#What happens when you play Dredge

[kodasea]

Cape Falmouth’s “Weeping Salmon"

[papayainsectorone]

Just The Two Of Us.

summary: a night of dancing and too much alcohol dredges up old (?) feelings and unresolved tension between you and lando, blurring the line between history and heat as a single moment threatens to unravel everything you’ve both been trying not to want

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, alcohol / intoxication, mutual (?) pining, soft angst, sexual tension, drunken vulnerability, thigh riding, drunk confessions, soft horny chaos

word count: 5,5k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

might be confusing if read as standalone

It’s been weeks.

Weeks since that night at the bar. Since you walked away with Charles and Lando just… let you. Since whatever that moment was between you all evaporated into the haze of alcohol, music, and unspoken choices.

Lando never brought it up.

Not once.

He never asked what happened with Charles, never made a comment, never let anything slip—except for the way he looked at you a little differently for a few days after. Like he was trying to piece something together and never quite figured out how to ask the question. Or maybe he just didn’t want the answer.

But after that? Things fell back into place.

Sort of.

The banter returned, light and easy. Familiar. You still teased each other over your tragic snack choices and made sarcastic comments about each other’s Spotify queues. There were late-night kitchen run-ins, the occasional movie half-watched together, and the same dumb inside jokes passed between you like muscle memory.

But everything now had Charlotte’s name quietly folded into it.

Her toothbrush was in the bathroom sometimes. Her perfume lingered in the hallway when she left. There were missed calls on his phone from her. Her laughter on speaker when he’d answer mid-conversation with you. She was never intrusive, never rude, always warm and friendly when you crossed paths but she was there.

And so you drifted again.

Still close, but no longer the center of each other’s gravity.

But one Thursday night, he brought it up casually, like it was nothing.

Lando leaned against the counter, half a slice of toast in one hand, his phone glowing on the table beside him.

“Oh—hey,” he said, glancing over. “Remember the DJ I wanted to take you to see?”

You looked up from your laptop, distracted. “The one from the night I violently started vomiting?”

That’s what you said out loud.

What you thought was: The one from the night you met Charlotte.

He nodded, grinning. “Yeah. He’s back this weekend. Playing that same club. Charlotte’s out of town—family thing—so I thought, you know… maybe you’d want to go?”

You blinked. “With you?”

“Well yeah,” he said, shrugging. “We haven’t properly been out together in a while.”

You opened your mouth to say no. You were ready to. The excuse was half-formed, something about being tired or having plans or just not being in the mood. But then you looked at him.

The way he was smiling, not the flashy kind he used with everyone else. Just quiet. Hopeful. Familiar.

It tugged something loose in your chest. Something softer.

And you realized how long it had been since it was just the two of you. Since the night was only yours, not divided by subtext or someone else’s presence. Just Lando. Just you.

“Okay,” you said, slower than you meant to. “Yeah, let’s go.”

His whole face lit up. “Yeah? Sick.”

He was already unlocking his phone, tapping away excitedly, like this was something he’d been waiting on for longer than he let on.

And for a second, you let yourself feel it too.

The anticipation. The comfort. The possibility of something that used to be yours.

Even if it wasn’t anymore.

And when Saturday came arround, you didn’t set out to get that drunk.

It started small. Innocent. A night out that felt overdue—just the two of you again, no lingering tension, no third presence hovering over your shoulder. Something that might feel like old times, even if it wasn’t.

The air was stiff at first. Not cold exactly, just... cautious. Like you both were waiting to see who would make the first move, who would laugh first, tease first, act like nothing had changed.

But the moment you really realized Charlotte wasn’t there and wasn’t even mentioned, something in you loosened. You let the tightness in your chest go slack. Just a little.

Lando’s voice was familiar. His jokes were predictable and comforting. His eyes, bright and warm and pointed only at you, felt like home again.

Then came the drinks. Just one each. Then a second. Then shared shots, the kind you never liked but took anyway, because he handed it to you with that grin and you didn’t want to be the reason it faded.

Then the music got louder. The lights got blurrier.

And you started to feel good. Really good.

The kind of good that makes you forget the ache in your chest. The kind that makes it easy to smile without thinking. Easy to dance without worrying where his hands aren’t.

Easy to believe that maybe none of this is as complicated as it’s become.

The place was packed, pulsing with heat and the blurred lines of strangers dancing too close. You moved through it all like someone trying to shake something off. The vodka burned, but it helped. The music was too loud, but it gave your thoughts somewhere to hide. People laughed, flirted, spilled drinks, and it all melted into a blur around the edges.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was him.

Lando looked stupidly good. The kind of good you tried not to notice anymore. His shirt clung in all the right places, curls damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from the mix of dancing and liquor. His laugh was even louder than usual, a little reckless. Real.

And you hated how much it got to you.

At one point, he leaned close to say something, and his hand found the small of your back. Familiar, casual. But you felt it everywhere. You didn’t pull away.

And maybe that was the beginning of the end.

You’d missed that version of him. The one who laughed without checking himself, who let the music move through him like it belonged there. The version of him that reached for your hand without hesitation, eyes bright and mouth already curved into a grin before you even made it to the dance floor.

“You remember this song?” he yelled over the heavy thump of the speakers, his fingers tightening around yours as he pulled you into the mess of bodies.

You stumbled forward, laughter bubbling up before you could stop it. The alcohol made everything feel slightly off balance, spinning, sliding, but somehow safer in his orbit. “Of course I remember. You played it on a loop that summer.”

“I did not,” he protested, already grinning like he knew you were right.

“You did,” you insisted, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Three weeks. Same stupid song. I wanted to break your speaker.”

He raised his eyebrows, spinning you once with a dramatic flair. You wobbled, giggling, and crashed into him. His hands caught your hips to steady you, lingering just a second too long. “It’s a classic. Can’t argue with art.”

“You’re so full of it,” you said, still breathless.

“Drunk me is confident,” he corrected, swaying with you as the beat shifted to something heavier, deeper. His body moved closer, hands hovering but not quite touching now, the ghost of muscle memory dancing just beneath the skin.

“I said cocky,” you teased, looking up at him through lashes that felt too heavy.

He shrugged with a crooked smile. “Same thing.”

The air grew thicker with heat and sweat and perfume, the kind of charged closeness that made it hard to breathe but impossible to pull away from. Around you, people danced in a blur of limbs and laughter, but your focus narrowed. Just him. Just this.

You didn’t notice when your body curved back into his, only that it felt right. Familiar. Like falling into a rhythm your body hadn’t forgotten, even if your mind had tried. His chest pressed against your spine, hands still tentative, but closer now. Testing the distance.

His breath brushed your ear. “You’re dangerous like this,” he said, low enough to be private, words already slurred from the alcohol “You dance like you know someone is watching.”

The words sent a ripple down your spine. You turned in his arms, slow and deliberate, until you were facing him, nothing but inches between you. You tilted your chin up slightly, meeting his gaze head-on.

“And you talk like you forgot we’re not doing this anymore,” you said, voice even, but your pulse was anything but.

For a beat, he didn’t respond. Just stared, expression unreadable except for the subtle flick of his eyes to your mouth. His fingers twitched where they hovered at your waist, like he was trying to decide if he could cross that line again. Just once.

The moment stretched, pulsing in time with the music. His eyes darkened, parted lips like he might speak, or do something else entirely.

And then someone stumbled past, jostling your shoulder. A splash of liquid hit your arm. Someone swore. You stepped back instinctively.

The spell broke. The music kept going, but something between you stopped.

It was already clear Lando had passed the threshold long before you'd left the club. Inside, he’d been leaning on you between songs, mumbling nonsense into your ear, slurring the end of every sentence like it was a secret. His eyes had lost their usual sharpness, replaced with that wide, glassy look that meant he’d stopped keeping track of how much he drank.

And when he threw his head back and yelled across the bar for “just one more round!”, you knew he was gone.

But it wasn’t until the cold air hit your faces that it really sunk in.

It slammed into you both like a wall, sobering and spinning at the same time. The night outside was harsh and too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring after hours of music pounding through your chest.

Lando blinked hard. Wobbled once. Then let out a groan so low and pitiful you almost laughed again. “Oh no,” he muttered, eyes big and terrified like he’d just remembered gravity existed. “I don’t like this.”

You swayed slightly, vision swimming, trying to focus on the street signs. “You’re fine. Just keep walking. It’s not that far to the taxis.”

“I can’t feel my legs,” he whispered urgently. “Are they still attached?”

“They’re attached. One foot in front of the other.”

“I feel like I’m floating. But in, like, a bad way.”

He sagged heavily against your side, nearly dragging you both off the curb.

“You’re the best,” he muttered, lips brushing your shoulder, “but I still want chips.”

“I know,” you said, pulling him toward the curb. “We’ll find you chips. And maybe an exorcist.”

You were barely holding it together yourself. Your head was full of cotton, your mouth dry, legs wobbly beneath you. But you kept going. Because someone had to. And tonight, it wasn’t going to be him.

The cab ride was a miracle.

It smelled like kebabs and stale beer, the kind of sticky, sour stench that clung to your clothes. Lando collapsed the second he was in, sprawling across the backseat like a drunk prince. His head found your shoulder automatically, and his arm flopped across your lap, heavy and hot.

He sighed, a deep, content sound that tugged at something in your chest.

Then he mumbled something “ketchup”, maybe “curry sauce”. Or maybe your name. You weren’t sure. You didn’t want to be sure.

His eyes stayed shut, but the faintest smile curled at the corners of his mouth. The kind of smile that only ever showed up when he felt safe. Like this. With you.

Your stomach twisted.

You stared out the window, streetlights blurring past like stars falling sideways. The world was still spinning, but slower now. Quieter. Almost peaceful, if you didn’t think too hard about the weight of his hand on your knee.

When the cab finally slowed to a stop outside the flat, you nudged him gently. “Lando,” you whispered, shaking his shoulder. “We’re home.”

He groaned in protest and buried his face in your coat. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled, then threw one arm dramatically over his eyes like he was playing dead.

You sighed, the kind of sigh that came from the soles of your feet. Exhausted. Amused. A little exasperated.

“Come on, Lando.”

He slumped deeper into the cab seat. “Nooooo.”

“Get. Up.”

“Carry me,” he said without shame, eyes shut, arms flopping out like a child asking for a piggyback ride.

You half-laughed, half-groaned, already climbing out of the car. “You are literally all limbs. You’re a human octopus.”

But despite his dramatic protest, he tried to stand—sort of. Wobbled to his feet with the grace of a baby deer and immediately swayed into you. You looped an arm around his waist, feeling the full, ridiculous weight of him as he leaned into your side like you were gravity itself.

Getting him across the pavement was a comedy of errors. Every few steps, he muttered something new: a complaint, a question, a half-coherent lyric. “It’s freezing,” he whined. “I’m dying. You know, I think I miss my bed more than I’ve ever missed anything. And do we have crisps? Wait—wait. Do you have crisps?”

“You’re ridiculous,” you hissed, breath fogging in the cold. “Shut up and walk.”

“I’m charming,” he corrected with great effort, slurring it into something closer to shar-ming as he bumped his forehead against yours. “Also… I love your hair.”

You faltered.

“What?”

“Just sayin’,” he said, the words thick and sweet. “It’s soft. Like—like clouds.”

Your mouth went dry. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

Finally—miraculously—you got the door open. The apartment greeted you with dim, golden light and that faint scent that was always there.

Lando nearly fell inside, catching himself with one hand on the wall before staggering upright. “I’m good,” he said to absolutely no one, then gestured grandly down the hallway like he was a knight returning from battle. “Bed. Now.”

He took off with a crooked gait, zigzagging like he was dodging invisible obstacles. You followed out of instinct more than anything, watching him collapse face-first onto his bed, limbs sprawled at impossible angles. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes.

“Lando,” you mumbled, pulling at your own boots, swaying a little. “Shoes. Off.”

“I can’t,” he whined, rolling onto his back. His voice went high and needy. “You do it. Please? I’m just a little drunk boy.”

You dropped to your knees at the edge of the bed, hands fumbling for his laces with what limited dexterity you had left. The room tilted slightly around you as you tried to focus.

Above you, there was a soft metallic clink. Then the subtle slide of leather on denim.

You paused. “Lando, what are you doing?”

A beat of silence.

“You said to get undressed.”

You looked up, then immediately rolled your eyes.

His belt was halfway undone, his jeans unbuttoned, his shirt half-off in the most chaotic, tangled mess you’d ever seen. He looked like someone who’d lost a fight with his own clothing.

“I said take of your shoes, you idiot.”

But he was grinning now. Slow. Lazy. His elbows propped him up enough to look down where you knelt at the edge of the bed, between his legs. Curls messy, eyes half-lidded and locked on you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, soft and low. “What a view.”

You blinked, heart stuttering.

Because his voice wasn’t teasing. Not really.

And neither was the way he was looking at you.

Your hands were still tangled in the laces of his second shoe, knuckles brushing against the fabric of his jeans, your body swaying ever so slightly from the haze of alcohol. You were kneeling between his legs—flushed, breathless, hair falling over your face in loose strands. A mess. But not the kind you cared to fix right now.

You giggled, quiet and nervous, trying to shake off the tension wrapping around your spine like a coiled wire. “You’re drunk,” you said, voice unsteady, caught somewhere between amusement and something far more dangerous.

Lando groaned in response, collapsing back onto the mattress with all the weight of someone who’d decided that gravity was now in charge. His arms flopped outward, one draped dramatically off the side of the bed, the other dragging lazily down the middle of his chest. The mattress springs gave a long, creaking sigh beneath him.

Then his hand stilled—paused low on his stomach, his crotch to be fair.

You froze.

Your eyes followed the subtle shift of his fingers as they drifted downward, slow, unhurried, until they pressed against the front of his jeans. Just a simple adjustment. Natural. Absentminded. Adjusting the obvious buldge.

He exhaled, low and slow, like the weight of his own touch had ignited something he wasn’t ready to name. His fingers lingered, just for a second too long. And you were still kneeling there. Still watching.

Your breath caught like a tripwire.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke. “You know…” he began, his voice gravel-rough and dipped in sleep and liquor and something els, something unmistakably want. “I could just… see your lips wrapped around me. Right there.”

He said it like a confession, not a line. Not tossed with bravado or smirked with smug satisfaction.

It landed like a punch in the chest.

Your body went still. The air in the room shifted, sucked out of it and replaced with something dense. Electric.

You stared at him, stunned, not because of what he said, but because of how it made you feel. The way it shot straight through you, molten and reckless.

And without a word, you stood.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just slow, deliberate, your knees unfolding, rising to your feet with shaky grace. You stayed between his legs, your body towering over him now, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin.

He didn’t move.

For a terrifying second, you thought maybe he had passed out. That all of it—all of him—was already slipping away again. Just another foggy memory you’d try not to touch later.

But then, his lashes fluttered. His head tilted forward. His hands found your waist like muscle memory, fingers warm and unsteady, gripping you like he didn’t trust the room to stay still. It took effort, but he sat up, blinking through the haze until his eyes locked on yours.

And then he was there.

Right there.

Face level with your chest, his chin resting between your boobs while looking up at you through his lashes. Your shirt had slipped lower than you realized, the neckline gaping just enough for his gaze to catch on bare skin. His lips parted, eyes dark and unblinking, and something in the air cracked under the weight of it.

This wasn’t the look of someone flirting.

This was hunger. Unfiltered. Slow-burning.

He tilted his chin up slightly, mouth open, like he was already breathing you in. And his hands—god, his hands—tightened on your waist, not pulling, just holding, like you were the only stable thing in a world that wouldn't stop spinning.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, voice hoarse and reverent.

Your stomach knotted. Everything pulsed.

The room felt thick, too hot, your heart hammering in your throat. You couldn’t tell if the heat in your cheeks came from the alcohol or the way his eyes were dragging over you like he was memorizing every exposed inch.

“Lando…” you whispered. It wasn’t loud. Barely there. Like even saying his name might snap the fragile thread of tension between you.

But he heard you.

His eyes snapped back to yours. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t look confused. He didn’t look careless.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. It was like he’d already decided. Like your voice saying his name only confirmed something that had already started unfolding the second the club door closed behind you.

His fingers—warm, unsteady—brushed up your back, trailing lazily over the thin fabric of your shirt. The motion was soft, almost absentminded, like he was just touching to remember what you felt like. Then he dragged one hand across your side, curling around your ribs. The contact made you shiver.

“You look so good in this,” he mumbled, voice rough and low—drunk, slurred.

Then his fingers dipped forward, brushing across your chest. Not grabbing. Just a slow sweep through the valley of your breasts, knuckles grazing delicate skin like he wasn’t even fully aware he was doing it.

You exhaled, sharp.

His eyes flicked up again, meeting yours.

You didn’t stop him.

There was a long moment where nothing happened and everything did, your breath shallow, your thighs tightening, your hands flexing uselessly at your sides.

He got impatient, hands sliding down to your hips before tugging you down onto his thigh. The motion was clumsy, uncoordinated, but it lit a spark in your gut all the same. Now straddling him, your legs bracketed his thigh, your body pressed close—closer than it had been in weeks.

His thigh pressed between yours, firm and warm, the denim rough against your skin. The pressure made you gasp, a quiet, breathy sound you didn’t mean to let out. He heard it anyway. Smirked.

His eyes trailed from the neckline of your shirt up to your face, pupils blown wide and unfocused and then he was touching you again, fingertips brushing your cheek, slipping around to the nape of your neck. You froze, breath hitched, a pulse thudding between your ribs.

He looked at you like he was about to say something. But he didn’t. He just pulled you in, his mouth crashing against yours.

You kissed him back like you were starving.

His groan rumbled low in his throat as his hand tightened at your waist, pulling you flush to him. The kiss was messy, all teeth and heat and unspoken feelings bursting to the surface. His other hand threaded into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen it. You could taste the alcohol on his tongue, could feel the weeks of silence and missed moments pouring out of him and into you.

It was overwhelming and perfect and reckless.

You didn’t even realize you were moving at first.

It was slow—barely anything at all—but the friction caught instantly, your body shifting against the line of his thigh, your breath stuttering. His hands gripped you tighter, like he felt it too, a low sound slipping from his throat again, half moan, half curse.

You broke the kiss, lips parting as you pulled back just a little, your mouth still open, breathing him in. His lips were kiss-swollen, his eyes dark and glazed and fixed entirely on you.

What were you doing?

The thought flashed—brief, sharp—but it was buried under the weight of his hands, the warmth of him underneath you, the alcohol roaring in your bloodstream like a permission slip you didn’t need. All the silence. All the pretending. All of it collapsed into this moment that didn’t feel like a mistake yet.

And then—soft, urgent, not quite a plea—he said it:

“Don’t stop.”

It was barely more than a whisper, but it landed like a strike.

You didn’t.

Your hips tilted again, slow and uncertain, chasing that pressure, feeling the flex of his thigh through his jeans and the heat building in your own body.

His hands slipped lower—slow, possessive—until one settled firmly at your hip, the other sliding down to grab your ass, fingers curling in a way that made you gasp. He pulled you harder against him, guiding your movement with an unspoken rhythm that had your whole body humming.

The friction turned sharper, needier. Your breath caught in your throat.

You leaned in again before you could think better of it.

Mouths crashed. No hesitation now, no teasing—just tongue and teeth and heat, wet and messy and drunk. His hand gripped you tighter, pulling your body flush against his. You rocked down into him, your hips rutting against his thigh, the pressure between your legs maddening.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t slow.

But it was exactly what it had to be.

Neither of you spoke. There was nothing to say. Just the slap of mouths and the low groan in his throat as your nails scraped lightly over the back of his neck, as your lips dragged down to his jaw and he let out your name.

You barely noticed when you both tipped backwards, the mattress catching you in a clumsy sprawl. Lando grunted beneath you, his hands never leaving your body as your knee lifted, leg swinging over to straddle him properly now. You steadied yourself with your palms on his chest, breath ragged, hair slipping into your face.

For a beat, you just sat there, spine arching as your hips rolled down, your thin thong still catching friction against the rough denim of his jeans.

His hands gripped your waist harder.

You sat up slowly, heart hammering and peeled your shirt off, casting it somewhere into the darkened room. His eyes were locked on your body, mouth open, chest rising and falling fast.

Your skirt had already rucked up to your hips, forgotten. There was nothing left but that barely-there thong, stretched tight between your thighs, and the heavy line of him beneath you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice thick with disbelief, hunger, awe. His fingers flexed, holding you like you might vanish.

You leaned forward again, hands braced against his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart through your palms. Then lower. Fingers dragging down to the buckle he’d half-undone earlier in some drunken, distracted haze.

He twitched beneath you as your knuckles brushed over him, still restrained beneath denim but so obviously hard now. His eyes fluttered, head tilting back into the pillow.

“Jesus,” he whispered, eyes meeting yours again, all glassy and unguarded.

Your fingers moved slowly at first, slipping beneath the open leather of his belt and trailing down to the place where his warm skin met the rough denim. His breath hitched as you brushed along the line of his hipbone, teasing just above the waistband.

Then he lifted his hips with a drunken urgency, clumsy but determined, shoving jeans and boxers down in one go. The motion made you gasp, half in surprise, half in something deeper. He reached up, pulling at the sides of your thong at the same time, dragging the thin fabric down your legs with a groan, not even trying to be careful.

You helped, just enough. And then his legs kicked out beneath you, tangled clothes gone, skin warm against yours, bare now in a way that made your breath stall in your throat.

As he fell back again, you reached for his shirt—fingers fumbling with the buttons, working them free one by one, trailing your finger tips over the skin you uncovered. He was flushed, warm, and trembling slightly beneath your touch.

Then he stilled.

His hips settled again, and you were sitting fully on top of him now, the heat of your bare skin pressed down against him. His length nestled right between your folds, your lips parting on either side of him and it was obscene how clearly you could feel him.

Every inch. Every ridge. Every slow, pulsing throb.

You weren’t moving yet. Just breathing.

And he wasn’t saying a word. Just staring up at you with wide eyes and parted lips, like he couldn’t believe this was happening either.

You moved again, slow, unsteady, your hips tilting as the friction sparked another moan low in his throat. His hands gripped your waist tighter, dragging you down until your lips met again, even messier now, full of teeth and breath and need.

Then, in one dizzy motion, he rolled, flipping you beneath him with a half-laugh, half-groan, barely managing to brace himself on one elbow beside your head. The other arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you close, keeping you there.

His body hovered over yours, heat pressed to heat. You could feel him, right there, poised, waiting.

Lando looked down at you, eyes glassy and wide, his curls damp against his forehead. He searched your face like he wasn’t even sure this was real.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

He pressed forward, slow at first like he didn’t trust himself not to rush it. His hands gripped your hips like a tether, grounding him in the moment even as the rest of him trembled. You felt the stretch, the heat, the deep pull of him inside you, and your breath caught sharply. His mouth parted around a broken sound—barely a gasp, almost reverent.

And then he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

His eyes were glassy, yes, but there was something almost sober in the way he met your gaze.

You cupped his face, fingers slipping through sweat-damp curls, and he leaned into the touch like it was the only thing keeping him steady. “You okay?” you whispered, voice cracking around the edges.

He nodded, forehead pressed to yours, lips ghosting over your cheek as he moved deeper. “Yeah,” he whispered. “You?”

You nodded too. Because you were.

The rhythm was messy, offbeat and drunken but there was something devastatingly earnest in the way he held you, kissed you, clung to you like this was something he’d been starving for. Like your body was the first place he’d felt whole in weeks. His hands moved constantly: down your back, over your ribs, threading into your hair like he couldn’t touch enough, couldn’t get enough. Every time your breath hitched, every time you whispered his name, he answered like a prayer.

Not rushed. Not careless. Just undone.

Your hips rocked together, not perfectly, but with a building desperation that made it real. Your thighs trembled him, his grip tightening when you whimpered and he kissed you again, sloppy, open-mouthed, too much teeth. You didn’t care. You kissed him like you needed it to stay alive.

He whispered something then, your name, maybe, or a curse, or please. You didn’t catch all of it, just the weight of it, the way it split his voice open.

Your climax hit slowly, like your body was realizing it in pieces, rippling up your spine before washing through your limbs. You buried your face in his shoulder, breath breaking against his skin, clinging to him like you’d fall apart otherwise.

He came after, head thrown back, jaw slack, a sound falling from his throat like it had nowhere else to go. One hand held the back of your neck. The other wrapped around your waist, like if he let go you’d both come undone.

But he didn’t let go.

Not even when your bodies stilled. Not even when the heat ebbed into afterglow and your breath began to steady. He stayed with you, his chest pressed to yours, his hand curled at the base of your spine, holding you like something fragile. Sacred.

After it was over, the room settled into a heavy, almost reverent silence. You lay there, the warmth of his body molding against yours, his arm draped protectively around your waist while the other rested gently across your chest and shoulders. The rise and fall of his breath gradually slowed, matching the steady rhythm of your own.

He nuzzled his head softly into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. It was a quiet kind of intimacy—slow, unspoken, raw in a way that made your chest ache.

Not like the other nights.

Not like the hurried kisses and tangled sheets and the silence that always followed, when you'd slip away before the sun touched the windows. When he'd turn his back or mumble something half-asleep and you'd pretend it didn’t hollow you out.

Those nights were physical. Fleeting. Always burning out before morning.

But this—this closeness—was different. He hadn’t let go. Hadn’t pulled away. His arm stayed wrapped around your waist like a tether, his nose brushing against your skin like he needed to feel you to stay grounded.

You didn’t quite know what had just happened. Part of you understood perfectly, yet another part felt suspended, caught between clarity and confusion.

Your hand found his forearm, fingers curling lightly around the soft skin, anchoring you to the moment. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things.

Then, barely more than a whisper, you broke it.

“Lan.”

A low groan, almost sleepy, came as a response. “Hm.”

You weren’t sure if he was still awake or already drifting away.

Gathering a quiet courage, you whispered again, “I love you.”

No answer. Just the faint sound of his breathing against your neck, steady and slow.

i literally said sorry in advance, pls don´t come for me

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[specialgradefckr]

Beat Your Heart to Death

tw: explicit content, extremely toxic dynamics. gojo/geto, gojo/reader, geto/reader, and yes, stsg/reader. female!reader. mutual pining, requited unrequited feelings, the yearning, good god, the YEARNING. relatively unwilling voyeurism. EXTREMELY manipulative dynamics – boundary pushing, gaslighting, etc.

satoru and suguru are completely fucking deranged. their brains are operating on a level where human consciousness and emotion just hits different. they say INSANE shit at the end of this fic. you have been warned.

Sequel: Heartline Gone Flat

This must be what dying feels like.

You watch them, together. Leaning against one another, sleeping, vulnerable. Curled up in each other's embrace.

This must be what dying feels like. Seeing the man you love and the man you lust for, so painfully, peacefully, blissfully in love with each other.

If this is dying, you're surely going to hell for thinking something so awful about a feeling so beautiful.

It’s the sort of thing you think to yourself, bury deep – deep – inside the recesses of your mind. Dredging it out in the late hours of the night when you can’t sleep. Wallowing in your unrequited love, feeling sorry for yourself, while also comforting yourself with the thought that at least now you didn’t have to do anything.

You would never have to approach your longtime crush, Suguru Geto, and potentially ruin your friendship with him. It was something you’d struggled with for years, and after Gojo showed up – you didn’t have to struggle anymore. It was already lost.

And the insane twists your fantasies would play out for you, in those lonely nights in bed – you could be free of those, too. You could completely dismiss the insane idea of propositioning the man-whore menace of a human being who made your heart race, Satoru Gojo.

Satoru and Suguru loved each other, and it would be wrong to get in the way of that. At this point, even saying anything to either of them would be a trespass on your friendship, with both of them.

That was all there was to it. Nothing more to be done. You were mourning your feelings. Strangling your dreamy sighs at Suguru’s kind gestures, stomping the flutter in your chest when you caught Satoru smiling. Killing your heart and leaving it to rot, stepping around it like it’s not there.  

Unfortunately, you couldn’t escape the fact that all three of you lived together.

It doesn’t help that Satoru is just as prone to PDA with Suguru as he was with all his numerous hookups. More, even, because he doesn’t keep it to just his bedroom, doesn’t make the token efforts to stay quiet at night and shoo them out in the morning.

You do your best. Look away. Try to ignore how your heart jumps, twists, does all sorts of funny things at the sight of them kissing.

Satoru’s pretty white lashes flutter closed, Suguru’s warm gaze softens, cheeks flushed as Satoru’s hands jump up to cling to him. He cups Satoru’s face like it’s a treasure, tilting his head and leaning into the kiss like he can’t get enough of it –

You’re staring, fuck. You’re looking too closely. The scene burns itself into your eyes and you want to rip them out, never see it again. But you struggle to avert your gaze, greedy mind committing every detail to memory with a racing heart, dry mouth.

Thirsty, you’re so thirsty, in every sense of the word. They lean into each other, so in sync and so affectionate in a way that tugs on your every heart string. Fuck!

You start to just leave the room when it happens. You’d rather die than get caught staring, you’d rather go without water than thirst for droplets.

And you’d really, really, rather cut your fucking eyes out than face the feelings the sight awakens in you. Longing, yearning, how you want to tear them both off each other at once, how you want to see more, more, more, you want to touch, you want to taste –

God, fuck. You’re like one of those shitty girls who fetishizes male relationships. Aren’t you? You feel like this might be that. But you’re attracted to both of them individually, so it can’t be that, right? You’re not a creep, you’re just greedy. You leave the room when they kiss! You’re respecting their privacy!

They notice, though, is the thing. Not your staring (god you fucking hope they’ve never noticed the staring) but how you leave the room when they get affectionate with each other. It’s Suguru who pulls you aside to ask.

“…and listen, I know you’re not like that, I totally know, so does Satoru. It just… makes him feel a little weird, you know? He was raised by a traditional family, so they either think this is a phase, or call him disgusting to his face.”

Fuck your life. Actually fuck your ENTIRE life. “Of course not – I never – ”

“No no no, I know, I told you, he does too, it’s just – it’s a little disconcerting for him. But I can talk to him, make him understand. This is your house, too, you have the right not to see that sort of stuff.”

That just makes you feel a bit worse, actually. Satoru and Suguru shouldn’t have to hide away in their room whenever they want to kiss. It’s their own home.

“I’m sorry, Suguru, I – I don’t have any problem with you guys doing it around the house. I just…” You shift uncomfortably. “I’m not super comfortable with… PDA sort of stuff. It has nothing to do with you both being guys.”

Suguru nods, “No, I understand completely. Satoru will be disappointed, but you’re setting boundaries, and I respect that – ”

“It’s not that,” You say, “I – you can do whatever you like, really, I’ll just leave – ”

“No,” Suguru interrupts with a sigh, “That’s what’s bothering him. I think deep down he’s a little worried that you find it… disturbing.”

Your chest tightens with anxiety as you rush to reassure him, “Of course I don’t!”  

“No, I know, I know, we both do,” Suguru says in that warm, comforting voice of his, “It’s just how he feels – you know he can’t control that.”

And then your stupid mouth rushes ahead of you. Writes a check your heart can’t afford to cash.

“It’s fine! You don’t have to stop, I. Just… tell him I felt like I was intruding. I didn’t think he saw it as me being disgusted.”

And your heart will pay willingly, because Suguru gives you that smile. Warm and affectionate. The smile you’d fallen in love with.

“You’re not intruding at all. I’ll tell him you said so, it’ll be a great weight off his mind.”

So now the love of your life makes out with his boyfriend and you can’t even leave the room. Hahah. God. Maybe you should start thinking of a way to move out?

Problem: When Satoru moved in, he’d basically started paying all the bills. He didn’t have to worry about being cut off from the family money – even at his young age, he had his own financial success. Even if it started out with a few trust funds and an appointed position at one of his parent’s companies.

Every rent listing looked expensive when your current rate was “free”. And fuck, rent was expensive. You’d have to deal with other roommates, people you didn’t know (and love) as long as Suguru (and Satoru, at this point, you’d known him for years), and you’d be paying for the privilege.

You try, oh, do you ever try to get over it. Sexuality is fluid, after all, so it’s perfectly possible that Satoru and Suguru just ended up being gay. Being with either of them may never have been an option, except maybe as one of Satoru’s flings.

And wouldn’t that just suck? To have one night with Satoru only to watch him realize he’s gay and mutually in love with your longtime crush? Better to never sleep with him at all. You can’t miss something you’ve never had. And you wouldn’t want to be a fling anyways.

The thought stings more than it should, because deep down –

(You’d take it. You know you’d take it. That’s why you’re still here, really, under all the excuses. You’re fucking pathetic, pining for both of them. You’d take anything you could get.)

It doesn’t help that they get freer with their affections after your talk with Suguru. Looser. So unrestrained. You walk in on them fucking in the living room, having come back early from class, face burning up as you stand there stock still for a moment.

They don’t stop, or freak out, or cover themselves or anything. You see Suguru’s naked chest above the couch, Satoru’s hands pinned over the armrest of it, their bare legs and feet entwined and sticking over the other side of the couch. They’re both so fucking tall.

So beautiful. Satoru moans so pretty, and you hear Suguru purr, low and filthy, “Like that, you little whore?” and you feel yourself clenching all the way to your core.

You make a wild dash across the living room, staying on the other side of the couch so they can’t see you. Closing the door to your bedroom as quickly and quietly as you can, panting to yourself, feeling the heat rising on your face and the warm pulse between your legs.

(Pathetic, fucking pathetic. It’s like you’re actually some horny teenage boy with a crush on a pretty girl out of his league, rubbing one out every time you see her with her equally hot girlfriend.)

You’ve got to get ahold of yourself.

Your routine has changed, with the both of them being together, so openly. There were little things you’d shared, now gone, lost to the unfathomable whirlpool that was their relationship.

Used to be you’d buy sweets on grocery trips to share with Satoru. It was an old habit of yours, and when he’d first moved in, he’d caught you with them. Reaching for some with a grin before you smacked him away.

The look he gave you, a slow smirk before he went all wide-eyed and pleading, staggering to his knees like a proper starving drama queen – god, he had to know how he’d made your heart flutter. He probably pulled that on so many people.

Still, he would eat the candies right out of your hand, lips just teasing on your fingertips, eyes lingering on you while he licked his lips. It made you feel weird, at first, but you eventually realized that Satoru was just a weird guy.

He’d yawn and stretch and if he caught you or Suguru watching he’d flash his whole chest, like a girl flashing her tits. He slept naked and left the bathroom door open when he was using it, and he’d often knock when on your bathroom when you were in there, even if he had his own.

He had about ten different game consoles and games for them, plus a huge collection of movies, which he likes to watch with the room completely dark. He sleeps with a nightlight on, and his social media picture is an ugly picture of him from high school with these weird round sunglasses.

Not at all what you expected from a pretty boy like him. But Satoru’s eccentric charm, and the unstoppable allure of his perfect face and body, it rewired your brain somehow. You feel like you’ve wanted him for as long as you’ve known him.

You try to find other people. But the problem with living with Satoru and Suguru is that no one is up to your standards. You’ll never meet anyone as handsome or beautiful as either of them, so why bother?

In your defense, Suguru is hard to fall out of love with.

It’s not uncommon to wake up to the sound of your favorite breakfast being cooked while Suguru hums away in the kitchen, his pretty hair all tied back. If you sneak in quietly enough you can catch a tender smile on his face, the smell of freshly ground and brewed coffee he makes for Satoru in some expensive machine.

If you are unlucky, he’ll catch you, and that smile will grow as soon as his eyes are on you and you’ll fall in love all over again. If you’re lucky, you can sneak back away, but Suguru will eventually come and wake you up with a knock so gentle you suspect he already knows you’re up.

He shares his hair care routine, and it leaves your hair shiny and lovely. But your hair isn’t exactly like his, so he must have adjusted it.

He offers to help you brush or style it, himself, and asks you if you wouldn’t mind repaying the favor. Like you wouldn’t kill or die for the honor of running your hands through his silken locks.

Suguru is the type of guy who remembers when you get your period and asks if you need anything for it. You magically find your favorite fruits in the fridge, cut up, dipped in chocolate or caramel or yoghurt, however you like them best.

He does your laundry without being asked because he says it’s easier, and cleans dishes before you can get to them.

Every birthday he throws you a party, bakes a cake and he’ll spend hours to perfect a meal from scratch to go along with it. He’s perfect at finding a thoughtful present – Satoru just gives you cash, or some expensive luxury purchase you find fashionable but would never buy for yourself (Suguru definitely went shopping with him).

You get why Satoru likes him. Satoru’s sort of a slob, always leaving clothes on the floor – walking around shirtless like he knows exactly what it does to anyone watching “Just providing a public service, babe~” – and Suguru is so perfectly domestic.

Almost motherly. Whenever you misplace something, the fastest way to find it is invariably to ask Suguru, if he doesn’t approach you first with a concerned smile after watching you look.

After enough times catching Suguru sternly chide him for not putting away his clothes, leaving wrappers on the table, forgetting to put his shoes away; you’re relatively sure Satoru’s called him mom or mommy at some point. Possibly during sex.

And god, you get it. Those gentle tones of “Is everything all right?”, and “I tweaked the recipe, how do you like it?” and “I’m just really happy you enjoyed it.”, it’s enough to make your heart ache.

How, exactly, are you supposed to fall out of love with Suguru Geto?

How are you supposed to leave, how are you supposed to want to, especially when you swear you hear him call himself Daddy, and you find your face getting hotter than it should be.

Whispering to Satoru how “I’ve got you, baby,” and “Let Daddy take care of you, mhhm?”

And god, the high-pitched whimpers Satoru makes in response. He’s a tall guy, mewling, melting beneath Suguru’s hands, his words, his cock – and you could so easily imagine yourself in his place –

How are you supposed to be platonic about this?

 How are you supposed to stop touching yourself when they’re practically putting on personalized porn shows for you?

It's after the third time that you start to think they're doing this on purpose.

Whatever’s between them is something you just couldn’t understand. You get that, you do.

The way they look into each other’s eyes – there’s no way Suguru has ever looked at you like that, no way Satoru would ever want you that badly.

It’s something magnetic that makes them slot together at all times, draws their gazes to one another, leaves no room for anyone else –

But you stumble on them… a lot.

Never mind making out on the couch. You turn into the laundry room to see Satoru backed against the washer machine, his cock so far Suguru’s throat you can see it bulge.

His face is flushed, eyes teary, one hand loosely in Suguru’s hair while he whimpers. Dark eyes gazing up at him, fierce, Adam’s apple bobbing and another noise escaping him.

Or Satoru’s sitting rather innocently in Suguru’s lap, at a certain angle, but the sounds he’s making are less than innocent. Vile, even. Suguru’s broad hand wrapped around Satoru’s cock, pumping up and down, Satoru’s body shifting as you can tell he’s grinding down against something below.

And sometimes it’s really just the noises. You’ve heard them so often now it feels like you can put expressions to every moan and grunt and whimper and whine. Satoru makes a certain sort of gasp and your imagination jumps to think of how deep Suguru must be inside him, how his pretty face must look, twisted in pleasure.

They come back sometimes, from parties, drunk together. Leaning on one another like they could never lean on you – you’re not tall, not built like either of them are. Cheeks flushed as they whisper words into one another’s ears, Satoru giggling, kissing his cheek, Suguru laughing and squeezing his waist as they stumble into their room.

Like they’re in their own little world that you could never intrude on. You just catch glimpses every now and then. They don’t even look at you, it’s like you’re not even there – their eyes are locked on one another.

But that isn’t the worst of it.

Satoru and Suguru start bringing other people in.

No - they start bringing other girls into it. Like it's a punishment for catching them, only, you're fairly certain they wanted to be caught.

Satoru’s never been shy when he had a girl over, about walking around shirtless – maybe it’s an exhibitionism thing. And you’re someone they know well, someone tolerant (pathetic) enough to not say anything.

Either that or they’re both just that good at pretending you aren’t there. But they talk to you, all the time. You eat meals together, have movie nights (if you ignore how Satoru will not-so-discreetly put his hand on the inside of Suguru’s thigh while you’re all sitting together), grocery shop together, smile and laugh and share things about your day.

It’s just that they’re also dating each other. And in love, so in love, it’s painfully obvious that there’s no room for anyone else between them. Which makes the girls they bring over turn your stomach even more.

Sure, they’re one night stands. But they don’t even try to keep it quiet. You hear unfamiliar, high-pitched moans and whimpers, a wet smacking sound that has to be Satoru overdramatically eating pussy.

You wonder what his face looks like. What his eyes look like. Is he staring up at her when she does it? Does she have a hand in the feather-down softness of his hair? Or maybe Suguru’s hand, shoving him forward, that sly smirk that creeps over his lips when you’ve seen his eyes grow dark with want.

Is she whimpering because she’s close? Do they tease her, edging her, enjoying the expressions on her face, the way her body trembles? When she begs, is it for them to stop, or keep going? Whose dick is it inside her? Satoru’s, Suguru’s? What does it feel like? Satoru’s stupid enough to do it without a condom but Suguru isn’t.

What are they doing when she cums? You hear Suguru groan (you know how his groans sound, you know how both of them sound), so he must be cumming too. What’s Satoru doing? He’s too needy to be left alone for long.

Is he watching while he jerks himself? Has Suguru forced him to sit back? Or maybe he’s down where the action is, right where Suguru’s cock is buried inside her, laving over her clit and his cock like the slut he is until they both cum all over his face.

Why can’t that be you? Why don’t they want you?

Your fists clench harder than they should.

One night you stumble onto them in the middle of the living room, all at it in plain view.

Satoru is in Suguru’s lap, tall enough to tower over him. Suguru’s hand wrapped around his throat, choking him, head tilted back in bliss as his lashes flutter. There’s a woman on her knees, between their spread legs, sucking Satoru off.

And you can tell, by the way Satoru shudders, how he’s loose like putty in Suguru’s arms, that Suguru’s dick is buried deep inside him.

Satoru and Suguru don’t even try to pretend it was an accident. Some fucking roommates they are.

Suguru will smile and blush when you ask him about it, apologizing in soothing, kind tones, offering to never bring another girl home again if it bothered you – you’ve been through the goddamn song and dance so many times already.

He has this way of just. Making you feel guilty for even asking in the first place. Like you were presumptuous to say anything at all, unless it was something he wanted to hear.

It’s turned you into this. So eager to please but desperate to keep them at arm’s length. Wanting, longing, and starving for it. Watching because you quite literally can’t do anything else, sights burned into your eyes. Unable to look away. Unable to keep watching.

You don't know what they want from you.

You don’t think you want to, anymore.

Satoru and Suguru are getting impatient.

No, Suguru is getting impatient. Satoru is getting desperate. It was his idea to start going out and finding girls to bring back and fuck.

It wasn’t particularly difficult between the two of them. And promising, at first – after all, what was more likely to get you to snap than watching – hearing – the two of them give some other girl everything you’ve ever wanted on a silver platter?

But you just keep going. Gritting your teeth and bearing with it. Suguru spent a whole week dislodging your vibrator slightly from its charging port, slowly squeezing your lube bottle empty, doing everything he could to drive you to the brink.

Satoru’s starting to remark how much it’s a waste of time. He gets snippy when he’s needy, and lately, Suguru’s cock just isn’t enough for him. He has to go through your laundry, plant a camera in your bedroom on one of those few nights they stay out late enough to give you some private time.

Satoru makes him wear your clothes when Suguru fucks him, lets Suguru gag him with your panties when it’s the other way around.

They play dress-up together and watch you touch yourself at awkward angles with muddied sound quality. It’s not enough, not nearly enough.

Privately, Suguru is a little worried. Satoru’s getting weird – not that he hasn’t always been. But weirder.

He goes right into the bathroom after every time you use it. He’s always quick to reach your drinks for a “taste test” after you’ve had a sip. And Suguru knows for a fact Satoru isn’t using his own toothbrush at night.

He keeps talking about you. Looking at you. Whispering dirty suggestions in his ears, asking impatiently if you look like you’re going to snap.

Satoru is needy like that, demanding, and you’d always balanced him out while helping Suguru relax.

But there’s a distance now that wasn’t there before. The tension builds and builds, needs unmet for so long that desperation is clawing at both of them.

And that’s to say nothing of his own desires. Satoru, for all his faults, still has self-control.

Suguru passes your door every night and stops for a moment. He serves you dinner with a smile, domestic as he is, and thinks how easy it would be to slip something in there. To make sure you’d sleep through the night.

Would it even matter if you didn’t? You let him get away with so much. You love him, you must love him, don’t you? There’s no other reason you would put up with all of this. If he did slip, you’d forgive him, wouldn’t you? You’d drink up all his honeyed words with the same smile you always gave him.

But if he gave you such a convenient excuse, then he would always doubt. Whether you really loved him or if he just made it convenient to love him.

More importantly, you’re looking at them different. It was good, at first; your pretty eyes darting in a different direction, the way you try to hide your face, keep your words especially cool.

 They want you to TAKE what you want. Want you yelling and screaming and scratching them up like the hellcat they know you are, deep down.

“How long,” He whines between groans as Geto works between his legs, fingering him as he sucks his cock, “Is she gonna make us wait – fuck!”

Suguru pulls away with a pop. Saliva and precum dripping from his lips. Satoru pulls him in for a kiss, by the hair.

“You know she’s liked me a while,” Suguru murmurs, swallowing a moan or two as he works another finger into his hole. “She’s scared of pushing me away. And now that you’re my boyfriend, she probably wouldn’t want to break us up.”

“Fuck, but imagine if she did.” Satoru bucks into him, “She wants us, I know she does.”

He’s always so needy, like a puppy. Suguru likes it, but he can admit that he wants you, too. Misses the energy you’d provide. You’re not demanding like Satoru is. Too prideful. Satoru’s shameless. But you want, oh, do you ever want, and they both do know it.

Once he’s stretched Satoru out enough, he wastes no time shoving him onto his belly, burying himself in his hole from behind – “Fuck! Suguru!”

“On it right now,” He purrs, close to Satoru’s back, reaching lazily for his cock.

Satoru doesn’t like to cum too soon anyways. He likes to cum from getting fucked, to be edged into oblivion – or he likes going hard and fast and overstimulated to no end. Not much in between, unless he was the one in charge.

“Imagine it,” He pants like a dog beneath him. He’s pretty, so pretty, and the only thing Suguru could imagine that would be better is to see your face looking up at him from underneath Satoru, “Suguru!”

He grunts, thrusting his hips harder, “Imagining. What am I imagining?” God, Satoru’s a slut and a nuisance, but it’s always been worth it to indulge him.

“Her,” Satoru breathes after a particularly hard thrust, “Trying to break us up.”

Suguru grabs his hips for better leverage. Satoru dirty talks best when he’s getting fucked hard, after all.

“Fuck, imagine if she got me drunk or something, hngh, finally followed through on those fuck-me eyes she’s always giving me, ghhgh, fuck yes like that, and. Just fucked me in our room, waiting for you to walk in on us together.”

And he can see it, picture it so well.

A drunk night with the most beautiful man alive, because that’s what Satoru is; pretty even now, beneath him, all sweat and lean body trembling as he gets utterly railed.

You’ve always had the attraction, and Satoru couldn’t handle his liquor, and all the sudden, you’d slept together.

“Would you – ah, ahHhh, would you get mad, Suguru?” His voice is teasing now, even through the groans and utterances, ��Would you cry~?”

“Ha!” He half-chokes out the laugh, because Satoru clenches around him and it’s hard not to cum right away. He’s going to leave bruises from how hard he’s holding those narrow, lovely hips.

“No," Suguru grinds out, "But I’m sure you both would. She’s the type, and you’re so fucking – gah, so fucking needy. What would you want me to do? Forgive you?”

His pace slows down, and he reaches to squeeze his cock in return, just for a taste.

“Nah – fuck! Yes, keep doing that, fuck.” Satoru bucks into his touch, always, always chasing after him, “She’s too fucking nice all the time. If she did it, it would be – hnng – like. A revenge thing. She should be fucking mad already, pissed off. She should make me cum inside her, say she’s pregnant. Make me dump you and marry her, so if she can’t have you, nobody can.”

Suguru barks out a laugh at the concept, and then a moan, choked off as he feels the heat shooting through him at the idea.

You’re too nice, like Satoru says, it’s a laughable concept, you acting like this –

But what had he seen in your eyes that day after you caught them both with that girl?

“Fuck, I swear I feel you twitching inside me – ”

“What would you do, then?” Suguru purrs hotly into his ear, “You want to win her heart while you’re married?”

“Well, we’d fuck all the time,” Satoru wheezes out a giggle, trembling as Suguru’s hand slides along his cock, “Fuck you – haaaahhh. But I’d be making nice with her, being a good husband, and then you could come and have an affair – ”

Fuck, fuck, that’s too much, “Close,” He grunts, driving himself deep and hard, chasing the edge, “Fuck, I could tell her I love her, blackmail her, even – threaten to tell you.”

A groan as Satoru gets closer, and Suguru continues, “I could fuck her, leave her coming home to you full of my cum – ”

“I’d eat it out of her,” Satoru laughs, near deranged as he jerks between fucking back into Suguru and rutting into his hand, “Jerk me off already – ah, fuck, what if you got her pregnant – ”

White-hot, like the idea of your face beneath him, both of them, accepting them with an open heart full of rage and bitterness and lust, Suguru cums.

He’s just aware enough to fist Satoru’s cock, sliding harshly along it until he hears the lovely whore beneath him gasping, twitching, spilling in his hand.

“Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck,” Satoru whimpers. “Hnghh… god, just the idea of her coming home from the hospital with a black-haired baby.”

“Fuck you,” Suguru barks, because now he wants to cum inside you. He wants, so, so fucking bad to cum inside you.

But god, do you even want them?

You sit there, all day, looking away, running away. That’s not love, is it?

And he’s a romantic, at heart. Satoru is, too. They don’t want anything less than your whole heart. Your entire life, your mind, body, and soul, dedicated to them the way they are to each other. Mad with jealousy and rage and possession.

Satoru had left him with bruises, the day he found out Suguru was crushing on you. When Suguru told him, in no uncertain terms, that he’s been wanted you for over a decade now and he wasn’t leaving before he got you. Blue fury in his eyes, heart twisting in his chest.

He’d looked him in the eye, grin wild and wide. Staring down as he has him pinned. Suguru had raised his knee up between his legs to find his cock desperately hard and throbbing.

“I want to fuck her first,” had been his wicked demand. Pain and pleasure traded like currency in return for love, each of them furious at the other for wanting you. They reaped the cost of their love on each other, settled their scores deep in their souls.

Because even if Suguru had seen you first, could he really say he’d wanted you first? Did he really want to fuck you before Satoru moved in, before he saw you flustered from your attraction and playfully trading banter with Satoru?

Had he wanted Satoru because you wanted Satoru? Had Satoru wanted him because he could see that you did?

Lines cross and uncross between you and the two of them, too tangled to ever unravel.

Time to tighten the knot.

[esperderek]

I have to have a chuckle at the Screenrant article posted recently about the Galactic Starcruiser, which totally wasn't about Jenny Nicholson's video honest.

In part, because early in Nicholson's video, she talks about how unnatural it is to have your influencers speak in adcopy and copyright rather than the more colloquial nicknames, and how it makes the people speaking about the product seem very insincere and, well, paid off. Because normal humans don't speak that way, but advertising does.

What's the first two lines in this article?

"As a life-long fan of Star Wars, there was nothing quite as exciting as finding out that I would be working on the immersive Star Wars: Galactic Starcruiser experience. Located at the Walt Disney World Resort, the Galactic Starcruiser opened on March 1, 2022, and welcomed passengers to board a two-day, two-night cruise through the stars, during which they could live out their own Star Wars adventure."

No one talks like this naturally. No one writes like this naturally.

This is supposed to be your passioned defense of the place you worked at, the people you worked with, and the memories you made along the way. C'mon! Why don't you open with a story, perhaps an anecdote about the best moment you had working there, or the devastation of the day you lost your dream job. We need to feel your humanity! But there's nothing of that here, to the point where you can just hear the TM behind Galactic Starcruiser.

The first half of this article continues in this vein, reading like a press release Disney marketing put out, just with past tense rather than present or future tense:

"Essentially, the Starcruiser experience was a 48-hour movie that passengers were actually a part of. It was all facilitated through the "datapad," which was accessed through the Play Disney Parks app."

"To facilitate the overarching immersive experience and storytelling, the Starcruiser built a jam-packed itinerary for each and every guest that would consist of a variety of important activities: the captain's toast at muster, a bridge training exercise, lightsaber training, and more. These types of events were essential to understanding what was happening, as they would give passengers the chance to interact with characters and build their story. This is why the Starcruiser could never be just a hotel; every part of it was designed for enthusiastic interaction."

Like, c'mon. I used to work in television. I've seen and used adcopy in my former job, and this is some serious adcopy. It honestly wouldn't shock me if the author dredged up some old adcopy they had lying around about the topic and just transferred it over, changing the tense. You're not here to sell us this product, because there is no product to sell. It's gone, it's been gone for a year, you don't have to sell us on IT. Speak about your experiences.

The next part is yet another topic that Jenny Nicholson pointed out, the bad faith excuses that influencers and advertisers made for the extreme price point:

"What many people don't know, however, is that the price included much more than just a room. The passengers' food, park tickets, recreation activities on board, non-alcoholic drinks, and more were all included - with merchandise being one of the few additional costs on board."

Which is absolute bad faith reasoning, especially when there are plenty of other vacation options that are ALSO all-inclusive, but are MUCH cheaper and offer MORE amenities than the Galactic Starcruiser did! Including Disney Cruises, owned by the same company! Seriously, you can go on a halfway decent sounding cruise or all-inclusive resort somewhere warm for, like, a week or two and spend far less than GSC cost.

Then the last part is essentially: "All the workers liked working there and the bad reviews afterwards make the workers who worked on it feel sad. :("

Which, like, companies have been hiding behind that reasoning for ages. Curiously, the author never offers....any reasons or stories. WHY did working on it impact you so much? What set it apart, what were the people like, what did you like about working there, why are you so passionate about it even a year later? There's nothing, just a generic sort of "We worked hard." and "We're sad it's gone." Why? How? What happened? The video you're obviously writing this in response to is filled with personal anecdotes and stories, it's the backbone of the video! Again, you need to give us something to show your humanity!

Especially when you consider that Nicholson repeatedly points out that the only highlight about her experience, the only thing that kept the damn thing going was the workers.

She had nothing but praise for them, and nothing but contempt for the higher ups who wasted and abused that enthusiasm, to the point where one of her last points was "Hey, Disney is basically exploiting labor."

Much like Jenny, I'm also not condemning anyone who had a good time working there. Good! If you were having a good time at work, that's great. If you have good memories about the people, awesome. But I'll note two things:

a) That doesn't meant you weren't being exploited, and

b) That doesn't mean you have to be a useful idiot for the corporation you worked for afterwards.

I'm not conspiracy brained enough to go "Oh, Disney TOTALLY forced this article into being.", because a cursory examination of the author's prior works and such suggests a lifelong passion for Star Wars, she did work at the hotel, and she's a Star Wars Editor (whatever THAT means in this day and age) for Screen Rant. Apparently one of the heads of Screen Rant says that Disney had no hand in it either.

Though, I can see why people would think that way. It READS like a press release, not something a normal human being would write about an experience they feel passionate about.

[revelboo]

Since were sharing, these are my cool cats Sake (Tie) and Precious (Bowtie). Would love to see some more rung totally not trying to bribe with my cute fur babies. (〃'▽'〃) Anyways love all your work! Thanks♪(･ω･)ﾉ

🤣 stylish little guys

Friendly heads up- I have a class for work all day this Tuesday and I’ll be driving 7 1/2 hours next Sunday and again the Sunday after, so I won’t be as active as normal those day

Anything For You Pt 6

Rung x Reader

• “Not happening so back off,” you snarl as his current patient, a bot you don’t know crooks a servo like he’s trying to coax you closer. How’d he talk you into this again? That’s right. He’d just picked you up and carried you to his office without asking or giving you a choice. Deciding for you that you were going to help him.

• Tiredly clearing his vents as Bluestreak frowns and sinks back in his chair, Rung taps his stylus on the datapad. Deciding that bringing you to a session was a mistake, but he’d thought it might do you some good to interact with others. And Bluestreak is preoccupied with you, door wings flicking, but he’s not letting his guard down, not talking. “The dreams,” he prompts and the younger bot grimaces.

• Wandering to the far side of the desk, you’re aware of the strange bot watching you. What had Rung said his name was? Blue-something. And the guy looks uncomfortable, attention dropping to his hands. “I don’t know. I forget when I come online,” he mumbles, door wings flicking and you zero in on the way he can’t look at Rung, can’t seem to be still. Recognizing a liar. ‘A detail, then? One thing that stayed with you,’ Rung prompts, removing his weird glasses and pretending to polish them, attention off the bot.

• Obviously wants to talk about it or he wouldn’t keep coming to sessions, but then something always stops him. Optics sliding to you, he’s surprised you’re focused on Bluestreak, your expression carefully blank. “Sirens,” Bluestreak mumbles, glancing at you and away. “I remember sirens.” Remembers more than that, but it’s like the young bot is afraid of dredging up those memories. Knows they still hurt. They must. He’d read the bot’s file and already knows, but he needs Bluestreak to talk. To start healing.

• “How did they make you feel? Anxious?” Rung asks, tone surprisingly gentle. Coaxing. And the new bot’s jaw is working, servos trembling faintly as he just stares at them. It’s not a dream he’s remembering. Whatever this is, it happened and he doesn’t want to relive it, but he seems to realize it’ll keep poisoning him if he doesn’t get it out. Swallowing a groan as you watch the bot’s face and wonder if they can cry, because the guy looks like he’s about to cave and start ugly bawling any second. Gritting your teeth, you walk over and sit by his hand. Waiting and not at all surprised when he runs a shaking servo down your spine, because apparently you are going to play therapy doggie. ‘Angry. Terrified,’ Bluestreak says, the words bursting out of him. ‘There wasn’t any warning.’

Previous

[woodsling]

I really love the way Halsin kind of slowly opens up about his relationship with Thaniel and the Shadow Curse. He doesn't divulge everything about himself when the player asks, and sometimes it seems like he's actively somewhat obscuring the truth.

Like when he first talks about Thaniel (which, by the way, is WELL after he starts talking about the shadow curse), he says he met him in his meditations. Not true... You find out later when Halsin is talking to Oliver that he grew up with Thaniel, that they were friends when he was a child.

Similarly, he's obtuse about how the shadow curse came about until after the portal fight. When he firsts asks to join your camp, if he's questioned about his desire to go to Moonrise, he says vaguely "Unfinished business, and a lifetime of regret to repair." He says he helped overthrow Ketheric but was unable to stop the shadow curse, but doesn't breathe a word about how devastatingly personal it all was (ah, Isobel killed by Halsin storyline... Sigh. It's canon in my head.)

After the rescue of Thaniel and the recovery of Oliver, he gives a much more detailed description of what happened with Ketheric and Thaniel and his assumption of the Archdruid title way back then. He gets quite emotional then, recounting those memories - he's being vulnerable with the player.

And it really seems like the player defending the portal is a big turning point for him. He's putting all his trust in the player's ability to protect the portal and allow him to return from the Shadowfell... He literally can't do it all by himself, and while he does have a healthy respect for the part that he has to play, it's all for nothing if the player doesn't play their part as well. It's such a huge leap of faith - he's asking, "Will you stand with me and lend me your strength? Will you stay with me and help me accomplish the most important task of my life? I can't do this without you."

And when the player successfully helps him rescue Thaniel, that's when I think he falls completely head over heels. He's a little flirty before then, but after the portal fight is when you get his dialogue, "If you want me, I'm yours. Against [...] anything". This is when he can actually join the player. This is when he talks to a sleeping Thaniel about everything the player has done for him. He put his trust in them and they were there when it counted, and he totally falls for them. "I'll remain with you - If you'll have me, that is."

(Aside, I also love his line to Oliver, "...and then [Thaniel] was ripped away from me, same as for you," followed by, "but you need not be alone any longer." The parallel there, that Halsin also need not be alone any longer... Mmmmmmm yummy.)

Concealing his emotions like that... Feels guarded, and it adds dimension to him. Because generally he seems honest and straightforward with the player; he readily gives them all the information that he thinks may be relevant to their search for a tadpole fix and journey to Moonrise, even if they choose not to help him.

I think that it might be because the shadow curse is so close to his heart, because he doesn't share his trauma until he's basically given his heart to the player - before that, his walls were up.

I kinda see it too with him not mentioning his time as a drow captive until AFTER the Sharess Caress stuff. He's like, not secretive really... But it takes a lot for him to share things that dredge up deep feelings for him. He's not flippantly vulnerable.

Anyway this post is long enough I'm just having feelings about Halsin feeling safe enough to share his feelings 🥺😭

[leighsartworks216]

Kitty Cards

Sylus x gn!Reader

I will never ever win a game against this man istg

Warnings: losing, frustration

Word Count: 925

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

You swear he’s cheating. He has to be. There’s no way he just happened to draw three 6-point kitty cards to start with.

You look down at your own hand. Ah, yes, what a fine selection of ones and twos. None of the colors even match the cups!

“Sweetie, if you glare any harder, the kitties will jump out of the cards and run away.”

You turn your glare on Sylus. He’s sitting casually in the cafe chair, as relaxed as if he were back home. And that stupid smug smile! Ugh, it infuriated you to no end.

“Honestly, why do I keep inviting you to play if I’m just gonna keep losing,” you groan. You draw another card. Wow. A three. With no color matching cup. Fantastic. You sigh.

He chuckles and plays a card, doubling his 5 points to 10. At this point, it’s just sad. You’ve got 3 points to your name and he has 30-something at least. Maybe playing with him wouldn’t be so bad if you were anywhere close in scores, if he had 23 and you had 22. Enough to feel like it’s anyone’s game and not decided before you’ve even shuffled the deck.

Or maybe that would make it worse.

You play your 3-point card to keep him from getting the last cup. He lays his cards on the table, face down.

“Relax, sweetie. I’ve had plenty of practice in games with much higher stakes.”

“How many 6-point cards do you have right now?” you demand.

He smirks as he lifts up the edges to check. You know he remembers. The salt is ground ever deeper into your wounds. “None.”

“Mhm. And 5-point cards?”

“None.”

You frown, seemingly even more frustrated now that you know he just got lucky. “Well, what do you have?”

He fans the cards out for you to see, long fingers holding them apart.

All ones.

He chuckles again as you huff and snatch them from his hand to pile on the deck. You don’t look up at him as you shuffle repeatedly. He flags down a waiter who replaces the cups with new ones with staggering efficiency. You cut the deck no less than 3 times, to ensure complete randomness, and place them back in the center. He goes to draw a card, but you’re setting it in front of him before he can.

“You really don’t trust me, do you?” he muses, picking up his two cards.

You ignore him, looking from your hand to the cups. You have an advantage by starting with three cards, but he could have the better hand regardless. The game really begins when he makes his move.

It’s not even 5 minutes later that your head is down on the table.

“I’m never gonna beat you, am I?” you mutter, not even caring if he does or doesn’t hear you.

He hums, quietly gathering your cards and organizing the deck. He sets it back in the center of the array without shuffling. “Don’t worry, you can practice with the twins.”

You laugh dryly. “They cheat like it’s the objective of the game.”

“All the better to practice against them.”

You don’t answer. Sylus drains the last dredges of his coffee. Your drink hasn’t been touched since the first round, two games ago.

As amusing as your pity-party is normally, he knows the failure runs a little deeper today. Usually, you sigh and moan and whine, but it only spurs you on to try harder next time. He’d never thought he’d see the day you succumb to defeat.

He sighs and stands up. “Wait here, kitten.”

You lift your head up. There’s a red mark on your forehead from where it rested on the table. “Why? Where are you going?”

“It’s a surprise.” He smiles as he hands you his card. “Get a new drink and something sweet, kitten. I won’t be long.”

You glower at the card in his hand, but take it anyway. You don’t watch him as he leaves.

-

When he comes back, the table has been cleared of cards and empty cups. A half-eaten slice of cake has been pushed to his side of the table. He wonders if you wanted to share with him, or if you feel too bad to indulge.

You’re taking a sip of your drink when something is set on the table in front of you. Sylus sits back down and picks up the fork on the plate.

You blink, because surely you’ve fallen asleep in the cafe and this is just a dream. But the big, full eyes of the crow plushie continue to stare back at you. You look up at Sylus for answers.

“I’m not heartless, kitten. Even I can only bear to see you sad for so long.” He cuts a bite off the cake with the side of the fork. “It loses its fun if you’re really upset.”

You flush, from embarrassment or from watching him eat off the same fork you’d used when a clean one sat next to him on a napkin. Maybe both. You set your drink down and grab the plushie.

Its ruffle is a bit uneven, so you idly adjust it so it sits better. The fabric of its body is soft. You boop its little beak.

You look back up at Sylus. He still has his eyes on you, like he’s still not sure if you like his little gift. You smile and hug it to your chest. “Thank you.”

He grins in return. “You’re welcome, sweetie.”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hello, Gidel. What do you think of the dorm leaders?

I thought this would read a little better as headcanons, so that’s the format I went with.

Curiouser and Curiouser...

Riddle

He's just like me! ... Is what Gidel thought at first. Honestly, he mistook Riddle for a kid like him on account of his small stature.

He quickly learns that Riddle isn’t a kid at all. He acts like an adult! All these big words and manners. It’s impressive. Gidel can try all he likes to try and imitate him, but never come close.

Gidel doesn't like it when Riddle raises his voice. It makes him skittish, dredging up bad memories. Scams gone wrong, angry mobs, times when their bosses are upset with them and shouting over the phone. He cowers behind Fellow whenever Riddle’s mad, waiting for the fallout to settle.

But there’s a softness to Riddle too. Gidel is one of the few able to sense it--how Riddle is kind to the animals, how he longs for that childhood he never had. Gidel tries to get him to open up, tugging Riddle by the hand and pointing to the little things in the garden he might not notice right away. The colorful mushrooms by the base of that tree, how this rose is a late bloomer, the chrysalis that will one day become a butterfly. Gidel can also show him thumb wrestling and patty-cake, all the free games he and Fellow play on the road.

Leona

This onii-san looks a little scary. Gidel of course recognizes him from the events of Playful Land. He nervously watches Leona from a distance, wondering if he’s mad at him for what happened.

Gidel notices that Leona's very smart. After all, he's always reading these thick ancient texts and telling the other students what to do. Gidel wants to be tutored by him (so he can be big-brained too!!), but is too intimidated to even know how to approach. So he keeps watching Leona from a safe distance. (Gidel thinks he's being slick, but he isn't at all.)

At one point, Leona gets tired of pretending like he doesn't see Gidel and he strolls right up to the boy. Gidel worries that he'll be scolded, but instead he feels a hand on his head, ruffling his hair. Leona gruffly warns him to look out for himself, cuz no one else will. It's his way of wishing the kid luck and hope for his future--though when Gidel smiles at him, he'll shudder and balk away, insisting that he didn't intend on being kind to him.

Gidel feels okay coming up to him after that, though Leona continues to gripe about how annoying he is and how he wish he'd leave him alone. Gidel's starting to feel like a second Cheka, always following him around like a lost lamb and staring at him as if inviting Leona to play.

Azul

Gidel’s immediate thought is that this guy reminds him a lot of Fellow. They just have similar vibes of being scammers! Because of that, it's easy for Gidel to follow along with what Azul says (much to Fellow's chagrin).

Gidel loves listening to Azul perform, be it singing or piano. It takes him away for a moment and to a new festive world full of song and delight, makes him want to get on his feet and clumsily join on that seafloor stage.

Being a gullible little child, Gidel doesn't realize that Azul is playing him for everything he has. Azul will give him a bunch of food and drinks (which he puts on a tab), then demands that Fellow foot the bill when he comes to pick up Gidel. (They dine and dash.)

Azul reminds Gidel of Fellow in other ways too. Sometimes there are nights when he's down on himself and unsure. In those instances, Gidel silently goes up to Azul and pats the back of his hand--as if to say, There, there. It'll be alright, hang in there.

Kalim

Probably his favorite person of the dorm leaders, since Kalim's immediately amicable and never held any ill will toward him or Fellow, even all the way back in Playful Land. His friendly demeanor make him a great buddy for Gidel.

Kalim treats Gidel like his own little brother! … That is to say, he spoils the absolute crap out of him. Tons of food, gifts, games—you name it, and Kalim provides it by the truckload. It actually starts to make Fellow jealous at some point; he has to check in with Gidel to make sure he’s still “his number on big bro” (which Gidel reassures Fellow he is).

He shows Gidel so many new things. Here are some of Kalim’s favorite dishes from his hometown. Oh, and these are animals from all over Twisted Wonderland. Gidel’s always been curious about these things, but never had the resources to actually access them. He drinks it all in with his senses, then becomes curious to learn more.

What he likes the most about Kalim is his ability to listen and empathize with others. Being mute, Gidel sometimes finds it difficult to communicate with others. They tend to talk over him or assume things they shouldn’t—but Kalim is perfect, patient, and reads his bodily cues to the best his ability.

Vil

In his head, Gidel thinks of Vil as one of those fancy rich ladies Fellow flirts with to steal their valuables. Sometimes those women would come after Fellow, hollering about how he deceived them or how they never want to see him again. Hell have no wrath like a women scorned, as Gidel would come to learn—so he’s careful to walk on eggshells around Vil.

Whenever Vil looks at him, Gidel feels as though he has done something wrong. He just has this aura about him that radiates harsh judgment, and Gidel can feel every last bit of that trained on him.

Vil fusses over Gidel’s appearance. His hair is a mess, his sleeves are too long, and his shoes are untied. However, Gidel realizes that Vil never outright insults the obvious patchwork incorporated into his clothes, only comments on the things he can feasibly change (combing the hair, rolling the sleeves up, tying the shoes). The stitching is masterful, Vil tells him—and besides, he’s just doing the best with what he has.

Gidel likes shiny things, so he’s naturally drawn to the baubles Vil wears. His hair clasp, his tiara, the golden threads on his uniform. When Vil catches him rooting around in his closet, Gidel for sure thought he was dead—but instead, Vil sighs, and, after a thorough lecture, lets Gidel pad around on his oversized dorm uniform and crown for an impromptu fashion show. Maybe he’s not as mean as Gidel thought he was?

Idia

Whoa! That's a person? Gidel thought it was a ghost haunting the school this entire time. He thinks Idia would be great at hide-and-seek (from the police, a game he and Fellow like to play) since he blends in so easily with the wallpaper.

He thinks Idia lives a fun life! He gets to play video games, guzzle soda/energy drinks, and eat candy + other junk food in his room all day? Cool! Gidel wants to do that, too! (Fellow begs him not to become a mega-geek.)

Gidel doesn’t really understand any of the technobabble Idia rambles on about, but he still thinks it’s cool. What’s this? What’s that? He pokes and prods at everything he sees, or sometimes trips and falls, activating machines he didn’t mean too. This often evokes panicked screams and sobs from Idia, which makes Gidel feel bad (but also makes Fellow laugh).

As soon as Gidel learns that Idia has a little brother, that makes him a lot more excitable. He approaches Idia with Fellow in tow, hoping he can play with Idia’s brother. That way, he can be friends with Ortho and Fellow and Idia can be friends! … Right? Right?

Malleus

Monster. That’s the first thing Gidel thinks of when he sees Malleus. The shape of him—the horns especially—remind Gidel of shadow hand puppets Fellow makes to amuse him before bedtime. Long, lanky shadows stretching in the darkness… It’s an image fitting for the Prince of Nocturnal Fae.

… But even if Malleus is a ‘monster’, Gidel feels a sense of loneliness about him too. He sees how others keep their distance, how they scream when he comes close. He pushes the boundary, one step at a time, inching closer and closer until he it able to reach out and nervously touch Malleus’s sleeve. “Hoh? Aren’t you a brave one.”

Really, Gidel learns, he’s not so bad. Just a really private guy. If he sticks around for long enough, Malleus might ramble to him about his special interests or even amuse him but pretending to strike him or disappearing and reappearing behind Gidel to see if he gets spooked. (He does, and it gives Malleus a good laugh.)

When he sulks, Gidel curls up with him. Malleus will insist he’s not upset, but Gidel knows better. He won’t say anything though (he can’t, even if he wanted to). He only hopes that his presence—and Malleus knowing that he’s there for him—helps, even if only a little.

[midnight-bay-if]

Hi! :3

What if MC had to break up and marry that new person? Maybe it was blackmail, maybe it was political threat or something. So, for many years MC had to live with this lie and abandon the person they truly love? But somehow RO gets to know about it??

(It took me a long time to figure out how to answer this; I hope these are okay!)

S: They hear the rumour through the grapevine; a coerced marriage, heartbreak, fear, all leading to sombre acceptance. It's everything their parents wanted for them, but somehow the fate has become yours. It all balls up inside them; the anger, the hurt, the sadness for you... it's overwhelming. Why would you choose to settle? Why would you not come to them for help? These are questions they are desperate to ask but can do nothing until they have looked you in the eye and seen the answers that lie within. This time, they promise, they will not look away.

Too many years wasted already, they refuse to waste a second more. Now, they will do what they do best; concoct a plan, arrange a meeting, coerce their way to your side. Nothing is off the table. They are prepared to bet it all to see you returned to a life of happiness.

They made a promise to you, after all.

Rain: S tried to protect them from any news of you, knowing how much it hurt. But once they hear the truth, it tears them up inside. Had the roles been reversed, would they have done the same? The thought they might have shames them. They do not blame you. Your desire to protect was just one of the beautiful shades of your mosiac they fell in love with. So much of their colour dulled when they lost you. They fear the same may have happened to you. They want it back; they want you back.

So, they will find you. They will stand firm, steady. If you tell them you are unhappy, if they see it within you, nothing in this world could prevent them from pulling you free. Even if it means dragging the ugliest parts of themselves from the deepest dredges they drowned back to the surface, they will. For you.

Taj: Taj doesn't remember the exact moments that followed being told the news, only that the room was turned over, furniture clawed into, and ornaments shattered on the ground. Their heart thunders against their ribs; their bones rattle with the uncontained fury as their hands shake. Anything is preferable to the stinging sensation of tears they desperately try to abate.

They are pissed at you. How could you decide this all on your own? Why? Did you think they would feel sorry for you? Not even a little bit. You should have come to them, trusted them. Did you think your act of self-sacrifice would ease your fuckin' ego? Well, since you took the choice from them, they will take it from you. They will find you. Get you back. Pull you into their arms, and never fuckin' let go.

Your spouse is going to feel every ounce of pain they suffered without you.

N: How you continue to surprise them is a mystery all on its own. They never believed you were the type to just roll over. They still refuse to believe it. It would be easier for them to think you had truly changed your heart and fallen for another who wasn't riddled with their cruelty. But no. You had given yourself over to someone just as cruel. It infuriates them, the rage tearing in their gut, burning through the magical disguise they once wore so easily.

Who did you think you were protecting? Clearly not yourself.

Well, perhaps they will find out why while squeezing the life out of your spouse; they can explain it all through the gurgles of their death rattle. As far as they are concerned, the demon they buried for you deserves some play time.

Umbra: They do not hesitate. All the pain, the discomfort, the fear; they shove it all down, pushing their body past its limits to find you, to reach you. They never should have let you go. They should have been there. It's all their fault. Useless. Pathetic. Worthless.

It's been a long time since they thought to press a dagger to a man's throat without your say so, but they regret not doing so the moment your spouse thought to snatch you away. They wanted to be the person you saw in them; they did. But in the end, they were always this. If you tell them to stop, they will consider it. They promise.

But they would be lying to themselves if the thought of letting their hand "slip" wasn't ever so sweet. They may be a monster, but so are those who dared force this on you.

[laser-tripwires]

so i've been rewatching redemption and. we need to talk about directing parallels in the one man's trash job for a sec because i don't know how much marc roskin gets paid but he deserves a raise. also, eliot spencer and sophie devereaux are two of the most fascinating characters ever written.

i'm going to talk about two parallels today, and let's start with the marginally less painful one.

i'll set the scene: they're attempting to take down an artifact smuggling ring. eliot's blending in in a car park as a mechanic, in dark clothes and a beanie - there to provide backup and run in if needed, which he almost moves to do. the con has just gone to shit. sophie's about to spin out an entirely new plan but in the process get caught up in her past as charlotte prentiss, and the things she left beind in london. she'll spend the rest of the episode getting vey wriggly and trying her best to not explain any of her past to the team, but enough slips through the cracks for us to get a picture; and it sets the tone going forwards in the season.

kign george job or one man's trash?

because.... that's pretty beat for beat. i refuse to view it as a coincidence.

in the original show, King George Job is pretty much the sophie backstory episode. it hits right at the midpoint of both her arc and the show as a whole, providing us with a centrepoint to return back to. r2, of course, has a very different setup - it's sophie's show, now, and this is her season. her redemption. so all of that gets dredged back up but, as seen here, we never quite escape the original context and that's by design. look at how the theme of collateral damage echoes over, too, playing the same part in sophie's story.

i'm actually of the opinion that the whole of r2 is fascinating from eliot's perspective, especially with what he ends up doing to sophie and what he thinks of arthur. none of it is atall as new or incoherent as people say - i'd actually argue that this is the season wherin eliot grows the least. a lot of stuff happens and a lot of stuff is revealed, but it's much less about change than it is about interrogating where he is.

heck, eliot's perspective for most of r2 is the same as the one he had in the king george job - sitting in the sidelines, never quite trusting, with a past that makes sophie's worries about collateral damage look like child's play.

because eliot knows what it's like when your past nips at your heels. he also knows that there's nothing in sophie's tale that is half as dark as what's in his own.

interesting too is sophie's "Everyone here has a past, and everyone here respects that." line when she's trying to get eliot off of asking about wilde. because to everyone she's explained the job - but eliot's caught onto the things she's trying to hide here. sophie taking that tack in that conversation here is probably the reason why eliot does what he does vis a vis digging up information from billy towards the end of the season.

everyone has different reactions to guilt - and we know from the king george job that sophie's main one is to get veeeery wriggly and stop answering questions.

so of course she screws up, a little. loops wilde in on the con, etc etc, you don't need me to explain the episode to you.

and it's eliot who call sophie out. "This has nothing to do with the new plan. This Wilde guy is not just somebody that you used to know. Before, when he was on the outside, if you wanted to pretend that then that's fine. But he's on the inside now."

sophie has spent a season and a half waxing lyrical to harry about loyalty and honesty; now it's her turn to put her money where her mouth is, even if it hurts. in the original show, the eliot and sophie relationship landed much harder on sophie's arc influencing eliot's than it did the other way around - but with the shifting of dynamics in redemption and sophie being the protagonist now, that's clearly changed and, like a lot of r2, it's a nasty wakeup call for sophie. this episode is for her what the tower job was for harry, what inside job was for parker, and... what the big bang job was for eliot.

"Just like when it happened to me, when it happened to Parker… you gotta come clean."

thus we reach our second parallel.

dark blue shirt? check. crossed arms? check. dead-eyed expression? check. innocent dude sitting down to the left wearing a rumpled suit and not really following what's going on? check. irritating irish guy who's the henchman to an evil ringleader our current focus character used to work for? check, check, check and check.

we've been here before.

but the fact that we get eliot saying there's nothing about arthur that says they can trust him and then the very next scene is arthur saying "You don't trust me, Sophie Devereaux? Fair enough. You shouldn't."

and then at the end of the episode arthur telling sophie she hasn't changed and him being clearly wrong but just right enough to trip her out because her past is still there, that pain inflicted did happen, but she's a different person now. so many setups for the Museum Makeover Job, both for sophie's final confrontation with wilde but also eliot's conversation with sophie, eliot as the person with non-metaphorical carnage in his past, the themes ringing down through the season and across the shows.

sophie thanks harry for pointing out her blindspots but the episode clearly and deliberately shows it was eliot who did that. an oft-underdiscussed theme of this season is sophie's coping strategies and worldviews clashing with the reality of the present and the past. fitting, for a story about redemption that's set after moving on from grief.

i don't know. leverage: redemption isn't perfect but man, it's really damn good in places.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

How the TWST boys would react to their S/o going blind (having her/they're eyes gouged) out

(Preferably Fem!)

Preference for characters : M. Draconia ; R. Rosehearts ; L. Kingscholar ; V. Schoenheit ; L. Vanrouge ; I. Shroud

- M. 🥀🦋

Forcefully Blind Reader | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

Not by them. They love you dearly and even when you fight them they’d rather blindfold you than brutalize your precious eyes. Now whoever had this done or made this happen will suffer the same fate plus a world of suffering in some cases eternally. But even with your precious orbs no longer there, they love you all the same and will be more than supportive of this new change:

Malleus Draconia  

“If you cannot see then who deserves to!?”

Is livid

Raging indiscriminately until he finds a solution usually of the magical variety

Or by exacting his revenge with you encouraging him

If neither of those choices works he is practically glued to yourside

Kissing at your hand as he hovers over your bedside

You’ll have to convince him to let him be your eyes

In which he will create a description with poetry and flowery language

“Let me be your eyes, your sword, your everything!”

Riddle Rosehearts 

“OFF WITH ALL THEIR HEADS!!!!!”

He’s going on a spree 

With you safely tucked away he goes on a beheading and magic sealing spree

Returning to you with a hanged head and bloody clothes

He apologizes 

He swore to protect you and this is what happened

But now you must let him take control for who else is so encouraged to detail your recovery and established routes in the home

“These unfortunate circumstance, my rose will be what gives us order. Please don’t resist me!”

Leona Kingscholar 

“Grrrrarrr!”

Has more of silenced anger

He’s guarding you and having only his most trusted compatriots watch over you

Specifically while he gouges out your attacker’s eyes

When he returns to your side he’s heavily privy to the way it effects you

And thus he will nuzzle into your side 

“You’ve got the other senses don’t you? We just have to make them stronger.”

Vil Schoenheit 

“There…now you’ll have to trust that we both look immaculate today. You especially.”

He’s already ordered a hit on the aggressor 

Because he has no time for potato dredge outside of taking care of you

He will admit he appreciates how much more you rely on him

How he can always have you just out of sight of the camera so he can keep an eye out for you

But ultimately he focuses on keeping your spirits up

“Lets avoid the negativity and explore the positives.”

Lilia Vanrouge 

“Don’t worry love, nothing will change! Now we can play mystery finger more often!”

He is going to make your attacker suffer

He’s not going to kill them…on purpose

Because sometimes he gets a little carried away

He doesn’t change his inclination to tease 

And he finds how much more sensitive you are to be so cute

And believe he’ll sooth you as you mourn your loss of sight

“There there my bat, we’ll make this work.”

Idia Shroud 

“I-I can’t share the same games we used to…but on my life I’ll make this an experience we can share.”

He’s determined and resoundingly angry

Determined to find games and making inventions that will stimulate your other senses instead

Angry because this neet stole your eyesight from you

And it kills him to see you struggle around his room

So he puts more effort into cleaning or making robots that clean

But it does make a good case for keeping you in his room

“I’ll be here to help, and this way you can memorize where everything is! You’ll always be my player 2!”

[librarygarten]

Happy April Fools! To celebrate, I'm going to make a fool of myself and publish whatever the heck this is! I feel like Time is one of the Links I struggle writing the most. He's just very different from how I always imagined OoT/MM Link (but that might be because I never played Twilight Princess lol). This is my attempt at finding a happy medium between the two. (I know reader should be more "possessed" by the Fierce Deity, but, counterpoint: it's funny.)

Time x Reader - You Become the Hero of Termina

It had started as a nice walk through the forest. No monsters. Sunny weather.

Honestly, you should have known something would go wrong.

The group had just emerged from another portal. None of the chain recognized the surrounding area, so Time and Warriors had decided to walk until you found something.

Then it happened.

From out of the forest, a short scarecrow-looking creature jumped you. It was wearing a purple and red mask, shaped like a heart and sporting bone-like horns. It meant nothing to you, but the sight of it made Time’s blood run cold. He froze. The rest of the chain reached for weapons, ready to fight off whatever this thing was. Some of them recognized what it was. You didn’t. In the ensuing chaos, the creature made off with Epona.

You were never one to give up easily. Or maybe you were just insanely stupid. Whatever the case, as the thing tried to ride away on Epona, you managed to grab onto one of the saddle bags. Your knees hit the unforgiving dirt repeatedly as you flailed. Miraculously, your grip stayed firm. Unfortunately, that meant the creature dragged you deeper into the dense forest. The group could only watch as the fog swallowed you.

✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧

Three days. That was how long you had to escape. That was how long you had to stop the moon from destroying everything.

Well, that’s not quite accurate. You had three days for as long as you needed. You’re just glad Time’s ocarina had been in one of the saddle bags. And that he had a habit of humming while hiking.

So, you learned the routines. You found the right pattern of events. You got really good at keeping a schedule. And then, finally, after countless resets, you entered the moon.

✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧

One week. That was how long it took Twilight to follow your scent through the twisting forest that seemed to change directions on a whim. Even though Time kept pressing the group to go faster. To search harder.

To say he seemed frazzled was an understatement.

When the chain finally found the deep, dark void that led to Termina, they didn’t hesitate to jump in. They knew what might be waiting for them on the other side. Time had dredged up painful memories, talking long into the night, briefing them on just how bad the situation was.

They needed to find you. Even if they had to save the world. Again. (Legend complained that this was technically an adventure in an adventure, and the goddesses owed him overtime pay.)

Nothing could have prepared Time for what he saw when he finally pushed open the doors of the clock tower.

Clock Town was busy. Vibrant, even. People crowded the town square, dancing and laughing and acting as if the world would keep on going for quite a long time. Glancing up, it wasn’t hard to see why. The moon wasn’t where it should be, and by that, Time meant the moon was exactly where it should be: up in the sky, with the full intent to stay there.

A few of the boys almost made a joke about how worried Time had been. One look at his face quieted them.

His fists were shaking as he made his way through the crowds. He had spent how many years here? And to be back, but completely lost as to what to do? It felt like a slap in the face. Or a kick to the groin. He was half-tempted to scream at the heavens. To demand an answer from the goddesses. But he knew they wouldn’t answer.

“Guys!?” Time’s head snapped towards the familiar voice. Your voice. You had spotted them in the crowds of the Carnival of Time, wandering like lost children. You would have thought it cute if you hadn’t been so relieved to see them.

“Y/N!” Eight Links gasped. You were promptly crushed into a group hug.

Time stood still, watching as you laughed and chatted with the others about… something. He couldn’t quite bring himself to concentrate on what words were said. All he saw was how many calluses you seemed to have on your hands now. How many old scars you seemed to have that he swore weren’t there a few days ago. And the plethora of masks looped through your belt. He doesn’t notice when you shoo the chain away, encouraging them to have fun at the carnival and take the opportunity to stock up on supplies.

“Old man?” You lean into Time’s personal space, snapping him out of the… rather dark place his mind had wandered. “Staring is rude, ya know.”

“Apologies. I was merely… lost in thought.” Under any other circumstances, he would blush in such a situation. If only this were any other circumstance.

“No worries. I’m… sure it’s weird.” You give a strained laugh. How on earth were you supposed to talk about the massive elephant (or should you say moon?) in the room? Better to just rip off the bandaid now, you suppose. “You haven’t been here since you were a kid, right?”

“How do you–?” Time cuts himself off, a horrified look on his face. Ah. Bad idea. He never told you about his time in Termina. You’ve just had to guess from the cryptic dad lore he sometimes dropped and your own experiences. You’re half-inclined to shove your foot into your mouth to stop from saying something else as tactless as that. However, you persevere.

“Oh, sorry, I thought it was obvious,” You blush. “I mean… you’re named Time. And you have a time traveling instrument… for this time loop…” You gradually grow quieter, letting your sentences trail off. Your foot sure was looking tasty right about now. Thankfully, Time pulls himself together enough to carry his half of the conversation.

“Ah. I suppose it is a bit on the nose, isn’t it?” He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “If you mind me asking… How long have you been here?”

Oh. OH. Ohhhh crap.

“About a week,” you joke. He doesn’t seem amused. You try again. “I, uh, think I only reset about fifty times? But, one of those times I was stuck as a Deku Scrub, so that one totally doesn’t count. And I may have spent four cycles in the Great Bay Temple trying to figure out why the pipes wouldn’t turn on…”

“How could something like this even happen…?” Time sighs, dragging a hand down his face.

“My best guess is we’re in a version of your Hyrule when you were a kid? Maybe kid you is still in Hyrule, and he’ll never come to Termina?” you shrug. “Or, this is a timeline without you, and I got to fill in?”

“Every day the goddesses test my patience more and more,” he shoots a cross look heaven-ward before placing a heavy hand on your shoulder. “I’m glad you’re okay. And seem to be in high spirits. Let’s collect the group and get out of here.”

“About that…” you grin nervously. “I kind of have some loose ends to tie up here first?”

“Like what?”

“Like… sealing Stone Tower… again…” you scratch the back of your head nervously. Time arches an eyebrow, and you can pretty much guess what he’s thinking. You put up your hands defensively. “Hey, I’m a busy person! I got Twinmold’s remains, but this cycle I never got around to closing those doors.”

It was true. After Majora’s defeat, there were still people you needed to help. Of couse you helped defend Romani’s cows during the three days, and you stopped Sakon the thief from stealing from that poor old lady, but there was only so much you could do in 72 hours! You’d been running around Termina like a chicken with your head cut off trying to re-save as many people as possible.

“...Fine,” Time shakes his head, acting more like he’s agreeing to take a kid to go get ice cream than letting you go fight giant sky centipedes.

“Great,” you pull out your, er, Time’s ocarina, ready to play the song of soaring and warp to the top of Stone Tower. “Back in a jiffy!”

“No, I’m going with you,” he grabs your wrist, preventing you from putting the instrument to your lips. You look at him, confused. You’ve got this! You’ve done this before! Okay, technically he has, too, but you’ve done it more recently! You open your mouth to argue, before deciding better and snapping it closed. What’s the harm?

“Okay,” you agree.

The trip to Stone Tower is uneventful, but filled with a suffocating silence. You step onto the glowing, heart-shaped platform together, and close your eyes. When you open them again, you’re standing in the middle of a desert.

“Alright,” you crack your back, then reach for one of your newer masks. It was the last one you ever got. “What do you say we make this quick?”

“Wait, Y/N–!” Time reaches out to stop you, but it’s too late. The Fierce Deity mask sits snugly on your face. He stares up at you, your hair bleached white, eyes glowing with an untameable power. You’re taller now, the helix sword held loosely in your hand.

You smile and wink at him.

The mask speaks in your ear.

“Ugh, must you always be so annoying?” You groan. Time makes a confused face and you realize your mistake. “Oh! Sorry, not you! He talks.” You tap the side of your face, where the mask has fused itself to you. It says something again.

“Yes, yes, I get it. Blood and war and all that fun stuff. We’re here to fight the giant flying centipedes, alright?”

“You’re… in control?” Time sputters, absolutely flabbergasted at your… casual conversation with the deity. When he wore the mask, it was hard to think, much less speak. How were you doing this?

“Yeah?” You raise an eyebrow.

The mask speaks again, more insistent this time.

“Hey!” you scold. “Rude! Don’t test me, I will take you off and do this fight myself……..Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“You can speak to him? And he’s… listening?” Time’s fingers brush over his own cheek, where he knows two angry red lines are forever etched into his skin. You wince at the reminder. Sure, it wasn’t your Fierce Deity that had done that, but still.

“Don’t worry,” you smile. Time can’t help but notice your sharper-than-normal canines. “I make sure to annoy him.”

He can’t find the words to respond.

The mask calls you a very… creative name. You choose to ignore it.

A roar sounds out across the desert, pulling your attention away from your two(?) companions.

The ground shakes as Twinmold rises from the sand.

That’s right.

You had a job to do.

“Alright, let’s make some bugs into corpses!” Your grin widens as you point a sword towards the flying monster. You feel someone else’s pure joy rush through your veins. Finally!

It takes two minutes to finish off the monster. A bit longer to get back to Clock Town. Time spends all of it in stunned silence.

It’s not until you’re back in Hyrule, walking through the forest with the rest of the chain that you remember.

“Oh! Time, here,” you reach into your pocket and pull out the ocarina. “Sorry, I kind of took it from your bag. You should have it back.”

He turns, stopping in his tracks on the trail, and stares down at the little instrument. Finally, he reaches forward, and closes your fingers around it. When he speaks, his words are barely above a whisper.

“Keep it.”

[comatosebunny09]

Astarion’s the ex-boyfriend who reluctantly let you go because he felt like he wasn’t good enough.

He’s the ex who took some time away to mature before he could face you and your companions again.

It was nothing you did—Gods, you were perfect. He just wasn’t ready for what a genuine relationship entailed. For what it cost.

When Withers reunites you, you secretly hope to mend things—and, secretly, so do your friends.

Your conversation is seamless as if you hadn’t spent all these months avoiding one another like a sickness.

He smiles more. Your laughter’s lighter now. He’s no less beautiful than he was six months ago. His touch still makes your skin prickle with static electricity despite its harmlessness. Still makes your heart stutter, and those dragonflies stir in your belly, and you’re a nervous little wreck, aren’t you?

You part ways with see you laters as opposed to goodbyes because the latter would imply you’re done for good. But fate has a tricky way of meddling with your lives and bringing you back together like driftwood returned to the shoreline.

Eventually, you become acquaintances, running into each other by happenstance throughout Baldur’s Gate.

Bumping hands whilst reaching for a book in the library. Encountering each other at the night market, exchanging familiar smiles and nods—Gods, darling, you’re still as terrible at scoping out a good deal as ever, he jests with that customary waggle of his hand.

Then, you become friends again. Close friends. And eventually, he becomes a constant in your life once more, showing up to your home each night with the promise of wine and juicy gossip—it’s all just a ruse to see you.

Though your breaths hitch in tandem each night you find him seated close to you on your settee—your thighs brush together, your pinkies graze, and his lips “accidentally” touch your cheek—you don’t want to ruin things. Don’t want to dredge up those old feelings. Fester those old wounds because, of course, you still pine for one another.

But you don’t want to muck up your rekindled friendship by once again rushing into something he may still not be ready for.

So you settle for breaking your own heart each night, smiling like a drunken, enamored fool while he rests his head in your lap. And you twirl his pretty little curls about your fingers, watching his lashes flutter, and his cheeks redden with your blood—you still offer it to him from time to time. That’s what friends do, right?

And though your lips twitch with a question, with that urge to ask what happened to us—with a need to lean down and kiss him—you stomp down those impulses.

You’re content with sitting with him like this, watching a smile round his lips and his chest quake with a fond chuckle because maybe he’s still as much taken by you as you’ve always been by him.

And maybe it’s just you being wishful. Maybe it’s the candlelight playing tricks on your eyes. Perhaps it’s the wine warming in your veins, making you delusional.

But you feel his hand at your nape, slowly drawing you closer. And the world around fades into a beautiful bokeh when your lips meet, and your neck hurts from the angle, and maybe your lips are a little chapped and unrehearsed after all this time, but…

Well, it’s every bit of perfect. Just like you remembered it.

[utilitycaster]

So I alluded to this in tags but did not want to put this on someone else's post and so: I have been catching heat for calling various members of Bells Hells selfish since the start, and to be clear, I will keep doing this, because I have precisely no respect for the intellect of anyone doing this, but I want to underscore that it's not just that I find many of the party's actions profoundly selfish/self-absorbed; it's been a growing pattern in the people who defend them.

It is selfish to fail to take into consideration the perspectives of others and to act out of your own pain in a way that hurts other people. I categorically reject the idea that being traumatized, abused, or experiencing negative things in any way excuses you from having to consider how your actions can harm others. In fact, failing to do this makes you a worse person; to say "the world hurt me and I'll visit this pain on other innocents" is ultimately, an indefensible position on moral grounds. That doesn't, to be clear, mean I dislike it in stories, which should have conflict and moral grayness. But I do not find these characters to be people I consider to be good, if this is with any consistency the frame of reference from which they act.

To say "the gods did not give me things and therefore they deserve killing" is profoundly selfish and vindictive. Having no love for them is one thing; actively wishing harm on them is, in fact, self-centered in the extreme. But that's actually not what I'm here to talk about in regards to Bells Hells' selfishness, both because I've found trying to explain that the gods are living beings and murdering all of them is, you know, bad, to some of the fandom has failed for the reasons I'll discuss later in this post. And, granted, this is a hypothetical, and we may look back in a month or so when the dust clears at a party that defeated Predathos and say "ha, good job guys," but should Bells Hells release Predathos deliberately? That is a betrayal of the Exandrian Accord. If you want to side with the man who destroyed Molaesmyr (and make no mistake, there is no way to do what he was going to do without siding with him; intent only matters if Predathos escapes despite Bells Hells giving it their all, not if they have slightly different motivations for fucking over their allies), that's a valid story, but to take the job and choose to fail to deliver? That is selfish. Someone else could have taken the job. The Doylist excuse that these are the characters the cast happened to be playing at the time does not, in fact, hold water; they could in fact have rejected the Moon Plot, or chosen to become the villains of this story. I would have, in fact, enjoyed that as a story! But this idea that they're not just assholes who think more about themselves and the shitty things various people mostly unaffiliated with the gods did to them during their childhoods than the vast destruction wrought by Ludinus across all of Exandria, is not one the narrative has ever supported.

What's really struck me, though, is a theme of selfish defenses in the fandom. I think bringing up personal anecdotes can be incredibly helpful! I found that some of the people who spoke about their experiences with PTSD in reference to Caleb, for example, provided incredible insight. Notably, the people I'm thinking about were not the ones whose conclusions were "so he's in the moral right to do anything to anyone ever because of PTSD" (and indeed they were usually people who celebrated Caleb as kind of an asshole). But those anecdotes do not override the experiences of other fans. Or, to dredge up some tiresome arguments, Beau is allowed to get pissed off at Caleb's behavior, even if his actions come from a place of trauma.

The two things that really stand out to me (outside of the bizarre ambient noise of white southern ex-Evangelicals acting like they're an oppressed class on that basis that has clung to the discourse like the slime it is) are the recent defense of Ashton on the basis of "punks/leftists are allowed to do this and I identify with Ashton so how could you be so mean to me, a leftist punk and therefore a good person and therefore I can do whatever and you have to like me," and the defense of the various Vanguard members (sans Ludinus) as being victims of a cult and therefore the trail of bodies they leave is fine because various fans have talked about having family in cults whom they forgave. I will speak bluntly here. I'm Jewish, and your argument of "you should be nicer to cult members because a lot of white southern people fall into cults, like one of my parents" is, to me, a combination of insulting, horrifying, and makes me hope your cultist parent gets hit by a car before they hurt more people. Should you wish to forgive your family? Fine, it's your business. To act as though it is a failure of strangers that they are not more generous towards a fictional character because you are sucking your own dick about how good you are at forgiveness? That is a level of entitlement that goes so far beyond the pale I struggle to imagine how you function in society.

I don't think Bells Hells are doomed to this epithet - they have a chance to do the the right thing - and I believe that those entitled fans can change. But yeah man, they - and you - have been really fucking selfish, and the digging in of your heels is doing nothing to convince me you're capable of even hearing the perspectives of others, let alone considering them.

[somarysueme]

Gaaaawdddd. I am so overwhelmed with happiness over the finale, over Do The Work, over seeing and being there for each other, over EvSam CANON. REAL. LOVE.

But there are already so many beautiful posts about the nature of love and care. (About Evan’s unwavering respect and advocacy for Sam!!!!)

Instead of retreading that, here is detailed headcanon about every permutation of the Pilot Program fucking it out:

Sam/Evan: It doesn’t happen that often because neither one actually has a very high sex drive. Mostly they just like to snuggle and kiss a bit. But when they do actually get into it, it so tender and gentle oh my God. Lots of Evan checking in with Sam, helping her figure out what she actually likes, unwavering dedication to Making It Good For Her.

Yes, they do eventually dabble in pet play but it’s 100% not sexual. (In fact any kind of sexual power exchange is a pretty big turn-off for Sam.) That said, sometimes it’s OK to let your boy be nekkie and in a collar while you watch The Sarah Connor Chronicles. He will bark every time they violate established lore, and that’s also love.

Sam/K: have you ever read Maka Maka? Sometimes two besties just want to sit on the same hitachi and talk about boys. Nothing weird about that!

Sam/Jammer: I feel like it would take some Circumstances to happen, but it certainly could. He would be a little less Constant Explicit Checkins than Evan, because he trusts his read of his beloved friend Sam’s signals. But he’s still such a gentleman as he encourages her to bounce on it in a self-respecting life-affirming way until she is getting Magic Funnel Sweaty.

Jammer/Evan: this would also take some Working Up To It (I think this is true for all Jammer/Any Team Mate because he worries about blurring those lines) but when the feelings and circumstances align it is the most athletic bro4bro nonsense in the world. They just hype each other up mid-coitus and there is a 100% chance of causing structural damage to whatever bedroom was unlucky enough to contain them.

Evan/K: pre-breakup they were just wild horny teen poorly negotiated kink exploration 24/7. They both enjoyed it but also both needed A WHILE to digest it before the possibility of being intimate together could even be on the table. K dredged all kinds of weird shit out of Evan’s id that he has a hard time reckoning with once they break up. Is he ACTUALLY into that or was he just indulging K’s weird fetishes? He compartmentalizes it for a long time, until they are older and he’s once again comfortable with dipping his toes back into Weird Shit. Someday he will be, and the elaborate forcefem roleplays will be waiting for them both.

Some other day, when they are even older than that, and only once in a while, he’s willing to go Dark Lord on them in bed again.

K/Jammer: again, never really occurs to him, but K is like “Jammer I need to figure out how to have normal sex”. And he’s like “wow. Uhm. OK? Well that’s a wild proposition even setting aside the implication that sex with Whitney Jammer is “”””normal”””” but OK!”

They both have to have a couple beers or possibly vodka cranberries for less carb load, and also he does have to frequently refocus K on their intention to Not Get Weird With It. But when a team mate comes to you recognizing a need to improve their game, you respect that. You honor that. You help them figure out what sounds they can make that don’t come from hentai. That’s what a good point guard does.

[callsign-mayhem]

i'm with the band (part 1)

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Female!Reader & Bradley Bradshaw x Female!Reader (final pairing to be revealed at the end...) Word count: 7.6k CW: Use of Y/N; reader wears Dr Martens, but that's the only specific detail.

You discover that your best friend Bob can play the drums, and since you have some musical gifts of your own, you decide to start a navy band. It's supposed to be a bit of harmless fun, but what happens when lines get blurred between you and Bob, feelings come to the surface, and a certain Rooster gets jealous?

This is a multi-part fic. Part two Part three

‘If I’d known you could play the drums like that,’ you said, looping your arm through Bob’s. ‘I’d have suggested starting a band months ago!’ 

As the two of you walked across the near-empty runway, you mourned all the time you’d wasted already and wondered how soon you could get a move on with your idea. Bob was smiling shyly, eyes fixed firmly on the tarmac. You knew he didn’t think he drummed well enough to be in a band. You also knew he had a habit of being too hard on himself. 

It was pure chance that had led you to discover Bob’s affinity for music. You’d been standing outside the front door of his house with a box of doughnuts in your hand, ready to surprise your friend, when you’d frozen. 

Somebody was drumming—drumming well.

 It sounded perfect, not just messy noise and missed beats, and it was coming from Bob’s small garage. Resolutely, you’d hurried back down the stairs that led up to the red front door and crept across the well-kept lawn. Once you’d safely hidden behind a fern closer to the garage, you’d realised that a backing track was playing over a speaker, which Bob was drumming to. It was a Catfish and the Bottlemen song—one of his favourite bands. Even now—days later—you still weren’t over it; how your heartbeat had fallen in time with Bob’s drumming and how alive it had made you feel. 

And then there was the small matter of how good he’d looked doing it. 

Bob Floyd had been your closest friend in San Diego since you were first called back to TOPGUN many moons ago. Both of you were Weapons Systems Officers; this similarity was the gravitational force that had pulled you together, but how much you had in common kept you that way. With this being said, you were having a hard time justifying your body’s reaction when you peeked around the fern and into the garage that day. He was wearing a white t-shirt, the front of which was soaked with sweat, his hair was uncharacteristically mussed, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses. 

Eventually, you’d decided to announce yourself, but not before heavily debating whether or not you should just take yourself home and have a cold shower. In the days since, your brain had habitually dredged your unholy thoughts up from the dark corner you’d haphazardly shoved them into. The veins in his hands and forearms, the way his biceps moved when he hit the drums, the furrow of his sweat-slicked brow, his messy hair… It was too much. 

The two of you were nearing the changing rooms, where you’d go separate ways to shower and change. You knew if you let the idea of starting a band drop again, that would be it. Bob would have to give in eventually, so long as you were persistent. 

‘You’re so talented, Bobby.’ You said. ‘I can play guitar, and I’m an alright singer. We’d only need to find a bass player and a lead guitarist.’ 

Bob scoffed. ‘You’re more than alright, Y/CS. Now who’s the one putting themselves down?’

Your face heated up, and for once, you were glad that Bob struggled to maintain eye contact. 

‘Well, thank you.’ You murmured.

Momentarily disarmed, you walked a few paces in companionable silence. Surprisingly, Bob was the one to break it. 

‘I’m not saying no,’ he told you. ‘I’m just not thrilled at the idea of people hearing me play. I didn’t even tell you that I could.’

‘And that’s saying something,’ you grumbled. ‘Okay, let’s shelve it for now. What do you say we go out for drinks tonight, and we can brainstorm.’

Luckily, Bob wasn’t in the habit of saying no to his best friend. 

He probably couldn’t even if he wanted to. 

Summer was winding down, and although it was never freezing in San Diego, the evenings were beginning to get chillier. As you approached The Hard Deck and saw Bob sitting outside waiting, you were glad you’d decided to wear a jacket. 

He sat with his back to the bar, looking out over the sand and the ocean beyond it. The fiery sunset made it seem like the beach was doused with honey, and you were momentarily reminded why you loved your station so much. You didn’t want to startle Bob, who was—let’s face it—easily startled, so you walked around the car park and up the decking instead of going up behind him. He watched you close the short distance from the edge of the seating area to the table with an easy smile on his face. 

That’s how it always was with you and Bob. Easy. 

‘I was beginning to think I’d been stood up.’ He said as you took the seat opposite him.

‘Sorry. I was gonna drive, but then I decided it was too nice, and I didn’t know if we’d drink much.’

‘I never drink much.’

You reached over and ruffled his perfect hair. ‘I know, Bobby, but there’s a first time for everything.’

A Peroni was already waiting for you, and Bob was nursing an ice-cold Corona Light. He probably wouldn’t drink more than two tonight since it was a work night. Then again, he remained his sensible self on the weekends too. Jake and Bradley had tried countless times to get him to ‘let loose,’ and you’d backed Bob up every single time, telling them firmly that not everybody needed to get shit-faced to have a good time. Jake usually responded with some variation of ‘you don’t need a car to get places either, darlin’, but it sure helps.’ 

You took a sip of your pint, glad to find it had a dash of lime. Bob never forgot anything, least of all your drink order. 

‘So,’ you grinned devilishly. ‘The band.’

The corner of his lips twitched as he fought a smile. ‘There is no band.’

‘There is no band yet. I plan on changing that. I think we should make a poster to put up around base. There’s a notice board in the female changing rooms, so I’m assuming there’s one in yours, too. We could also put a few up in the barracks.’ 

Even though Bob seemingly didn’t want to start this band, he suggested asking Penny’s permission to put some in both bathrooms in The Hard Deck as well. 

‘While we’re at it, we could put a few up around town,’ you added. ‘Unless we want this to be a navy-only band.’  

Bob pushed his glasses up his nose and sipped his beer. You knew him well, including all his mannerisms and facial expressions. He was antsy and had the look he always had when Jake or Javy tried to extort personal information from him, like if he’d slept with anyone lately. 

‘There’s something you don’t wanna tell me.’ You stated. 

‘No, there isn’t.’ He tried to insist, but his heart wasn’t in it.

‘Look, Bobby. We don’t have to do this if it makes you uncomfortable. I’ll drop it now and never speak of it again.’ For whatever reason, you found yourself reaching out and taking his hand. It was cold from gripping his beer bottle. ‘But before you say yes to that with what I’m sure will be a massive amount of relief, I want you to know that you’re mega-talented. It’s not just a case of me thinking it—it’s an undeniable fact. If we find some decent bandmates and give this our all, we could have a lot of fun.’ 

Bob’s eyes were boring holes into the wooden picnic table. ‘I know we’d have fun, but would we have to play in front of people?’

‘If you really didn’t want to, we wouldn’t. But we’ve gotta find two more members and see if we can all work together before we even start thinking about that kind of thing.’ You squeezed his hand reassuringly. ‘It’s just a bit of harmless fun. What do you say?’

He met your eyes and smiled sheepishly. ‘Okay, fine.’

‘Yay!’ You shouted, practically jumping out of your seat to run around and hug him. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck from behind and leaned down so your face was next to his. After the initial shock had worn off, he reached up and put his hands over your forearms. It was the most awkward hug ever, but it was the best the two of you could do at such short notice. 

‘I’ll start working on the posters tomorrow when I get home.’ 

Bradley knew that you and Bob were close, and he understood why. You were both WSOs, both loved music, and you were both quiet. When the group was overly drunk or rowdy, or the conversation ended up in territories neither of you was comfortable with, you retreated into your own private world. Bradley had seen it happen more than enough times: the way you eased each other’s anxiety just by sitting close together, the knowing looks you shared when one of the daggers did something predictable, the inside jokes and references you made that left everyone else feeling like they were on the outside of something.

It was hard to ignore.

Bradley wasn’t as unruly as Mickey or as daring as Jake and Javy. He wasn’t as stern and fierce as Natasha and didn’t ramble about sports when drunk like Reuben. But he wasn’t a wallflower like you or Bob, either. He was something else entirely. 

Bradley prided himself on his ability to fit in anywhere. He could talk to almost anyone about anything, but still, he felt something was missing. He didn’t have one specific person he thought he was in tandem with. At first, he liked it. When he was young, he thought it meant he was just a social butterfly, able to jump from group to group and fit into them all. As he got older, he felt out of step, like one of his legs was longer than the other.

He wanted to find his person. The one he could sit with at the bar and judge everyone else with. The one he could communicate with through a single facial expression or private joke—whose mere presence would comfort him. 

Bradley was sitting inside with the rest of the daggers. They were only having a quiet few, then heading home. Natasha was thrashing Mickey at pool, and Jake was attempting to show Javy how he managed to get a bullseye almost every time in darts. Bradley and Reuben sat at a high table nearby, chatting about this and that. They were next to the window that looked out across the outdoor seating area, and Bradley had been glancing at you and Bob all evening. At first, he’d been waiting for you to wrap things up and come and join in. Then, when you came in to get another drink before heading back outside, he wondered if something had happened. Maybe it was something you didn’t want to talk to the rest of the daggers about. He watched as closely as he could without making it evident to the rest of his friends. Natasha was already convinced he had a thing for you—he didn’t feel like adding fuel to that particular fire today, thank you very much. 

Judging by the way you were talking exciting with your hands, he knew the two of you weren’t talking about something bad. Then, he saw you run around the table and hug Bob, and he wondered if he’d gotten this totally wrong. The whole group, aside from him and Natasha, were convinced that you and Bob were more than best friends. Jake and Javy teased you incessantly, and he was pretty sure that Mickey had started the bet on base as to how long it would take for the two of you to admit your feelings for one another. Bradley had ten bucks on this never happening because he was very close with Nat who was very close with you, and you always reassured her that you and Bob weren’t a thing. Bradley wasn’t a girl, but he understood that if you were lying, Natasha would know. Girlfriends always know when their girlfriends are lying, especially regarding guys. 

So Bradley was confused. He’d never seen you and Bob hug before, and you’d never spent a whole evening separate from the group, knowing said group was ten feet away. Something was going on, and Bradley was desperate to know what. Part of him wanted to take this to Natasha for a second opinion, but she would only accuse him of jealousy. 

Maybe he was jealous, but he didn’t need his best friend telling him that. How could he not be jealous when you looked, walked, and talked like that? When were you so intelligent, caring, and mindful of other people’s feelings? When you sang with him at the piano some nights, music coursing through your veins the same way it coursed through his?

Bradley had always known that you and Bob were close. He understood why. But just because he understood why didn’t mean he had to be okay with it. 

Bob was working out in the gym on base when you cornered him the next day. It had been a slow morning and an even slower afternoon, which was welcomed after almost a fortnight of incessant training courses. He was lifting weights with his headphones on when he felt a presence at the bottom of the bench. He finished his reps, lifted the barbell back onto its stand and sat up. You were standing with a stack of papers in your hands and a face that meant business, and you were saying something Bob couldn’t hear. He removed his headphones, just about catching the back end of your sentence.

‘—so all you need to do is put one in the guy’s changing rooms and stalls. Mav is taking some to Penny’s tonight.’ 

This was all happening very fast.

‘I thought you were making posters tonight after work.’ He said, scratching the back of his head.

‘I was, but I couldn’t sleep when I got home ‘cause I was too excited.’ 

It pleased Bob to see you so joyful and filled with passion. There was nothing he loved more. But he couldn’t help but feel strange about the whole band thing. You were never supposed to find out that he could drum, mainly because he didn’t think he was that great at it. He was embarrassed that you’d seen him so unfiltered, and in a way, it made him feel vulnerable. The prospect of other people seeing him in the same way made him more than a little nervous. On a daily basis, he blended into the background. The only person he stood out to most of the time was you; he liked it that way. He didn’t want to stand out to anyone else; he didn’t want anyone’s eyes on him. 

But he had to admit that making music with you did seem appealing. The two things he loved most in the world come together as one. If the band ended up being as good as you wanted it to be and you managed to score some gigs, he would find a way to be okay with it. 

Anything to keep that smile on your face. 

‘You wanna come over later?’ Bob asked. ‘We could order dinner, maybe try out a few songs. I haven’t heard you sing in a while, and you’ve never played your guitar for me.’ 

You flushed scarlet, and Bob wondered if you were just as shy when playing for people as he was. You hid it better than he did, like everything else. 

‘That’d be nice. We can start thinking about a setlist.’

‘I think we need to find some bandmates before we make a setlist.’

‘It doesn’t hurt to have some ideas for when we finally meet aforementioned bandmates,’ you said optimistically. ‘I think they’ll find our eagerness enticing.’

Bob couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You’re perfect, you know that?’

He wasn’t wearing his glasses, so it was somehow easier to keep eye contact. Like being half-blind made him more confident. He supposed if he couldn’t see your reactions clearly, he wouldn’t have to worry about what he said as much. 

‘Well, so are you.’ You replied timidly. 

‘My place at seven?’

‘It’s a date.’

Bob was only half blind, not totally. He saw your whole demeanour change when you realised what you’d said.

‘N-not a date,’ you stammered. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

He smiled. ‘It’s okay, I know what you meant.’

‘Okay,’ you breathed. ‘Your place at seven.’

Your cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, and you looked everywhere but at him, but he thought you were adorable. 

By seven-thirty, you were scarfing egg rolls at your best friend’s place. It was his turn to pick the takeout, and he’d chosen Chinese. Your laptop was on your knee, and you were going through your ‘Songs That Would Wake Me From a Coma’ playlist, explaining to Bob what you loved about each one. He had a similar playlist, and whenever you played something that was also on his, the smile on his face got larger. He’d been smiling at you all day, and you could scarcely believe he’d been on the fence about starting a band together. He didn’t seem nervous now, and the two of you had fallen into your usual, easy rhythm. 

After dinner, Bob helped you get your guitar and amp from your car. You had a black Fender Dreadnought for playing acoustic, but since you’d be playing electric in the band, you brought your Gretsch. It was the same guitar Patrick Stump of Fall Out Boy played, and it was your pride and joy. 

Bob’s garage was perfect for band rehearsals. He left his car on the drive and used the garage as his music room since his house was relatively small. This was how he’d managed to hide his talent from you for so long. What reason would you have to go in his garage? 

It was soundproofed since drumming was hands down the nosiest hobby a person could have, and he’d outfitted the place with creature comforts: a mini fridge for sodas and snacks, a small leather couch with blankets and pillows, framed band posters on the walls, a tasteful rug, and, of course, his drum kit. You’d never played, but it didn’t take a genius to know that it must have cost a pretty penny. You could tell that Bob took good care of it, too.

‘Bobby, this is going to be perfect. We’ll be able to practise here.’ 

‘We’ll probably have to get some more kit. Mics, some more amps. Pedals.’

‘Any guitarist worth their salt will already have that kinda stuff. I have tonnes of shit in my lockup. Haven’t got a mic or a stand, though.’

‘We can cross that bridge when we come to it.’

‘We’ve been saying that a lot lately,’ you grinned. ‘There’s a lot of bridges in our future.’

You got comfy on the couch, and Bob perched himself on the stool behind his drum kit. He watched as you expertly tuned your guitar, fingers moving over the pegs with the kind of surety that only came with doing something a million times. 

‘What shall I play?’ You asked.

‘Play me your go-to when you’re just playing for yourself.’

Since you always played for yourself, you had no shortage of options. But you settled on your favourite: the solo from Wrong Side of Heaven by Five Finger Death Punch. It was short but tricky and had taken you months to perfect. Maybe you were showing off, but you were proud that you could play it, and you’d be damned if Bob’s shocked expression wasn’t worth it. 

When you were finished, he stood up and gave you a round of applause. You had no idea what to feel. Embarrassment or pride? A mixture of both? 

‘Damn,’ Bob breathed. ‘That was insane. You’re a total rockstar, Y/CS.’ 

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ you chuckled. ‘But thank you. It took me so long to learn how to play that.’ ‘That’s like me and Psychosocial.’

You raised a brow. ‘Slipknot?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I didn’t take you for a Slipknot kinda guy, Bobby.’

‘I listen to a few of their songs,’ he explained. ‘But it’s more that they’re really fun to play.’

You gestured to his drum kit. ‘Well, go on then.’

‘No way,’ Bob shook his head. ‘I’ll screw it up in front of you.’

‘Please?’ You pouted. 

So you spent the next few hours taking turns playing parts of songs you knew, bonding over your shared favourites and introducing one another to new music. You were going to stop for the night, but then you discovered that Bob knew how to play some of the same songs as you, and you started playing together. 

You were the one who suggested starting a navy band—you knew it would be entertaining—but playing with Bob like this… There were no words to describe how incredible it felt. 

It was Reuben’s idea to go out for dinner that Saturday night, but now that day had finally arrived, Bradley regretted saying yes. It had been pouring rain all day, putting a pin in his plans to swim at the beach. Then, his dryer—which was second-hand and had always been temperamental at best—had finally packed up, with his soaking wet uniform for Monday still inside. The last thing he wanted to do was get himself ready and drive halfway across town to Little Italy, but every excuse he typed out to the group chat sounded meagre and childish. He ended up deleting them and getting himself in the shower, hoping that going out with his closest friends would lift his mood, even though he couldn’t be bothered to leave his house. 

Autumn was quickly closing in, and Bradley was glad he had a reason to wear his favourite jacket again— a vintage, fleece-lined Levi number covered in patches that had belonged to his dad. He took it from his wardrobe and laid it on his bed, along with a pair of black jeans, a Smiths t-shirt and his Chelsea boots. The day he’d bought—or rather, been forced to buy—those boots was still fresh in his memory. It wasn’t long after you’d all been called back to TOPGUN for the special detachment. In fact, it was only a few days after the daggers had received the news that they’d be staying in San Diego permanently. It was a day not unlike this one, and he’d been at the mall looking for a suit to wear to a wedding he was flying home for. He rounded a corner on his way to Starbucks into a head-on collision with you. He hadn’t known you long, only since that first night in The Hard Deck when everyone either reunited with old friends or made new ones. 

‘I’m so, so sorry,’ you gasped. ‘What an idiot, I’m so clumsy.’

Your shopping bags had fallen to the floor, and you were scrambling to pick them up, not having realised who you’d just bumped into. Bradley was so caught up admiring you in your long-sleeve dress and boots that he forgot his manners. He’d never seen you out of uniform and suddenly felt very cheated. 

You were gorgeous. 

‘No, it’s my fault,’ he insisted, crouching down to help you gather your things. ‘Sorry, Y/CS.’

Your head snapped up, and you met his gaze, a shy smile taking hold of your delicate features. ‘Rooster,’ you breathed. ‘How didn’t I know that was you?’

The two of you stood up at the same time, almost bumping heads. ‘Beats me,’ he chuckled. I’m big enough to see.’ 

Your laugh was a little more on the awkward side, and he briefly wondered if you’d missed his sarcasm. 

‘Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw,’ you’d said toyingly. ‘Callsign: Beanpole.’

Until now, Bradley hadn’t thought you capable of a jibe like that. You were quiet at work, only speaking when necessary, as though you believed that if you didn’t have anything to add to the conversation, it wasn’t worth speaking at all. The most he’d seen you speak was with Bob about work, and with Coyote, since you were his backseater. 

He was sure his laughter echoed through the entire shopping centre. 

‘You shopping for anything in particular?’ He asked, desperate to keep the conversation going and that smile on your pretty face. 

‘New boots,’ you replied. ‘Dr Martens have brought out their new Fall collection.’

Bradley glanced at the boots you were wearing and realised he’d just learned a little something about Lieutenant Y/N Y/L/N. ‘I just bought a new suit,’ he told you. ‘I could use a nice new pair of shoes to go with it if you’d like some company.’

‘Well, sure. I don’t see why not.’ You blinked, taken aback.

Bradley couldn’t understand why you were surprised that he wanted to spend time with you. Before heading to the Dr Martens store, the two of you stopped at Starbucks. He explained that he was initially heading there before he so rudely knocked into you and asked if he could buy you a coffee by way of apology. You’d told him he didn’t need to apologise but accepted the coffee anyway. 

‘I’ll have an iced white mocha, please. If you’re sure.’ you told him politely. 

‘An iced white mocha,’ he echoed. ‘Sounds fancy.’

‘What do you normally order?’

‘Usually just a flat white.’ The disgust on your face as you glared up at him had him laughing all over again. ‘What’s that face for?’

‘You don’t go to Starbucks and order a flat white!’ You exclaimed. ‘That’s like going to a strip club and chatting up the security guard.’ 

Bradley guffawed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed this much. And he couldn’t believe that your quiet and composed self was the cause of it. 

‘What should I get instead, then?’ He asked. ‘Since you’re such an expert.’ 

‘Do you like iced drinks?’

‘Of course.’

You thought for a moment. ‘What about caramel?’

‘Yup.’

‘Then you should try an iced caramel macchiato.’

Nobody had been waiting behind you when you came into the store. Now, four people were waiting behind you and Bradley. The server had been trying to get your attention for a while, and someone tsked impatiently. 

‘An iced white mocha for Y/CS here, and I’ll take an iced caramel mach- machi… whatever she just said.’

‘Macchiato,’ you corrected. ‘It’s macchiato.’

Bradley gently nudged you with his elbow. ‘It’s leviOsa, not leviosA.’ 

It was your turn to nearly pee your pants from laughing. 

‘Can I get a name, please?’ The server asked frustratedly. 

‘Beanpole.’ Bradley smirked. 

You were still giggling like a couple of school kids when you got to the Dr Martens store. You already knew which boots you wanted, so you only had to ask the shop assistant to fetch your size. While you waited, you browsed the men’s section with Bradley, pointing out styles you thought might suit him. 

‘Wait!’ You exclaimed. ‘I know exactly which pair would look the best on you.’

Your excitement enamoured him; he probably would have bought anything you handed him to make you happy. It was a stroke of luck that the shoe you gave him was decent, something he probably would have picked for himself: a pair of black Chelsea boots, subtle but sexy with their thick soles and shiny leather. He’d never imagined himself in a pair of docs before, but he could undoubtedly imagine himself in these. When the clerk returned with your shoes, he asked if she wouldn’t mind fetching a size 12 of the ‘edgy-looking Chelsea boots.’ She’d smiled at his description, and so had you. 

‘Let’s just hope I can pull them off as well as you.’

You flushed, batting your eyelashes at him. If it were anyone else, he’d have thought you were being demure on purpose, just to be cute. But it wasn’t anyone else; it was you, and you were cute. 

He wondered if you’d notice that he was wearing them today. Usually, you pointed them out when he did, and he liked it when you singled him out from everyone else and called him Beanpole, leaving everyone else slightly confused. Even Bob wasn’t in on that joke. 

Once he was dressed and ready, he headed out to the Bronco. He had to run to avoid getting drenched, and he once again questioned his decision as he pulled off his driveway. Then he thought about you and realised he didn’t have music playing. For the duration of his journey, he sang along to old Bon Jovi songs, grinning like a fool at the thought of seeing you. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

It was only natural that you and Bob had travelled to the restaurant together since your house was on the way. Bob had an umbrella in the back of his pickup, so he went to your front door instead of texting to let you know he’d arrived. You received him in the most exquisite dress he’d ever seen, made even more jaw-dropping by the fact it was you wearing it. It was a deep navy, with a cowl neck and a ruffled hem. The top material layer was peppered with tiny crystals that gave the illusion of a beautiful starry night. Your hair fell in loose curls down your back, the top half pinned up with little star-shaped clips. As for your makeup… well, that was another story entirely. You’d worn more than usual, but you’d been careful not to make it seem overdone. 

Bob was speechless. Objectively, he’d always known you were a gorgeous woman but seeing you all dolled up like that had him pulling at the collar of his shirt, hoping to loosen it a little. 

‘Bobby. You look handsome.’

Since the restaurant Reuben had picked was fancy, Bob had opted for black suit pants, a white button-down, and a collared leather jacket. Standing next to you, he felt he must look overwhelmingly disappointing. 

‘And you look like a movie star. I should’ve laid a red carpet.’ Bob replied, sounding more confident than he felt. 

You shifted from one foot to the other, beaming like you’d won the lottery. 

‘I thought I’d meet you at the door with this,’ he explained, waving the umbrella. ‘I’m glad I did. Wouldn’t want your pretty hair gettin’ ruined,’ he stammered. ‘Or your dress.’

‘That’s kind of you, thanks. I don’t even know if I own an umbrella.’

‘Do you have a jacket?’

‘Yeah, let me just turn the lights off and grab it. I’ll be back in two seconds.’ 

As you turned around, Bob diverted his gaze from your figure, focusing instead on the colourful flowers you had growing in hanging baskets on your porch. 

You came back wearing a leather jacket similar to his. He held the umbrella over the two of you the whole way down your driveway and opened the passenger side door so you could climb in. He was momentarily worried that you’d struggle to step into his truck with heels on, but then he realised you weren’t wearing heels. You were wearing a pair of white Dr Martens with silky white ribbons as laces—in retrospect, he should have expected that of you by now. 

When you arrived at Juniper and Ivy, the host took you to a large table in the back corner near three floor-to-ceiling windows. It wasn’t dark yet, but the stormy weather made it feel like the middle of the night. The table was set for eight, with impressive settings and flickering candles. Mickey and Natasha had already been seated. You sat opposite her, next to the window, and Bob tucked you in. 

‘Thanks, Bobby,’ you said as he sat beside you. ‘You’ve been a true gentleman tonight.’ 

‘Anytime.’ He mumbled. 

It took a tremendous effort to ignore the sensation of Mickey and Nat’s eyes boring holes into the top of his head as he scanned the menu before him. However, it was harder to ignore the feeling of Mickey kicking him in the shin beneath the table. Bob glared at him over the rim of his glasses, silently asking what the fuck, man? Mickey raised his eyebrows in silent response, nodding his head at you. Thankfully, you were so absorbed in the cocktail menu that you hadn’t noticed. Then, the unthinkable. Mickey nodded at you, then back at Bob, then subtly did the thrusting action. He bit his lip and rolled his eyes to paint a detailed picture of what he was trying to insinuate. Natasha snorted into her glass of water, causing you to look up. 

‘Did I miss something?’ You questioned. 

Mickey’s eyes dropped to his lap as though he’d been chastened. 

He was prevented from having to answer, thanks to Bradley and Javy arriving at the table, instantly distracting you. 

‘Beanpole,’ you smirked. ‘If you keep wearing those boots, you’ll wear ‘em out.’ 

Bradley made straight for you, leaning over to kiss your cheek. You seemed just as surprised as everyone else. 

‘Show me which pair you’re wearing tonight.’ 

You swivelled in your seat and hiked your dress up so he could see your boots. The sight of the smooth skin above them was enough to turn Bob’s stomach to mush. He needed to pull himself together. 

Bradley tapped the tip of your boot with the tip of his to show his appreciation while Javy took the spot next to Bob. Bradley walked around the table next to Mickey, presumably so he could see you better. 

Bob wasn’t an idiot. If he’d showed up and the seat next to you was already taken, he’d have done the same thing. 

‘So,’ Bradley started, an insatiable smirk plastered to his face. ‘We’re waitin’ on Payback and Bagman?’ 

‘Reuben just texted me,’ Mickey responded. ‘They’re five minutes out.’ 

You leaned over slightly—your head almost resting on Bob’s shoulder—and showed him the 

cocktail menu. ‘I wonder if they make good sex on the beaches here.’ 

‘How did I know you were gonna order that?’

‘I can’t help it,’ you groaned. ‘They’re my weakness.’

‘I’ll order you one when the waitress comes over.’

‘We should’ve got a cab,’ you countered. ‘Then you could’ve had one too. I promise you’ll like them. It’s glorified fruit juice.’ 

‘We could go for drinks at that bar by your house sometime,’ Bob offered. ‘It’s walkable. That way, I can try one, and we don’t have to worry about driving.’

Bob genuinely wasn’t expecting you to get as excited as you did. ‘Yes! Why haven’t we thought of this sooner?’ 

Your conversation was (rudely) interrupted by Bradley, setting an ornately decorated cocktail in front of you. Bob had been so wrapped up in your proximity and the sweet scent of your perfume that he hadn’t noticed Bradley leave the table. 

‘Sex on the beach.’ Bradley stated, seemingly quite proud of himself. 

The spell was broken, and suddenly, it was no longer you and Bob. His eyes flicked from you to Bradley, noticing how you mirrored his pleased expression. 

‘Damn, Bradshaw, at least take me out to dinner before you start suggesting that.’ 

Everyone who had been paying attention laughed, even Bob. His was nervous, and when Natasha shot him a pointed look, this nasty sensation only increased. It was a look that said get her before it’s too late. 

You were only kidding, right? You’d have said the same thing if Mickey had bought you the drink instead of Bradley. Right? 

When Reuben and Jake arrived dressed to the nines, the waitress came over and took a drink order and your starters. Bob made a point of ordering you another cocktail. When you winked and asked him if he was trying to get you drunk, he felt as though all the balance had been restored in the world once again. 

‘Y/N,’ Natasha said. ‘You wanna come to the bathroom with me before the first course arrives?’

You shrugged. ‘Sure, why not?’ 

You waited for Nat at the top of the table since she had to walk around. She linked arms with you when she got to you, and the two of you headed off toward the bathroom, completely unaware of all the eyes on you.

Bob was aware. It was all he could do not to get up and walk out when Jake opened his mouth.

‘Who knew Y/CS had a body like that underneath her uniform?’ Jake drawled. 

Javy seemed to share Jake’s thought process. ‘I know, right? She looks like a damn supermodel in that dress.’ 

Bob accidentally locked eyes with Bradley, who was doing a worse job of hiding his anger than he was. He wished you’d both said no to this dinner and gone to the bar near your house instead. He wished he was listening to you sing or playing the drums to your guitar at his house. 

He wished he wasn’t jealous that the other guys had started paying attention to his best friend. 

He wished this meant anything other than what it did because he knew things were about to get a lot more complicated. 

Natasha looked drop-dead gorgeous in her pale blue trousers and matching oversized blazer. Her hair was loose and wavy, and you were obsessed with the smoky eyeshadow she’d done.

‘That outfit is to die for,’ you told her. ‘I love the colour on you.’

‘Thank you,’ she smiled. ‘But let’s talk about that dress. You look stunning.’

You scoffed. ‘This old thing.’

She opened the bathroom door for you, and you stepped inside. Nobody was in there, and before you knew what was happening, Nat dragged you over to the bench on the other side. 

‘Why does a bathroom need a loveseat?’ You wondered aloud. 

She sat you down and took both your hands, leaning forward excitedly. For what, you had no idea. 

‘We need to talk about the dress. And Bob. And Rooster.’ 

‘What do you mean?’

Nat rolled her eyes, squeezing your hands urgently. ‘Don’t be cute. Tell me you didn’t see all those guys turn around to watch you walk away just then!’

‘They did?’ 

‘Yes! Not to mention Bradley acting like a lovesick fool the second he saw you. Or Bob staring at you like you hung the fucking moon in the sky!’ 

This was too much. ‘Okay, system overload.’ 

‘You need to open your eyes.’ 

‘I need you to back up a few steps. How was Bradley acting like a lovesick fool?’

‘He didn’t even say hi to anyone else. The man didn’t even look at us. He went straight for you, and started on that little inside joke you have about your boots. And then he bought you that drink, which, by the way, he’d already gone up to buy before you even said anything out loud. He remembers from that time we all went to that seafood place, and you had the bartender make you a jug for the table.’

This was all well and good, but it didn’t necessarily mean he was lovesick, and you told Nat so. 

‘And as for Bob, that’s another story. That man worships the ground you walk on, and if you can’t see it, you should ask to borrow his glasses.’ 

It was almost comical that Nat was so riled up and self-assured. You could believe that Bob had a little crush. Hell, you had a little crush on him, too. But there was no way someone as confident and vibrant as Bradley could have a thing for you. That was one step too far into crazy town. 

‘They’re gonna wonder where we’ve gotten to.’ You said, hoping she’d just drop this.

‘We need to talk about it at some point. I’m dying here, Y/N.’ Natasha insisted. 

‘Breakfast date tomorrow?’

‘Yes. I swear to God, if I’m wrong about Bradley, I’ll give you a hundred bucks.’

‘Oh, you’re on.’

‘But if I’m right,’ she grinned. ‘You have to do the same.’

Another cocktail was waiting for you when you returned to the table. Bob’s brow was furrowed, and you had to stop yourself from reaching out and smoothing the worry line above his glasses. For the second time that evening, it dawned on you just how handsome he was.

The rest of the meal passed without great event. The food was to die for, and everyone commended Reuben for his spectacular choice of restaurant. The atmosphere was great; friends surrounded you, and Bradley and Bob seemed to be taking turns buying you cocktails. Nat was drinking an old-fashioned, and the boys had taken to buying her one every time they went up for you. You watched as she reached for her phone and typed out a text, not in the least bit surprised when your phone vibrated on the table. 

You were glad Bob was chatting with Javy and Reuben about work because it would have been awkward if he had seen your phone now.

Both of you were giggling like idiots, utterly unaware of everyone else around you. Mickey was reading Nat’s phone over her shoulder, and Bradley watched you like a hawk. If you’d looked up at that moment, you’d have seen him gazing hungrily, eyes flitting from your face to the bare skin your dress didn’t cover. 

The cocktails had gone to your head quicker than usual. You’d lost count of how many you’d had, what with Bradley and Bob’s efforts to keep a drink in front of you at all times. The more you thought about it, the more it did kind of seem like a dick-swinging contest. 

After dessert had been eaten and the cheque split seven ways (Bob insisted on covering your portion), the dagger squad devised a new plan. Those who had been drinking wanted to keep on drinking, and the designated drivers wanted to start. Bob, Bradley, Mickey, Jake and Reuben had all driven, and they wanted to lose their cars and meet up with everyone at The Hard Deck to continue the night. Well, Bob wasn’t given a choice because if he was paying for your meal, you were taking him drinking and paying for everything he wanted. Plus, you didn’t want to go if he wasn’t going to be there. 

So, you and Nat were going with Bob to The Hard Deck—he would leave his car there for the night, get a cab back to your place and spend the night in your guest room. This way, you could drop him back to his car tomorrow morning. Nat insisted she also wanted to stay at your place, like a slumber party. Clearly, the drinks were hitting her, too. You were sure Mickey would have invited himself as well had he been in the car with you. He loved being an honourary girl. Bradley, Mickey, Javy and Jake were taking their cars home and meeting everyone else there.

Bob gave you and Nat the umbrella and ran to start the truck.

‘So,’ Nat giggled, wiggling her eyebrows. ‘Floyd is spending the night at your place.’

‘In the guest room.’

‘Still. He’s gonna be ten feet from you all night. How ever will you control yourself?’ She teased.

Bob’s truck was a monster, and you’d always thought it didn’t match his personality—a black Dodge Ram 1500, basically big enough to live in. Like his house, he kept it incredibly clean, and you were always scared of breathing inside it. 

You opened the back door for Nat, and she clambered in. Just as you were about to close the umbrella and climb in after her, Bob said: ‘Get in the front, Y/CS. I’m not a goddamn Uber driver.’ 

Well, that was it. Nat was literally doubled over in the back seat, and you ended up crouched on the pavement next to the truck in stitches. Maybe it was the alcohol and the good vibes you were tipsy from, or perhaps it was because Bob wasn’t even trying to be funny with that line—he was deadly serious. Either way, you couldn’t stop laughing. 

Bob had to get back out of the truck and help you into the front seat, so he was soaked when he got back behind the wheel. 

‘Oh, Bobby,’ you giggled. ‘Look at you. I’m so sorry.’

Your inhibitions were long gone, so it made perfect sense in your mind to reach out and take Bob’s glasses off and wipe them clean on your dress. Then, you took his face in both hands and gently swiped the water off his cheeks with the pads of your thumbs. He’d closed his eyes, completely lost in the feeling. You’d momentarily forgotten that Natasha was in the backseat until she cleared her throat. Gently, you put Bob’s glasses back on for him and then busied yourself by connecting your phone to Bluetooth. 

‘Okay,’ Nat said. ‘If you two are finished, I need another drink.’ 

You struggled to connect to the audio system, so Bob quickly typed his password in and handed you his phone. Opening up Spotify, you hit shuffle on his liked songs. Rollin’ by Limp Bizkit came on, and you gasped loudly. 

‘This is a fucking great song. One of the best ever.’ 

Bob laughed as you reached out and turned up the volume, bopping your head along as he reversed out of the parking lot. You didn’t expect Nat to know it or like it, but she did, and you sang along obnoxiously the whole drive, first to Rollin’, then to Break Stuff. 

‘You know what they say, Bobby?’

He indulged you: ‘What’s that?’

‘Live, laugh, Limp Bizkit.’

A/N: I can't express how excited I am about this series. If only you knew what I've got hidden up my sleeve! I've been thinking about it for a long time. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future parts!