunned by the shine in them. mouth hanging open for a moment, before he realized and closed it, scratching his neck and looking away. “i think i will be.” ah. youichi was happy. of course he was. but the fact of the matter was, that that meant he’d done what he came here to do. he’d been there for you. he’d been your friend through your tear and he’d supported you until you could say that you were okay. which meant– youichi twisted in his seat, leg sliding off of the bed.

“then maybe–”

“stay.” he looked down when he felt your hand closing around his wrist. for a moment he started at your hand on his skin. it was burning and it was home. it was you, and it was him.

“what?” his eyes flicked back up to yours

“don’t leave.”

“okay. okay, i won’t.” youichi settled, but your hand didn’t move. it stayed locked around his wrist for a while longer. he wondered why, but chalked it up to you simply forgetting you were holding onto him. yeah. yeah that was definitely it.

“wanna sleep with me?” your suggestion caught him by such surprise that for a moment he just looked at you. dumbfounded. then he laughed. he couldn’t help it. with what you two just did, it was almost too easy to to catch the innuendo you definitely hadn’t intended to make. “not like that, you buffoon.” you swatted his arm and he couldn’t help but laugh harder, the sound coming from deep within.

“no? like what then?”

“like– hey!” his favorite thing in the entire universe was your laugh. even now, after having heard what you sound like in bed, your laughter was still his favorite. the most stunning sound in the entire world. and you laughed. you laughed at him and you laughed with him, and it was perfect. “like sleeping!” you said with laughter still evident in your voice as you’d calmed from the initial fit of giggles.

“ha! yeah, i would’ve said that too.” you swatted his arm again, and youichi knew in that moment, that despite his pain, everything was going to be okay between you, with your feigned –, and his jokes and your shared laughter. “let’s sleep, bug. it’s late.” he agreed, once the laughter died down again.

soon enough, the two of you found yourselves under the covers of your bed, laying on each your sides, facing each other. his arms were around your waist and even after tonight, it didn’t feel any different than it used to. you’d slept like this on more than just a few nights. it was nice and you liked cuddling, you used to say when the two of you were younger. he liked it too, but only when it was you. the cuddling had subsided when you and katsuyuki started dating, but even if it’d been a while, youichi had never forgotten what you felt like in his embrace. there was quiet for a moment after you’d seemingly settled into the most comfortable position, but then you stirred and looked up at him in the darkened room.

“this was your first time, wasn’t it?” it wasn’t so much of a question as it was a statement, and while it did come out of the blue, it made sense that you would know. youichi started back at you, swallowing all surprise before it surfaced, opting instead for the lighter tone you’d regained only minutes prior.

“was i that bad?” he jokes with a low laugh. you know how they say that there’s a grain of truth in every joke? well in this case, it may be a bit more than just a grain of truth. while youichi wasn’t exactly shy, he did want to do good for you, and while he did feel entirely comfortable around you, how could he not, at the very least, wonder. but when you laughed back at him softly, any trace of worry shriveled away.

“no you weren’t,” you said when the laughter subsided. “but i feel like you would have told me about it. having sex, i mean.” 

“hey! i’m offended,” he said, mockingly feigning upset. 

“i’m not sorry, you know.” once you uttered the words, youichi was about ready to fire back, but the slight seriousness edge to your words stopped him from doing so. instead he listened carefully. waited. heart beating hard against his chest, almost skipping a beat when you continued. “about taking your virginity.” mouth opening, then closing again, he watched you, gaze darting across your face, dipping to your lips and back up. all for a mere split second in time.

“i’m not sorry either.” youichi spoke the words lightly, almost cheerfully, scarcely covering for the truth he didn’t dare speak. didn’t want you to hear on his lips. the truth he feared he’d already exposed. the truth that left him vulnerable and waiting for the rejection that had yet to come. unless his prayers were answered, and you really didn’t hear or catch the confession of his earlier words.

there’s a silence in the room, stretching, looming and all consuming. feeling like a predator lurking silently in the tall grass, watching it’s prey and ready to pounce. but it kept stretching further, lulling youichi into a sense of security that felt even more threatening, as if any minute it could be ripped from under his feet. but it kept stretching for so long that he almost thought you’d fallen asleep.

“you know, when katsu ended things with me, it really did hurt,” you spoke so softly that if it hadn’t been utterly quiet in the room, youichi might have missed it. but he heard, and he waited. wondered where you were headed. why you were telling him this, but of course, it was a fresh wound, you’d obviously need to talk about it. and youichi was okay with this. of course he was. and he would listen every single time. “but– the thing that hurt the most, wasn’t the thought of losing him.”

“with the things that he said–”

“it wasn’t just that,” you pressed on, effectively cutting him off. words now stumbling out fast, as if you were trying to get them out as fast as possible. “yeah, he said some shitty things, but that wasn’t the worst thing. the worst thing was the shame that i wasn’t as upset as i probably should’ve been.”

“what do you mean?”

“i was hurt, i really was!” you looked up at him and met his gaze head on. there was something fierce behind your eyes. something youichi had seen many times before, and he adored it every single time. “but i was more concerned with was he said. i was worried, because i couldn’t stop thinking about– what if others thought the same thing too? what if you thought that too? i couldn’t shake that thought and while he did hurt me, that thought hurt me even worse and–”

“whoa whoa, hold up, rewind,” youichi clasped a hand over your mouth forcing the words to stop their rapid escape from your lips. your mouth, your lungs, your heart. “me? why would you worry about me thinking that?” he probably should have realized by then, what you were trying to say. instead, he thought he might’ve somehow given off the impression, as he’d tried to avoid revealing his feelings for you in the past. he didn’t think he had, but honestly who was he to say? you took a breath and placed a hand flat against his chest, right above his hammering heart.

“because it’s you.” your voice was so small as the words shook past your lips. “it’s always been you.”

it’s him. it’s always been him

*:･ﾟ✧ all interactions are greatly appreciated. thank you for reading ♡