#a plaque just does not cut it

[sealwomyn]

Female Icons, Ancestral Mothers

I thought some of my sister Goddess tumbloggers might enjoy this -- I have this poster in my house and I really love it, I got it here from the amazing Suppressed Histories Archive.

[hijackalx]

A PROPOSITION +18

SUMMARY: You’ll need more than a pretty penny to change this corrupt magistrate’s mind.

WORD COUNT: 3.8k

UNDER THE CUT: F!reader, magistrate!astarion, dry humping, vaginal fingering, clothed sex, slight corruption kink, reader is implied inexperienced/astarion treats them that way, D/S, maybe dubcon but not really, power imbalance

Your heels clack through the hollow hall, every step quick and determined. However, your face holds a level of uncertainty to it.

Doors lace the walls, each one with a plaque beside it. You scan every little golden engraving, repeating the names you read under your breath. Meanwhile, the briefcase in your hands is secured to your chest tightly, as if you're afraid it'll disappear.

Your spine shoots upright as you make an abrupt stop. You linger outside one of the doors, swallowing as you stare at the title it holds— 'A. ANCUNIN' reads in big, bold letters, almost like it were manufactured to wrack your nerves. Your gaze shifts to the figure through the distorted glass. It's misshapen and hardly more than a silhouette, but it's enough to make your palms sweat.

You wipe your hands off on your skirt, then quickly push any stray hairs back into place. With a reassuring breath, you knock on the door.

"Come in," a voice calls out, flat and disinterested.

Only when the latch clicks behind you does he look up from the paperwork on his desk. He gives you a once-over, though it almost feels like an evaluation. Afterward, he sits up and folds his hands on the desktop. "Hello," he greets, his tone lacking the monotony it held a moment ago. "What can I do for you?"

Your words seem to get lost in your throat for a moment, allowing the silence between you to last a second too long. "M-may I?" You gesture to one of the chairs in front of his desk, to which he gives a smile you'd only describe as amused. You curse mentally at how you've already managed to make a fool of yourself.

"Of course, darling," he says as if he's pointing out the obvious. Above that soft grin of his, his eyes blink slowly, giving away how horribly you're failing at your first impression.

His subtle criticism only makes you more timid. After all, proposing a deal like this could cost you your job, and you hoped it wouldn't come to that if you could get him to like you.

Had the magistrate working your client's trial— your friend's trial— been anyone but Ancunin, you wouldn't doubt yourself over such a small crime. It's unlike you to lack confidence in your abilities, even more so to stoop as low as bribery. For you and your friend's sake, you hope the rumors about his corrupt ways are more than just rumors.

You take a seat, impossibly rigid. His eyes glance down, and you can't tell if he's taken interest in the briefcase on your lap or something lower. You bring your legs closer together as a precaution.

"Mr. Ancunin—" you cut yourself off to clear your throat, "—sir, I noticed that you'll be overseeing my client's case in a few days..." Your words die out, eyes darting around the room as if searching for the best way to introduce your proposal. Much to your dismay, you find that there isn't one. "I... I was hoping... we could discuss the terms of your… mercy."

It feels like you've just lit a bomb, and you're counting down the seconds until you lose everything. You almost want to shield your face and take cover.

His eyes squint slightly, withholding a response as he leans back in his chair. The wood creaks under his weight. Your heart pounds in your chest, leading a tremble to your fingers you're sure he must have noticed.

After a few moments, the silence is too suffocating for you to let it go on. "I know that sounds... rough. But I promise you it is worth your time—" the sounds of the briefcase snapping open interrupt your nervous speech.

"I don't want your gold."

You freeze, and all is quiet again. "... What?" You mutter, slightly taken aback by the suddenness of his reply.

"It's not enough."

You glance down at the object in your hands, realizing that he hasn't even seen the sum yet. "This should be more than enough for a minor offense." A small crease forms between your brows, a tinge of confusion to your voice.

He laughs at you, and something about the high-pitched sound makes your jaw clench. It seems to bring you back to reality, and you finally see him for what he is— a cocky, power-tripping bastard.

"Let's agree to disagree, dear. If you wish to sway me next time, try offering something a little more..." He trails off, appearing to browse his mind for the correct word. "... enticing." He briefly chews on the pen in his hand while looking you over once more. With a sigh, he waves it towards you dismissively and sits back up to focus on his paperwork. "Have a good day now."

Just like that, the negotiation is over, and a wave of shock crashes into you. If your friend wasn't getting the death sentence before, they surely are now. Desperation weighs on your limbs at the realization, anchoring you in place. You watch hopelessly as he continues to fill out the papers on his desk, any remnants of your interaction wiped clean from his features.

You've not only failed your friend, but you've made a mockery of yourself as well.

He finally looks up again, though he doesn't give you enough respect to fully lift his head. "Something wrong?"

Your lip bobs as you struggle to get your words together. There's a glassiness to your eyes, and you quickly try to blink it away. "I— what can I do?" Your voice cracks slightly, and he seems to liven up at the sound. "Please tell me."

You try to save yourself some dignity by not crying in front of him, but your attempts are futile as the first tear slips down your face. You quickly wipe it away, all for it to be followed by another. A soft whimper escapes your throat, and you realize you're falling apart faster than you anticipated.

When you meet his eyes again, you're almost stunned out of your state. His stare is heavy, and you notice how his nostrils flare just slightly to accommodate his elevated breaths. You'd almost guess that he's angry with your pathetic groveling, but something is... off.

He appears to snap out of his trance with a bob of his throat, his lean fingers digging into the collar of his shirt to loosen it. Your gaze follows as long strides carry him around his desk.

You're surprised when he squats down in front of you, bringing himself to your level. There's an upward pull to his brows, and a strangely sympathetic pout to his lips. "Oh, you poor, sweet little thing." He tilts his head as he studies your tearstained features.

His eyes hold a level of pity that almost makes you forget that he's the one responsible for your troubles. His stare is captivating, and you find yourself unable to look away.

"You know, I feel for you. I do," he sighs. "But, gold..." he looks off to the side and does a little shrug. "It just... doesn't quite do it for me these days. What, with my job being so stressful and time consuming, I'm hardly concerned with how much coin I can spend."

He laughs and places a hand on your knee, the warmth of his palm igniting the skin through your tights. You stare down at it, sporting an unsubtle fixation on how his long index finger sneaks beneath your skirt. It remains there as if inconspicuous— as if it's an innocent mistake.

His touch slips away, though only to reposition itself on your chin as he rises to his full height. He demands your attention as he looms over you, and you're shocked to notice how his features have darkened.

You peer up through your lashes as he runs his thumb over your wet cheek. The digit stills for a moment before slyly moving toward your bottom lip, smearing the moisture of your collected tear. "What I would trade for a bit of relief, though..." he mutters with a sense of being lost in thought.

Your heartbeat skips at the implications of his words, a searing heat blossoming throughout your body. Despite it being such a horrible and perverted thing to suggest, you can't help noticing the quickening of your breaths— each inhale tinged with excitement.

You're not quite sure how to voice your desires, so you simply allow your mouth to pop open. The intensity in his gaze grows as he watches you give him access, his thumb pushing past the barrier of your lips and meeting the warmth inside. He inhales sharply as you close your mouth around him, tasting your own salty tears.

Your hands anxiously wring the ends of your skirt, rubbing your thighs together for some kind of solace. The smallest moan leaves your throat, muffled by the barricade of his thumb.

He slides himself from your clasped lips and lets out a short, inquisitive hum. You sit patiently— obediently— waiting for his next move. You focus on how his fingers unbutton the sleeves of his shirt, how he rolls them up to his elbows and reveals his toned forearms.

As he walks around you to prop himself up on the desktop, the hard-on beneath his black dress pants grabs your attention, and you swallow deeply while trying to maintain composure.

"Well, my dear, I think you have a choice to make," he starts. His tone is lower than before, as if to avoid being heard. "You can either take your things and walk out that door—" he nods to the door, his eyes flitting to it once before meeting yours again. "—... or you can lock it."

He watches you like a hawk as you stand and awkwardly brush the wrinkles from your clothes. His ogling makes you feel weighted as you move towards the door, your unsteady palm landing on the handle. You hesitate for a moment, then ultimately seal the deal with a click.

Your body shakes with every hammer of your pulse, not to mention the anticipatory throbbing between your legs. You're not sure if this is a mistake— you're not sure if you even care. In fact, you're not sure of anything right now.

You slowly turn towards him, your gaze wide and seeking reassurance.

He notices and grins at you, though sly and wolfish it may be. "Very good," he offers his approval, sending a weakness to your knees.

His hand reaches out for you, palm open and inviting yours to fill it. You step his way, allowing him to pull you closer. He grips your wrist tight as he pulls you up into his lap, the motion swift and sudden.

Your face flushes with warmth at the vicinity, your body frozen as you straddle him. He feels how you hover, promptly grabbing your hips and forcing you down onto him. You gasp as his bulge makes contact with your clit, remaining paralyzed as if afraid of the sounds you'd make rubbing against it.

His gentle yet plotting gaze glances back and forth between your eyes and lips. "Have you ever done anything like this before?" he asks, almost distracting you from the feeling of him slowly unbuttoning your shirt. The intensity of which he stares at you only makes you more jittery, and your response catches in your throat.

"I, um—" you choke, watching his dextrous fingers reveal more of your skin by the second. Is he referencing sexual favors? Or just... sex? "I d-don't—"

He grins warmly, a small laugh humming behind his lips. "I'll take that as a no." There's a strange heaviness to his eyes that contrasts with his smile; it's almost daydreamy, as if he's fulfilling some fantasy of his. "Don't you worry your pretty little head then— I know what I'm doing, and that's good enough for the both of us."

Suddenly, you place your hand on his, stilling it. He's surprised at first, but after a glance at your doe-eyed face, he knows what you're thinking.

"Just follow my lead, darling." His freehand plays with the garters connected to your tights. "You can do that for me, can't you?" He asks so sweetly it almost makes your head spin.

You nod, perhaps a little too eagerly from the way he chuckles in response. With that, he grabs your chin, bringing your mouths together. He starts off slow, accommodating you— it seems he can tell you're as nervous as you are desperate to please.

His lips are soft and malleable, forgiving any mistakes you might make. You gain a bit of confidence in turn, and he takes that as a sign to pick up the pace. His brows furrow, and your mouths join with a bit more passion. He runs his tongue over your bottom lip, then takes it in with his teeth; he bites down slightly, resulting in a dull yet addicting pain.

Once his busy fingers reach the bottom of your blouse, he pulls the fabric open, letting the air embrace your torso. His hands invade your body with an impatient hunger, cool fingertips tracing your skin as if familiarizing himself with a new toy.

You catch yourself subconsciously grinding onto his lap, stimulating your clit with the tent in his pants. It sends wave after wave of pleasure through you, your hand catching the hair at the base of his neck. He eats up the small whimpers you release into his mouth like candy, deepening the kiss each time.

He pulls away to pepper wet kisses down your neck, and you readily lift your head to give him better access. A palm slides around your back, pulling you closer as he continues trailing along your collarbone, each remnant of saliva growing cold with his absence.

Your rubbing against him gets more needy, and you stabilize yourself by grabbing the collar of his shirt. With your free hand, you pull your skirt up to watch how his cock cards through your covered folds, noticing the ever-growing wet spot he's curated.

Your cunt tightens around nothing, a deep desire for him to be inside you festering beneath your surface. You've never felt so overwhelmed with want before; he's hijacked your body, and you're not sure you'd even recognize yourself right now— giving into temptation so freely, so shamelessly.

He looks down between your bodies, his cock twitching at the sight of you using him to get off. "Does that feel good?" He asks, a slight waver to his suave tone.

You nod with haste, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth as you try to find the perfect rhythm, but it's not enough. You need more— to feel his skin against yours. You don't care how dirty or uncouth it might be; your hand lands atop one of his, bringing it closer to the aching spot between your legs.

Although, your confidence seems to run dry as you hesitate, your hand stilling at the halfway-point. You glance at him through your lashes, desperate yet so unsure. He's more than smitten by your uncertainty, reveling in how he's made you yearn for his touch. "Don’t be coy,” he tuts playfully.

He moves his hand without the guidance of your own, watching you closely as he ventures deeper into your underwear. You inhale sharply at the feeling of him exploring your folds, not knowing whether to lean towards it or away. The hum he lets out tells you he's pleased with you so far, and the way that makes your heart race is pitiful.

He thoroughly lathers his digit with your essence, then begins playing with your clit. Your mouth falls open at the instant relief, brows coming together tightly. Your face drops into the crook of his neck, and within seconds your breaths become ragged, allowing the occasional mewl to slip out. You hear how he curses to himself, but you can't bring yourself to focus on what he's saying— you're too lost in his touch.

He consistently changes pace, putting you on the path to an orgasm just to purposely take it away; it's a cruel reminder of who's in control, and you grow increasingly sensitive as a result.

"P-please— please—" you babble, feeling your abdomen grow tenser by the second. He winds the coil inside you tighter and tighter, your pleasure entirely at his mercy. "Please don't stop," you manage to get out, your hand instinctually wrapping around his wrist to keep him there.

He lets out a breathy laugh, one you believe he intended to sound more condescending than it did. "I think you're forgetting the details of our arrangement, dear," he states, presumably anxious to get his own and tell you to leave. Although, his fingers don't still, and he doesn't refrain from encouraging you to cum for him through saccharine whispers.

"Almost there," he coaxes. "Relax. Don't fight it." His teeth drag along your ear, directing your attention as he speaks.

Your entire body goes taut as you feel something snap deep inside you. Your breaths heighten rapidly, face contorting into a half-hearted wince as you try to hold back your moans.

He watches your climax with a half-lidded gaze, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth— if you didn't know any better you'd think he was absolutely charmed by you.

As you come down from your high, he meets your dazed expression with a grin. "Cute," is all he says before pushing you off his lap. You're shocked— and a little hurt. It's not like you forgot what this was, but you hadn't quite prepared yourself to be discarded so soon.

Then, much to your surprise, he positions himself behind you and bends you over the desk. Your chest hits the surface with a thud, and your face settles onto the papers he was working on earlier. All of your muscles are so lax from your orgasm, your knees almost buckle from beneath you while he flips your skirt over your rear.

You hear the excited exhales leaving his nose as his hands run over the curve of your body, rough and impatient. He reaches the heart shape of your ass, giving the area a sadistic pinch and smack. You gasp, curling your toes at the sharp, throbbing feeling left behind.

The sound of his belt coming undone fills your ears. Your pulse accelerates, an uncontrollable heat racing to your dripping cunt. "Gods, this is so wrong," you mutter, though it leaves your lips heavy with desire.

In seconds, your panties are pulled down to your knees, and the cold, office air emphasizes your exposure. Instead of retreating like you thought you might, you find yourself arching your back for him, searching for his touch. He lets out a sort of half-moan as you spread your legs further, offering yourself to him without hesitation.

You inhale as you feel pressure against your entrance. He relishes in how your cunt repeatedly tightens in an attempt to pull him deeper— it feels like he teases forever, though in reality you know only a moment has passed. Every adrenaline-laced touch and pulse of his cock tells you he's strung thin as well, and his self-control is running low; that much is made obvious by how he suddenly plunges himself inside you with one, quick thrust.

A shrill gasp rips from your throat, your fingers crinkling the paperwork on his desk as you try to gather yourself from the unexpected movement. He balances by resting his hands on either side of your head, and you can't help but stare at how they strain and twitch with arousal.

He begins to move, each thrust building with intensity. You find yourself covering your mouth, praying that no one overhears the noises you try to stifle— that, and the lewd slapping and squelching of your shameful tryst. You screw your eyes shut, opting to scold yourself, but each thought is promptly overtaken by 'Astarion, Astarion, Astarion—'

Soon, pleasure completely overrides your senses; it's the only thing that matters. You writhe beneath him like a cat in heat, grinding and rutting against him as he uses your body to chase a climax.

He hits a spot that makes you yelp, your mouth involuntarily falling open in ecstasy. "T-there!" You hurry to speak. "Just like that!" A few needy whimpers slip past your guard, but they seem to aid your persuasion as he abides by your pleas.

One hand grabs you by your waist, fingers digging into the flesh beneath your skirt. His breaths become shallower, and a series of short moans are released by your ear. The sounds send a chill down your spine, and you're immediately hit with the realization that you're approaching a second orgasm.

His melody of pleasure becomes more vulnerable by the second, and his thrusts roughen. The added pressure sends you over the edge, your orgasm crashing into you like an icy ocean wave. Your entire figure tenses beneath him, limbs contracting and sprawling as the feeling courses through you from fingertips to toes. It's more intense than the first, leaving you a malleable heap on the desktop.

He follows shortly after by pulling out and finishing into his hand. His quick removal makes your eyes widen for a split second, surprised by the feeling of emptiness he leaves behind.

You both remain in place for a moment, catching your breaths. Slowly, as your senses recalibrate, you become aware of what you've done. You're almost frightened by the person you just were, taken over by lust— at the hands of a man you hardly know, even.

Rising from the desk, you peel a document from the sweat of your flushed face. Turning his way, you watch as he tries to return his disheveled appearance to its original state— brushing the white curls from his forehead and tucking his shirt back into his pants— all the while carrying a weary, post-orgasm expression.

A man you hardly know, but a very handsome one at least.

He meets your eyes, and suddenly he's back to playing professional again. With a smile that reveals more than his workplace persona, he breaks the silence. "Consider your friend well and truly saved, my darling," he says while making sure you look presentable enough to leave. He buttons your shirt for you, then finishes by wiping away an ink stain on your cheek.

His haughty demeanor makes your blood boil, but you hold your tongue. You did what you needed to do— even if a minor detour was involved. No sense in undoing that by getting on his bad side already.

Grabbing your suitcase, you agree to put this past you. Although, as you grip the door handle, he calls out one last time, "Oh, and do let me know if there's ever anything else I can do for you."

[hopelesslyromanticshark]

omg r u still taking requests? If not, you can totally ignore this, I'm so sorry!

But if it's still open, could you maybe do like a Jason Grace x gf!reader with anger issues? Like Jason is super calm and reasonably optimistic as we know, so maybe him dealing with a surly/moody girlfriend who nobody else other than him can handle, would be quite interesting to read. Im SUCH a sucker for the sunshine bf! x grumpy gf! trope haha. The reader can have any godly parent.

✮⋆˙ little miss grumpy and little mister sunshine; jason grace x reader blurb

content: jason grace x reader blurb warning: language obvi author's note: i just wanna say that im pretty sure i saw this request or a super super similar go to like five other pjo writers. soooo im not stealing, just wanna clarify, and i went out of my way to not read those just in case i subconsciously copied them lmao any similarities are purely accidental! ANYWAYS just a little blurb for yall. hope ya enjoy!!!

"who the fuck does she think she's looking at, huh? i will fuck her up-"

"probably, and im just going out on a limb here, the art hung up on the walls?" jason offered, quick to cut off your angry rant before the poor girl could hear. you huffed out a breath at his logic, crossing your arms as you turned your darting eyes back to the canvas. jason rolled his eyes at her, but his smile betrayed any harsh feelings that matched her own.

"i don't like it," you muttered to the boy, who chuckled as he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye.

"well, i think it's graceful-"

"funny," you smirked up jason and now it was his turn to sigh. he offered his hand to you, which you readily took into a tight hold, before leading you towards another part of the museum. your lips twitched upwards and jason beamed a smile at this, shooting forwards and pressing a warm kiss to your cheek. instantly, you were shoving off the boy, playfully, squinting a soft glare at him. much softer than you would anyone else.

"woah! cool! you think these still have blood on them?" you whispered to jason, nearly pressing your face to the glass as you looked in at ancient torture devices. jason tilted himself, adjusting his glasses as he muttered the information plaque out to you.

"hmmm, no. i'm sure they thoroughly clean them," shrugged jason in response, offering you a soft look and squeeze of your hand.

"bummer," you hummed, flipping some of your hair over your shoulder before pulling jason behind you as you got distracted by the gory weapons of death in the next room.

and jason was more than happy to spend his evening reading about beheadings and brutal dictators and horrid war conditions if it meant spending his evening with you.

though, he wasn't a huge fan of getting kicked out of the museum, having to carry you out as you continued to curse the security guard in ways that had jason blushing at their lewdness.

[russellsppttemplates]

hey! this is my first time requesting something so i’m not too sure what to ask for !

would love to see some oscar fluff tho 🥹🥹

Note: I'm happy you sent in a request, feel free to always share your ideas! 🫶 also, this was totally not written from personal experience 🙄

Tw: reader accidentally gets hurt

Dating an athlete meant that your holidays would often include adventurous plans like hikes and trails. For this afternoon, Oscar wanted to check out a hike near the beach where you could walk along the coastline.

"You don't have to go if you don't want, love", Oscar assured you as you put on your sports bra, "I want to, it's supposed to be very beautiful and it's a nice change of scenery from the pool", you smiled, getting your trainers, "these should be okay, right? I only have sandals and flip-flops and those are definitely not appropriate footwear", you reasoned, "yes, I don't think it will be slippery, more dusty I think", your boyfriend offered, grabbing his own trainers so he too could lace them and you could get going.

It started quite easily, the steps carved into the rocks from erosion clear and well limited, making you follow Oscar quite easy, "wow, look how blue the sea is!", he gasped as you reached a balcony like area looking out the coast line, waves hitting the rocks and turning into white foam.

"It says here the water line can go up and cover all of those rocks completely", you read on the wooden and metal informative plaque, pointing with your fingers, "Osc!", you squealed when you noticed he was taking a photo of you, "at least warn me first so I can sort myself out!".

"You look beautiful, love", he smiled, shoving his phone back in his pocket and circling his arms around your waist.

"I am sweaty and shiny from the suncream and my hair is all tangled from the wind", you pouted as you tamed down the little hairs that never seemed to lay flat unless they had a lot of product on them.

"You look lovely, believe me", he stole a quick kiss, "let's continue?", he urged, pulling you with him.

The trail started to shrink as the flat ground approached the line where the rock stopped and a couple of feet wrong and you'd be down in the rocky wall in no time, "can you hold my hand, please?", you murmured to Oscar, stretching your hand out while the other one was already grasping the safety steel railing chord, "here, I won't let go, I promise", your boyfriend assured as he laced your hand in his.

"We climbed all of this, so now we have to go down, be careful, okay?", he warned after you had taken a rest break to admire the view.

"It's fine, I'll be careful", you added, getting up and following him down. You didn't see one of the steps, so you went right over it, not measuring the distance properly and falling on your butt.

At the yelp you let out, Oscar was quick to turn around and help you, "are you okay, Y/N?", he asked, checking over any injuries, noticing a little cut on your thigh and a graze on your elbow.

"Just bumps and scratches - and a sore butt", you pouted, accepting his hand to be pulled up to a standing position, "can you walk all the way back or fo you want me to carry you?", he wondered, "I'm fine to walk", you smiled, kissing his cheek and carrying on.

As soon as you arrived back at the hotel, Oscar stopped by the reception to ask for a first aid kit, taking it with you to the room so he could help.

"I'm sorry it stings, love", he pouted, kissing your thigh to distract you as he made sure the wound was clean and disinfected, "but it's looking good", he kissed your thigh one last time before moving up to your arm, seeing you had already cleaned it, "I can't put the protective band-aid", you explained, having him help you with it too.

"We can stay here for a bit before you go to lunch, how does that sound?", he suggested as he pulled you to cuddle him, "that sounds good", you kissed his lips before making yourself comfy, "my clumsy girl", he kissed the top of your head.

(Thank you for sending this in ✨️)

[grandlinedreams]

Hey hey hey! Your writing captures these characters in ways that I could never. I’ve had this idea wracking my brain, of Ace as a mechanic for some reason- but, hear me out. The shop owner is Whitebeard, and Ace meets Pops daughter when she comes in to help out one day at the shop not knowing who she is, and I honestly think you can bring this vision to life.

Thank-you, it really is an honor to hear that and I appreciate it!! But also BESTIE UR BRAIN MWAH MWAH MWAH that is SUCH a good concept and I hope that I can do it justice!!

[Heads up!: mechanic!au, afab!reader/gendered terms]

ㅡ

It's sheer luck that lands Ace the job. He's been looking for a while now, desperate to land something that pays more than pocket change an hour because even with Sabo and Luffy also employed, they've been barely making ends meet.

He won't tell them that though, swipes bills out of Sabo's hand before his brother can even open them. "Not your job to worry about it," he tells him when Sabo glares. "It's mine."

He doesn't want them to have to worry about things like that, not when Sabo's found a good balance in college and Luffy's finally considering college at all. So when he finds the ad for the position while aimlessly scrolling through one of the many job application sites, he offers up a plea to whatever god might be listening and applies.

And he gets an interview.

The shop, aptly titled 'Whitebeard Mechanics' is surprisingly in the nicer end of town, situated at the very edge just before the road leads into the sprawling heart of stores and gated communities.

The smell of motor oil is what he catches first, the muffled sound of voices overlapping from an open garage bay and undercut by the whirr of machinery.

"Are you Ace?" He pivots to find the speaker watching him, a man with an interesting cut of blond hair and blue eyes that evaluate him in a way that makes Ace's nerves all the worse. When he nods, the man holds a hand out. "I'm Marco, co-owner of the shop."

"Nice to meet you," Ace says, shaking his hand. Marco's grip is firm, his fingers calloused and seemingly permanently stained with axel grease.

"Pops is waiting for you," Marco says, jerking his head for Ace to follow him into the main building. There's a waiting area with worn chairs and a coffee machine set onto a wheeled storage cabinet, the only decor that of a tropical plant in the corner. "He's in his office."

Ace follows his gesture, a door with a shiny gold plaque that labels it as such and swallows, moving towards it. Steeling himself with a breath, Ace steps inside.

The man sitting behind the desk is Edward "Pops" Newgate ㅡ or at least that's what the little desk tag says, and Ace can tell that the older man would tower over him if he stood. 

"You must be Ace," he greets, gesturing to the plush chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat." 

Ace does so, hands resting on his knees to hide the nervous tremor of them as he watches the other man rifle through a folder ㅡ his application.

"Your references are acceptable," Pops says, and tosses his folder down. "Background checks out, no criminal history…" He leans forward, staring at Ace over steepled fingers. "But why do you want the job?"

Ace blinks. The threat of my brothers and I going homeless and hungry is a great motivator, he wants to say, but he doesn't. Instead he thinks for a moment, shaping his words carefully. 

By the time he's done, Pops is smiling. "Congratulations," he says, "you've got the job." 

ㅡ 

Settling into his new job is surprisingly easy. There's a natural camaraderie when there's no hierarchy to be found ㅡ and friendship comes naturally.

So it's to be expected when Ace comes into work and stops by one of the garage bays, he makes a beeline for the pair of familiar boots sticking out from beneath the undercarriage of a vintage car. 

"Marco," he says as he approaches and knocks his own boot against the one closest to him. "You should come out with me and my brothers for drinks sometime." 

He expects the blond to answer and when he doesn't, Ace frowns and nudges his boot again before stepping back when the dolly begins to roll from underneath the car.

It's only then that he realizes that the boots are not Marco's, and the person on the dolly is not his friend. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't kick my feet while I'm working."

Ace stares for all of thirty seconds before his mouth starts working again. "You're a girl," he says and immediately kicks himself for both how dumb he sounds and how your eyes narrow. "I ㅡ no, I just mean ㅡ I've never met you before."

"It's because she only shows up when she wants to," answers Thatch from behind him, and he watches you roll your eyes and scrub a hand against a smear of oil on your cheek as you get up from the dolly. 

"More like whenever dad decides he wants me to come in and lend a hand," you huff, taking the towel that Thatch hands you to wipe your hands off before you turn towards Ace. "So you're the new guy, huh?" 

"Yeah, I'm Ace," he says, mentally patting himself on the back for not stuttering. Your eyes flick over him, assessing him with a curious gleam to your eyes.

"Nice to meet you, Ace. I'm [Name]." Your attention shifts to Thatch as you clap him on the shoulder and begin walking away with him. "Please tell me dad hasn't killed that plant in the lobby while I've been gone." 

Watching you go, it's only then that Ace registers that you've called Pops dad.

ㅡ 

"So…is Pops really your dad?" 

Weeks worth of tentative exchange and working together has afforded him the chance to eat lunch with you when you're at the shop and with the way you look at him over your sandwich, it's clear that you still think he's a little strange. 

"It's what it says on my birth certificate," you answer, and Ace catches himself watching the movement of your mouth as you talk, hurriedly averting his gaze before you can call him out. "Most of the guys are like brothers to me since I've grown up around them. Dad has a habit of pseudo-adopting the people who work for him." 

He knows that well, the parental warmth with which Pops has a way of talking to him making him try not to think about his actual parents. It doesn't matter, not when he has Sabo and Luffy. 

"And what about me?" The question is out of his mouth before he can stop it. "Am I a brother to you?" 

For one horrifying moment, you stare at him as though he's grown two heads ㅡ and then you laugh. Not mocking, not teasing, a full bodied genuine laugh that Ace swears sounds better than anything else he's ever heard. 

"You're still the newbie," you say, but your tone is colored with affection even as you raise an eyebrow. "Thought you already had brothers."

"I do," Ace answers. He's mentioned them to you a couple of times, entertained the idea of introducing you ㅡ and then immediately scrapped it for fear of the resulting potential disaster. 

But he wants to know where he stands with you, aware that his own feelings for you are a little deeper than just that of coworkers. He's also aware that his boss is your father, and that there are a thousand ways this could go very, very wrong. 

Doesn't stop him from wanting to try, though. And it gives him hope for the fact that you're not immediately writing him off, compelling him to continue, "Let me take you out on a date." 

Of all the things you'd expected Ace to follow that up with, asking you out is not one of them. It's rare that anyone isn't spooked off by your circle of pseudo-brothers, and even rarer still that they don't tuck tail and run when your father is involved. 

You should say no. You should make it clear that there's a boundary not meant to be crossed, even without the fact that your father is his boss. But you can't deny that he's grown on you, with his spatter of freckles and loud laugh, a magnetic charm that draws people to him, yourself included. 

"Okay," you say, surprising both him and yourself. "But you better not disappoint me, pretty boy." 

Ace grins. "Wouldn't dream of it." 

[lunarw0rks]

Old Bones | Chapter Ten

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): referenced abusive relationship, PTSD/trauma themes, alcohol use, mild language, very mild suggestive content

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: not proofread, enjoy your dinner y'all <3

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | next chapter | ao3 ver. | playlist ꒦꒷ O.B MASTERLIST

Breathless

“You have any idea what this is about?” Simon shifts the gear into the park, looking over at you with furrowed brows.

The truth was, you had no idea. All you knew was the police found Cal’s body, and you were asked to come here. Nothing more than that.

Simon didn’t take much pleasure in the summon slipped into your mail slot, either. Driving several hours at the crack of dawn to make it to the legal office on time, which of course you’d insisted wasn’t necessary.

You shook your head, giving a sigh of contempt. “No, I don’t.”

He didn’t have to give you the lecture, to not mention his involvement, to go along with whatever bogus story the detectives had come up with. It only took them a day to find him, and then within eighteen hours, you’re here—standing outside a corporate building with legal documents in your hand.

One minute, you broke down in front of Simon, spewing about how much you hated him, and then the next, you’re back in his truck for several hours at a time, all before the sun even rose completely.

No sleep, just nail-biting tension in the hours leading up to this moment. Not to mention, how bumpy things had gotten between you two since his death.

This meeting could be very good, or very bad, and you weren’t so sure you knew the difference between the two anymore. Perhaps Cal, even in death, organized a legal loophole for you to deal with after his death—nothing would shock you anymore, especially involving him.

The tall building was eerily similar to the office where it all went down; corporate chic and bland, only instead of being abandoned, it was bustling with suits and blazers. Lawyers and clients, detectives, mind-numbing coffee conversation bounced off the navy blue walls.

You’d never felt more out of place, despite wearing the most business-casual outfit you could find in your limited wardrobe. Outdressed and outnumbered; never a good combination, especially for someone with a mountain of secrets.

If they knew about Simon or all the carnage, you would’ve been in cuffs and read your Miranda rights, surely. However, no amount of logic could sway the nausea simmering in your gut.

The first person you see inside; a bubbly receptionist way too happy to be working there, especially in contrast to all the hardened corporate faces her co-workers maintained. “How can I help you?”

That beam on her face drops slightly when her eyes wander to your neckline, the half-healed bruises still visible on your skin, then the small cuts on your face you had no desire to cover. She nods to herself as if when seeing those marks, she knew who you were without asking for your name.

“You’ll be on floor twenty, room 3B.” She fishes through her drawers and then pulls out a slip of paper for you—your pass to the upper floors. Well, in examining the document, she guessed correctly when she saw your scars—it was indeed your information on the sheet.

With each ding of the elevator, you watched the small screen displaying each floor number as it increased. Finally, it reached twenty, then the doors whirred open.

It was louder up here than before, several offices and cubicles with appointments of legal counsel proceeding as you stepped out. Your feet carried you to section B, and then you followed the labels until you reached the room with 3B displayed on its metal plaque.

There were no viewing windows, leaving you no clue about the meeting you were walking into. It could be a group of lawyers, or even detectives, for all you knew.

With a few knocks and a small muffled voice behind the door, you open it. At the crowded desk sits a lawyer about your age, deep in concentration as she scribbles. Compared to the suits downstairs, she’s dressed much more vibrantly.

“You must be…” She raises her eyes, giving the same look as the receptionist when she saw your marks. You slide the paper across her desk, ignoring the feelings of humiliation plaguing you. Her freshly done nails fumble with the edge of the paper, reading your name, though she clearly had no need to verify.

“Is anyone going to tell me why I’m here?” You mutter with impatience, digging your fingertips into the strap of your bag.

“You might want to sit down first, as a precaution.” Her tone is light, but firm, like she’s been through this a hundred times with her clients. Your snappiness didn’t phase her a bit.

Now, the nerves had nearly become too much. The atmosphere of the place was bad enough, how cagey the paperwork was, and now, sitting down across from a lawyer.

She draws a line with her fingers, from the name on your sheet, to her stack of folders, until she finds your file. The flimsy cardstock cover wooshes as she opens it, then pulls out a muted green slip. When giving it your first glance, it takes a few moments before you figure out what it is—a check.

All of Cal’s assets are addressed to you.

Next, she lays out a few real estate sheets—estimates on his home, adding a small fortune to the number on the check.

“I’m sure it’s a shock.” To you, her voice is muffled as if it's coming through a wall, and there’s a loud ring filling your ears. Then, it was her rambling about legalities, his death, and your rights, all of which went right through you without a second of thought.

It was tunnel vision, blurring around the edges. From anxiety consuming you one second, to now a wave of awe. You peered down at the number stamped on there, how it must be a typo. More than enough to keep you comfortable, but not enough to run free forever. Still, it had to be wrong, right? After such a series of bad luck, things like this didn’t happen to you, right?

“Miss?” Her hand reaches across the desk, pushing the check further to you, brows knitted in concern.

You shake your head, eyes dry from your unblinking stare of revelation. “I don’t understand. This is all mine? But, Cal sued me, and I… I left him.”

“You left him because you feared for your safety, am I right?” She points a brief finger at your neck, the cruel reminder those marks still give you daily, even here. “You were still legally married, this money’s yours, ma’am.” She says it with a smile of pity, brows still contorted slightly.

You palm the glass table, holding the flimsy slip in your hands now as if touching it would make you actually believe her.

Her words wait until you’ve made eye contact again. “In the eyes of the law, you’re entitled to his assets, even after death. He didn’t have any arrangements in place, and you were merely the first one listed.” She skims through your folder once more, sliding some legal paperwork your way, along with a pen.

“Keep it, spend it, donate it, burn it. It’s up to you.”

—

The second you buckled yourself in, Simon pulled out of the spot and drove in silence, only giving brief scans your way throughout. His iron grip on the steering wheel was typical, but the staring was not, at least not when driving.

You hadn’t come out in handcuffs, or with a police escort home, so things couldn’t have gone terribly wrong—at least by his standards. But you were quiet and more distant than usual.

“Mind tellin’ me what that was about?” He stops at a light, only flicking his gaze to traffic every few seconds. Without the distraction of the traffic, playing cold shoulder with him was much more difficult.

You scoff at the question, not at him, then speak with cynical sharpness. “Well, my husband’s dead.”

Your joke did little to lighten the mood, only prompting him to shift his hips in the seat awkwardly, then stare harder. “Robbery gone wrong, I guess. Found on the sidewalk in front of his apartment, pockets empty, too.” The words are coated with irony, and you can only wonder how Simon managed to stage the scene so well—though, that was one thing you truly didn’t want to be privy to.

“Hm.” He nods, foot laying on the gas the second the light turns green.

For someone so good at hiding his feelings, he did little of it now. He was acting stiff and thorny, unlike his usual self entirely.

The ride goes silent again; past the cityscape, past the backroads and highways, even when the next town was several miles away. Currently, it was a dirt road stretching straight for eternity, and there were very few other cars. Until you looked at the small screen on his dash, you hadn’t realized just how long things had gone quiet between you two—clearly, it was so long that you would be home again in an hour.

“It was a check. His assets.” You finally speak, parting the tension between the two of you. For once, it wasn’t a disgruntled tension, only a hesitant, wordless one.

For several seconds, the gravel crunching under the tires fills your ears. Then, Simon turns his head for the first time in hours, cocking it, “enough to get you out of here for good?”

“What? Are you eager to get rid of me?” You cocked a brow. It was as if so much tragedy, so much of it had caused your snarkiness to come out. Of course, directed at the most humorless man on the planet, nonetheless.

He snarled under his breath and shook his head, disgruntled at how he set himself up for that one. If only he had the power of words on his side, he would say so much at once—and probably too much. It was a blessing and a curse at the moment, considering the setting, everything in the past, and the building of the future as his tires covered the miles back home.

All interactions hushed again, as the mind-numbing ride resumed.

The miles on each sign you passed decreased, soon becoming single digits instead of doubles. Now, with all these assets in your possession, and a home to sell, it seemed your options were both limitless and petrifying.

Would it be smarter to find a more upscale apartment, to stay in the city you still know?

Should you return to the home where it all began, and risk more harm to your fresh wounds?

Or, perhaps, you could take a page out of Simon’s book; live a life of misery, tormented by your own thoughts, only making it to the next day with a bottle to tie you over.

—

One thing you knew, or really, the only thing you knew was how much thinking you had to do. Just what you needed after going to hell and back—more time alone with your thoughts. But you weren’t truly alone, because Simon hadn’t left your side. Not since the night you told him to stay, not since you broke down in front of him.

“You gonna stop stirrin’ that thing?”

His monotone voice snapped you out of it, gazing down at your hand, aggressively stirring the drink in your hands; the way the metal scraped against the porcelain mug was like nails on a chalkboard. Somehow, you hadn’t noticed it when you were stuck in your mind.

You took the spoon out, no longer wanting the drink you made a point of grabbing when you arrived back home. You slid the mug across the table, the steaming cup of caffeine now in front of his spot. But he didn’t touch it, only gave it a small deprecating look—no different than his usual attitude.

In truth, it was the paperwork and the check on the surface that you were staring at, trying to make a mental decision without the pressure of actually rereading those numbers. 

Some people would be ecstatic, with so much money at their disposal. But it wasn’t like that, not a lottery win, it was only more pressure.

What you were supposed to do—that was literally still on the table, just like the reason he was still here—unbeknownst to you. It’s not like you were going to ask Simon, that would only complicate things further. Besides, even you knew deep down you weren’t in any state to be left alone. Perhaps the graceless feelings and tension would be just a little less if your company was anyone else.

There was no one else, though.

“You’re starin’ again.”

Your head shakes away the trance again, seeing his head cocked with confusion, still the steaming cup is untouched. “Was I?”

“Sorry, I’m just—” You draw in a quick breath, lungs, and body both unsteady from the crushing weight of the meeting this morning. Just how everything worked out this way, it had to be a miracle. Perhaps, fate, even.

“I know.”

The fabric around his eyes wrinkles slightly, as do his eyes when they squint. At first glance, he looks displeased. But they have that softness to them again, like the night he saw those photos, and most like the night on the rooftop—when things between you were still fresh and untouched.

You didn’t need to finish your sentence. His gift was observance, noticing each small cue and quirk, and it seemed he was miles ahead of you before your lips could draw a response. Still, he stayed; enraged, distraught, grieving, screaming, even through your fugue state of speechlessness.

Your fingers combed through your locks, riddled with small cuts and mended scars, a tense grip causing white knuckles and a searing scalp. By now, your forehead had met the table, almost in a dramatic way, “you don’t need to stay with me, pity me. I’m an adult.”

“I see that.” He says and would chuckle at the sight of your grump if the circumstances weren’t so serious.

“And I’m not pitying you. I would never do that.” His last sentence wasn’t one of empathy, it was reality. Support, protection? All potent qualities of his. Pity, charity? None, whatsoever. One sure thing about him, he wasn’t going to pretend to be something he’s not.

You propped your face up with your elbow resting on the table, and a fatigued cheek smushed against your palm. Why was he still here? “Good. I don’t need it.”

“You need something, or you’re gonna put a hole in that shotty drywall,” he began, rising to his feet with a small grunt, “am I correct?” It wasn’t a question, just like his first sentence was an experienced observation—one he had seen within himself many times.

There is a clinking of glass, and then a scape against the table, before the bottle hits your arm, halting the force of its smooth slide across the wooden table. You give a disgusted look, but it was true, you needed something.

“Whiskey isn’t the solution… But I’m going to drink it.” You twist off the metal cap, smacking it onto the table with the whole force of your troubling convictions. It had been months since you had a drink, let alone straight from a bottle.

Perhaps, it was Simon’s only way of bonding without verging on feelings territory—a line neither of you needed to cross again.

You toss back a quick sip, sliding the bottle back to him. The burn of it coats your throat, down your esophagus, and through your stomach, sticking there as it simmered. It made your face contort, but the smoothness of the amber liquid was easily addictive.

Simon lifts his shirt and wipes the tip off the bottle, ridding it of your careless salvia, before turning away to take a small sip of it, an arm raised to lift a small bit of his mask. When he turns again, it slides back your way once more.

You agreed to a shot, not a drunken seesaw with him.

But here you were, taking another sip of it. This time, the wrinkle of disgust was a little less strong, and the potent taste of it had dulled when your taste buds numb to it.

Your nerves did diminish a bit, the longer the alcohol sat with you. “Well, you were onto something, I’ll give credit where it's due.”

“Don’t need credit.” He lets out a loud sigh, despite his tolerance to the substance.

You scoffed at his answer, coating your tongue with a bigger chug this time. Might as well, right? “Do you have an off switch, or are you always a wet blanket?”

To your surprise, it’s not a defensive comment or a snarl coming from his clothed lips. Instead, he chuckles—genuinely, void of his usual sarcasm—well, half of it, at least.

“Good one, I’ll remember that.” You had no doubts about that statement, and it would probably come to bite you in the ass later, much like every other thing you’ve said.

“At least when you’re buzzed you have a sense of humor.” Through the fabric of his mask, there is a smug brow cocked.

For the first time, bouncing off the other didn’t mean a conflict of half-empty comforts, it was a wholehearted conversation. A human one; a small aspect of life you had been missing so dearly, but without noticing the need for it.

A hand rested on his clothes thigh, legs spread wide in the dining chair as you both returned the bottle once you were done. Each time, he repeats his routine of turning away to take a sip—a habit that surprised you very little, in actuality, not at all. His privacy was one thing he never lost, despite all that you had been through at his side.

The stoic man with a mask treated you more authentically, more humanlike, than the one with no crooked teeth and a thousand material things to buy you.

The wounding irony of it made you nauseous, made you want to pound your fists into concrete.

This drinking game persisted for several minutes, and neither of you showed any intention of pacing yourselves. Simon, of course, was relatively unfazed by the substance, only speaking a little sluggish and reeking of it from across the table. You had gone off the deep end, with little restraint in holding yourself back. You had nothing binding you to sobriety, no job or husband, no worry of how to pay your rent—most significantly, your own personal guard was right here, with no sign of leaving.

There was only a shot left, more or less, when you slid the bottle back to him for the last time. He raised it, finishing it off until it was nothing more than a hollow glass vase.

“I’m… gonna get you a tea. This is my fault.” He muttered, a slightly widened look when he saw your current state.

You weren’t babbling like an idiot, or slurring like a drunken nuisance—your face was in your hands, a somber expression written on your face as you whispered to yourself, depressing phrases he couldn’t quite pick up on.

He hadn’t anticipated drunken clarity paired with depressed thoughts. What he wanted was less tension in your shoulders, an ease in your troubles, not the urge to find the roof and jump off.

On the bright side, for Simon at least? You hadn’t spewed yet, you were too occupied clawing at your insides for that.

“I’ll get it.” You snapped at him, legs moving a little slower than usual. But you had made it to the counter regardless, a hovering, offended hand shoving him out of the way. You swirled your finger, groaning under your breath when you had to find the effort to grab the items needed.

Simon placed a hand on his hip, leaning against the counter as he watched your odd mannerisms. Eyes reddened, hands twitching as you clumsily began boiling the water. To be frank, he was baffled that you could read the knobs on the stove.

You did it, eyes half open as you impatiently waited for the audible bubbling, and soon the loud whistle of the kettle to give you a migraine, surely. “You have a scar on your neck. Hm.” You pointed to it, but didn’t touch it—you weren’t that foolish, and you still had a desire to have your hands tomorrow.

He nodded and rubbed his thumb against it; the scar that showed when he wore t-shirts, stretching from his collarbone all the way to his chin, a once nasty laceration he got during knife combat, several years ago.

You truly hadn’t noticed it before, at least in its full magnitude.

There was a story there, one you didn’t want to know about. In truth, you only commented on it to pass the waiting time, not because your clouded mind told you to.

His fingers found the bottom of his mask, lifting it until the fabric rolled up to his bottom lip, the rest of his face still hidden. “See? A nasty bastard when it was fresh.” He figured, what the hell; you were in no position to hold this against him tomorrow.

You tilted your head, seeing that it deepend in the middle like that was the part the blade went deepest, then tapered off into a light indent when the slice finished. It wasn’t red or brown, it was scarred enough to match his pale flesh.

“Can I?”

No, you could not.

Nonetheless, he did nothing to stop the hand from reaching out to feel the mark. He wanted to close his eyes when he felt his muscles tense, how gently your fingers traced the scar. But they remained open, watching for any jerks in your movement—he couldn’t help it, his defensive instincts on high alert.

Your touch wasn’t predatory, nor invasive, despite his inner voice screaming at him to clench around your wrist, to squeeze it tight until you never did this again.

That self-protective part of him, he could contain, because it was foolish.

He couldn’t contain the way this made him feel, for the same reason, because it was foolish.

You could feel the tenseness of his shoulders, the small inhale when the pads of your fingers made contact with his neck, and most of all when they landed near his lips.

“Sorry.” You removed the hand, putting it back on your side.

But, he wasn’t irked, that much you could tell. In actuality, it was all you could pay attention to currently—him.

“Your water’s boiling.” The kettle hissed not a second after his words finished, forcing your attention to the stove. You found the knob and twisted it off, cutting the heat before your jumpiness caused a nasty scar of your own.

To reach the cleanest mug, you reached past him, head almost in the crook of his elbow. His height was an advantage, nearly an archway for you where the space of his arm opened enough for you. You grabbed it with haste, fighting every urge to run out of the room and bellow into the nearest cushion.

Waiting for the tea to turn was yet another opportunity for deafening silence. You set the mug aside after placing the bag of tea leaves in. For the liquid to have any effect, you needed it strong, so you were smacked in the face with another several minutes of staring.

It didn’t have to be like this, but it was, whether you were sober or inebriated did nothing to change that.

You had leaned down over the counter, face in your hands with regret. “I didn’t mean to push you. So you know, Simon.” You murmured against the wood countertop, left with little urge to lift your head and face him again.

What was once boldness and depressing clarity, was now pity on yourself and your actions—the one thing you so vehemently didn’t want from him.

“You’re…” He trailed off, lips tightening under his mask. “It’s nothing, ‘s alright.” It pained him to explain what had happened away, because it wasn’t nothing, to him. He still felt he needed permission from some unknown force to feel these basic things—attachment and touch.

“It’s not nothing.” You finally lift your head, picking up the steaming mug that wasn’t done yet. Your brows had contorted, and the reddened eyes had turned glossy. “I shouldn’t have pried like that. I’m sorry.”

Your past was talking for you, that dooming feeling of punishment for slipping up, for committing the crime of being yourself. Once met with a blow or insult, now met with a gentle touch to your shoulder, urging you to set down the cup.

“Let’s drop it, alright? I said it was nothing.” His tone was firm, but he wasn’t upset. His hand hovered again when you only gripped the porcelain mug tighter, looking into his eyes for proof of sincerity. 

Simon felt he couldn’t be any more sincere than he was right now, in his own way. “How about you sit down somewhere… Please?” As much as he wanted to remain firm, he couldn’t. It wasn’t your fault for dipping into old habits out of distress, as much as it wasn’t his.

“I don’t want to sit.” You wanted to step back from him, distance your body from the potential harm of another brooding man, though he didn’t have an ounce of that in him—for you, at least. “This is what I didn’t want, for you to be upset with me.”

Your fretting look made his body ache, how convinced you were of repercussions coming your way in the form of his own two fists.

“Do I look upset with you?” He questioned rhetorically, reaching for the mug again. “Just… Find somewhere to sit this out, before someone gets hurt.” It came out worse than he wanted it to, wide open to your wounded analysis.

Once a worried expression, had dropped into a compliant look, the pound of your heart overtook any urge to retort or argue. That wasn’t how he meant it, it couldn’t be. If you weren’t inebriated, could you have believed that?

You turned on your heels, eyes darting toward the dining table feet away, white-knuckling the mug of tea to soothe this all-too-familiar feeling stabbing you.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says from behind you, now a concerned looming figure, “if you want to stand, you can stand. If you want to talk, then talk.” He placed a hand on your tensed shoulder, but it barely made contact, in dread that his touch would make matters worse.

A stray tear floated from your eye down your cheek, and you wiped it quickly before turning around, finding him close and hovering. “This is pathetic, isn’t it?” You chuckled snidely at your own pain, but there was little humor he could find in your own struggles.

“Crying in front of you again, seems to be a pattern when we’re together.” You sniffled, thumb finding the corner of your eye to smear away more tears.

His hand lifted off, but remained outstretched in a tense fashion like the appendage itself was unsure of the next step. “Drink your tea, and… relax.” Even his voice hesitated, a worrying stare on the shaking mug, daring to spill from your unpredictable hold.

You couldn’t bring yourself to drink it, not right now. Not when he was in this position again, just like when he had hovered over you after the argument, or when he pulled your head into his chest. Your focus was limited right now, as was your ability to regulate your being. The tender look in his eyes wasn’t helping, nor were his exposed lips, chapped and tension-filled.

“I’m so sorry, Simon.” You let out a sharp breath. “This isn’t your burden.” Your words mirrored that of the night you sobbed in his chest, before the meeting you had this morning set off this domino effect of emotions, landing you here.

It seemed he had forgotten his mouth was exposed because you could see the frown on his face. You shouldn’t be the one giving the apology, the only one that should be was in a morgue, unclaimed but still mourned by the woman in front of him.

One of his hands found the side of your cheek, resting a light palm on it for you to nuzzle. The other reached for the mug, the sheer size of his hand overtaking yours in an instant. He was supposed to take it from you, to help you find a comfortable seat, hell, to tuck you in for the night. But he didn’t. He had only restricted you, your cries like a knife in his side, twisting with each one.

Instead, he had leaned down, finding his chin on your shoulder for a few seconds, then your faces were inches apart, both sets of eyes squinting from their own troubles. Then, they met each other, heavy breathing escaping each of you as the other mouth stifled any rejections.

The trend of letting you cry it out prevailed, but it was different this time. So different, his fingers were clammy and his stomach turned. It was wrong, so wrong he would bludgend himself if he could.

The mug he was holding had slipped, sending it shattering to the ground. You jerked in his grip, eyes wandering to the tea spilled on the ground, but the firm hold he now hand on either side of your face prevented a recoil. The most agonizing part of it for you wasn’t the kiss you didn’t want, it was how you wanted this act of intimacy.

His mouth was agape now, hot breath against your chin, his own saliva dribbling down your chin, and you didn’t want to go anywhere. The act resumed again, this time with more force, your back finding the counter with some force, fingertips digging into your cheeks ever so slightly.

It didn’t hurt, it only urged you further into this.

The kiss wasn’t a placeholder for deeper intimacy, he meant every bit of it—up until his emotional walls rebuilt themselves. What the hell was he doing? Right here, right now, of all places?

From each side of your face, his hands now found your arms, yanking you away from this. “No.” Simon hissed, nails digging into your flesh to keep you from returning it anymore.

You couldn’t figure out which party those words were meant for—a scold for himself, for initiating this kiss, or you, for being vulnerable enough to kiss him back.

Still, your eyes were glossed and pouring, and even more now that the entire relationship would be altered permanently from here on. Maybe it was your fault, you thought, using physical intimacy to make up for spats, yet another habit Cal had embedded in you.

Simon wanted to apologize, so badly. But he couldn’t, no matter how shameful his gaze was now. His fingers found the rolled-up fabric of his mask, yanking it downward until his mouth was concealed again.

He couldn’t find those two words—the ones you had just said to him before the kiss. Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of you, fingers finding the shards on the tile and scooping them up without care for his skin, despite how deeply they pinched it.

Your thumb found your saturated lips, wiping away the evidence.

“I’m… going to bed.” You murmured, more to yourself than him. The smell of alcohol on your breath only acted as a reminder, as would the hangover tomorrow morning. With hesitance, you whipped around his kneeled position and exited the kitchen, eyes still wide with shock. Your stumbling feet carried you all the way to bed, a slow crawl until you could cover yourself completely with the duvet, like a cocoon of denial.

When forced into solitude with your racing thoughts, there was one dim light at the end of this tunnel.

You came to a decision about those papers, one that would land you far away from this chaos.

TAGLIST: @random-thot-generator @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @illyanam1011 @stunkbiggu @bi-witch-bxtch @warm-milk-with-honey @xheera @kiamewrites @01trickster10 @m0chac0ffee @tizylish @midwesternwitchery @ramadiiiisme

[yeahimcal]

[And you are a lithograph/Sketching my history]

[Under the floodlights you look more like god to me/You’re way too fucked up, you’re way too tough]

[Two shots of tequila to speed you up/And I guess what I’m trying to say here is thank you]

[But I go cold]

(Symbolism below the cut if you care!!)

[You are a lithograph]

Young Jason has a target on his back, showcasing how being Robin put him in danger. He was just a kid. He’s talking to Batman, looking up at him, showing how much he trusts him, all the while he has a glaring red target on his back.

[Sketching my history]

Jason’s memorial plaque with his shadow over it. The shadow has ‘history’ written on it to show how Jason has become history, how he is just a story now, he’s not even in charge of how he’s remembered. To quote Richard Siken, ‘history is a little man in a brown suit trying to define a room he is outside of. There are many names in history, but none of them are ours’. Jason is history. He’s not Robin anymore.

[under the floodlights you look more like god to me]

Silhouette of Batman with no eyes, to show how Bruce never really… saw/understood Jason. Jason died thinking that Bruce was this good man, the best man, who always knew what was right. A god. But there is no god to Jason, not anymore. The floodlights are turned off. Jason had to die to recognize the flaws of his father.

[You’re way too fucked up, you’re way too tough]

Half of adult Jason, half of young Jason. Jason can’t go back to who he was. He can’t go back to that little boy who was too tough for his age, who thought Robin gave him magic, who was so good that it hurt. Jason is way too fucked up, now. He came back wrong. Everyone thinks so.

[Two shots of tequila to speed you up]

Jason’s Red Hood mask, a crowbar, a batarang, and his old Robin mask. Two things from his new life, two things from his old. He can’t go back. He can only go forward.

[And I guess what I’m trying to say here is thank you]

Jason’s pointing a gun at his father, who still does not see him. But he cannot kill his father. No matter how many times Bruce fails him, Jason will never be able to take that shot, he will never be able to wipe away the only father he has ever had. Even if he has every opportunity, even if he wants to, he’ll never be able to kill Bruce.

[But I go cold]

Bruce covers the target on Jason’s back as the sun rises over Gotham. Because no matter how many times he fails Jason, he will always keep trying to protect him. Try to keep him intact. The night is dark and it will always be dark and no one will ever be able to wash away all the bad, but as long as the world keeps spinning, Bruce will love his children. Even if Jason doesn’t want the protection, Bruce will give it to him. This is their curse. The will never escape it.

I have some pretty. Insane thoughts about Jason and Bruce’s dynamic as a father and son. So. Yeah…….

[scriveyner]

always summer #13

always summer #13: frotting | bungou stray dogs |👿🐯 | #kinktober 🔞| ~1500 words

Atsushi clung to the side of the overturned rowboat, claws dug into the old wood, and laughed. He had avoided getting brained by the oar Akutagawa was wielding, attempting to keep him from overturning the boat trying to climb back into it, but had not, in fact, avoided him overturning the boat.

Contiune on ao3 or:

Akutagawa was clinging to the other side, cursing inventively, and it made Atsushi laugh even harder. “Does Rashomon not work when you’re wet?” Atsushi asked, sides heaving and treading water.

“Do not tempt me, else I send her through your heart, weretiger!”

Atsushi snorted, still snickering audibly. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? Sorry? I told you not to stand upright, and your tiny cat brain apparently doesn’t have the processing power to understand even the smallest concepts--!” Akutagawa cut himself off with a racking cough, and Atsushi’s amusement twinged into worry.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He didn’t sound fine, coughing again heavily, and Atsushi transitioned from treading water to kicking, heading the capsized boat toward the nearest swatch of dry land, a stretch of sandy dirt tucked away between two enormous old trees. Akutagawa didn’t complain again until his feet touched the ground, and he staggered out of the water, shedding moisture into the air as Rashomon absorbed the liquid saturating his clothes.

Atsushi beached the boat and flipped it, checking where his tiger claws had dug into the hull and making certain he didn’t accidentally penetrate the wood. Akutagawa said nothing, hand over his mouth and watching the muscles tense in Atsushi’s arms when he so casually turned over the heavy, water-logged craft.

“Well, that could have gone better,” Atsushi said, soaked through, ankle-deep in water and hands on his hips. Akutagawa’s ire rose again. “At least we hadn’t caught any fish yet.”

“You are an idiot,” Akutagawa hissed, arms folded. Atsushi rubbed his hand through his dripping wet hair and grinned sheepishly, which only seemed to incense Akutagawa further because his face had pinked significantly.

“Could have been worse,” Atsushi said.

“How?”

“Could have lost the boat.” He nudged the beached craft with his bare foot. “Oh, shoot. Our lunch was in the cooler. That should float, I’ll go get it.”

Before Akutagawa could open his mouth Atsushi splashed back out into the water, swimming almost effortlessly. There were a few bits of detritus floating about, including the cooler with their lunch, and Atsushi dragged back to shore what he could. Akutagawa kicked around the hardscrabble dirt/sand mix and finally found a seat on a downed tree trunk. He scowled as Atsushi splashed out of the water again, holding their recovered items.

“Lunch,” he called gleefully, dropping the cooler just past the water line. He shook his head, spraying water everywhere, and proceeded to drip all over creation as he marched over toward Akutagawa, damp and yet in dry clothing. “Are you sure you’re okay? You were coughing bad, did you inhale water?”

“I cough,” Akutagawa said. “Stop worrying about me and worry about how I’m going to mount your head on a decorative plaque when we return to the cabin instead.”

“You’ll feel better once you eat something,” Atsushi fished a miraculously dry sandwich out of a Ziploc bag in the somehow watertight cooler. He presented the food to Akutagawa, who grudgingly took it, and then stripped out of his damp clothing right in front of him.

Akutagawa held the sandwich with both hands, already forgotten as he stared at Atsushi. “What…what are you doing, weretiger?”

“I’m soaked,” Atsushi complained. “I’ll let my clothes dry in the sun while we eat.”

“That will take hours.”

Atsushi shrugged, spreading his clothing over a branch in the sunlight, completely naked. “What, did you have somewhere else to be?”

He fished a sandwich for himself out of the cooler and then used it as his seat, munching away happily. Akutagawa looked at his own sandwich, and then at Atsushi, before looking away angrily and taking a sullen bite.

Atsushi seemed happily oblivious. Some of what he’d rescued was the fishing poles, and the tackle box—after filling his belly he got to work setting up the poles and casting away from the shore, standing in the water up to mid-thigh and humming as he fished. Akutagawa found other things to look at for a while before he gave up and stared at Atsushi’s behind.

“I can feel you staring at my butt,” Atsushi said, and Akutagawa flushed red angrily. Atsushi looked back over his shoulder at Akutagawa and grinned, happy and open, and…comfortable. He was comfortable, standing there with his back to Akutagawa, humming as he fished, completely vulnerable to any method of attack should Akutagawa choose to end their accords.

Akutagawa swallowed and looked away, but found his eyes drawn back to Atsushi, the sun washing over his shoulders and showing off the muscles in his back. Before he even realized it, Rashomon acted, looping around Atsushi’s waist loosely and tugging him insistently back toward the shore.

“You made me drop my pole,” Atsushi said, one hand wrapped around Rashomon, but untransformed. “This better be good!”

Akutagawa stood and came forward, Rashomon still looped around Atsushi’s hips like a belt. Atsushi raised his eyebrows as Akutagawa looked him up and down, then sighed, audibly, slumping his shoulders. “God damn it,” Akutagawa said, finally, and Rashomon loosened and dissipated.

Atsushi made a noise of confusion, a verbal question mark, and Akutagawa put his palm against the center of Atsushi’s chest, feeling how warm his skin was from standing in the sun, and the strong beat of his heart. Atsushi put his hand over Akutagawa’s, threaded their fingers together, and lifted Akutagawa’s hand to his mouth, brushing his lips over Akutagawa’s knuckles.

“Stupid,” Akutagawa breathed; because he didn’t know what else to say; his other hand flailed to the back of Atsushi’s neck as he was pulled in close, and then they were kissing in the late summer sun.

More time passed than either of them noticed, although Akutagawa had staggered backward, back to his tree trunk and Atsushi had followed, kissing him still hungrily, both hands framing his body and braced on the soft wood of the felled tree.

They didn’t have anything to use for lubrication out here. Akutagawa bit Atsushi’s bottom lip as he drew back slightly, panting audibly, and said, insistently, “so we don’t use lube—”

“Are you kidding, no,” Atsushi said, mouth just barely out of reach of Akutagawa’s. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I don’t fucking care,” Akutagawa groaned, both hands on Atsushi’s hips, fingernails scouring red marks into his skin. “I want it to hurt, I want you to hurt me, please, I need you to—” he tried to follow Atsushi’s head as he jerked it back but couldn’t go that far, held against the tree trunk by the press of Atsushi’s body. “Atsushi.”

“No,” Atsushi said, softly.

Rashomon erupted from Akutagawa’s clothes, tendrils wrapping around his neck and shoulders, but Atsushi didn’t budge. He didn’t even seem to notice the ability constraining him, eyes locked on Akutagawa’s; he slid his hand down Akutagawa’s side, pushing the waistband of his shorts over the sharp jut of his hip. Akutagawa gripped Atsushi’s arm, fingers curled into his biceps as Atsushi freed him from his shorts.

“I’ve got you,” Atsushi said in that same soft tone, stroking Akutagawa slowly. “I’ve got you.”

Bare hip to bare hip, Atsushi’s cock against his, warm hand wrapped around them both, stroking slow and measured. Akutagawa panted, eyes locked on Atsushi, and Atsushi didn’t look away from him.

It was a lot, Atsushi’s weight pressing him into the tree, his hand tight around their cocks, fluid slicking together making each stroke easier; Atsushi’s hips rocked a little and Akutagawa groaned, mouth open.

Atsushi leaned in, but not for a kiss. He breathed against Akutagawa’s ear, “I don’t ever want to hurt you, Ryuunosuke. You deserve better than that.”

Akutagawa let out a small, choked sob, and came all over Atsushi’s hand, his fingernails drawing blood. Atsushi didn’t release him, kept his hand tight around them both but started thrusting his cock into his hand, rubbing through the fluid dripping between them until he pushed over the edge himself, the overspill patterning the dirt between their feet.

He shoved Atsushi with both hands, swallowing hard. “What the fuck, weretiger, you can’t just say shit like that—”

Akutagawa was cut off by Atsushi’s mouth on his, and he gave in immediately and didn’t fight it, kept kissing him until they both were more than breathless, Atsushi’s weight against him more a crutch now because he wasn’t sure he could stay on his feet.

They sat in the hard-packed dirt on the edge of the water, watching the lake ripple and gently wash the shore. Akutagawa’s shorts joined Atsushi’s clothing on the sun-warmed branch, though he at least still had his shirt hanging open on his shoulders.

Akutagawa looked away, arms folded, but then leaned against Atsushi. “That still doesn’t get you off the hook for capsizing the fucking boat,” he said, finally, and Atsushi laughed, sticking his legs straight out so the water washed over his feet.

[yourtouchismidas]

In honor of the new atpoaim part imagine a part where Matty is talking about Gigi and how she and the missus have made his life better (not in a lot of detail ofc for privacy)

the camera shakes from behind the trees. matty knows it is there, of course, he asked for it. but he pretends he doesnt. the black and white doesn't show the fact it is a sunny day. it looks over cast. it is chilly though. matty sits next to adam on a park bench. one of those traditional wooden ones. dedicated to someone. matty reads out the plaque when they sit down, "to doris, who loved this park and everyone in it." he laughs. "jesus," he says, "that couldnt be more cliche if it tried." adam chuckles, but his eyes don't leave the far off place he has been watching throughout the video.

matty's eyes have joined him. the watch in silence for a while. you can hear some birds. some high pitched squeals of children.

"gigi!" matty yells. "gigi, get down from that... you aren't supposed to climb..."

then matty is gone, off from the bench and out of screen. adam is laughing, softly. he watches. then matty comes back into shot, straightens his coat. their breath puffs in the air in front of them.

"this kid will be the death of me," he tells adam. adam lets out a non committal hum.

"kids are wild, huh?" he says.

"yup," matty says. he shoves his hands back in his pockets. "she's also the life of me though."

there is a cut. time has passed. we don't know what was said in that time, if anything. or if the dad's just watched the kids play. matty is speaking.

"i never thought i could do it," he says.

"what? be a dad?" adam says.

"yeah."

"well we all knew that."

"what?" matty says.

"that you didnt think you could do it. soon as your missus got pregnant it was all we heard about. for months."

"it's a scary thing."

"it is," adam agrees. "i think it was different for you though. because. you know. she was..."

"an accident," matty says.

adam scoffs, "well i wasnt going to say those words."

"i know you weren't. you're too polite. but let's call a spade a spade. that's my beautiful little accident."

he points off screen. the children are yelling. screeching. having the time of their lives. there is another jump cut.

"nothing prepares you though does it? for like, how much you're gonna love them."

"hmm" adam nods.

"like, you think you know love."

"and you dont."

"and you dont. until you hold that little baby in your arms."

there is another pause and then matty talks again.

"i mean i never thought i would love anyone like i love, this one's mum. i was so lucky really."

as he speaks he scuffs his foot in the gravel, looking down.

"i got not one, but two surprise girls. mother and baby."

adam nods.

"fuck me i'm lucky."

"we didnt think anyone would have you," adam says, for the first time looking round at him and grinning. matty rolls his eyes but he nods.

"me neither," he says, "but someone from thinking no one would have me, i got the one. you believe in that?"

adam frowns, thinking. matty doesnt give him a chance to answer.

"well i do. i do since her anyway."

we watch them for a little while longer, their faces pretty blank, looking out at the park. suddenly, both their faces change, they lean forward, their smiles grow huge, and two little people run up to them and into their respective father's arms, faces hidden by coat hoods and scarves, camera facing the back of them. we watch as they embrace their children, then it cuts to black before another scene.

[karingami]

Spoilers for Noragami ch 108-2

OKAY.

So I haven’t been active on my account for a few years, but I still come back every month for the Noragami chapters and now that it’s ending I wanted to jump back in to the fandom.

I think that Yato survives because Amaterasu grants him existence without a lifeline (possibly?) OR we find out the Tsukuyomi theory is real (and maybe Yato really wasn’t vanishing, but like turning into his true self???)

Honestly, I think what’s going to happen is that Hiyori does not remember the Far Shore, but just always feels like something is missing. She goes on to live a full life and when she dies, she regains all of her memories and lives with Yato and Yukine forever.

I think it would be too tragic if Yato dies. It would go against all the themes in the story.

1. Yukine was abused by his father and now has a father figure he can rely on. If Yato dies, that’s just too much loss for him. Too tragic. He finally accepted his death and to rip away his new family is just too much and does not serve the story well.

2. Hiyori and Yato have this ongoing theme of being “bound by fate.” When they first meet, Hiyori recalls how she doesn’t have anyone she likes, then locks eyes with Yato.

Their plaques are tied (by Kofuku rip), but they are blessed by the matchmaking god, so that counts for something yeah? He says that he hoped they find happiness and killing Yato and tearing them apart permanently does not make sense.

Hiyori’s grandmother tells her to be with the person she loves the most and Yato pops up. Regardless of what anyone says about cutting ties, in the end, all she wants to do is be with him. Which is another running theme throughout the story.

Thoughts are kinda messy and I may be able to construct something more elaborate later, but I would love to hear thoughts!! I miss interacting with the fandom and am sad to see my favorite manga end

[steddiealltheway]

WIP Wednesday

pretend this isn't the fourth thing i've posted in the past like... two hours

but this is so cool! Thank you @zerokrox-blog for tagging me!

So this is a Soulmate AU that has been in my head for YEARS, and I've finally started writing it down so... here's the first chapter or maybe only part of it? I'm not sure yet. But here it is :)

A few weeks earlier… 

Steve sprints to the window, unlatching it easily and jumping through just to tuck and roll onto the soft carpet of Robin’s bedroom. 

“What the-” Robin starts to yell until she catches sight of Steve who holds a finger to his lips. He signals for her to close the windows and curtains quickly while he lays on the ground wiping the rain water mixed with blood out of his eyes. 

Robin quietly freaks out as she locks the window and pulls the curtain tight. She flicks on a lamp then digs under her bed for a first aid kit that makes Steve want to squirm away, but he can’t deny the need for some type of treatment for his wounds. As she’s carefully putting bandaids on what he assumes to be a large cut on his forehead, she whispers out, “What the hell happened?” 

Steve breathes out and does a quick assessment of himself. Nothing appears to be broken at the moment, but his vision is slightly swimming as the adrenaline wears off. He lets his eyes close as he leans into Robin. “Turns out I’m going to college with you after all.” 

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that she’s giving him a weird look, but he opens them to let her know he’s serious about this. “Robin, promise to never call me ‘Steve’ again, okay?” 

Robin freezes and lets her hand fall from where it was smoothing out a bandaid. “What?” 

“Please,” Steve pleads and looks around frantically. “Call me… call me…” his head is pounding and his stomach slightly churns, so he relies on the last thing he saw, a name too unique to belong to any soul, “Call me Keys.” 

“Okay… Keys,” Robin says testing out the name as Steve’s eyes lull shut. “Now tell me everything.” 

Now 

Moving in sucks. Well, moving Robin in sucks. Steve had told her that she didn’t need to pack her entire room, but she insisted, “Keys, I will not be returning home after my first twenty-four hours away from it! And maybe I’ll need the whistle I got in elementary school! You never know.” 

Steve just sighs and hefts up yet another box from his car, carefully glancing around for anyone familiar before heading up to Robin’s dorm. He curses the broken elevator but realizes it likely wouldn’t have been much help since everyone else is moving in at the same time. He swerves just at the last second as some hyper dude with long hair runs down the stairs past him and Robin. For some reason, he feels a weird draw to them, but they probably just remind him of Dustin who he would’ve yelled at to slow the hell down. He misses that kid. 

Steve huffs as he makes his way to the third story of the building and spots the door to Robin’s room slightly ajar. Robin shoots him a look and they rush over to it only to slow down as they approach. Steve sets down the box and riffles through it settling on grabbing a random plaque from... “Your fourth-grade spelling bee, really?” 

“It’s one of my greatest accomplishments!” Robin whisper yells at him and nudges his shoulder. 

Steve rolls his eyes but takes the plaque and holds it up. He holds up his hand signaling three... two... one... 

Steve shoves the door open and yells as a blonde girl starts to scream. Steve quickly realizes his mistake and puts the plaque down on a nearby table and holds his hands up. “Woah! Oh, shit. Sorry. You must be Robin’s roommate. I’m Steve,” he introduces himself cautiously holding his hand out. 

Only, the girl doesn’t take it. Instead, she seems frozen as she glances over Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve’s hand drops and he looks over his shoulder to see what's happening but he’s only met with the sight of Robin staring longingly at the other girl. Steve looks back at the girl and sees it. “You must be Chrissy,” Steve breathes out. 

The girl nods slightly, and happiness alongside jealousy churns in Steve’s stomach. “Well, it’s been great meeting you. And I’ll just... see myself out. Robin, we can get the rest of your stuff later. I’m just going to head to my dorm.” 

Robin slightly nods, mirroring Chrissy’s same nod from earlier, and Steve is almost positive that neither of them are getting any of what he’s saying. Damn soulmates. 

Steve heaves Robin’s box through the doorway and lightly shoves her in before closing the behind her. This is certainly not how he wanted his college experience to start. 

He rushes down the stairs and tries not to think too hard about the whole Robin finding her soulmate thing. Like, yes, it’s great. He’s glad she has the perfect roommate and a soulmate who clearly just by first looks is crazy about her. But this means... fuck. 

Steve might be abandoned. He knows it’s unlike Robin, but he’s heard the soulmate stories. Christ, they’re literally a person’s other half, so of course they’re going to want to spend all their time with them which leaves Steve... alone. Or awkwardly third wheeling, but the sight of happy couples makes him irrationally angry. 

Well, with everything, Robin says that he should be reasonably angry about the whole soulmate thing, but... 

Steve shakes his head as he climbs into his car and watches that same long-haired boy heave a box up towards the building. Eddie. A voice in his head unhelpfully supplies, and Steve shakes it away because that would be impossible. 

He forces himself to tear his eyes away and look at the campus map. Sadly, he and Robin aren’t living in the same residence hall, but the buildings should be about a five-minute walk away. He spots his building and takes a deep breath as he thinks about dealing with parking. Luckily, he only has about one trip worth of things with him. 

He finds parking and curses under his breath as he rechecks his dorm number and pockets the key they gave him a few hours earlier. He pushes around the few boxes Robin has left so he can get out his one box and old backpack. Hopefully his roommate doesn’t judge him too much. 

The trek to the building isn’t horrible from the parking lot, but Steve is definitely thankful that he lives on the first floor. 

He finds his room fairly easily and digs his key out of his pocket so he can unlock the door. He sighs when he finds it’s already unlocked and prepares to meet his roommate. He tries to appear pleasant as possible and even tightly smiles as he enters the room. Half of it is filled with weird shit like posters and drawings that Steve thinks that Dustin would like. And he’s definitely gotta ask why the hell he has a giant sign that says “Corroded Coffin.” He whistles low when he spots the guitar propped in the corner of the room. He knows nothing about instruments, but he can tell it’s well taken care of. 

The only thing that he finds odd is the lack of a roommate in the room, but maybe he’s in the bathroom or something. 

Steve doesn’t think too hard about it because he’s filled with relief of finally being alone so he can breathe. It’s not that he isn’t a social person it’s just... he needs time to process the whole Chrissy and Robin thing. More than anything he wants to rant to someone about it, but his options of ranting are: Robin. 

But there’s probably a landline in the common area and definitely pay phones nearby so he can call Dustin eventually. 

He tugs at the leather band around his right wrist for a few minutes as he thinks before realizing the anxious tick and trying to stop. He needs Robin to go back to flicking him in the head every time he does it. Soulmarks don’t like being suffocated he guesses. 

He unpacks the few things he has, stuffing the few pairs of clothes he has in the supplied dresser and slipping sheets over his mattress and making up the thin comforter (curtesy of Robin’s mom) and pillow (also Robin’s mom) to make the place look somewhat like a home. He gets a framed picture of him and Robin out of his box and puts it on his desk lastly before turning around and walking towards his door. 

He stops and takes a breath before turning around and taking in his sad display of a room, but he can’t help but smile. Nothing can be worse than his room from a few weeks ago. 

All the sudden, the door swings open and collides with Steve’s back causing him to stumble forward and curse. 

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were...” the man trails off as Steve turns around. 

It’s the same long-haired guy he saw before, but close up he’s absolutely... 

Eddie. Soulmate. 

Steve’s entire being feels drawn to him, and it’s like he understands what all the soulmates mean when they say as soon as they saw them they just knew. And it feels so right. He’s somehow everything that Steve had always dreamed of since he first got his mark, and nothing at all like what he expected. He’s about to finally say that it’s him, it’s Steve, when he finally shakes himself out of it. 

No, it’s not him. It’s not possible. He’s already met Eddie. 

So, Steve sticks his hand out and says, “I’m Keys.” 

And something about his name must falter whatever is going on in the man’s head as he reaches out and replies, “Kas. Uh, you must be my s- roommate.” 

Steve smiles tightly as the label doesn’t rest well with him. He shakes his hand and can’t help but notice the way his hand feels right in his, but he’s also wearing a band around his wrist that kind of jostles with Steve’s and it feels so wrong like he needs to pry them both off- 

“My roommate who I just hit with the door. Shit, I’m sorry, man, I just got some crazy news that my best friend found her soulmate. At least, I think that’s what I was witnessing because she was just making out with this other girl, and I don’t know, I just kind of ran like hell. And I wasn’t thinking and bam hit you with the door,” Kas rambles out and it’s overwhelmingly endearing to Steve especially when he pulls his hair in front of his face and continues, “Sorry, man, I’m just kind of freaking out.” 

And Steve knows exactly what he means. “I can’t blame you. I just had the same sort of shit happen. My best friend just found her soulmate, and I’m at a loss. I know I should feel happy for her, but I can’t help but think I’m going to be abandoned or some shit.” Steve stops and wonders why the hell he’s talking so much and basically spewing his soul to a stranger. “Sorry,” Steve apologizes and shakes his head, “I don’t usually open up so easily.” 

“Neither do I, but that’s just because I have to keep up my dark and mysterious persona,” Kas says with a bright smile as he raises his hands and wiggles his fingers. 

Steve can’t help but laugh. 

Kas’s smile falls, but more in a dramatic way than a hurt way. “What? Do you not think I’m all dark and mysterious?” 

This makes Steve laugh even harder. He has no idea how this man with the energy of a hyper puppy and the biggest brown doe eyes he’s ever seen has ever appeared threatening or rather “dark and mysterious.” 

Kas sighs and frowns at him, but that just further drives home the point. Steve can’t help but try to stifle his laughter and reply as seriously as he can, “Oh, you’re dark and mysterious alright.” 

Kas lightly shoves him as a blush comes to his cheeks, and Steve doesn’t remember ever feeling so connected to someone as soon as he met them. He can’t help but think that Kas is thinking the same thing as they stare at each other, both smiling as something like hope stirs in Steve. 

He wishes more than anything that soulmates didn’t exist. 

“Hey, Kas!” 

“Keys!” 

Kas and Steve jump back as they stare at the two girls in their doorway who glance back at each other. “No way,” Robin and Chrissy both say together and laugh. 

It takes Steve a moment longer than everyone, but then he’s looking at Kas with wide eyes as he realizes how cruel and kind the universe really is. 

[cbk1000]

Hey, remember how I wrote a fic that was literally just about two men driving around the countryside looking at animals and being gay for one another? And it was 90,000 words? And at the end I went, "That wasn't enough nothing, so I'm going to write a sequel to this?" Anyway, here's a preview from that sequel:

Merlin gave him a few biscuits to show they were still chums, and then rested for a bit with his forearms on the table, recovering his stamina and courage for the follow-up round. The pocket on his scrub top was torn, and his trousers had seen neater days in a byre. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm. The door opened, thankfully, before he had launched himself into the next round, and in came Gaius with his stethoscope round his neck, saying, “It sounded like the Blitz in here, so I thought I’d give you a hand.”

“Yeah, did it give you flashbacks?” Merlin asked cheekily, though he did not yet have the breath to be a fully-realised shit.

Gaius rolled his eyes. “Ah, Charlie. Have you been giving Merlin some trouble?”

“He’s given me all the trouble. I’m sedating him next time.”

“It’s only an ear cleaning, Merlin.”

“That’s easy for you to say. I don’t see you in here being the David to his Goliath.”

“David won, didn’t he?” Gaius replied serenely.

“Sure, if you believe a book that says some guy talked to a burning bush and he wasn’t even tripping balls.”

Gaius rolled his eyes. “Where’s Arthur?”

“Does everyone ask ‘Where’s Merlin’ when I’m gone?” Merlin demanded.

“No.”

“He’s shopping because we’re the worst gays ever and we live like two bachelors who forgot that they have to do things like actually keep replenishing the refrigerator which, turns out, doesn’t just refill itself. But I can’t believe he’s still not here. I bet he knew Charlie was coming in today and he’s sat at home right now swigging champagne and living the high life and laughing at me cutting off dog’s balls and putting in bloody ear drops.” Then his phone went, and he slipped it out of his pocket to find there was a text notification from Arthur. “His ears must have been burning.”

Gaius put on fresh gloves and knelt down stiffly to greet Charlie whilst he read the text, which said very cryptically, Ring me; I need saving.

He did so. “Hullo, it’s your handsome, charming, taller boyfriend, saying these things because he assumes if you try and refute them you’ll ruin the bit. Who do you need saving from?”

“Oh,” Arthur said on the other end of the line. “Ok. Right. Well, don’t worry, I’ll be there straight away.” Then: “I’m sorry, Olivia, I’m afraid there’s a bit of an emergency at the clinic. Right. I’ll tell him as soon as I see him. Right. But I think it’s really a pretty big emergency and I’m needed straight away. Yes, I’ll tell him. Yes. No, it’s not him on the phone, it’s one of the front desk staff. I think he’s in surgery. Yes. That’s why I’m needed. Exactly.” Merlin took the phone away from his ear for a moment to laugh.

“Are you free of her?” he asked when he had finished snorting.

“I’m hurrying across the street now, too quickly for her to follow, so I think I’m in the clear. Or else I’ll be hit by a car; either way, I'm free.”

“Is that what’s taken you so long to do the shopping? I was about to ask if you’d gone to York.”

“I’m at our very own Morrisons right across the street. I finished shopping nearly an hour ago. She ambushed me. Trixie has rabies again.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Merlin blurted out.

“Merlin,” Gaius scolded him with a frown.

“Well, sorry, but Olivia Harris thinks her bloody dog’s got bloody rabies again, so I’m pretty confident the next thing Arthur’s about to say is that she demands I go out there and fix her up with one of those rabies shots again before she’s torn limb from limb by her 14-year-old Pomeranian. Some people are too stupid to live, and I wish they wouldn’t.”

“Merlin!” Gaius barked.

“Oh, yeah, because this whole village is going to go into mourning if she cocks up her toes. Probably give Death a plaque and a hand shake when he comes for her.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Arthur said. “I’ve still got to get the shopping home, but I know she’s watching me, and if I don’t pop into the clinic for the ‘emergency’ then I might as well walk into oncoming traffic.”

“Don’t do that; I need you to help me with Charlie.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. “Don’t,” Merlin snapped. “You dare go home or walk into oncoming traffic. I’ll drag you right out of hospital.”

He did not walk into oncoming traffic, but through the employee entrance a few minutes later, after Gaius, citing the imminent arrival of Arthur as a reason to scurry off without having so much as scratched one of Charlie’s ears had scarpered. Merlin, sensing the presence of a fellow cow wrestler, who might have been up to the gargantuan task before him, poked his head out of the exam room, said, “Get in here,” and yanked Arthur in by his shirt, in case the command had not been clear enough.

“Don’t manhandle me,” Arthur said.

“I thought you liked that,” Merlin said.

Arthur was still fresh enough to being dicked down that he coloured, very faintly, though bamboo shoots under his fingernails would not have gotten him to confess to it. He went into the overhead cabinet for some gloves, and then knelt down in front of Charlie, though all he would have had to do to meet him eye to eye was to stoop down a bit. “Hello, Charlie. Has this twat been mucking about with your ears again?” He rubbed them.

“I’ve cleaned them out and just need to put in the antibiotic drops.”

“‘Just.’ That’s like saying you ‘just’ need to build the third Pyramid of Giza,” Arthur complained.

“That’s right, I did the first bloody two, you whingeing pillock, now man up.”

“Good morning, by the way,” Arthur said, in a tone which implied very heavily it was not. Arthur had had a rare lie-in that morning whilst Merlin slipped out ahead of him, so that their last interaction had been the night previously, a shag which ought to have put him in a better mood.

“Good morning, you crotchety tit.”

“You’d be crotchety too if you’d just had to listen to Olivia Harris for an hour.”

“Well, I’m going to have to listen to her for another hour this afternoon I’m sure, so I don’t actually have any sympathy.”

“You never do.”

“He’s a rotten liar, Charlie, I’m delightful.” He hauled Arthur in by the front of his shirt, and briskly pecked him on the mouth. “In case Charlie leaves you my war widow.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a coward; he’s like a giant teddy bear.”

“Yeah, that’s why you were thinking about walking into oncoming traffic when I said you needed to help with him.”

“I was thinking of walking into oncoming traffic because I had to talk to Olivia Harris for an hour.” 

The teddy bear stood cooperatively enough for his two friends, delighted to see they had multiplied, and that the second was the lovely blonde who gave him against the express advice of his stingier partner an extra biscuit; then this friend too transformed into that vile, snakeish Judas. Arthur patted his shoulders, and said, “Up” a little wearily, though he regularly bore the weight of an animal almost as heavy. He scratched all round the ears with Charlie’s hot breath in his face, and under the lax chin whilst Merlin sidled in with the drops. He managed the right ear before Charlie had quite comprehended what was happening to him; then he lunged back from Arthur with a look to show how he had wounded him. 

“Whoa, there, mate,” Arthur said, catching his front legs, and pinning them to his shoulders, whilst Charlie hopped about on his hind legs, shaking his head, and whipping it about, and turning Merlin’s ministrations into something like a bloody-minded Cirque-de-Solei audition, where the interviewers were throwing roundhouses at him whilst he contorted himself for their amusement.

They were all three panting, sweaty, and dishevelled when at last the ordeal was finally over, and Charlie clumped down onto the floor, and then galloped over to the Sulking Corner because he knew that Arthur would want to make friends again with some treats, whereas Merlin would have merely called him a great baby. 

“How did this morning go?” Arthur sked, squatting in front of Charlie and offering him a chicken flavoured gravy bone. “Ear drops aside.”

“Pretty well. Diggy’s bollocks are no longer amongst us, RIP. Had an emergency c-section after that; poor bitch was in labour all yesterday and still hadn’t progressed by the time her owner brought her in, but all the pups were alive and she came through the surgery just fine. Oh, and Emma says she wishes you weren’t gay. And that you’re such a soppy loser for me that it defeated her mum’s homophobia.”

Arthur looked round from Charlie and arched his eyebrow. “What? So what you mean is, today Emma confessed to being totally insane?”

“She did all but say she fancied you, so, yeah.”

“I do have a history of attracting lunatics.”

“True,” Merlin said. “It’s your arse. If you just had your personality, even crazy people would leave you alone.”

“Oh really? Maybe I should stop doing squats, then. Live out the rest of my days in peace.”

“Don’t do that,” Merlin said, and swatted him on the bum, unfortunately timed to the opening of the door, which had been opened by Gaius.

“Merlin.” He frowned.

“What? That’s one of the most innocent things I’ve ever done to him.”

“At the clinic he is your coworker, not your boyfriend. I’m not going to have another complaint from one of our clients about you sexually harassing people.”

“That was a misunderstanding.”

“So you didn’t make a lewd comment to Arthur at the front desk in front of Mrs Clarke?”

“Well I thought it was under my breath.”

“You don’t have an under your breath,” Arthur retorted.

“Arthur started it anyway,” Merlin said. 

“I did not!”

“You said--”

“I don’t think Gaius needs to know what I said to know that you’re guilty,” Arthur cut in hastily.

“I’m certain I don’t,” Gaius said drily. “Nor do I want to have any inkling of 98% of what’s said between the two of you. Just keep it away from the front desk.” He jotted down something in the chart he was holding. “Do the two of you have time to see an alpaca today?”

“An alpaca?” Merlin asked.

“There’s a local breeder who’s just got a new male and bred him to several of her females without any pregnancies, and she was hoping we might nip over and take a sperm sample.”

“What am I supposed to use to collect alpaca jizz? I assume what we’ve got for the bulls won’t work.”

“We say semen, Merlin.”

“Well, regardless, semen, jizz, spunk, baby batter--what am I supposed to put it in?”

“You could use a bit of tupperware.”

“We are not using our tupperware to collect alpaca semen,” Arthur broke in.

“Calm your tits, I’m not going to make you eat out of it afterwards. Obviously we’d chuck it; you can’t erase that with a washing-up. But, yeah, not really keen on wasting some tupperware on that.”

“A sandwich baggie, then,” Gaius said with the serenity of a man who would not be sticking his hand under an orgasming alpaca. 

“I’ve still got to put the shopping away. I’ll take Merlin, nip home quickly, and then drive us over to the farm.”

“You just want me to put the shopping away,” Merlin complained.

“Well I did it the last two times in a row.”

“Well I was operating on a pig.”

“You always have some excuse.”

“‘Can’t, I’m sorting out intestines’ is an extremely valid one.”

“I just find it extremely interesting that these things happen when there’s shopping to put away.”

“It’s not like I’m scheduling rectal prolapses to coincide with when we do the shopping--”

“Boys,” Gaius said.

“Oh, yeah, right, alpaca jizz,” Merlin said.

They bickered amicably all the way home and whilst refiling pantry and fridge and cupboards, comparing the number of items each had put away, and determining whether he was or wasn’t carrying a fair load, till Merlin decided to cheat by saying, “I am putting away my stuff so much faster” to ensure that Arthur finished the job.

“You’re a cock,” Arthur said.

“You’re way too easy to goad,” Merlin said.

[grayox27]

Dating the men in F.R.I.E.N.D.S.🍬(gn!reader)

Just some simple hc’s lol

Joey Tribbiani

- one second you’re just having a sip of coffee, the next there’s this handsome man leaning on your table with a ‘how you doin?’

-most people would’ve found this unattractive, but you found it endearing.

- for your first date, he takes you out to a fancy restaurant

- bold is Joey’s middle name

- while on the outside he is confident, he’s actually quite insecure on the inside. You find yourself constantly reassuring him on multiple topics.

- his love language is words of affirmation, so he calls you many cheesy nicknames all the time. In fact, you rarely ever hear him call you by your name.

- first kiss:

You held your breath as Joey nervously picked up the phone.

“Is this Mr.Tribbiani?”

“Yeah, that’s me” Joey says, not letting his nerves change his tone, but you could read it all over his face.

“We’ve decided that you are a perfect fit for the role” They announced.

Joey put the phone down with a shout, “I MADE IT!” He said, rubbing his hands together.

“Jo, I’m so proud of you!” You said with a smile. He ran over without thinking, crashing his lips to yours.

He awkwardly pulled away, scratching at his neck “Sor-“ before he could even finish his sentence, you had pulled him by the collar and reconnected your lips.

“Mr.Tribbiani? Hello?” The phone sounded. “Oh shoot” He mumbled, rushing over to the phone.

Chandler Bing

- you would have to ask him out first

- you had bravely approached him while he was working, and asked him out. He gave you a look of surprise before accepting.

- he is insecure like Joey, but he’s more outward with it.

- for your first date, you guys go out to see a movie

- his love language is acts of service, one time you mentioned that you missed cereal, and the next day, it was on your counter

- first kiss:

You returned to your apartment with Chandler at your heels late at night. He insisted that he walk you to your door.

“Tonight was wonderful” You said, giving a genuine smile. “Yeah…it really was” He says, looking anywhere but your face.

The two of you kind of awkwardly stood around, Chandler shifting on his heels. You grew tired of the silence and leaned in slowly, giving him the opportunity to back out.

He let out a shaky sigh. “Does my breath smell bad?” He whispers, practically talking against your lips. You let out a small chuckle, “No”. Your lips finally connect.

“That was SO cheesy!” Monica shouted with a laugh, which earned her an elbow to her ribs. “Shut up, I think it’s sweet!” Rachel countered.

Chandler pulled away from you with a shy smile, his ears burning red. “I’ll see you tomorrow” You laughed, watching him scuttle away.

Ross Geller

- After some hyping from Joey, he asked you out

- he tried to ‘play it cool’ but it wasn’t long before he started to share facts

- for your first date, he actually took you Roa museum and geeked out

- it started to become a competition between the two of you to see who knew more

- he lends you his books all the time

- his love language is literally just info sharing. It excites him because you’re one of the only people who actually let him go on

-first kiss:

“Did you know that kissing could lower your blood pressure? It can even burn a few calories, in extreme make out sessions of course, but it’s still cool” Ross rambled on.

“Wanna test that?” You pipe up.

“It can even reduce plaque build up because when you’re kissing more saliva-… what?” He cuts himself off, turning beet red.

You moved closer to him, “I said, do you want to test that?” You whispered, keeping eye contact. “O-okay” Ross says with a shy smile, and the two of you shared a very sweet kiss.

[mindhowyougo]

and now, for some reason, a coda to... zenana?

The first police on the scene are uniform. They take possession of Thursday's gun and politely suggest he and Morse wait a safe distance from the body of the young woman: somewhere still in plain view but where they were unlikely to interfere with the scene. Thursday thought Morse might protest leaving Violetta, but he goes along without argument, following the direction of the uniform's pointing hand like someone drifting through a dream. He nearly walks into a headstone. He does not react even to Thursday pulling him clear.

Thursday's hand feels emptier after: missing the familiar weight of the gun, perhaps, or the warmth of Morse's elbow, or maybe just purpose.

Next on the scene is a middle-aged inspector in a well-cut coat that can't hide the crooked slouch beneath it. He steps off the police motorboat just moored along the canal, takes a brief glance at Ludo's body newly fetched from the water, and then makes a considerably longer tour of Violetta's beneath the arcade. When he gets to them, he implies with sticky English he might be able to make the gun disappear; Thursday replies in tart Italian he rather expected the gun back. Even rusty, the words are sharp, and the deputy inspector jerks as if pricked.

“As you like,” he sighs, more irritated than embarrassed. In short order they are hauled off and handcuffed.

Morse never says a word.

–

There are many kinds of long nights. Time stretches itself out and sleep doesn't come. Life offers no shortage of reasons for the long dark: fear, boredom. Either way you find yourself waiting for dawn, for an excuse to move and pretend again.

But the nights he always finds hardest to bear are the ones that come after – after whatever it is you would have called the real action. The danger has passed but your guard's not fully down; the world has revealed itself to be other than what it was, and you don't know what will come next. But nothing comes next. Nothing becomes that's it? And before you know it, whatever-it-is becomes just another thing you've survived.

He looks at Morse staring down at his lap as they wait in the police station, and he thinks he sees it all in the hard carve of his mouth, the unnatural stillness of his eyes. He could turn to marble right now and be no less alive.

(Survivor of His Own Mistakes the plaque might read, and one day tourists would come from all over and snap clueless photos; small children would climb over his lap and on his back, tuck their chin over the crown of his head; no one would guess his age or that his hair could look almost reddish in certain light, that his eyes had ever held more heart than some of the flesh and blood around them.)

Thursday speaks to a young man who has the look of a constable about him. Five minutes later a hot mug is delivered into his hands. He takes a cautious sniff and mentally shrugs, for it isn't like there is anything else on hand. Sometimes all one needs is something warm.

“Morse,” he says, and he stands close in front of the man so his feet are in his sightline. He waits for him to look up. Tells himself he'll wait at least thirty seconds before laying a hand on his shoulder. (And a lifetime before tipping his chin like his fingers itch to do.)

He is at only nine seconds when Morse stirrs and glances up.

“Drink this,” he instructs, and shoves the mug into his hands.

Morse passes the mug between his hands, searching for a safe way to hold the scalding ceramic. “What is it?” he asks doubtfully, blinking down into the middling brown contents. Just as well he isn't looking at him and cannot see the relief the sound of his voice brings.

“Best not to question it,” he says; Thursday had asked for tea. “Down the hatch, now.”

Wonder of wonders, Morse obeys: tips his head back and take a healthy belt. When he lowers the mug, his face is set in a faint grimace. Likely unable to muster the sincerity for speech, he merely nods his thanks to Thursday.

Thursday finally sits next to him, and his knees ache faintly from his long vigil.

“How long do you think they'll keep us?” Morse asks quietly. He pinches the mug between his knees and tips his wrist to check his watch.

Two bodies and two foreigners; by all rights, they might never leave. Thursday will have to take his pension from this bench.

“Shouldn't be too long,” he says firmly. “They're contacting Thames Valley to check our identities, and I've called the British consulate here in Venice to keep them apprised of the situation. At the very least, I think they'll feel comfortable releasing us on our recognizance, once they got our statement.”

“That's rather optimistic of you,” says Morse, dubious.

“Well, one of us has to look on the bright side.” And if he was a wincing man, he would've done then. He is spared having to see Morse's reaction by the reappearance of the inspector from the canal, and he stands quickly to draw his attention. Like he might shield Morse from the rest of the world with his body.

–

Their continental counterparts wish to talk to them separately. They want the whole story.

It's nothing he wouldn't demand himself, if he was in their position, but he is in possession of a few important facts. Or maybe just the one – Morse, and how unlikely some of his leaps of logic might seem. Add in the language barrier and he is distinctly leery of letting the other man out of his sight. He's heard things about Italian lockups; the same thing they say about English ones, probably, but with a different syllable stressed on the sneer.

“I should be there,” he tells the chief inspector, a peaceable man who'd introduced himself as Ripamonti. “I'm his superior officer. And I'll need to translate for him.”

Chief Inspector Ripamonti is amused. “Your concern does you credit, Inspector, though I confess it also causes me some confusion – you were the one who shot Mr Talenti, were you not? Yes?” He makes a doubtful sound. “It was your gun, and you have admitted all this already?”

He realizes then that a large part of him still thinks of the situation as being Morse's fault. The law can be bloodyminded sometimes, but thankfully less so than people. It's one of his favorite things about it.

“Morse had nothing to do with it,” he confirmed.

Ripamonti smiles and claps. “Then your Morse shall manage just fine. The interview can be conducted in English. And as this is not a military tribunal, there will be no need for your presence.” His tone is not unkind, and he pauses, thoughtfully looking Thursday up and down, dark eyes lingering over his grey hair, the lines of his face. “You were here during the war, maybe?”

Given the other man's age, there was no way to guess a safe answer. So Thursday sticks with the truth.

“Ah, well,” says Ripamonti, and that's all he says.

[jessybarnes]

Shake My Nerves, Rattle My Brain

Chapter Two: Cold As Ice

Pairing: Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x Tom "Iceman" Kazansky

Chapter Characters: Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Tom "Iceman" Kazansky, Nick "Goose" Bradshaw, Ron "Slider" Kerner, Dick "Jester" Hetherly, and Charlotte "Charlie" Blackwood

Rating: 18+ Only! Minors DNI

Tags: Pining, explicit language, suggestive sexual thoughts, drinking, military talk, Goose is getting suspicious, Ice is possessive, and Mav can't seem to get a handle on his new feelings, maybe slight angst if you squint, and I think that's it.

Word Count: 1,8k

Beta: @winecatsandpizza

Title Card: Yours Truly

A/N: This will feature some of the same dialogue from the movies. I do NOT own the dialogue but am merely putting my own adaptation of the movies. :)

"So, what do you think of the competition?"

Goose asks while he does up the buttons on his dress whites. 

Maverick stares in the mirror continuing to mess with his hair for the umpteenth time. Seriously, he never cares this much, so why is his stomach in knots over going to the O club? 

He sighs and braces himself on the sink. Mav realizes he's probably making a mountain out of a molehill here, but how else is he supposed to take the snide comment Lieutenant pretty boy shot at him after they were dismissed? 

"The plaque for the alternates is down in the ladies' room."

Maverick scoffs. There's no way he knew he was checking him out during class, right? It was probably just a challenge. The typical two alpha males butting heads until one of them rolls over, kind of challenge. Well, if that's what pretty boy wants then that's what he'll g-

"Mav! Hey! You listenin' to me?" 

He jumps at the sound of Goose's voice and turns to look at him. 

"Sorry, I uh…I was just ah…thinkin'."

"You sure you're okay, man? You've been acting weird since class this morning." 

Maverick's heart hammers against his chest. Goddammit, why does he have to be so fucking transparent? Maybe he should just wear a sign around his neck that says 'Hello, my name is Pete "Maverick" Mitchell and I've got it bad for a pilot with blonde spiky hair and blue eyes'. 

"Yep. I'm fine. Let's go. I'm ready for a beer." 

The lively atmosphere of the Officer's Club washes over them as they walk through the wooden doors. 

"This is what I call a target-rich environment." 

Maverick smiles up at his best friend before taking a look at all the beautifully dressed women. Goose rolls his eyes and slaps him on the shoulder.

"You live your life between your legs, Mav."

"Goose, even you can get laid in a place like this." 

Nick chuckles, "I'm tellin' ya, I'd be happy to find a girl who'd talk dirty to me." 

They approach the bar and open a tab, taking a seat on the only two open stools in the place. Goose nudges him and nods to a figure standing across the room. 

"Mav, you wanna know who the best is?" 

He moves his gaze in the direction Nick nodded and nearly chokes on his own saliva when his eyes land on none other than Lieutenant pretty boy. 

Okay, he's electing to ignore the fact that his best fucking friend just referred to someone else, other than him, as the best because how in the fuck can someone look so good?! 

He isn't even doing anything. He's just standing there wearing his stupid fucking aviators sipping some mystery drink with a girl hanging off his arm like she needs him to help her stand up. 

Maverick squeezes the neck of his beer bottle until his knuckles turn white. He's never been the jealous type, but seeing this woman give pretty boy 'fuck me' eyes gives him a bad taste in his mouth. 

"That's him. Iceman. That's the way he flies, ice-cold, no mistakes. Just wears you down. You get bored, frustrated, do something stupid, and he's got you."

Mav opens his mouth to respond, but Goose cuts him off, instead turning his attention to someone else. 

"Hey, hey, Slider!" He grabs at the taller man's uniform where he has his pinned wings, "I thought you wanted to be a pilot, man. What happened?" 

Ron rolls his eyes, "Goose, you're such a dickhead."

Maverick snorts at their back-and-forth banter, bringing his bottle of beer to his lips. 

Before he can even think about taking a drink he sees the so-called Iceman stalking straight towards them. 

He takes a long gulp of liquid courage and swallows as Ice stops directly in front of him.

"Hey, Mother Goose! How's it goin'?"

Nick shakes his hand, "I'm doin' good, Tom. This is Pete Mitchell. Tom Kazansky." 

So, he's finally got a name to put with Lieutenant pretty boy's face. Maverick looks him up and down, takes his outstretched hand in his own, and prays to whatever deity will listen that he gets through this conversation without giving himself away. 

"Congratulations on Top Gun." 

Fuck, his eyes are even more captivating up close. 

Mav smiles softly up at him, "Thank you." 

"Sorry to hear about Cougar. He and I were like brothers in flight school. He was a good man."

Pete raises an eyebrow, "still is a good man."

Tom smirks and pops a piece of gum in his mouth, "yeah, that's what I meant." 

God, this guy is infuriating. "Thought so." 

Ice leans in closer, leaving mere inches between their lips and Maverick feels his stomach flip. 

Yep, he's royally fucked.

"Say, you need any help?"

He chews his gum loudly as he waits for Maverick to answer. And while Mav is more than certain anyone looking in their direction can see the panic written all over his face, he still takes a swig of beer to allow himself a moment to ignore all the explicit thoughts he has rattling around in his brain right now. 

"With what?"

Tom leans down so they're now eye to eye and grins, "You figured it out yet?"

Fucking Christ. 

Maverick feels the panic spread as he tries to make sense of what Ice is talking about. Certainly, he hasn't been that transparent in the last forty-five seconds, but he has had shitty luck before. Nevertheless, he does his best to play it cool and pray his voice doesn't come out as shaky as his hands are.

"What's that?" 

"Who's the best pilot."

Even though his heart is beating like a running racehorse, Mav still sees the split second of Tom glancing down at his mouth. 

Is…is Iceman flirting with him? 

No. No way. He has to be imagining this. 

"No, I think I can figure that one out on my own."

Ice chuckles, "I heard that about you. You like to work alone." 

Whatever response Pete had at the ready dies on his tongue because the way Tom is looking at him right now makes heat pool low in his belly. 

It's almost…possessive. 

Slider clears his throat bringing him back to reality. "Mav, you must’ve soloed under a lucky star, huh? I mean, first the MiG, and then you guys slide into Cougar's spot."

Goose scoffs, "We didn't slide into Cougar's spot. It was ours, okay?"

"Yeah, well,  some pilots wait their whole career just to see a MiG up close. Guess you guys are both lucky and famous." 

Slider takes the shot he's been holding as Ice follows suit and licks his lips, which Maverick definitely doesn't hone in on. 

"No, you mean notorious." Tom deadpans. "I'll see you later." He flashes a perfect smile and sets his shot glass down.

Maverick watches him start to walk away and tries not to stare too hard at the way his ass looks in his dress pants. "You can count on it." 

After a long night of avoiding questions from a suspicious Goose and barely any sleep, Maverick groans as he takes his first sip of coffee. 

"Ugh, I'm never drinking again."

"Yeah, you said that the last time we went out. Nick laughs and jingles his truck keys as Mav winces. "C'mon, we're gonna be late for class." 

Even though they were currently in the shade,  the hanger barely gave them any relief from the heat. 

Jester, their first instructor of the day, is talking about getting intel on enemy aircraft from civilians. At least, that's how Maverick understands it. His head is still currently pounding from the night before though, so he can't be entirely sure what's going on at the moment. He'll just ask Goose later on when he can blink without feeling like he's going to hurl. 

"One of the most qualified is our TAGREP, callsign Charlie. She has a Ph.D. in astrophysics, and she's also a civilian contractor, so you do not salute her. But you better listen to her, because the Pentagon listens to her about your proficiency." 

Maverick slides on his aviators and rests his head in his hand. Thankfully, his headache is finally starting to subside. It's not that he doesn't care about what Charlie has to say, he honestly just wants to get back in the cockpit. 

His ears perk up when he hears her talking about the MiG-28 though. He and Goose are all too familiar with that aircraft. 

"However, the MiG-28 does have a problem with its inverted flight tanks. It won't do a negative-G pushover." 

Maverick snorts as Goose leans in to whisper to him, "Are you gonna tell her?" 

Charlie stops mid-sentence and turns her attention to them, "Excuse me, Lieutenant. Is there something wrong?" 

And so Mav proceeds to explain how he and Goose were in a four-G inverted dive in a MiG-28. And even when Ice calls bullshit, he goes on to explain that not only was he in that position, but he also gave the enemy the bird while his RIO snapped a Polaroid.

Class ends a few minutes later when Jester tells them they have a hop to take with a strict hard deck of ten thousand feet. 

After staying behind to explain to Charlie that she can just read the details of his foreign relations encounter with the enemy, he heads up the stairs to do his preflight with Goose. 

Mav rounds the corner and stops dead in his tracks. 

"Maverick."

Fuck! He knows that voice. That authoritative, yet still soft, voice that makes his knees weak. He'd never admit it though. Not out loud at least. 

Ice pushes off the cement block he'd been sitting on and is in front of him in two strides. 

Jesus… does he have to stand so fucking close?! 

"I'm curious," he fiddles with the clasp of his watch until it clicks into place, "who was covering Cougar while you were showboating with this MiG?" 

Pete somehow manages to keep his own voice steady, though he's not sure how since Tom's giving him that look again. The one that makes him want to drop to his knees and take what he's given. 

He doesn't, of course, because why on earth would Iceman be into him? He's just being cocky. Something he'd be doing right back if his heart would just slow down for once. 

"Cougar was doing just fine," he grins. 

"Uh-huh." 

Normally, Mav would have told Kazansky to shut his fucking mouth, but instead, he walks away because he can't trust himself around Ice. 

Not when all he wanted at that moment was to slam him against the nearest wall and shove his tongue down his throat.

Among a list of various other things.

[writingamongther0ses]

Hell to Pay

Summary: Chiron spills some tea about Zeus, someone's spilled tea on R.K.'s rug, and Mercury spills tea about the situation. None of this helps Megara.

Inspired by @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt of "Spill the Tea"

-_-

A young student trotted up, her cheeks flushed with a wide smile. She had to have been no older than six. "Chiron?"

"Yes, Amelia?"

"Daddy's here."

A look swept over Chiron's face- confusion, relief, and then dread. “Where, my dear?”

“He’s in R.K.’s office. He said he wanted to talk to him,” She pointed at Megara, who suddenly felt very small. There was no needed explanation to who “him” was. A god was here, despite Olympus having suddenly shut down. And he wanted to talk to him.

“I see. Thank you, Amelia.” The little girl walked away, still smiling happily. Chiron straightened with a hum. “That is unusual. Hermes is the last person I suspect Zeus would allow to come here.” He started to walk away, leaving Megara to scramble to catch up. “Still, he must’ve heard something…”

“Why wouldn’t Hermes have been allowed?” Megara had to ask, despite the feeling of having said the wrong name. “Isn’t he the messenger of the gods?”

Chiron nodded. “He is, but Zeus feels like Hermes has taken too much interest in this case.” He sighed as they reached the elevator, pressing the up button. The elevator opened silently, allowing Chiron to step inside with Megara trailing behind. He pressed the fifth level. “Let me tell you something about your father, boy. He does not understand love. He understands lust, but that is his own lust. He does not understand why the gods love mortals.”

Megara fought back a face. On one hand, he probably should’ve been defending Zeus. After all, he was his father. On the other hand, he didn’t know Zeus. Maybe that was for the best.

The door opened, revealing a hallway. Unlike the other levels, this had no windows. Torches lit the way, revealing beautiful tapestries that led down to a grand set of double doors. A small plaque revealed that this was the Hall of Graduates. “Her office is on the right, the door next to the headmaster’s office,” Chiron said as Megara stepped off.

He nodded and began to walk.

The tapestries were elaborate, each showing the student in some pose, dressed in ancient Greek dress, surrounded with what had to be symbols of their achievements. One tapestry was of a woman, presenting a DNA strand. Another was someone who had to be Elvis, singing into a microphone with the iconic hair. Another was another woman, looking up at an old-fashioned airplane, next to another woman holding up a set of scales.

The one right next to the last door to the right depicted a familiar face. Megara found himself coming to a stop, studying it. The tapestry had caught R.K.- who else had blue eyes like that- standing on a ship, mid-lunge with a grey sword, aiming at the face of a giant man with glowing gold eyes. She wore a helmet decorated with feathers, a shield hefted up with the face of the Minotaur. His head ached for a moment and he tore his eyes away.

He knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a voice called from inside. Megara stepped inside and felt himself immediately taking a knee.

A man sat behind the desk. He was handsome, with golden hair and grey eyes that cut him to the bone. An air of cold solemnity made the office feel tense. Shame, because it was a pretty office- fine wood furniture, a large window that allowed sunlight to light up a tank full offish. Photos and trinkets decorated the shelves next to books about mythology. A sword holder sat, waiting for a sword that hadn’t returned yet. On the desk, there were four stacks of letters.

“Ave, Megara King.”

“Ave, Lord Mercury,” Because that who this was, not Hermes. Megara wasn’t sure how he knew, but he just did.

“Rise, boy,” Megara did, keeping his eyes firm on the floor. It helped him realize that there was a stain, like someone had stained tea and hadn’t cleaned it up in time. “Your father sent me to correct an error that I made.”

“An…error, my lord?”

The chair softly moved back. “Yes, an error,” A hand grasped his chin and forced his eyes up. “Three months ago, I made you swear an binding oath to never speak of Rhea-Kore Calimeris,” He twisted his hand back and forth, seeming to consider his features. “Something not needed. After all, R.K. kept the fact that she had met you secret for over eleven years.”

“Wait…we met?”

“Yes, once. I’m sure you don’t remember. She had been very badly hurt at the time, but I digress.”

Another thought popped in. “Will I remember more?”

“I do not know,” Mercury admitted as it pained him to say. “I do not know who cast this spell on you. I believe it might be Juno, but with her missing-”

“Wait, she’s missing?!”

“Why do you think there’s a lockdown?” Mercury didn’t let Megara answer further questions. His hand slid up to grip his forehead and he whispered something, too low for him to make out. He felt the pulses of magic though, wriggling into his brain. Something unlocked, just as Mercury’s eyes flew open.

“...my lord?”

“She stole your memories,” Mercury’s cold nature seemed to have fractured, revealing shock and then fear. He yanked his hands away, seeming to mutter to himself. “...what is she thinking…if she did this to him, then…” He grabbed what looked to be a small fidget toy, gripping and fussing with it as he seemed to think.

Megara tried to think, but nothing came to him. Nothing of his past, nothing before he woke up on the bus…no. Wait. His memory of R.K…

“I really shouldn’t be talking to you.”

SLAM.

Mercury had slammed the toy down on the desk. “If Juno has done what she has done to you to R.K., Uncle will have hell to pay,” he said, not looking back at him. “Now, get out.”

Megara wasted no time.