#because you had the first wave in 2010

[johnlockbbc]

Guys guys who else thinks it’s time for a resurrection of the Sherlock fandom I feel like we need a fourth wave who’s down

[star-anise]

Disclaimer: I like Anita Sarkeesian.

But also, I just saw a writeup of a Youtuber whose content has come a long way from his Gamergate days, and to explain that, the wiki says, "Anita Sarkeesian is a radical feminist who created a webseries about sexist tropes in video games"

AHAHAHAHAHA ANITA SARKEESIAN, RADICAL FEMINIST

HOO HEE EXCUSE ME THAT'S A GOOD ONE

Radical feminist. Feminist extremist. Anita Sarkeesian.

Anita Sarkeesian did her Master's Thesis in Social and Political Thought in 2010 on the trope of the "Strong Woman" in fantasy and science fiction TV shows, and produced Tropes vs Women, a series of online videos breaking down her work in a way that was accessible to a lay audience. She found a ready audience in geek feminist circles, since this was exactly the kind of thing we wanted and needed right then.

Tropes vs Women was extremely bog-standard cultural critique, what you'd find expressed in discussion between scholars of literary theory or media analysis anywhere, and exactly what 99% of feminists were saying at the time. It certainly talked about patriarchy as the complex system of sexism fused into our cultural matrix, so it's not like it wasn't radical feminism from that viewpoint, but it wasn't "radical" by way of being especially militant. Sarkeesian frequently pointed out how individual occurrences of a trope weren't harmful in themselves, but that a media landscape completely saturated with only that trope and nothing but that trope is, in the aggregate, a big feminist issue.

And the internet

HAAAAAAAATED

her for it.

Like, geek feminists got flak a lot anyway, especially when we wanted things like properly enforced policies against sexual harassment at science fiction conventions. And yeah, there totally were toxic keyboard warriors who said stuff about all men being scum - but Sarkeesian wasn't one of them.

It's probably because of her succinct, matter-of-fact, "this is not a debated issue, feminists have decades of theory and research to back this point up, sources abound if you google for thirty seconds so I won't stop to baby you through all the fundamental concepts" approach that she got such a big reach. She was calm, concise, coherent, and rational, everything feminists are told we need to be.

Unfortunately that just made her seem... attackable, I think. A good target, not actually scary or impassioned, unlikely to respond to violence with violence. The perfect kind of person to play five seconds of, and then spend the next five minutes yelling into your mic because IF ANITA IS RIGHT ABOUT VIDEO GAME SEXIST YOU MIGHT AS WELL SAY THAT EVERYTHING IS SEXIST AND SEXISM IS SYSTEMIC AND ENDEMIC TO ALL OF WESTERN CULTURE AND OTHER CULTURES TOO, WHICH IS CLEARLY RIDICULOUS, ANITA LADY BAD.

She literally spent five solid years as Enemy #1 in online geek spaces. It was completely insane. I am so sorry she had to take the brunt of it, and yet grateful that she did. She held the line and took the shit and kept doing good decent feminist work for years after, though she did admit to burnout and closed up shop on her nonprofit org Feminist Frequency in 2023. I hope to hell she's having a good day.

But even now, more than a decade later, dudes talk about her as though she were Geek Feminist Godzilla, the biggest baddest woman in the universe, off to lay waste to downtown Video Games and cut everybody's balls off.

When people (mostly dudes, but not all) talk like this, it's just very funny and unintentionally revealing because of the absolute averageness of her third-wave, trans-inclusive, western-centric, intersectional feminism. It makes them look absolutely pathetic.

Because it just makes it clear that she is probably the first and last self-described feminist the speaker has ever paid attention to.

[ckret2]

Any headcanons surrounding Mabel and Dipper's parents? - 🦊

I'm gonna give you one but it's a big complicated one. Hold on while I line up a few canon facts first:

in TBOB, Bill says he worked with Maniacintosh to release a computer that induces mind control. The programmers who worked on the computer had a tendency to commit suicide.

Bill says it got recalled for eating a kid's finger, so presumably he stopped working with Maniacintosh. Bill does NOT say Maniacintosh went out of business.

A reliable way to keep Bill out of your brain is by listening to music he can't stand, like that Inkwell song that's a parody of It's A Small World

Synth music causes Bill physical pain—and apparently a pain he doesn't enjoy, because Mabel successfully uses it to disable him in Dreamscaperers and he lists it as one of his weaknesses in TBOB.

In Weirdmageddon we see Bill listening to dance music that sounds like it was made with synths, and he has no trouble with it.

Mabel likes 80s synth music a lot. It's the music style of Dream Boy High and she listens to a peppy 80s synth song during her week in Mabeland.

Also Ford's musical tastes were (accidentally) on the cutting edge of new wave music, since the timeline of Journal 3 (accidentally) implies Ford was a fan of the Eurhythmics before they had a hit.

Dipper plays at least two instruments (tuba on-screen, and out-of-show materials mention he took piano lessons before that), and Mabel composes a rock opera in a week.

Mabel & Dipper's dad worked in the tech industry in the 90s

Before the kids go off for the summer, Dipper hears his parents arguing about something he shouldn't have.

Now here's my unhinged conspiracy theory:

One of the ways Maniacintosh drove Bill away from the company was by taking a page out of Inkwell's book and creating music he couldn't stand. In their case, they didn't settle for just a song; they created an instrument pre-programmed with a database of sounds specifically calibrated to hurt Bill. It became the most popular synthesizer of the 80s. Popular music is a minefield for Bill for the next couple of decades; several genres are completely unlistenable. This is why he can listen to some synth-based music during Weirdmageddon; by the 2010s, that one synthesizer's finally waned in popularity enough that some synth music doesn't damage him. (This is also why he didn't object to Ford's love of the Eurhythmics—that was before Maniacintosh's synth saturated the music industry.)

The Pines family—at least the Mabel & Dipper branch of it—is very musically inclined. Plus: Mabel likes synth music, Ford likes synth music, I've decided liking synth music is a Pines genetic trait. Ergo, Mabel & Dipper's dad likes synth music. When he went into the tech industry, he went for the most musical tech company that helped birth the techiest music: the makers of the Maniacintosh synthesizer.

We don't know what Maniacintosh did during the decade or two after kicking Bill out. But if we wanna try to predict what their modern workplace culture is like, we know they got their start using a programming language that drove their programmers to suicide, so that's not a very promising starting point.

Dad Pines has been getting his mental health eroded for years from working at Maniacintosh. Probably less from working with eldritch code, and more from working for the managers hired by the managers hired by the managers who didn't see any problem with making their programmers work with eldritch code. (But, like, there's probably still a little bit of eldritch left in their code, ngl.) I'm imagining a very toxic workplace culture here.

Dipper overheard his parents arguing about Dad's job. Mom said that if Dad doesn't get out of that job there and his mental health keeps going downhill, she won't subject herself and the kids to that anymore. This scared the crap out of Dipper.

It scared the crap out of Dad, too. He's quit his job and found a new one, he's getting therapy, he and Mom are getting couple's therapy, the kids are getting therapy just in case and also because they fought a demon last summer (??? what the hell did Uncle Stan get them into), things are improving.

Bill's got his fingers in so many projects, it interests me to think about all the ripple effects he leaves on society—all the damage he's done five steps removed from his initial involvement, damage that he not only doesn't care about but also will never know about. Wherever he goes, his cruelty casts such a long shadow.

A few bonus parent headcanons:

Since dad is listening to the 70s/80s stations that play 80s synthpop when he's driving the kids around, that's also where Dipper picked up BABBA.

Mom is the source of Mabel's karaoke night music picks, particularly the rock ballads. But enough about music.

Both parents are in the tech industry (although Mom obviously didn't go into Maniacintosh).

Shermie stayed in New Jersey, and that's where Dad grew up. He crossed the country to go to college in California, which is where he met Mom.

Both of them push hard that education is the key to a good life. It was for them. This hasn't necessarily been great for their kids, one of whom has said he doesn't know who he is if he's not the smart guy and the other of whom is just as smart as her brother but not in ways that get reflected in a report card. Whoops!

Dad trusts Uncle Stan, because he grew up being told about how how Uncle Stanford is a big genius, first in the family to go to college, and Uncle Stanley was a big hush-hush family secret until he died tragically in Oregon—probably going to visit Stanford, everyone thinks—this happened when Dad was a pretty small kid—and Uncle Stan just sort of burnt out and gave up on his high academic ambitions after his brother died, and Shermie feels sorry for him so Dad feels sorry for him.

Mom doesn't trust Uncle Stan, because she's met him.

Dad was raised Jewish but isn't really emotionally connected to it; he drifted away in college. He visits family for holidays when he can (but it's hard, almost everybody is across the country in New Jersey and Uncle Stan is kind of a recluse and doesn't really practice either). Mabel and Dipper had their bat mitzvah and bar mitzvah, but mainly for the benefit of Shermie and the kids' grandma.

Mom was Raised Non Religious But Culturally Christian. This extends to Christmas and to sort of assuming that everyone does weddings & funerals & religion the same way until she's told otherwise. Before getting married the only thing she knew about Jewish weddings was smashing the glass. She really wanted to smash the glass.

Mom's the one who's watched Star Trek and read Lord of the Rings. She and Dipper have the most overlapping tastes. She'd probably play DD&MD if he asked, but roleplaying with your nerdy mom is just weird. Unlike roleplaying with your nerdy great-uncle, which is very cool.

They're a "photograph and videotape EVERYTHING" kind of family. They digitized the ancestral family scrapbooks and they make "Spring Break Vacation '09!!!" DVDs.

[lexilovestom]

LITTLE SPECTATOR

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

— in which: You brought your 2 year old daughter to her first Tokio Hotel concert to see her dad perform on stage. And Tom and the band are so happy to have her in the crowd!

⌞ contains: fluff fluff fluff!! (this is actually so freaking adorable imo), 2010 Tom ⌝

— The daughter's name will be Nala since Tom said in his podcast that if he ever had a daughter he would have named her Nala like in the Lion King movie! 🥹

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

— Y/n's pov

Today I'm bringing Tom and I's daughter to her first Tokio Hotel concert! I've always wanted to see her reaction to her dad playing guitar, and now that I believe she's old enough it's the perfect time!

Tom doesn't know I'm bringing her, only Bill. He thinks that I will be at the VIP tent watching the concert with some family members and other VIPs, but nope! I have our little girl with me!

I can't wait to see his reaction because he's always told me from the day she was born that he can't wait to play for her in the crowd and put extra effort in his solos for her.

So here we are now. It's almost 8:00pm, definitely past my baby's bedtime, but the show is about to start. I'm holding Nala on my left side as I walk in the stadium with a bunch of security guards. Fans turn around and greet us with a bunch of cheering, and some even got near the VIP tent to talk to me and hold her hand. They're all so sweet, I'm so glad they support Tom and I's relationship.

"Baby are you ready? daddy's gonna stand on that stage in a couple minutes!" I say to my daughter before the lights dim down and everyone starts cheering super loud. Nala smiles and nods quickly, before I remember I should probably put her ear protecting headphones on since she's still very sensitive and loud sounds like these can damage her hearing. "Baby let's put these on okay? you look so cute!!" I say as I pick her up again.

"Dada?" she points to the stage ahead of us, "yes! dada will get on there in a matter of seconds!" I don't even get to finish my sentence that the music starts playing and the boys get on stage. I gasp and point forward "Nala look!! there's dada!" I watch her smile grow wider and wider and it's melting my heart, "dada!!!". She's such a daddy's girl and seeing her light up at the sight of her father almost makes me tear up. She's so in love with him.

Tom is fully concentrated on playing the guitar, he almost never looks up from it when the concert is just starting since he still has to warm up and relieve the tension. Nala is pretty much dancing in my arms and it's making me giggle so much, she's so cute. "Uncle Billy!" she looks over, "yes! uncle Billy is also there! and so are uncle Georg and uncle Gustav!" she starts waving at them, but sadly no one is looking in our direction just yet.

Some time passes and Tom finally looks up at us, I see his eyes widen and his jaw fall to the floor at the sight of his daughter. "Nala look! dada is looking at us! wave!!" she quickly turns her head, "papa!!!" she starts waving with both her little hands as she also kicks her feet in my grasp, making me laugh as I wave too. Tom smiles brightly, waves back and mouths a small 'hi baby', which I told her about.

Halfway through the concert the boys are playing Pain Of Love, Nala has her arms wrapped around my neck and her head against mine. She's definitely getting tired. It's almost time for Tom's solo and I can tell that he's putting all his heart and soul in making this his best one yet. I tap Nala on the shoulder, "baby look! papa's going to play the guitar by himself now!" she shoots up with a smile and Tom gives us one last glance to make sure we're looking before playing the most magical solo ever. You can hear the dedication, passion and desire to play this to his daughter and it's making Nala's eyes twinkle with lust.

It eventually comes to an end, and as Tom looks at us fully satisfied with a smile, I tickle Nala's belly teasingly "Did you hear that!? that was so cool! wasn't it? dada played it for you!!" she just giggles and curls herself in a little ball from my touch on her stomach. I look up to give Tom a reassuring and proud smile that speaks more than a hundred words. He just smiles back and nods his head before turning back. He got the message.

It's almost the end of the show, the boys have now moved on the acoustic set, Bill saw Nala and waved at her too. They sit down on stools in the middle on the stage as Bill thanks all the fans for coming here tonight, Tom keeps looking and waving at us with a warm smile as Nala sends him kisses.

"I also wanted to take a moment to say hi to our special little spectator of the evening, my sweet niece that is in the crowd with us tonight!" Bill says as the crowd turns to us and cheers loudly.

I shoot up, "Nala look! they're waving at you say hi! hiii!!!" I say. "Hiii!!!!!" Nala smiles as the crowd aw's in unison and the boys all wave back to her.

"It's her first concert and Tom can't stop looking in that particular direction as you can tell!" Bill adds as everyone laughs.

"Aww she's tired..well, should we play just a couple more songs before Nala drifts to sleep?" the crowd cheers again as their attention is back to the band, and the concert eventually comes to an end.

Nala slept on my shoulder for the last 20 minutes, but woke up just in time to say bye to her dad on stage and get out of the VIP tent. We make our way backstage with two security guards, before we see Tom standing alone at the foot of the stage, waiting for us surrounded by wires and lights everywhere. I gasp "Baby look who's there!!", "papa!!!" I slowly put her down as she runs towards her dad who bent down to hug her tight. "Hey princess! I missed you!! did you see me on stage?"

"Yeah!" Nala gets a little shy as Tom chuckles and picks her up. She wraps her arms around his neck and places her head in between it as he has one arm behind her back while kissing her cheek multiple times, making her giggle. "Did you like it?!" Tom asks again as she lets out a soft 'mhm'.

I slowly make my way towards them. Tom looks up at me with a smile, "heeeyy!" he kisses me, "hey!! she was so happy to see you on the big stage and you were so incredible wow!"

"Had any doubts?" he smirks as I scoff jokingly and lightly smack his arm, "of course not! I could tell how much this meant to you, and she loved it isn't that right?!" I turn my attention to Nala as I tickle her belly again. Tom looks at her and then back at me, mouthing a light 'thank you'.

"Where's my favorite baby?!" we turn around to see Bill running towards us with his arms out, completely sweaty, followed by Georg and Gustav who had towels around their necks. "Here she is!" Tom hands him Nala. "Uncle Bill uncle Bill!!!"

"Yes! uncle Bill is here!! hi little princess I missed youuu!!!" Bill holds her close and spins a couple times. "Did you enjoy the show? it was lovely having you in the crowd tonight!"

"Yes!" she giggles as we all aw in unison and laugh. "Hi uncle Georg! Hi uncle Gustav!" Nala looks ahead, "hi cutie!" Georg says while caressing her cheek as he's followed by Gustav's "hey pretty girl!"

Nala turns to look at me and Tom who had his right arm around my shoulders, "mama I'm sleepy" she holds her arms out as Tom quickly goes to pick her up. "Aaw you're sleepy? let's go then, let's have night night." I say as I too caress her soft cheek. Her little curls bouncing up at the slightest touch of them, her small Tokio Hotel denim jacket that matches her jeans and pink shoes, her red little lips...gosh this child is adorable and definitely Tom's twin.

"Let's go home baby come on" Tom giggles softly as Nala drifts to sleep on his shoulder in the same position as before. We say bye to everyone and head our way home. It was an amazing and very sweet night. I'm so glad my baby could see her dad perform, and I'm so proud of Tom for putting all his heart and soul in making her proud of him. She truly means the world to him and nothing could ever change that.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

I hope you guys liked this! it's my first image and even if I'm not very good at writing these things yet, I had a fun time and I hope you did too! make sure to send image requests! I would love to put my spin on your ideas 💕 byee! ♡

[mrchiipchrome]

Rain

W.C.- 3k

“So, when we’re on the topic, did any of you know that the world cup wasn’t Alexia’s first time dyeing her a crazy color?” You ask your scattered teammates, the team bonding being at your and Alexia’s place after a lot of fuss. The midfielder slung across your lap looked at you with wide eyes, the story embarrassing from her perspective.

“Amor, let’s not talk about that” Alexia’s nails close around the skin of your torso where your shirt had ridden up. The action makes you yelp, it being fairly unexpected, but out of your peripheral you can see the way she smirked in self amusement.

“No, no, let’s talk about it.” Mapi’s face is lit up by a mischievous grin, clearly wanting to hear the embarrassing story. It was the first time since her injury that she seemed like herself again, she’d been so sullen as of late.

“Yeah Ale, we want to hear the story.” Pina shouted from her place across from where you and Alexia sat together, her back leaning against the couch as Patri poked at her. The younger girl is getting all the more annoyed at her best friend's repetitive actions, slapping away her hand every so often.

“Por favor Ale, it’s a funny story.” Your hands run up and down her thighs softly, squeezing ever so lightly at times. It’s fun to see the way her resolve breaks with every stroke of your hands, the way her eyes slowly shut as she thinks about the implications that the story might bring.

“Okay then, tell it, but you have to finish what you started later.” The last part is whispered only for you to hear, leading to an embarrassing dark red color spreading across your cheeks. You sit up straighter and shift the midfielder around on your lap for it to be more comfortable for you both.

“Let me take you all back in time, sometime in September of 2010…”

September 7th, 2010.

“Amor please, I’m in need of some new hoodies, since you steal them all as soon as I put them on.” You pleaded with your girlfriend, the muddy clothes covering your body nearly leaving a trail of dirt behind you.

“That’s just because you buy the best hoodies, it is not my fault.” She puts her hands up in an ‘I’m innocent’ gesture, the girl looking at you with her most innocent expression. You weren’t asking for much, wanting her to bike with you to the mall located an hour away to spend some time together.

Well, it wasn’t like you were apart often, the two of you stuck at the hips.

“I need clothes, you don’t want Mila to see me shirtless, right?” Mila was another girl in your team, a girl that pretty clearly had a crush on you, something that Alexia detested.

“No. You’ll just have to wear my clothes I guess.” Her little self-assured smirk melted your heart, a puddle at the bottom of your stomach.

“Mhm sure, your clothes don’t fit me amor, but good try.” You wink at the brunette, her shy smile covering her lips.

“Y/n Y/l/n, you better have not tracked dirt into my house.” Alexia’s mum, Eli, called out to you. She knew your habits and how you’d always forget that your shorts were dripping dirt.

“I haven’t Mrs Putellas, I promise.” Eli always knew when you were lying, and that sing-songy tone was a sure sign.

“Okay, but you’re the one who’s going to wash up. And once again, call me Eli.” Your cheeks darken at the reprimanding tone your second mother used. The Putellas family was as much family as your own.

“Yes Eli.” 

“Y/n/n, I’m going to take a shower, you stay out here. Don’t sit on the furniture until we’ve washed you off.” Alexia is already halfway up the stairs when she calls out for you, her sister peeking her head out of her room at the sound of your girlfriend's voice.

“So, Y/n, I heard that you were having trouble getting Alexia to agree with you and I have a preposition for you.” The young girl told you, your face showing the confusion you were experiencing.

“Preposition? Where did you learn these words Alba?” Her expression turned into that of a nonchalant person, waving it away.

“Don’t you worry about it, now I want to pull a prank on Ale, but I need money and help for it, and you need hoodies. So you give me money, and I’ll buy a couple of hoodies at the mall, then you help me set the prank up, okay?” She went through the plan like it was the easiest thing in the world, and really it wasn’t that difficult.

“How much money do you need? And what is the prank?” You asked the girl, her smile immediately turning mischievous.

“Oh I need like 100 euros, so we prank Ale by putting that temporary hair dye in her shampoo, the one that goes away in a few washes, give her a scare.” Alba rubbed her hands together like a supervillain would, laughing evilly.

“Alba? What are you doing? Stop trying to scare my girlfriend off.” Alexia, freshly showered, comes back down the stairs to the sight of her kid sister imitating the joker. “Come on amor, it’s your turn to shower.” Your girlfriend led you up the stairs by your arm, giving you the chance to look back at her still laughing sister. Nodding, the younger girl knows that you’ve agreed to her plan.

————

“Wait, so it was Alba’s idea?” Mapi asks full of confusion, she didn’t know that you and Alba had been so conspiring.

“Yeah, but I had to do basically everything.” 

———-

“Is that enough?” You hand your girlfriend’s younger sister a bunt of money, the girl looking over it quickly and giving you a quick thumbs up.

“Mama, Alina’s dad is driving us to the mall, I’m going now.” The girl was clever, that much you couldn’t deny. 

“Choose a good color now Alba, okay?” She nods quickly at your quiet whisper, she knows not to choose black or blonde or any other boring color.

As she leaves, you make your way up to Alexia’s room, tripping over the random footballs laying all over her floor. On the soft bed she laid, your amazing girlfriend whom you couldn’t love any more even if you tried. Her smile distracted you even more as you tripped once again, hands catching your body.

“Bébé, you need to be more careful, you can’t be tripping and falling like that. We need you on the pitch.” She chastises you playfully, eyes flitting over your prone body. 

“Yeah yeah I know, I’ve heard it before, you’re just so distracting.” You push yourself off the floor in one swift move, ending up on the brunette’s bed. She smiles as you shimmy your body up the bed, eventually settling comfortably beside her.

Your hand comes up to cup her jaw softly, thumb moving over her bottom lip, pulling it down carefully. She leans in slightly, letting you make the first move to initiate the kiss. Your lips meet hers in a soft embrace only moments later, pushing your tongue inside her mouth.

The impromptu make out session ends when there’s a knock at the door, Alexia’s father peeking in to see what you were doing. He isn’t shocked to see the two of you laying next to each other, talking. 

All you could think there was ‘thank fuck for quick reflexes’.

“Come on amor, I’m taking you on a date.” You pat her leg as to tell her to get up from her position on the bed. 

“Where are we going?” She jumps off the bed and sprints over to the wardrobe in the corner of her room, throwing the door open to ruffle through her clothes.

“I was thinking that we could go to a restaurant maybe, I want to spoil you.” The hand that holds up your head shakes when she glares at you with that sexy intensity, like she knew about your shenanigans with her sister.

“What are you planning?” She asks suspiciously, eyes reduced to slits as she looks at you.

“Nothing! I swear it’s nothing.” Alexia looks at you for another second, trying to decipher if you were telling the truth, which she seemingly deems you to have done.

“I’m watching you, don’t think I’m not.” 

“I know you are, I’m so hot that you can’t keep your eyes off me.” You can see the way her eyes roll at your fake enthusiasm, shaking her head like a mother would at their child doing something funny that they definitely shouldn’t.

———-

“Another question, why would you take her on a date?” This time it’s Pina who asks, tilting her head at you.

“Well Pina, that’s what you do when you have a girlfriend who’s as hot as mine, and I’ll get to the other reason soon.” The girlfriend in question turns her head toward you, her fiery cheeks catching your attention.

———

“Wow, that was incredible.” Taking her to one of the most expensive restaurants in the city wasn’t on your list of what to do, but alas that was what happened.

You wanted to treat her before you pranked her.

“Thank you for taking me here bébé, the food was amazing and the company was even better.” You smile at her kind words, swirling the cola around in your wine glass.

The server comes back with your card after a few moments, just as you tell Alexia that you were going to the bathroom. The text you send to her sister gets an almost instant answer, telling you that everything was set up and ready.

“Amor? You ready to go?” She picks up her jacket at the question, walking with you to the exit of the restaurant. Her red lipstick smudges against your cheek as she presses a kiss to your cheek, the dark night sky lit up by the stars.

“Te amo bébé, thank you so much for this.” You can’t help but smile at her, she was all you wanted and more.

The rest of the walk back to Alexia’s house was spent in comfortable conversation, the girl asking if you wanted to stay over at hers.

When you both arrived home, she told you that she was going to take a quick shower whilst you made yourself comfortable in her bed.

Thankfully she can’t see the way your eyes widen, knowing that your plan was going to make it’s appearance way too early.

Waiting for Alexia to get out of the shower was almost as anxiety inducing as the prank itself, her reaction was sure to be good though.

It was when you were playing around with some stuff on her desk that you heard her furious voice calling out for you and her sister.

“Y/N! ALBA! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!” You rush out into the hallway to be met with Alexia in a black towel, her now blueish hair dripping onto the floor.

Alba runs into your back only moments later, looking like she was going to piss herself with laughter seeing Alexia’s face.

“What is this?” Alexia asks sternly, pointing at her hair. Alba doubles over in laughter, but you just stand there with a guilty look on your face. You recognise the expression on her face, one of incredible rage.

“We switched out your shampoo for hair dye, oh you should’ve seen the look on your face.” Alba says through laughs, her hand over her stomach, doubled over.

“WHAT.” 

“Amor, it’s not permanent, it’s gonna go back to normal in a few washes, right Alba?” The young girl looks up at you guiltily, her not immediately agreeing, making you worried. “Right Alba?”

“Uhm, I might’ve accidentally bought the permanent one, pleasedontkillmeAle.” At the murderous glare she gets, the young girl runs off, her sister staying rooted in front of you.

“Don’t lie to me, were you involved in this?” At that moment you felt the most fear you’d ever felt, she was glaring at you like she glared at your opponents.

“Yes, I gave her the money and got you out of the house.” You answer truthfully, the wrath she’d get if you lied was way worse than anything else.

“Get out of my house.” Her voice is stone cold as she orders you to get out.

“Amor please, I’m so sorry-“

“No. Get out.” This time you didn’t even try to argue, her tone held one of finality.

And so, you walked home in the now cold night, freezing like no other. You deserved it though, of course you had to prank her.

—————

“Wait, how did you get her back? I mean you’re together now so you had to get her back somehow.” Lucy asks, the third time someone has asked something during the duration of your story.

“Shush, I’m getting to it.”

————-

Alexia hadn’t responded to your texts the entire weekend, she was reading them, but not responding. Though you had heard from her sister that she’d decided to commit to the blue hair and got it fixed at the salon.

Even though you’d apologized 100 000 times, she wouldn’t forgive you, and when she passed you in the hallways without saying a word, you decided it was time to take out the big guns.

Sprinting over to the middle school her sister went to, you quickly got her out of class. Alba looked at you weirdly when you told her teacher that you were there to take her to the doctors, even more so when you gave the teacher a paper, but nonetheless she followed you out.

“Y/n, what are you doing?” She asked curiously, looking up at you.

“We are going to make it right between me and Alexia, you are going to help me.”

The preparations only took a few minutes, the only hard part being stealing the ladder from the janitor's office, your elaborate plan was relatively easy to execute.

You knew at what time Alexia got out of class, it wasn’t hard when that was the class you were absent from. But it seems like the teacher was keeping her after class as you and Alba hid behind a nearby row of lockers.

“Where is she?” Alba whispered sharply, looking at you like you were stupid. 

“Soon, she was probably just kept after class.” You whisper back just as harshly, the hallways empty by now leading you to spot your girlfriends much easier.

You can see her angry movements as she throws open her locker, taking out a few books. She’s closed it by the time that you reach her, Alba hidden behind you.

“Close it again.” You tell her, the woman looking at you with a mean glare, a glare that lightens when she sees the hopeful look in your eyes. The smile on your face widens as Alexia opens her locker again, gesturing for Alba to climb up the ladder and start pouring water onto your head.

Your hair plasters against your forehead, cold water making your clothes stick to your body. When you deem it enough, you quickly knock at her open locker door, the girl closing her locker again.

She can’t help but smile at the idiocy that was going on, her sister pouring water over your head with a flower waterer. In your hands were flowers, her favorite flowers.

“Alexia, I’m so sorry for pranking you, it wasn’t right even though you look amazing. Please let me make it up to you.” The water that ran down your face and into your mouth quickly turned your speech slightly slurred but Alexia couldn't help but think of how adorable you looked, doing the rain apology inside only for her.

“It’s okay, I forgave you as soon as I saw how hot I looked with this hair color. Just don’t do it again.” She breaks out in a full fledged smile, seeing how the water suddenly stops running down your face and how a paper rainbow appears above your head. “Oh look, it stopped raining.”

“C’mere.” You pull her into you by her waist, her lips meeting yours sweetly, before the sound of gagging breaks you apart.

“You guys are disgusting.” Alba exclaims as she gets down from the ladder, scrunching her nose at you.

“How did you even get Alba here bébé?” Alexia questions, you looking at her sheepishly.

“I may or may not have forged your mothers signature so I could get her out of class.” Your girlfriend slaps your arm at the confession, glaring at you playfully.

“Mama is going to be so mad when she finds out.” 

“Meh, we all know that I’m the favourite.” 

—————

“That’s how you got her back?” Lucy asks, her eyebrows raised at the peculiar way of apologising.

“Yup, she couldn’t resist my charm.” You tease the girl sitting on your lap, slipping your hand into hers, fingers fitting perfectly between hers.

“And Eli wasn’t mad when she found out?” Pina asks, the girl practically family.

“Oh, she was furious with me but only for a little, I am the favourite child after all.” Alexia rolls her eyes at you lovingly, the smile on her face tells you as much. You couldn’t believe that she was real, and that she was yours.

“It’s not like capi to let you get away scot free.” Mapi teases, the two of you had gotten up to a lot of shenanigans during your shared time at Barça and you’d always gotten punished somehow.

“She didn’t, I had to wear children’s clothes for a month after that since I quote ‘couldn’t grow up’, and yes there are pictures.” The girls around you immediately start trying to convince you to show them the photos, which you do after some convincing (and maybe one or two promises to take responsibility for your next prank.) 

Safe to say that you get teased for the foreseeable future, though they do leave you alone after you’ve finally proposed after nearly 16 years of dating their captain.

[after-witch]

Horrorfest: The Killer Always Comes Back For One Last Scare [Yandere Haruta Shigemo x Reader]

Title: The Killer Always Comes Back for One Last Scare [Haruta Shigemo x Reader]

Synopsis: You're the last one alive--or so you think.

Horrorfest prompt: When I saw you post wanting to write a Mean Thing for Haruta JJK, my mind immediately jumped to now requesting "reader-chan thinking they killed him and got away, but surprise! His luck technique" in the way slasher films trick you

Word count: 2010

Notes: yandere, reader is female, descriptions of death, gore, groping, sexism, Haruta being Haruta

The blood–oh, the blood. You’ll never get the blood out of your clothes. They’ll have to be burned.

No–they’d be burned no matter what. Because even if the soaked-in red could be removed and laundered and done away with, you would always see it. You would always smell it. You would always feel it, warm at first and now dry and tacky, damp against your skin. 

Most of it wasn’t even yours, after all.

It was theirs–your colleagues–your friends–

Nao, her body sprawled face-down, neck sporting a boot print; blood soaked through the stab wounds through her chest, her back and the highest part of her thigh. The last was close to her backside, and the killer had laughed about it. “I almost got her cute little ass!”

Kei, killed the simplest. Killed first. Stabbed through the gut. “I’d rather play with you girls alone,” the killer said. He wasn’t lying. Because Shika–

Shika, flat on her back, eyes wide in horror. Her face was a canvas of pain, stab wounds on her cheeks, one of them flayed and flapped open, hanging down her jaw. Her hands–what was left of them, they were stubs of missing fingers now, defense wounds–were splayed upwards. In desperation, in prayer. In growing rigor mortis. 

A glance around you only makes you want to tear at your hair, your skin, to collapse on the ground and die alongside them. Hell, with your blood loss, that might still be an option.

Fuck–This was supposed to be a simple mission. An easy one. The plan was to meet for dinner and drinks afterward. Nao would get too drunk on cocktails and Kei would ask her out again and Shika would slap him and you would laugh and laugh and–it’ll never happen now. Not ever again.

You are the only one left alive. And it’s not fair, really. It’s not right.

Your colleagues–your friends, after years of working together–weren’t any stronger than you. They weren’t any weaker, either. You were the reconnaissance team. Trained in basic combat so you might hold your own until actual help arrives, but your techniques were defensive, strategic. 

It was always the next wave of sorcerers who were meant to do the real fighting, while your team got the information, relayed it to just the right people, then got the fuck out of there. And today? Today, you did get the information, and you did relay it to just the right people. 

But just as you were planning to make your swift and necessary exit, everything went to shit. The single curse user that you were meant to be tailing (a weaker man, you’d noted; his sword held his hand for him, of all things) turned out to be two. And the second had a technique that hid him from your sight until just the right moment, unleashing a barrier that kept you contained–an ambush. 

The second curse user didn’t even bother coming inside, and there was a brief sense of relief that rippled through your team. You could deal with one low level curse user. This other man, blonde and thin and wearing a stupid outfit and a stupider grin, could surely be fended off until help arrived.

Or so you thought.

He’d grinned widely before counting the lot of you with his sword in hand–

“One, two, three… four.” 

His gaze lingered on Nao, on Shika. And then on you. Longer than the others? Maybe. It was hard to tell, then and especially now, with the adrenaline. And the blood loss.

Speaking of–

You grunt and rip off a piece of your tattered suit, then another, and another. You’ll have to wrap your wounds yourself, now that you’re–now that you’re alone. Help will arrive soon, and since the curse user is finally dead, and the barrier is gone (perhaps his second simply gave up, when he died?) all you have to do is survive until someone comes to help you.

Which should be any minute now, surely.

They will come before you finish wrapping your wounds, even; there’s a hope you cling to, while you carefully gauge which of your injuries is most at risk for killing you. Probably the stab wound in your side. It went in deep. It hurt–it still hurts–and blood is still seeping out. There’s a strange sort of pain with this wound. Something that almost tingles. Perhaps he hit an organ. Or an artery. Or both. 

The cuts on your arms and legs, no, that’s superficial. Meaningless. You don’t bother with them, instead going for the deeper wound, wrapping it with as many pieces as you can. Blood seeps through, despite the efforts. But that's all you can do. 

A pained sigh, more of a whine, escapes your lips as you lean against the old fountain in the center of the square. On the off chance that the second curse user came back, sitting here was an awful idea. But you were tired. You were dying. And sitting here gave you the best chance at rescue.

It also gave you the best sight of the curses that had seeped their way out of your body, that of your friends as they died. They were nothing much. Bitter, scared things. Whining and whimpering, much like you were doing; much like the rest of them did as they died.

But it would be over soon. You could go home. Call your parents and tell them you love them, consider how to pick up the pieces, and maybe in time you–

“You’re still here! I’m so happy!”

The warmth of slowly bleeding out is cut through with ice that runs up and down your weary limbs, stopping at your chest to make sure your heart begins to race so hard that the pain of it has you leaping to your aching feet.

“You…” The words come out of your lips without energy. It’s impossible. You’re dreaming. No: you’re dead. That must be it. Dead and this is what you hallucinate as your brain fires off all those lovely synapses. 

But it’s not a dream, and you’re dead. Not yet.

The curse user is standing in front of you, looking almost cheerful. His sword is back in his hand–back to holding his hand–and the wound that should have killed him, the ragged slicing of his neck that you managed with a broken pane of glass, is healed up. The only sign of it are dried rivulets of blood covering his neck and chest.

He glances down at it, following your gaze.

“Weird, huh? I’m just really lucky, you know!” When he looks back up, his eyes are wild. But not with anger, as you might expect. No–his eyes shimmer with glee.

There’s only one thing your brain can think to say to him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

His eyes widen. His lips get thin. He seems to be thinking seriously, perhaps for the first time in his whole damn life. And then, his face begins to shake–a little at first. His lips twitch into a smile. Then he throws back his head and laughs. Loud, giddy. It hurts your ears and you long to cover them up.

“I like to have fun,” he says, taking a step closer. 

Your eyes dart here and there, but where is there to run? You’re exhausted. Bleeding profusely. You wouldn’t make it around the corner.

When your pathetic gaze makes it back to him, he grins wider.

“And I really like weak things. You’re a weak thing, aren’t you?” He licks his lips as his eyes travel up and down your weakened, bleeding body. “All women are.”

There’s a retort somewhere in you; some indignity that might flare up and have you glaring, spitting at him, all defiance and swollen anger. But that retort has been stabbed out of you, chased out of you as your legs twisted and turned within the barrier. 

The retort is blubbering in the blood seeping out from underneath your torn suit bandages. 

“Aw,” he coos. “See? You can’t even speak.” He makes an awful noise, a gleeful little moan. “I want to hear you scream again, though.” His gaze flicks at Nao and Shika. “They made wonderful noises as they died. So pitiful.” His voice cracks at the last word, like a boy in puberty. 

At this, your body does finally try to run away. It has to; you can’t just stand here and die, no matter how tired you are. So your gaze hovers to the left before your bled-out mind decides it’s the best direction to go, carrying your weakened, jelly-like legs a few steps. 

A stupid thing to do, but since when were primal instincts always smart? 

“Oh!” He croons, just in time for your knees to buckle, for your body to hit the pavement hard. 

His footsteps sound too loud against the ground as he approaches you. You’re about to die. He’ll either kill you quick or slow but either way, you’re dead. 

Well, you think. At least I won’t have to live with survivor’s guilt. But mom-dad-sis-friends-neighbors-my-dog–growing-up-on-a-quiet-street-the-time-I-fell-down-at-the-playground-my-first-kiss-and–

All bittersweetness, all those momentary flashes of your life before your dying eyes are replaced with blinding hot pain searing through your ass. His sword–

“Bull’s-eye!” The laughter from behind you is too giddy for the blood-stained scenery. “Ah, should I try your tits next? Women always squeal when I…”

Whatever he says next is lost when the world gets topsy-turvy. The pain in your side and ass and body sears hot as you’re turned around by the curse user. You’re too weak and he’s not exactly strong–if only the second team had gotten here–but he’s strong enough to manhandle you, to hold you up by your wrists and fling you back to the ground so that you land on your back.

He straddles you, pressing his knees into your open wound. You scream–it must be you screaming, everyone else is dead–and he rolls his eyes backward lewdly. 

You hear the sword clatter to the ground and there’s almost relief in you, before you feel his hands roughly groping your breasts. It hurts. Not because he’s particularly rough, though it’s entirely possible; but because your entire body hurts. 

And maybe because, despite the knowledge of your imminent death and the gaping wounds on your body, you can still feel shame. 

“These are so cute,” he murmurs, voice half-laughing. “I wonder if I could cut them clean off.” His eyes glance towards his sword just as you whimper.

A pitiful sound. A small sound. A sound that attracts this vulture-like predator as readily as any mouse in the desert.

He leans forward, cooing softly. “You don’t want that?” 

You shouldn’t. It wouldn’t matter. It’s not going to change anything. But you can’t help it; fear of even more pain wins out.

“Please don’t,” you croak. “Please.”

The sigh that escapes his lips is practically sinful. 

And then–worse than death–you can see an awful thought blossom behind his eyes.

 “You know, I’ve been thinking–” He leans in close, breath hot and stale on your face. Spittle flies onto your cheek. “Since you’re so weak… and since you’re really the prettiest one… I might just keep you alive…”  

His tongue sneaks out like a worm and licks a trail up your cheek, catching tears and blood in one go. Your body jerks all too feebly, a blow to your dignity and primal desire to get the fuck away from him. 

You don’t want to die. But do you want to live, when this is the alternative?

He doesn’t care to find out your answer; instead, he licks another trail down your face, dragging blood–some yours, some not–into your mouth. You sputter, and he bites your bottom lip when you try to jerk your head away.

You whimper again–soft, pitiful, trapped. 

He only grins, and you can hear the sharp slice of the sword dragging against the pavement as it finds its way back into his hands. 

“It’s like you were made for me, right? Poor thing.” 

[ririright]

“Autumn Belongs to Us”

Clay Beresford x Girlfriend Reader

Riverside Park, New York City — October 2010 𖣂

The golden hush of late afternoon wrapped around Riverside Park like a favorite sweater. Trees flamed in brilliant reds and oranges, their leaves swirling gently in the wind before settling along the stone path like confetti. The Hudson shimmered beside you, calm and blue, catching the last rays of sunlight as if it, too, was in love with the season.

You walked slowly, arms linked with Clay’s. His long wool coat brushed against your side with every step, and your gloved hand was tucked inside the warmth of his—hidden away in the pocket of his coat like a shared secret.

Neither of you said much at first. The rhythm of your footsteps, the wind in the trees, the distant bark of a dog—all of it wrapped you in a quiet kind of intimacy that didn’t need words.

You finally spoke, nudging him playfully with your shoulder.

“You’re actually relaxing. Should I be worried?”

He smirked. “Mildly. There’s a board of directors somewhere wondering if I’ve been kidnapped.”

You laughed, and his eyes immediately softened at the sound, like the sun had broken through a cloud just for him. “If this is a kidnapping,” he murmured, brushing his lips lightly to your temple, “I surrender.”

A chilly breeze danced by, tugging your scarf and making you shiver. Instantly, Clay stopped walking and reached into the paper bag in his other hand. “Here,” he said, passing you the second drink he’d grabbed before your stroll—your favorite blend of spiced chai with extra cinnamon.

You blinked in surprise. “You remembered.”

He gave a modest shrug, but you saw the pride in his eyes. “I remember everything about you.”

You warmed your hands around the cup and took a sip, letting the heat and sweetness bloom in your chest. Then, without thinking, you stood on tiptoe and pressed a soft kiss to his lips—slow, lingering, and just a little bit cinnamon-flavored.

When you pulled back, Clay stood there with a dazed look on his face, cheeks faintly pink. “God,” he said under his breath. “How do you do that to me every time?”

You gave him a coy smile and leaned into his side. “Magic. Obviously.”

He laughed softly and pulled you closer, his chin resting atop your head as the two of you continued strolling along the river.

You eventually stopped at a small bench nestled under a vibrant maple tree, its branches glowing amber in the waning sunlight. Clay set the drinks down, took your hands in his, and helped you sit. He didn’t sit beside you, though—not at first. Instead, he knelt in front of you between your knees, resting his hands on your thighs and gazing up at you like you were something fragile and precious.

“You know,” he said quietly, “for a long time, I thought fall was… lonely. Cold. Just a reminder that everything beautiful dies.”

You gently ran your fingers through the soft waves of his light brown hair, brushing a few strands from his eyes. “And now?”

“Now it’s the season you kissed me in the middle of a park,” he whispered, “while the world burned around us in color.”

He leaned up and kissed you again, this time deeper, slower, like the wind could take him if he didn’t hold on to you. You cupped his face in your hands, thumbs brushing the softness of his cheeks, his lips plush and warm against yours.

When you broke apart, foreheads still touching, your voice was barely above a whisper. “You always know how to say things that make my heart ache.”

“Only because it belongs to me,” he murmured. “And I intend to take very good care of it.”

You sat together like that until the sun began to sink into the river—arms around each other, your warm drinks nearly forgotten, the leaves swirling gently at your feet.

In that moment, Riverside Park didn’t belong to the city.

It belonged to the two of you.

[vinelark]

With the exciting news of Kon being in MAWS season 3 (!!!!!), do you have an specific recs for him when it comes to comics? (I know Young Justice is good for him, but not much outside of that)

hello! exciting news indeed!!! and hell yeah, here are some kon-centric comics outside of yj that i’ve enjoyed reading:

Reign of the Supermen arc (1993)

this arc has kon’s intro, well before he even had the name kon, and it’s worth a read if you haven’t already because of the way he shows up and is peak annoying immediately (said with love). especially Adventures of Superman #501! (the storyline spans a number of titles, reading order here)

(and for a related rec, the reign of the superman (2019) animated movie blends aspects of the original comic arc with the “kon is made with lex luthor’s dna” reveal/retcon; it’s a fun watch! left me with Much To Think About pang-wise, too.)

Superboy (1994)

the most concentrated amount of og jacket and glasses superboy you’ll find in one series; there’s a lot going on here, most of it so very 90s (both in the plot/world and on a more meta level) and also so many adorable kons. special shoutout to my favorite side character, krypto in his “tiny white terrier with a giant attitude” form. (and for a more specific rec i’ll point to issues #60 - 61, in which kon is hopping through multiple realities and we see, among others, robin!kon and “supergrrrl” kon.)

Batgirl (200) #41

this is the issue where cass goes “hmm, i should try to do A Romance” and shows up outside kon’s window to see what all the fuss is about, and they proceed to have the most lavender date of all lavender dates. i adore kon’s inability to shut up here, and also for obvious reasons need to give it a special shoutout for kon taking a “bat-babe” on a date in the clouds.

Adventure Comics (Vol 2) #1 - 6 (2009)

this arc serves to re-settle kon into the world (and smallville) after the whole [waves hand] dying and coming back to life thing. (technically it’s 12 issues, but you’re asking for specific recs so my specific recs are the first six!) this is about kon starting life in smallville and having a prolonged identity crisis re: the superman + lex luthor of it all. cassie, bart, and tim all show up as significant guest stars (one of my fav tim & kon issues of all time is in here) but it’s very kon-centric! i also really enjoy the art, especially when it does wide/landscape shots.

Superboy (2010)

this is a pretty direct continuation from the adventure comics arc, once again feat. kon’s 21st century black t-shirt (sigh) and also kon wearing the tiniest, goofiest pair of Disguise Glasses. that said, it’s a fun, classic “teen superhero juggles school and crushes and a statistically high number of supervillains for a small town (seriously, what the hell was poison ivy even doing in kansas?)” series. also if there were any justice in the world simon valentine would’ve been one of those crushes, but alas.

Convergence: Superboy (2015) #1 - 2

i’ll be honest, i’m not super familiar with the overarching convergence storyline, but i really enjoyed this two-shot featuring a kon who has been stuck in metropolis without his powers, only to suddenly gain them back and immediately start brawling with alternate versions of heroes he knows. i also like the art in this one, and the character designs overall—leather jacket kon my beloved!

Action Comics (2016) #1020 - 1028 (“House of Kent” arc)

this sequence brings kon back into the kent family fold after the timeline fuckery (and i think follows from the young justice (2019) gemworld arc where they re-find kon?)—so basically it’s kon’s re-introduction to clark, and to lois and jon (who’s visiting from his own future adventure) and kara and martha and jonathan. despite spelling conner’s name two different ways in the span of a few issues, it’s a neat speedrun of different kon+superfam interactions, and also a fun time for anyone who’s a fan of kon being solidly part of the kent family. also: jacket kon is back 🙏

this is not at all an exhaustive list, just some of my favs--happy reading!

[lydiadeetzwannabee]

° ❀⋆࿔ dandelion ࿔⋆❀ °

° ࿔⋆❀ summary: When your name comes up for the first time since college, Art gets hit with a tidal wave of nostalgia. He invited you over to a motel room to talk, but you both know that’s just an excuse.

° ࿔⋆ notes: fem!reader, sexual content, smut, angst

° ࿔⋆ w/c: 3325

° ࿔⋆ a/n: i love eternal sunshine deluxe and i had to get this out my head bc UGH i love dandelion but back to scheduled programming right after this

2010

Queens, New York

Art can hear the trombone player from down the street as he steps up the metal stairs. The keys jingle in his hand when he walks to his designated room. Opening it was disappointing, but he didn’t expect much from a thirty-dollar motel wedged in the corner of a highway-side inn.

The motel smells like stale cigarettes and old air conditioning. One of those places where the floral bedspread has long since given up, and the flickering neon sign outside the window buzzes just loud enough to drown out any of his overthinking.

The room was unnecessary; he’s already got a suite courtesy of the Open. But Art’s been trying to save his personal life to himself during his rise in the tennis world. It’s not that he wouldn’t want to be seen with you. God, he would. He’d take your hand right now and post it, headline it, put it on a damn billboard if you let him. But he knew you wouldn’t want to be being spotted with him. Especially after how long it’s taken for one of you to break the silence between you. 

Finding you again wasn’t hard. He was in New York for the US Open and grabbed drinks with some old Stanford guys last night. One of them dropped your name in passing, mentioned you lived out here now. Art had your old number dialed into his phone before he’d even left the bar.

“Someone said you’re in Queens,” he said like it was nothing. Like it didn’t shake something loose in him. “I didn’t even know. I just— God, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Now he’s here, closing the door behind him as he stares at your “Be there in ten” text sent seven minutes ago.

“Just one night,” he had said. “I just want to talk.”

Talk. Even he doesn’t believe that. Art’s not sure what to do while he waits. He probably should’ve planned this better, spoiled you a little even though you’d hate it. But all he has is a bottle of alcohol and a fresh pack of cigarettes. He doesn’t smoke anymore—his dietitian won’t allow it—but he figures you probably never kicked the habit. There are a few condoms tucked in his wallet. Not because he expects anything. Just… wishful thinking.

It’s obvious what he wants. Obvious enough to make him forget how horrible your last encounter was. But Art’s always been an optimist when it comes to you. Stupid, stubborn hope. He’s never been able to kick that habit either.

He snaps out of his head when he hears a knock at the door, suddenly tensing. Ridiculous, honestly. He used to know you so well yet now you’re practically a stranger. His breath caught in his throat when he opened the door, eyes scanning over you. Suddenly, he was twenty again, sitting next to you in a study group. Laughing under flickering library lights. Thinking he had all the time in the world.

You look the same. But you don’t. Your eyes are still beautiful yet now they’re dimmer. Your face is sharper, older, more sure of itself. You don’t even say hello before you push past him, as if you’re already sick of having to deal with him. Like this whole thing is some errand you’ve agreed to run against your better judgment. He doesn’t take it personally. Not really. That’s always been you.

You look around the room with what he assumes is disgust, your arms crossed over your chest and your expression unreadable. You don’t sit, instead you turn to face him again. Art finally shuts the door, swallowing as he takes a step towards you. He keeps his distance, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says. Now he can finally take the time to appreciate you. You look good. Better than he remembered, and he remembered too much. It makes him feel stupid, like he should’ve worn something different or fixed his hair again before you got there, but you always liked that style on him. Maybe still do.

Your brow raises at him before you glance at the sad bottle of vodka on the coffee table. “Then why’d you rent the room?”

Touché.

He took a breath, suddenly finding the carpet extremely interesting. “…guess I hoped you would,” he admits.

And you sigh. Sigh like this is taking up your patience like you’re above this whole thing. Like even considering meeting again was a mistake. “What do you want, Art?”

He wants a lot of things. He wants to apologize, to take back every bad thing he ever said or did. To apologize for everything he didn’t do. He wants to tell you how he’s sorry for not talking to you sooner, for the way things ended between you. That he should’ve fought for you harder.

But all that comes out of his mouth is “I missed you.”

His words hang in the air for a second, the neon sign buzz feeling ten times louder than it was.

“You missed me?” you repeat like you don’t believe it. It’s not enough. 

“You find me now and suddenly you miss me? You didn’t try to find me before, Art,” you say, your voice tinged with that same disappointment that makes his heart ache.

“You disappeared.”

He sighed, knowing there was some truth in your words. He doesn’t even know why he didn’t try earlier. Maybe it was the fear that you wouldn’t want anything to do with him. But looking back, that was stupid.

“I know,” he starts. “I know. You’re right. But I—“

“I don’t even know why I’m here,” you muttered. And if it was meant to hurt him, it did. You finally move, but it’s only to push yourself off the wall, and Art’s scared that he’s losing you again. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d grown up.”

Art’s eyes flicker up to meet yours, taking a step forward. “And?”

You scan him, his face, his posture, his hands, and he swears you’re looking right through him. Like you still know him, whether you want to or not.

“Why are we wasting time?” you say, low and dangerous.

He paused. Not because he didn’t know what you meant, but because he did.

And maybe it’s stupid. Reckless. Idiotic. Maybe it’s the worst idea either of you has had in years. Maybe ignoring your problems until they come to fruition is unwise.

But you’re here.

He’s here.

And those unspoken words between you simmer with tension, hot and heavy and aching to be touched.

He doesn’t realize how he’s stepping closer until he stops right in front of you, his chest almost brushing against yours. “We don’t have to.”

You hum, your hands moving to unbutton your coat, and he simply washes. His eyes are longing, yearning, unsure if he’s allowed to touch you. Your coat hits the floor with a soft thud, and Art swears time slows down. It’s not just the way you look, it’s the weight behind it. The tension that coils tighter in his chest with every breath. This isn’t casual. This isn’t mindless. This is everything he’s tried to suppress and forget and move on from, standing just inches in front of him, calling his bluff.

“You still do that,” you murmur.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like I’m going to disappear.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that. He never has. So instead, he kisses you.

His eyelids flutter at the familiarity, his lips carefully moving against yours, like he’s afraid that if he does a single thing you don’t like, you’ll pull away. But instead, you push harder, your tongue slipping between his lips. You kiss him like you’re angry, like you want to hurt him for what he did to you. He kisses you back with everything he can’t say, hands cupping your face, your waist, anything he can touch to prove to himself you’re real.

Your hands press against his chest, feeling him through his sweater. He moans against your mouth before you tug the hem of it. He helps you pull it off, breaking the kiss for a split second before meeting your lips again. He tries to keep kissing you when you trail down to his jaw, his head tilting to make space for you. You kiss down his neck like you remember the map of him, and maybe you do. His hands slide under your top, fingertips grazing the skin of your back, and you don’t stop him.

He gently tugs your hair to lead you back to his lips. It’s messy. Urgent. He backs you toward the bed like instinct, and your bodies move in sync the way they used to, like no time has passed at all. His body covers yours as he settles in between your legs. He leans down, placing wet kisses along your neck while his hands palm your thighs. His hips rock against you, trying to elicit those soft sounds from your lips as he rubs his clothed erection against your center.

Your eyes close at the feeling, a soft moan escaping your parted lips. Your legs wrap around his waist and it only encourages Art to move faster, press against you harder. His hands roam across your body, fingers slipping under your top to push it up just enough to reveal your bra. His eyes focus on your chest before looking back at you with dark eyes, waiting for permission.

You give him a slight nod and he doesn’t hold back. Art’s taking off your shirt and tossing it to the side before you could change your mind. His fingers deftly unclasp your garment, slowly pulling it off. He kisses the hollow of your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder, his lips grazing skin like it’s sacred.

His mouth wraps around your nipple with a soft hum and it makes your breath hitch. His tongue’s circling the bud, nipping now and then to make you gasp before kissing and sucking it better. He touches you like he’s rediscovering something precious, fingers memorizing your rhythm, coaxing every sound out of you until your back arches and your hands grip his shoulders.

His lips continue their actions with your other nipple as he feels down your stomach, his hand slipping under your waistband. He groans against you when he feels your wetness soaking through your underwear. He cupped your heat, making you gasp as his middle pressed against your clothed clit, rubbing it in slow circles.

Your hand flies to tangle in his hair, tugging at his golden locks as you begin to move against his touch. He pulls back from your breast with a pop, kissing you once again. His fingers push aside your underwear, lightly tracing your entrance while you moan against him. “You’re so wet,” he muttered, his arm moving to wrap around your shoulders to press you closer to him. 

You whine, gripping the side of his neck, and he slips his finger into your channel. Your nails dig into his skin, lips faltering against the kiss as he begins to pump his finger before adding a second. His pace slowly picks up, and your sounds only pick up volume. He pulls back enough just to admire you, the way your face is scrunched up in pleasure, the way your eyebrows knit together, your kiss-swollen lips glistening under the motel’s dim lights. You look angelic.

He can begin to feel you squeeze around his fingers, letting out a low grunt as he moves faster to bring you to your climax. Art isn’t sure how he made it so long without this, without you, but all he knows is he can’t stay away from you anymore. How can he when you’re writhing in pleasure under him like this? Your velvet walls tighten around him, begging him to make you cum. You’re almost breaking his skin from how hard you’re scratching his shoulders, desperately trying to grip onto anything when your orgasm hits you. Your hearing goes muffled, and you swear you see stars.

Art watches you in awe, his arm almost cramping, but he doesn’t stop. His need to watch you come undone overrules any other sense.

You ride out your orgasm before falling limp against the mattress as you pant. Art’s hand slows to a stop, and he slowly pulls out of your heat, eliciting a small whine from you. He sits back on his knees, slipping his fingers into his mouth to taste you. You can feel the desire begin to pool in your stomach at the sight of him moaning at your taste and licking every last drop.

You’re still recovering from your climax when your hands reach out to unbuckle his belt. He helps you, pushing away the denim before his fingers hook into your pants, pulling them down and off. He crawls over you, staring down at you.

And God, the way you look at him.

Like you hate him. Like you want him. Like you still remember what it felt like to love him.

He rests his forehead against yours for a moment, taking a second to feel you under him, to memorize your ragged breaths and body all over again.

“God,” he muttered. “I missed you…” Your hands tug at his sides, and he’s reaching for his wallet on the nightstand, pulling out the saved condom. He tears the packet open with his teeth, going to roll the latex on his cock before your hand wraps around his wrist. He stops, watching you with attentive eyes, scared he might’ve done something wrong. You shake your head.

"No," You breathed, your eyes locked with his. "I want to feel all of you. I'm on the pill. Please, just take me."

Art hesitated for a moment, the condom still in his hand. It had been so long since he'd felt a woman bare, and the thought of your tight, naked pussy wrapped around his cock was almost too much to bear. Throwing caution to the wind, he tossed the condom aside and positioned himself at your entrance, groaning at your arousal covering his tip.

"You sure about this?" he asked, his voice rough with desire. At your nod, he gripped your hips and slowly pushed forward, feeling your slick walls parting for him. He had to pause for a moment as the head of his cock popped inside you, taking a breath to stop himself from pushing in. You gasped his name—not loud, not performative, just honest. Like it slips out of you before you can stop it.

Your back arched off the bed as he stretched you open, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. "Fuck, you're so big," you gasped, your nails digging into his biceps. "Don't stop, Art."

With a grunt, Art thrust forward, burying himself in your heat in one smooth stroke. He paused, letting you adjust around his size. Your walls fluttered and clenched around him, drawing him in even deeper. He could feel every inch of you, and it took all of his willpower not to cum right then and there.

He began to move, pulling nearly all the way out before moving back in. His thrusts are slow at first like he’s savoring it, like he wants this to last forever. But you dig your nails into his shoulder, silently telling him not to hold back, and he doesn’t. He slowly begins to set a hard and fast pace. The room filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin and your moans of pleasure.

The headboard creaks. The neon motel sign flickers outside. Somewhere on the street, the trombone is still playing. You whisper something that sounds like don’t stop. Or maybe it’s don’t leave. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask.

He just gives you everything. He can feel you start to tighten around him already, your body tensing as you climb closer to your peak. He leaned down to capture your lips in a filthy kiss, swallowing your combined moans. He moves with purpose, needing you to feel every inch of him, like he’s trying to apologize with the way his body moves against yours. One hand slides beneath the small of your back to hold you closer, deeper. All that matters is this. The heat, the sweat, the way your name leaves his lips like a confession. Like a prayer. You dig your nails into his back. He pulls away from the kiss to groan into your neck.

"Fuck, I'm close," he panted against your mouth. "I want to feel you cum on my cock. Let go for me, baby. I got you."

His words push you over the edge. Your head fell back, your climax hitting you in waves—slow at first, then all at once. He follows soon after, burying his face into your shoulder, muttering a choked “fuck” that sounds too raw to be casual. You could feel him painting your pussy white as he filled you with spurt after spurt of his cum.

It felt like forever before your climax passed and you both relaxed. Your eyes close at his weight on top of you, your arms wrapping around him.

You don’t speak for a long time. The room is hot now, heavier with silence than it was before. The sweat on your skin cools under the hum of the air conditioner, and Art’s hand rests against your hip like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he moves. The silence between you isn’t awkward. It’s... thick. Like something is sitting between you—years, mistakes, words unsaid—and now it’s all right there, hanging in the air.

He moves first, rolling onto his back before pulling you against his side. You don’t protest, your head nuzzles into his shoulder. 

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse, quieter than before.

You nod. “Yeah.”

But then your eyes flick away. And that’s all it takes for him to know you’re not. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to see you again,” he says. “…I should’ve tried harder, baby. Said more. Did more.”

You swallow hard. “You didn’t say anything. That’s what hurt the most.”

He flinches. “I know.”

Your fingers toy with the edge of the sheet, suddenly nervous. Like everything that just happened could fall apart if either of you breathed too loudly.

“I thought maybe,” you say slowly, “after Stanford... I dunno. I thought we were doing more than just having fun.”

“We weren’t just having fun,” he says immediately, his hand idly squeezing out the knots on your shoulders. “You were the only thing that felt real.”

You meet his eyes again. There’s something broken in them. Something yours.

“Then why’d you have to end it like that?”

He hesitates, averting your eyes to watch his hand knead your skin. “Because I was scared. And stupid. And…” He sighed, meeting your eyes again. “I thought I might’ve ruined it if I had you for too long.”

You’re quiet.

After a beat, “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to disappear then show up years later like this and pretend it didn’t matter.

“I’m not pretending,” he says. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

That lands hard. You feel it in your chest, in the pit of your stomach.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds. “I know I don’t deserve to. I just... I wanted you to know. I never forgot you. And if this— if tonight was just one night, then... thank you. For giving me that.”

You stare at him. And you hate how much he still means to you. You reach over, fingers brushing his hand. He laces his with yours without hesitation. You rest your head against his chest. He doesn’t know if you’ll stay. He doesn’t ask.

For now, you’re here.

And that’s more than he deserves.

[preseriesdean]

for @spnficrecfest day nine: vintage fics 🧡 (published pre-season six)

by CANDLE_BECK

Last Day on Earth 10.8k words, rated E, published july 2009 A list of things to do if you only have one day to live, presented in inconvenient non-list form.

Eight Things You Should Know 7.7k words, rated T, published dec. 2008 Being in love with Dean is the most annoying thing.

Speechless 11.2k words, rated T, published oct. 2008 Dean loses his voice and their rapport is only moderately impaired.

Second Map of the World 13.9k words, rated E, published sep. 2010 They're on a lucky streak, and then Sam does something ill-considered, and the plot thickens.

American Myth 11.5k words, rated M, published nov. 2007 As long as you have a car, you are free, and other lies my country taught me.

by WHEREUPON

Breathing Hard 9k words, rated E, published aug. 2009 The day Dean figures it out.

Love Letter 4.8k words, rated E, published sep. 2009 It's almost fall and Sam hasn't said anything about leaving.

Head On 8.3k words, rated M, published june 2009 And then, just like that, Dean falls.

by SEVENFISTS

Wear Him Like a Habit 2.2k words, rated M, published march 2008 Their first kiss isn't an accident. It's anticipated well in advance, discussed for weeks, argued over, second-guessed.

Someone Else's Blood 6.7k words, rated E, published aug. 2006 The first time, of course, was an accident.

Life As We Know It 13.7k words, rated M, published apr. 2007 On the morning that Sam woke up, Dean ran five red lights on the way to the hospital, his half-empty coffee cup sloshing in the holder.

Just Reach Out 1.9k words, rated E, published apr. 2006 Sam wakes up slowly. The dull hum of noise in the distance resolves into Dean's voice, quietly singing along with the radio. Sam's face is stuck to the leather seat. He's been drooling a little; the corner of his mouth is wet. He moves his hand tentatively, feeling it prickle, heavy with blood. The window's rolled down.

The Art of Manly Hugging 1.6k words, rated E, published aug. 2007 Sometimes, you know, Dean just needs a goddamn hug.

by COYOTESUSPECT

Odysseus, American 10.1k words, rated M, published feb. 2010 Dean finds Peter O'Toole's recording of the Odyssey in a bin marked “Audio" in Casa Grande's only used bookstore. The place smells like cigarette smoke and old books, and it reminds him of Sam.

Divine Intervention by coyotesuspect 3.8k words, rated T, published aug. 2008 "Dude," says Sam. "I think Castiel just hit on me."

by ASTOLAT

Leader of the Pack 14.9k words, rated E, published dec. 2007 Teaching old dogs new tricks.

Inseparable 6.7k words, rated M, published jan. 2008 It was just plain sense, so Dean didn't understand why something about the way Dad said quietly, "It's time you had your own bed," made him feel guilty and confused.

Unasked 15.3k words, rated M, published june 2007 Sam doesn't ask.

Worth The Wait 4.4k words, rated E, published jan. 2008 Sam couldn't remember a time when he didn't want Dean.

Generosity 1.7k words, rated E, published may 2007 John had traded the gun; he'd have traded away more, and he was still feeling the cold dread of the moment when the demon had cocked its head like a pistol and said, "You know, I'm feeling generous today," because if it hadn't taken more, that was only because it figured what was in store was going to be worse.

by MOLLYAMORY

North of Wednesday 3.5k words, rated G, published feb. 2008 Coda to Mystery Spot.

Open Road 2k words, rated T, published may 2010 Sam's old enough to know what's good for him.

by FLESHFLUTTER

whose wings, though tattered, shall carry me home (dean/cas, sam/dean) 2.2k words, rated T, published march 2009 There is a breeze moving across the field. It stirs the long grass in lapping waves like the sea. Castiel runs his fingertips through it and remembers flying.

I'll take my chance on a beautiful stranger 3.9k words, rated M, published june 2007 If Chase were a better friend, he might try to end the game now, before Brendan loses even more money. But if Brendan is a dick at Stanford, it’s nothing compared to how he is on break.

by others

The Last Outpost Of All That Is by gekizetsu 59k words, rated E, published feb. 2008 The world ends while they’re asleep.

a journey of a thousand miles by killabeez 2.3k words, rated T, published aug. 2006 Sam spends a lot of time being afraid, but it's not the things that go bump in the night that scare him the most.

Almost At Home by balefully 24.3k words, rated E, published july 2008 Sam graduates from high school in early June in rural Tennessee. He and Dean start the summer with an all-nighter of celebration; the day after, while both fight hangovers, John calls to assign them their first hunt by themselves.

State of Love and Trust/As I Busted Down the Pretext by cormallen 2.9k words, rated M, published jan. 2010 When you know exactly what your brother's thinking, there are some chances you just don't take.

[obvithe-bestsoph]

my best friend.

masterlist requests word count: 3.7k (if this flops, i'll cry)

a/n: it's 3am right now, and i have to be up at 7:30, but here, have this. no seriously, if it flops, i will cry. yes, this is in fact me asking you to like it 😭. genre: fluff, childhood best friends to lovers. warnings: they kiss? literally nothing graphic lol. safe for everyone.

Wednesday, 18th of August, 2010. 3 years old.

Your mama has been a stay-at-home mother your whole life, but recently she has decided that she wants to return to work since you’re a little older, meaning that you need somewhere to go during the day, and that place was Infantil 1-3 años, and today is your first day. You had cried quite a lot when your mama had left you this morning, not really ever having been away from her much, but when you eventually realised that she wasn’t coming back any time soon, you plonked yourself down on a small chair in a quiet corner of the colourful classroom. 

For a while, you sat there watching. The kids here are quite noisy and a bit dirty, but the toys look fun, and so does the playground outside, there’s a big patch of grass where some kids are playing with a football, and some others playing tag. Maybe this place isn’t so bad.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a small hand waving across your line of vision, trying to get your attention. Your eyes follow the hand, up their arm, over their shoulder, and to their face. It was a little boy, he had a big smile and short brown hair.

“Hola!” he says cheerfully. “On són els teus amics (where are your friends)?” 

“Sóc nou, no en tinc (i’m new, i don’t have any).” you reply.

He then sticks his hand out to you, waiting for you to hold it.

“I’m Pau Cubarsí Paredes, and we’re best friends now.” he states simply as you link your small hands together. You smile a little, and nod. “Vale (okay). My name is Y/N.”

“Alright, Y/N, let’s go out and play.” he grins, hands still holding each other’s hands as you two run outside smiling. He brings you to where the big patch of grass is, he starts to join in, when someone calls out to him,

“Qui és, Pau (who is that, pau)?”

Pau smiles proudly and calls back to the boy, “This is my best friend, Y/N.”

Thursday, 10th of September, 2011. 4 years old.

After you and Pau whining and whining at your mothers’, tonight, you’re having a sleepover. You’re going to share a bed with Pau, which you weren’t too happy with to start off with, but after Pau tells you that it’ll be alright, because then you can keep each other safe from the monsters, it doesn’t seem so bad anymore.

When you finally arrived at Pau’s house, he was already outside in the back garden, playing with the football he got for his birthday in January. You both really like football, and actually, that’s kind of the whole reason for this sleepover in the first place. Tonight, FC Barcelona is playing Real Sociedad, and you’re gonna watch it together on TV. 

Pau’s mother takes your bag of things that your mother had packed for the night, and while the two women chat in the kitchen, you run outside to see Pau. “Pau!”

“Y/N!” he runs up and gives you a quick hug. “Do you wanna play?” “Of course, I want to play. Don’t be silly.” you giggle, and steal the ball off of him, shooting it into the invisible goal at the end of the garden, and running to give him a high five in celebration. 

It only feels like 10 minutes to you guys, but hours later, Pau’s mama calls you back inside for dinner and the game starts. You run in, wash your hands as required, take your plates and sit on the floor in front of the TV, just in time to see the teams walking out of the tunnel. 

Sadly, you guys aren’t allowed to watch the whole game as it runs too late for little kids like you, despite both of your protests that you’re ‘big kids’ now. However, you get sent up to bed anyway, with the promise of his parents telling you the final score in the morning. 

It feels a bit odd going to bed without your mama’s cuddles and your papa’s special stories, but you don’t say anything and just let Gloria tuck you in next to Pau and kiss your forehead good night.

“Bona nit els meus petits amors, ens veiem al matí (good night my little loves, see you in the morning).” she says, and then quietly leaves the room and shuts the door behind her, leaving you and Pau alone.

You both lay in silence for a while, which only leaves you time to think about how much you miss your parents. “Pau?” “Yeah?” your bottom lip starts to wobble.

“I miss my mama and papa.” he panics, seeing you’re about to cry.

“Hey, don’t cry amiga, it’ll be okay. You have me. Do you want a cuddle with Monkey? He’s like… magic.” Pau tries to help, offering you his special monkey stuffie, his equivalent of those security blankets kids have. 

You shake your head and the first hot, fat tear slides down your cheek. Well now this is really out of Pau’s ballpark. He quickly scoots closer to you and wraps his small arms around your body. “Està bé (it’s okay).” he pulls you a bit closer and you snuggle into him. His cuddles always make you feel better, and vice versa.

“I love you, Y/N. You’re my best friend, and I’ll give you loads and loads of hugs until you stop crying.”

Monday, 21st of September, 2013.

Today is your first day of big school. In Spain, it’s called Primero (year 2/1st grade). Or that’s what your mama said anyway. You were so glad because Pau’s going too. It would be scary by yourself. The new school is very different from Infantil, it’s big and there are lots of older kids there too. As you walk through the gates, carrying backpacks that are practically bigger than the size of your small bodies, you start to walk towards where the lady in front of you is telling you to go, not letting go of each other’s hands a single time.

The new classroom is bigger, just like everything else here, but the teacher lady up the front seems nice enough. But unlike at Infantil, you don’t just put your bag on the hook and then go off and play until you get called in to eat, you put your bag in a cubby hole and then you have to go and sit at a table and wait for the teacher to start talking. It’s weird. You both want to go outside, but she says no. Hmph. 

The first thing you have to do is sit in a circle on the floor for “Talking Time,” where you have to say your name, how old you are, and something about yourself. Both being fairly shy around people that aren’t each other, you and Pau hold hands the whole time, even when one of you is speaking. Pau goes first and nervously starts talking, “Uh, hola, my name is Pau, I’m six, and my fact is that I really like football.” 

Then it’s your turn, you panic, but a squeeze of Pau’s hand brings you back down. “M-my name is Y/N, I’m six too, and my fact is that I always watch and play football with Pau.”

You nod your head proudly, and Pau smiles at you, the little girl starts to talk next to you, but neither of you is paying attention to her. You put Pau’s hand in your lap and draw invisible little pictures on his palm with your finger.

Then you have to sit back at the tables and are given a piece of paper and a pencil. On the piece of paper is your name, which apparently today, you’re learning how to write. 

You get a bit frustrated when Pau does better at it than you, but keep practicing anyway.

“This is too hard.” you huff, trying again. Pau pats your hand and reassures you.

“It’s not ‘too’ hard, you just gotta do it again.” you huff and continue on.

After that, you have to start learning how to count. The class sits on the floor in a circle again, and in a chorus, repeats after the teacher. “Un, dos, tres, quatre, cinc (one, two, three, four, five)…” Pau decides he likes numbers more than letters, but you decide letters are better than numbers. Everyone has their strengths, right? 

After what feels like forever of counting to five, then six, then seven and so on, finally, your lunch break comes and you’re allowed outside again. You want to go and play football, but the kids here are a lot bigger and scarier, so you stay sitting close to each other in a corner of the playground. An older kid, from a few years above, in Tercero (year 4/3rd grade), calls out to you, teasingly. “Oi, is that little girl your girlfriendddddd?!” he grins. 

Pau and you frown, and hold hand a little tighter, “Girlfriend? No. This is my best friend, Y/N.”

Thursday, 24th of March, 2016. 9 years old.

“Come onnnnnn, Y/N. Si us plau (please)?” Pau whines, complaining as he just lost yet another 1v1 against you. 

“Nope. A loser’s a loser. No rematches.”

“What?! But I wasn’t ready!” he cries.

“Then why’d you say ‘Yeah, vale, go.’ when I asked if you were ready?”

“Uhhh…”

“Exactly. Now, I’m gonna go inside because it’s hot and your mama said she bought ice cream. Pau perks up at the mention of ice cream and is racing ahead of you to get there first.

“Hey! Wait for me!” you call, dashing after him. 

When you reach the kitchen, Pau is already sitting at one of the stools in front of the island, his mama scooping balls of ice cream into two bowls. She then goes into the pantry to get sprinkles but realises there’s only enough for one person. Pau is quick to call dibs but is then almost immediately scolded by his mother. “Pau, remember how we talked about being a gentleman? Let Y/N have them.” He mumbles and grumbles, but you shake your head.

“It’s okay Gloria, we can share. Right, Pau?” Pau’s face lights up again and he nods quickly. The woman laughs and puts a tiny amount of sprinkles over both bowls and pushes them across the counter so they’re in front of you. You both dig in quickly and a moments later, Pau speaks up again, mouth full,

“Thank you for sharing.” “That’s okay. I thought you might need something to cheer you up after I bet you so many times.” you tease, and he rolls his eyes at you bringing it up again.

“I told you it was because I wasn’t ready!” 

Now it’s your turn to roll your eyes, still smiling though, “Uh-huh, sure.”

Irene, Pau’s older sister walks in, being used to you two by now, she doesn’t even bat an eye at your bickering and teasing. Irene’s 4 years older than us, 13, she’s cool, but you aren’t particularly close to her as you two are quite different from each other. But she will ‘babysit’ you and Pau on occasion, so she’s chill. 

She scolds Pau for rocking on his chair, fixes his hair, gets a snack, huffs, and walks out again, as would any good older sister. 

After finishing your ice cream, it was down to the living room to mope around and complain about being hot while playing FIFA. Barcelona summers really are just too hot sometimes. Pau beats you in the first few games, but you then flip yourself so you’re not lying upside down on the couch, and you start playing better. You guys spend a few hours doing that before Pau chucks his controller down and sighs.

“I’m bored of this, and it’s too hot to go outside and play actual football. And mama says no football in the house. What do you wanna do?”

“Die? It’s too hot.” he snorts and tugs on your ponytail, “You’re so dramatic.”

“Am not. It’s, like, boiling. But seriously, I have no idea what we should do.” Pau slowly turns his head to look at you, the look in his eyes silently asking, ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ to which you nod, and you both dash up the stairs, to Irene’s room, as she is now the unfortunate target of your boredom. 

Later that afternoon, Pau came to watch your football game against the female Real Betis youth team, he cheered loudly at every goal you scored, so loudly, that the parents around him started looking at him a bit funny, but one of the fathers there just laughed and told him his sister was very talented, but Pau was quick to correct him. 

“No, senyor. That’s my best friend, Y/N.” Monday, 8th of October, 2018. 11 years old.

It was a shock, but not surprising, when two La Masia contracts were offered to you and Pau after a Barcelona scout had come to watch both of your games. Playing for the club you’ve always dreamed of debuting for? Hell yes. You couldn’t sign it fast enough. Well… you couldn't force your parents to sign it fast enough. And before you knew it, you were waving goodbye to your parents and siblings, and you were boarding the bus to Barcelona. 

The bus ride was about 2 and a half hours from Bescanó, but Pau fell asleep about 45 minutes in, his head lulling around to your shoulder. You don’t mind, and just watch him for a minute… noticing how cute he looked when he slept, how his hair looked nicer than usual… no. Stop. It’s Pau. Your best friend. You quickly look away again and force said thoughts out of your mind, just focusing on the excitement of finally arriving at your new home. 

After what felt like far too long, Pau wakes up again, but when he realises that you don’t know he’s awake, he just pretends, closing his eyes again and snuggling closer, acting like he’s still sound asleep. You glance down at him and smile softly, a little confused, but then go back to watching out the window.

Pau didn’t even know why he did it himself, for some reason, he just wanted to be closer to you than usual. He stays like that for the entirety of what’s left of the bus ride, thinking about how nice you smell and how warm your skin is… no. Stop. It’s Y/N. His best friend.

Thursday, 8th of November, 2018. 11 years old.

Now settled into your shared dorm at La Masia, you and Pau are having the time of your lives. Here, you can live, breathe and talk football pretty much whenever you want, your guy’s dream. Tonight, you’re both tired, having been at away games most of the day, and now you’ve eaten, you’re pretty smashed. 

(for reference, this is an actual la masia dorm, so imagine it here:)

Pau was awake on his phone, and you were reading, making the most of time before lights out, as always, when Pau spoke up from between the cabinet dividing your two beds. 

“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” This wasn’t unusual for you two, as you both found comfort in sleeping in the same bed, ever since that first sleepover when you were four. 

“Vale. Just don’t flail around too much and snore.” you conceded, scooting closer to the wall so Pau could get in. He slips in beside you and you cuddle up to him, but continue reading. Eventually, you fall asleep, the book still in your hands. Pau gently slips it out of your grip, putting it on the shelf above you two and pulling you further into his arms, burying his face in your hair and closing his eyes. 

“She’s just my best friend. Stop.” he mentally scolds himself.

Friday, 27th of August, 2021. 14 years old.

“Pau, I swear to God if I find another one of your socks just loose in this room-” you threaten, throwing the sock at him as he lays on his bed, scrolling his phone. He rolls his eyes and laughs, chucking it back at you. 

“Fine, whatever, mama.”

“Hey, don’t hate on me for trying to not live in the filth of a teenage boy.” you chuckle, sitting down at the desk and starting on your homework. 

After about 30 minutes of comfortable silence, your phone pings, you check it passingly, but you do a double take, your eyes going wide as saucers and you jump out of your seat. Pau is immediately alert, also jumping up. “WHAT?!” 

“I GOT INVITED TO TRAIN WITH THE FEMENI FIRST TEAM!” you practically squeal, throwing your arms around him in a hug, still holding your phone in one hand.

“No way, amiga! That’s amazing!” Pau laughs, picking you up and spinning you around. You often forget how strong he actually is now, despite the, possibly unhealthy, amount of times you’ve admired his new biceps… no, not now.

A few days later, you come back in the dorm door from your first first-team training, because of the different schedules, Pau isn’t back yet, still in the recreation hall doing homework. You sigh and put your bag down, going into the small ensuite of the dorm and having a quick shower, as you’re standing at the sink brushing your teeth, you hear the digital door lock PIN code being put in, and then Pau call out,  “Hola!” “Hola!” you call back, voice a little muffled by the mouthful of toothpaste.

You come out a few minutes later, allowing Pau to use the bathroom to shower after his own day of training. He comes out to grab his pyjamas with nothing but a towel around his waist, his hair still wet, that stupid, stupid, boyish smile on his face. You quickly look away.

“So how was training with the big girls, superestrella?” he asks, sincere, but slightly teasing. At the question, you’re immediately distracted from the sight in front of you and brought back to the memories of training earlier in the day. “It was amazing. I met Alexia Putellas. Alexia Putellas! Hell, I played with her, not just met her. They all seem so nice, Pau. I hardly wanted to leave.”

He chuckles at your excitement but gives you a “Good.” and ruffles your hair, heading back towards the ensuite to hang up his towel. 

Pau flops down on his bed and holds out his arms for you. Being freshly showered and no longer smelling like a locker room, you accept and lay down next to him. 

“Who would’ve thought, my best friend, playing with the Barca Femeni first team? I’m so proud of you, Y/N. Really.” he murmurs into your hair. “T'estimo (i love you).”

April 2023. 16 years old.

Today, Pau had had his first training with the first team, and you were waiting nervously in the dorm for him to get back and tell you how it was, and sure enough when he arrived back, he did.

In fact, it’s quite hard to shut him up. But you don’t mind. His voice is actually rather soothing. He got so animated talking about one of the drills he did where he got to work with someone, that he tripped over the leg of the chair of the desk and fell forwards, on top of you, putting you from your sitting position, to pinned underneath him. 

Your breath hitches, his face inches from yours. You stare at each other's lips for a moment before he mutters a quick apology and stands up again. You go bright red and murmur back a “You’re all good.” before rolling over and burying your face in your pillow after he’s walked away again. The dorm is dead quiet, the silence is tense and heated. “She���s my best friend…” Pau thinks, having no idea what was going on on the other side of the separator between the beds. “He’s my best friend…” you think.

“I don’t care.”

“I want him.”

Neither of you said anything aloud, but it’s safe to say that ‘Shameless’ by Camilla Cabello was certainly blasting in your AirPods tonight.

Saturday, 18th of January 2024. About to turn 17.

Tonight, Pau is making his senior team debut. Barca is playing against Unionistas de Salamanca in the Copa del Rey, and Pau has never felt so excited, yet so much like he could throw up at any moment. His parents, you, and Irene were all in the stands, and he couldn’t wait.

In the 46th minute, Pau gets subbed on for Andreas Christensen, jogging out into the pitch, debuting for the first time. You couldn’t help but chuckle when he got a yellow in the 70th minute, not at all surprised. 

Later that night, after the adrenaline had worn off a bit, you and Pau walked back into the dorm quietly, the rest of La Masia being asleep by now. Once the door is shut and locked again, you collapse into your desk chair, still grinning at him. You sit for a minute before standing up and moving to be in front of him, wrapping your arms around his neck in a hug. “Estic molt orgullós de tu (i’m so proud of you).” you murmur, looking into those beautiful eyes of his. He’s over 6 feet tall now, so you definitely have to look up, and he definitely has to look down. 

“Gràcies (thank you).” he murmurs back, also looking into your eyes, it’s silent for a moment before his neck starts craning towards you, and yours up, until finally, your lips meet in the middle. 

The kiss lasts a few seconds, just lips, no tongue or teeth, but the amount that it communicates is wild. Your hand creeps up from his neck to his hair, his hand moving to your waist, pulling you closer against him. When you finally pull away, you’re both a little breathless, but you grin at each other.

Friday, 29th of November, 2024. 17 years old. 

Tonight is Barca’s 125th-anniversary gala at the Gran Teatre del Liceu, you’re here with the Femeni team, and Pau’s here with the men’s team, but after the main, “formal” part of the event, everyone is taken off to an open hall with a bar and a few tables of food, music playing, coloured lights illuminating the room. 

You gravitate to Pau, who’s standing talking to Héctor Fort, Lamine Yamal and Pablo Gavi. He looks down to see you standing there, automatically wrapping an arm around your waist.

“So you’re the famous ‘roommate’ then, huh?” Lamine smiles teasingly at you. You chuckle, Pau laughs, and Héctor smiles expectantly.

Proudly, Pau’s grin only grows as he introduces you. “Guys, this is my girlfriend, Y/N.”

[livingdeadmlm]

You Bring Me Closer to God pt6

Pronouns: The reader is referred to as a man. 

Physical Sex: AMAB. 

How far are things going?: FIRST KISS!! Also, ass grabbing and flirting! If you have any ideas, let me know—your suggestions will really help my writing go faster!

Warnings: Priest Reader is getting drunk, so it is slightly out of it for the kiss and ass grabbing, but not in a bad way? Idk. This shit is consensual cause that's how I wrote it to be. 

Outline: The reader is told Dutch wishes to speak to him, preparing a pie, the reader sets off with Kieran at sunset, not knowing it was an invite to a party!

What inspired me to write this: the awful priest romance book I picked up. 

Other: I am also thinking about writing a Moder Office AU for red dead cause I'm a sucker for the energy of 2010’s fanfics and its tropes. Also if you want to be tagged when I post please let me know! I want to make a tag list because updates are pretty far apart!

Previous part or Next Part

The morning sun painted the town in warm hues. The men had to stop by Valentine to pick up Trelawny from the general store. Each man couldn’t help but glance at the church as they dismounted their horses. 

The sun was like a halo around the building. There was a slight movement inside the church; one of the curtains swayed. They assumed it was your room, though they had no way of knowing for sure. It was just a nice thought.

The shopkeeper greeted them, outlining the available sales and wishing them a good morning. Charles grabbed a cup of coffee while Javier picked up a bread roll and a pack of cigarettes.

Arthur decided to buy a bottle of snake oil, a health tonic, but another bottle caught his eye. Sitting in the corner of the shop was a bottle, and though he usually didn’t pay much attention to such things, today was different. He picked it up, its soft pink label catching the light. 

Philter tonic, it read, something for men to ‘get things done.’ It was strange, but something inside him clicked. Without thinking, he tucked it into his satchel. It wasn’t until later that he realized it had very little to do with stamina and a great deal with his feelings.s  

A voice caught their attention as they returned to their horses: “Mister Smith, Mister Escuella!” Each man looked over and saw you with a market bag by the butcher. 

“Good morning to you both!” you called cheerfully, though it sounded like you were trying to keep your voice light. “Will you join me for breakfast?” While your voice was cheerful. Arthur didn’t speak, his attention turning to his horse, which suddenly needed brushing. 

Remembering his dream, he wanted to turn around and say hello and adequately introduce himself, but something held him back. You were such a sight for his eyes; he felt like a schoolboy and nervous. 

Javier, ever the charmer, was the first to speak. “Ah, Buenos dias, Father (Name). No, we can’t join you today. We’ve got business to attend to.”

Your smile faltered, just for a moment, and you sighed. “Oh, I see. I wish I’d known! I would’ve made you a snack for the road.”

Charles waved his hand dismissively, insisting there was no need, but you wouldn’t hear it. “Nonsense! I enjoy providing.” You said this with such warmth that each man got a lovely treat from you for the road.

“Good morning, Father! What brings you to chat with these three degenerates?” Trelawny laughed as he placed his items into his horse's saddle. Your face showed confusion as Arthur silently cursed at Trelawny.  

You laughed softly, but there was no real humor behind it. “These fine men join me for church meals,” you explained. “I try to provide meals twice daily for those passing through or in need. Tonight, I’m planning a peach pie for dessert.” You held up your market bag, showing the small bounty inside. “As for the third, I’m not sure who you mean!” Your shoulders shrugged, glancing around for who the third person could have been. 

“Why, I mean Valentine's greatest bounty hunter!” bounty hunter? The man stood behind Javier, and Charles finally turned around with a sigh. Holding out his hand for you to shake. You introduced yourself, “Hello! I’m Father (Name)! It’s nice to meet you!” Your hand was warm and soft against Arthurs's harsher, calloused hand. The man was silent; you assumed he was shy. Such a big man being shy was a little funny to you; as you took in his features, he finally spoke, “It’s good to see you, Father (Name).” 

Your heart caught in your throat at the sound of his voice. Arthur. You had heard so much about him, felt the weight of his presence even through the veil of the confessional, but this—this was real. You held his hand a moment longer than necessary before withdrawing it, but your fingers still tingled from the contact. 

“Well,” you breathed, your voice suddenly soft. “It’s good to see you again, Mister Morgan. I wish you all a good day. Be safe out there. You all know where to find me if you ever need anything!”

The words rushed out, and before you even realized it, you were turning away, your cheeks flushed as you hurried back toward the church. Alarm bells went off in Charles and Javier's minds. Arthur had never joined them at your meals. What did you mean again? 

 Arthur stayed silent, his eyes still on the church, even as Trelawny made a joke about the odd folk of Valentine before jumping on his horse. Arthur huffed, getting on his horse and trying to ignore the prying eyes of Javier and Charles. There were bigger things to worry about than how the two of you knew each other, like not dying in Blackwater. 

You almost tripped up the stairs to the church; you couldn’t have been more awkward when finally being faced with the man who seemed to have infected you with homosexual ideations. Such a handsome man had been sitting with you in the dark and in private, teasing you. The same flutter returned to your stomach as you set everything on the kitchen counter. You must calm down before having sweet Kieran with you, probably the two of you alone. Thinking of that soft-eyed man only made your stomach flutter more. He was so eager to be there and help you.

You started cooking, wanting to do something simple to keep yourself occupied. Kieran had joined halfway through, letting you know the Dutch wanted you to visit their camp come sunset. Kieran seemed shy, keeping his distance but still wanting to be close enough to speak to you. When you served him a plate of hashbrowns and eggs, he scarfed it down with the same speed you had always seen him use. 

Kieran initially seemed hesitant, lingering a few steps away, but his eyes betrayed a desire to be near. When you served him a steaming plate of hashbrowns and eggs, he dove into the meal with an eagerness that reminded you of a long-starved animal. He ate quickly, each bite disappearing almost as soon as it touched his plate.

“Kieran, dear boy, you know you don’t have to eat so fast, right? I won't take it away, I promise!” you chuckled, trying to ease the tension in the room. Kieran paused mid-bite, scratching his beard awkwardly, revealing his nervousness. 

"I know! I, uh, I just haven’t had food for a while! And yours is so good, it tastes like home cooking!" His voice carried a hint of wonder, as if he couldn't believe this meal was indeed for him.

You reached out, your hand hovering near him in a gentle gesture. He flinched slightly, instinctively retreating before relaxing as he realized you meant no harm. Softly, you stepped closer and wrapped him in a side hug, trying to offer comfort and reassurance. 

“Aw, I’m sorry, Mister Duffy! Since it's just the two of us here, you can have all the food you want; how about that?” You smiled at him, feeling the warmth in your heart as his eyes lit up like stars against the backdrop of the kitchen's warm glow. 

“Could you keep calling me Kieran? I quite like it.” His voice was softer, almost hopeful. You laughed gently in response. “Of course I can, Kieran. Kieran. Now, let me start some more eggs for you.” The playful repetition of his name hung in the air as you stepped back to the stove to continue cooking.

He had about three more plates before finally full and seemingly tired. “Ah, Kieran, why don’t you have a nap? You can use my bed for a few hours; I'll still be here just cleaning up and preparing for dinner.” Kieran was much less shy while sleepy, as he agreed, taking off his black jacket and practically passing out once his head hit your pillow and your blanket surrounded him. 

You left your room to start on the pie; it would now be a gift for Dutch and Hosea. You weren’t sure what Dutch needed you for, but you were raised never to go to people living empty-handed.

Kieran was in heaven practically. Surrounded by your smell and in a real bed after months of sleeping on harsh ground or in awful weather. He had no idea how to thank you when he’d wake, apart from wanting to be in your bed forever and not to give in sleep so he could keep enjoying the hug of you around him. 

______

As they headed toward Blackwater, Javier’s mind wandered back to the church. The way you smiled at him that morning, that delicate look of kindness, and that softness in your eyes. He hadn’t missed how Arthur’s attention had been fixed on you, either, how he seemed to be drawn to you in a way that was hard to ignore. Javier had always been able to read people, and he knew Arthur well enough to see that there was more to that long handshake.

“Think he’s been seeing Father this whole time?” Javier asked, his voice low but teasing, his eyes watching Arthur ride ahead.

Charles, riding next to him, glanced over. “Arthur? He’s been acting funny ever since we came to Valentine. But don’t expect him to admit it. I don't know what it is about that church and him.” 

Javier gave a knowing smile. “Oh, I don’t know… I think I see it enough. What about you, Charles?”

Charles looked away quickly, trying to hide the flush creeping into his cheeks. He wasn’t one to talk about these things; it was too troublesome, but the more time he spent with Father (Name), the more he felt that same unsettling warmth stirs inside him. He wasn’t sure if it was how you treated him, so kind and attentive, or simply the pull of your presence. Either way, it made him uneasy—and yet, he couldn’t seem to shake it.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Charles replied, his voice gruff. “But maybe Arthur and I aren’t the only ones who feel it.” Javier shot him a sideways glance, his smile curling at the edges. “Oh? You, too, huh? I thought you might be the type to keep your distance, but you might be more like me than you let on.”

Charles gave him a sharp look, but Arthur called back over his shoulder before he could respond.

“Quiet down, you two,” Arthur grumbled. “We’ve got work to do.”

Javier chuckled but didn’t discuss the matter further, knowing that despite their teasing, something more profound was taking root in their little group. As they rode through the landscape, maybe the others felt it as well. Javier didn’t mind competition at all, or even teammates, for that matter. 

__________

The smell of peaches and cinnamon filled the church. After another half hour in the oven, you would take the pie out to cool properly. But for now, you have a new task at hand. The door to your room creaked softly as you checked on Kieran, who snored softly as you entered. You noticed the holes in Kieran's jacket and wanted to mend them as a surprise. With your needle ready, you took his coat in your hands and settled into the rocking chair you kept in your room. You rarely used it, being so busy running around, but lately, Father Gavin and the Sisters had taken on more work, lightening your load.

As you began to sew, the gentle rocking of the chair faded from your mind. Numerous tiny tears in the jacket along the back and elbows indicated that Kieran had greatly cherished it. Once the jacket was finally finished, you snuck out of the room, careful not to wake the poor man; he seemed to need the rest. Fresh from the oven, the pie smelled even better than you had hoped. Setting it on the counter, you felt a wave of tiredness wash over you. Finding tasks was more exhausting than simply checking off items from a list.

You reentered your room. Your bed was big enough for the two of you, but it felt very forward. What if you joined Kieran, and he saw it as an insult? What if he went off and told the entire town that the Priest was a pervert? The thought shook you to your core. 

Fearing the possibility, you approached the bed, glancing at Kieran's sleeping face and gently shaking him awake. Kieran's eyes were half-lidded as he complained about being woken up. "Kieran, I’m getting exhausted, too. Would you mind if I joined you?” Your heart raced as his eyes widened. "Of course not! It’s your bed after all, please—" Lifting the blanket, Kieran invited you in. 

You could feel your face flushing now, the reality of sharing a bed setting in more and more. You hadn’t shared a bed with anyone since childhood and would beg your mom or dad to let you sleep with them after a nightmare. 

Sliding in next to Kieran, you could feel how warm the man was, which made you even more tired. Subconsciously backing into his body as you drifted to sleep, Kieran felt very awake now, not realizing what he had agreed to. 

You were flush against him, and Kieran was mortified that you could feel his shaking. But your breathing slowed down, and hesitantly, Kieran wrapped an arm around you. His hand rests against your chest, feeling your heartbeat. His face is pressed in your hair, breathing in the smell. 

He felt like a pervert, but what other time could he be this close to you? When else could he be in your bed WITH you after being fed a full meal? 

It was like he was still dreaming. 

Kieran remained awake for the next hour as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm, golden hue across the room. He held you close, feeling your chest's gentle rise and fall as you breathed peacefully beside him. He found comfort in the rhythmic sound of your breath. 

Kieran stretched his arm out, his hand moving to your shoulder, shaking you awake. You groaned, rubbing your eyes as you took in the sight of a sun-kissed Kieran. 

He looked very handsome in the soft light. Shaking the thought from your head, the two of you sat up. Not wanting to leave the warmth of the bed, Dutch had asked for you, so you needed to show. Slipping your shoes back on, unhitched your horses and made your way to this camp, peach pie in hand. 

Stepping into the campground, you were greeted by the number of tents and cases of whiskey and beer. 

You held out the pie you made to Dutch as he greeted you. “Now, what's this?” he asked, admiring the braided crust you had made. 

“I made peach pie! I didn't want to come empty-handed!” You smiled very nervously, wondering why Dutch needed to speak with you.

“My that's very sweet of you! Please set it down there; I've been meaning to ask something of you.” Kieran was pulled away from your side by Mary-Beth and sent you an apologetic look. 

In your nerves, you didn't hear the sound of horses pulling into camp. Or the wolf whistle aimed at you when you leaned over the long table to place the pie in the middle. Cursing yourself for forgetting cutting tools and maybe even a plate. What you did notice was the harsh smack on your ass. You yelped, and a loud voice behind you spoke. 

“What's this?! For my return, you've all gotten Ol’ MacGuire a lady for the night!” your head whipped around to see just in time as he pulled this new man back by his collar by Arthur. 

“That's a damn priest, you moron!” Arthur growls, yanking the man to the side as the sting in your ass begins to fade. Trying to maintain your composure. 

“What sorta god gives a lad such an ass?!” The man's face was pale in horror as he finally realized you weren't a woman in a dress but a man in a priest's garb. Javier had a slight grin, and Charles walked over, “That's Sean MacGuire; I'm sorry about that…” 

“It’s uh okay! Just wasn’t ready for that.” You tried to laugh it off, but his words stuck to your mind. Was it a compliment to have a good ass? What even made a good ass in the first place? Your hand went to rub the dull ache.  

Your thoughts stopped as Dutch directed you to hear a speech by Sean. 

“Mr.MacGuire is back, everyone! Let’s have ourselves a party!” There were a few cheers as the man stood on a soap box, already swaying. 

“Uncle Sean is back! Don’t you worry, Mrs. Grimshaw. I’ll keep the girls in line. If I have to whip them, I will!” A few girls yelled back, and the older woman you assumed was Grimshaw yelled, ‘Someone has to!’ 

Slowly, you felt Dutch rest his hand on the small part of your back. You tried to think nothing of it; surely, in front of 20-odd people, Dutch wouldn’t attempt to follow in Sean’s footsteps of assaulting your ass. 

“And don’t you worry, Mr Pearson, you drunk ol’ shit bag, it’ll be nothing but the FINEST! game in the pot now dead eye MacGuire is back!” You heard a few chuckles as Sean made a slight shooting motion. In Dutch’s laughter, he pulled you closer at the waist. No one else was paying attention, but it felt like, at any moment, one of the women in front of you could turn and see how close Dutch was holding you. 

“And don’t worry about nothing, Mrs. Grimshaw. We will have this running like clockwork. I love you bastards. Have fun…Have lots of fun!” 

Sean stepped off of the box and took a step toward Arthur. “Even you, you grumpy old bastard Arthur!” Arthur shook his head. Dutch’s arm slid away from your waist slowly and deliberately as he grabbed your shoulder to face him. " Would you like to join the festivities? There's plenty of room for one more.” 

“Sure! I hate to say I don’t drink much, but I’m sure I can find something to do!” Dutch smiled, turning away to put on music from his gramophone. 

_____________

“Do you know how to dance, Father (Name)?” Mary-Beth asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity as she stood at the entrance of Dutch’s tent. The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow around her, highlighting the excitement etched across her features.

With a grin, you extended your hand toward her. “I know enough to seem impressive,” you replied, your voice light and playful. A soft giggle escaped her lips as she took your hand. Slightly bowing together, you began to sway rhythmically beneath the tent's shade. With each movement, you added small, flamboyant spins and twirls that elicited more laughter from her, making her smile even brighter. 

Mary Beth touched your shoulder before saying, “It seems like someone else wants a dance.” You spun Mary-Beth to peak at who she was referring to. From the corner of your eye, you could see Arthur. Who was looking down at his boots and trying to hide that his eyes were staring at the two of you?

”Oh! Well, I’ll let you go to dance with him!” Mary Beth rolled her eyes, and as you bowed, she whispered, “No! He wants to dance with you, and he’s just too. Shy!” Mary-Beth stepped away and held her hand out to offer you, in a way. Your face flushed as Arthur cleared his throat behind you. He took your hand, and you felt breathless, “Is this okay?” For two men to be so close, for two men to slow dance, especially in front of others. 

His hand rested on your waist. “You think this is the worst thing this group of fellas has seen?” Your hand rested on his shoulder with a sigh. A bit of relief washed over you as you swayed to the music. But you were still tense. While these men may not stone you, God could still see you. He could see your flushed face at a simple dance.

Your hand intertwined with Arthurs. Your skin felt hot, and the sway with Mary Beth felt much smoother. But your anxiety keeps you stiff. Arthur was much closer as well, feeling the brush of his stomach against yours; you could feel his belt buckle press into you.

Your mind swirled faster than you could process; he was so close, so very close. Memories of your conversations began flooding back into your mind. You longed to hold Arthur, to look into his eyes that had witnessed horrors beyond your lifetime. You felt giddy now that he was there, lightly twirling you to the music. 

You glanced at Dutch, dancing with a redheaded woman, giggling and smiling. You sighed, relieved. With Arthur’s comment, this must mean Dutch is just exceptionally sociable! Arthur dipped you, causing you to laugh. 

As the music swelled around you, the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you. Arthur’s grip tightened slightly as he pulled you closer, his face drawing near. You could see the playful glimmer in his eyes, mirroring the warmth in your heart.

Arthur’s lips curled into a gentle smile, and the world around you felt still momentarily. “Maybe we can find a place where we can be alone,” his tone earnest. As the promise hung between you, you felt nervous all over again. Alone, and then what? What did the two of you want so badly, but it could only happen alone?

“Just relax,” he murmured, his breath brushing against your ear. You nodded, forcing yourself to let go of the tension that had been building. His confident yet tender movement made your heartbeat quicken. Each twirl and sway felt like some sort of storybook.

You felt his hand slip slightly lower on your waist, grounding you. Something was intoxicating about being so near him, the heat from his body mingling with the late afternoon sun that bathed you both in its golden light. With every dip and turn, it felt as though God had conspired to give you just this moment.

“Who’s this Arthur?” The voice was harsh and raspy 

“This is Father (Name), John. It's great to see you back up and moving, Marston.” You stopped dancing but still held each other as you looked at John. The man stood sideways, a bottle in his hand. His eyes scanned your body. You noticed the deep scar on his face; it looked fresh, still pink and red. 

“Are you that whorish priest everyone was talking about?” 

“Whore?! What on earth are you talking about?” Arthur released you, grabbing John by the arm and leading him toward the edge of the camp near the cliff. Whore? Is that why you were wanted here? Your throat began to burn as you glanced around the camp. Sean's comment echoed in your mind—arthurs suggestion about being alone together. 

A few people glanced in your direction as you turned to the horses. You spotted Hosea reading by the light of a lantern next to a crate of bottles. You didn’t want to use the whiskey for comfort; that felt wrong. However, your embarrassment took over, and you grabbed one of the tan glass bottles. Hosea looked up and greeted you with a friendly hello.

“Hi, Mister Matthews. Please excuse me,” you stammered as you walked toward the horses. Kieran brushed your horse's mane, smiling until he noticed your anger.

“Father, is everything okay?” His voice was filled with concern.

“I’m just fine, Mister Duffy; if you please, I must leave.” Kieran winced at your use of his last name, and you paused, not wanting to take your frustration out on him.

The rumors about you being a "floozy priest" weren’t new. Tales began to spread when you started working at Valentine and meeting people. Being so young and new to a cattle town didn’t earn you much respect. People were eager to judge, especially when you were just trying to do your job—feeding the hungry and providing clothes and blankets to those in need.

But you did it all privately.

That privacy started the rumors, so you focused more on community-based helping. They were kept in the confessional booth if things had to remain secret.

“Is that what you folks think of me? Am I just some whore for you to laugh at?” Kieran's eyes went wide, and his hands tightened around your saddle.

“No! No, no, of course not! Who told you such a thing?” You tore the lid off the whiskey bottle. It tasted like caramel and honey but burned your throat as you took a gulp.

You caught sight of John and Arthur walking back toward you, their silhouettes becoming clearer against the lowering sun. Arthur, sounding exasperated, said, “Father (Name), this fool is drunk and duller than rust. Don’t take his words to heart, please.”

You coughed roughly, the burn in your throat intensifying as you processed Arthur's words. “Words always start somewhere, Mister Morgan,” you replied, trying to mask the discomfort in your chest.

Kieran shifted his weight, noticing your unease. He’d never seen you mad or annoyed, nor had anyone else. As you mounted the saddle, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pausing your ascent. You felt the solid strength of his grip for someone who looked like he might fly away in the wind—he was surprisingly strong.

“Honest, Father (Name), we don’t think of you as a whore! We know you’re a good man! A great man, please!” You groaned as Arthur pulled you down. Feet back on the ground, you noticed John, still drunk, staring at the sky to avoid eye contact. Arthur hit the man’s shoulder. “Look, Father (Name). I’m sure you’re not a whore. Rumors are the devil…and what have you.” 

You rolled your eyes. Sure, the words “I’m sorry” didn’t leave his lips, but you assumed this was the best you would get. The large gulp of whiskey began to warm you to your core. A fool's words are worth less than half your thoughts if he truly is a fool. “Bah. I suppose I’ll take it. You’re forgiven, Mister Marston. Just watch yourself from now on.” Your mind started to wander as you walked back into camp and heard a soft strumming. Accompanying it was a voice you knew all too well, singing in Spanish.

_______________

"Angel de amor, no comprendo tu pasión." (Angel of love, I don't understand your passion.) You turned the corner and saw Javier sitting with a very disinterested Tilly. However, Tilly perked up at your sight and waved her hand to call you over. You took the spot where Tilly had been sitting as she stood up. “I’ve been needing to use the restroom for the last half hour, but I didn’t want to be rude!” she whispered before scampering away, leaving you comfortable on the carpet.

Javier's strumming continued: “Si la comprendo, no la puedo expresar.” (If I understand it, I cannot express it.)You vaguely understood as he sang, trying to drown out the singing from the large fire across the camp.

“Voy a esconder, tu lánguido gemido alla en la tumba para poder descansar.” (I’m going to hide your weak moan there in the grave so I can rest.) You were mindful to keep the bottle in your hand and limit yourself from just sipping from now on. But the drink still burned as it went down, causing you to groan. 

“Yo no siento el que me hayas querido.” (I no longer feel that you love me) Javier's eyes were closed as he sang, “Yo no siento el que me hayas amado.” (I no longer feel that I was once beloved)

“Solo siento que me hayas combiado hombre mama inferior que yo.” (I’m sorry you changed me into a man inferior to who I am) Javier held the note, singing the rest of the song much softer as it ended. You hummed, “What a sad song, Javier. It’s beautiful, though.” You held out the bottle of whiskey, and a look of surprise took over his face.

”I thought men like you weren't allowed to indulge Father (Name). You said you don’t even like people who drink.” He took the bottle from your hand and stared intensely at the lip of the bottle. 

“Yeah, well, sometimes you gotta be a fool and repent the next day.” You felt so warm as Javier took a slow drink from the bottle. “Plus, I don’t hate people that drink. It’s just a vice that makes men the most stupid.”

Your eyes were focused on his lips wrapped around the bottle. Was he savoring the taste? It was sweet, but the burn overwhelmed the flavor before it settled. Finally handing the bottle back to you, Javier grinned, “I’m trying to taste more than just the whiskey, Father (Name).” 

Your mind went blank trying to process what he said. But he began to strum again, this time with a much more upbeat rhythm. “Besame, besame mucho.” (Kiss me, kiss me a lot). You swirled the bottle in your hand, feeling the weight of the liquid shift in the bottle. 

“Como. si fuera esta noche la ultima vez” (as if tonight was the last night) 

”Besame besame mucho.Que tengo miedo a perderte, perderte despues.” (I’m afraid of losing, losing you later.)His gaze met yours, steady and unwavering. You took another sip from the bottle in the same spot Javier had taken his sip.

”quiero tenerte muy cerca. Mirarme en tus ojos, estar junto ati.” (I want to have you very close. Look into your eyes and be next to you) You leaned on your hand, watching Javier leaning closer, still playing. The song made less and less sense, and your mind could not keep up and translate what little you would understand sober. Was whiskey supposed to be this strong? 

”Piensa que tal vez mañana. Estaré muy lejos, muy lejos de aquí.” (I’m thinking tomorrow we can be very, very far from here.) Javier was very close, and the smell of the whiskey was strong on both of your breaths. “I’m not sure if I should be so close to you, Father…” his tone teased as you realized just how alone the two of you were. No one was walking by but a very drunk Karen whose mission was not to watch the two of you.

The strumming had stopped; you two were very close. Javier closed his eyes for a second, collecting himself. Your noses touched; you didn’t want to fight it anymore.

“Father (Name)! I want to talk to ya!” you pulled away with a gasp, feeling your heart pound in your chest. Javier let out a low groan, taking the hat off of his head and running his hands through his hair. He was frustrated but trying to keep himself composed. “Sean… you couldn’t have waited? We are in the middle of something important.” Sean stood with a hand on his hip, slightly swaying.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just let me get a word in, eh? It’s not tha best time, but I gotta clear the air here, Father. Do ya mind?” Not waiting for a response, Sean grabbed your arm, guiding you away from Javier. You dusted off the skirt of your cassock, trying not to glance back at Javier's longing eyes. Sean took you near the horses just past the fence into the wooded area. Your body still tingled from the closeness you just had with Javier.

“Look, Father (Name); I just want ta say sorry for smacking you on tha arse. Honest to god, I thought you were a lass to accompany me for the night!” a nervous grin spread across his face. “I didn’t mean ta come off all brash.” there was still sway in Sean's stance, but much less than earlier. Sean held out the whiskey bottle he was drinking and held it to your lips, tilting it for you.

“It was an honest mistake, Mister Macguire! I was more surprised you commented on it at all.” You laughed as Sean's face held a confused expression. “I mean, you can’t much tell cause of da skirt, but” his hands reached for the loose cloth, handing you the half-full whiskey bottle.

He pulled the fabric forward, your body flush against him as the skirt now did nothing to hide your ass. That was some sort of marvel to behold. Sean's head was over your shoulder, staring. “Ah! Now, would ya look at that! Magnificent! Like tha peaks of the Derryveagh!”

Perhaps you were some whore, because instead of breaking away, you only yelped at the exposure. “Is.. is that good?” “You’re damn right. It's good! Please allow me.” You weren’t sure why Sean would ask permission but did what he wanted anyway, but there was no point bringing it up now as his hands groped your ass.

“Much more than a handful; this is what any man dreams of! If ya start showing off more, I think more people would stop by for Sunday service!” Sean howled with laughter, still holding your ass. You could feel Sean’s hard-on pressed into your thigh. Close contact with a man you didn’t know beyond his name felt much more manageable on your nerves than your almost kiss with Javier.

“That’ll get ya warmed up for ol’ Javier; I tell ya, I’m a bit jealous whoever gets the peak at ya first! Unless you’re willing to wait for Mr.Macguire.” You whined at his words; no one other than Arthur had been this close to you physically or spoke to you like this before. His hands mushed the fat on your ass one last time before letting go and stumbling back to camp, talking to himself about Macguire Junior not being ready for all that.

Your breathing came out in huffs. Taking the momentary alone time to breathe. The cold air hardly phased you. The whiskey is in full swing, keeping you warm and fuzzy. “Hey there.” You leaped a foot in the air. Charles emerged from outside of the camp, holding a rifle in his hands.

“Mister Smith! We must stop meeting like this.” your heart pounded. Charles laughed lightly, moving closer. “Why aren’t you at the party? They have you on patrol duty?” You adjusted your skirt; Sean left it very wrinkled with his grabbing.

“No, I just leave the parting to the professionals.” Charles rested the gun, the barrel aimed at the ground. You hummed softly to yourself, your gaze fixed on the vibrant tapestry of trees surrounding you. Suddenly, a flash of movement caught your eye—a small rabbit darting through the underbrush, desperate to escape the sharp pursuit of a fox. You felt a pang of sympathy for the vulnerable creature. “Aww, poor thing,” you murmured, shaking your head.

Standing beside you, Charles chuckled lightly, his voice laced with an edge. “Looks familiar,” he remarked, a knowing glint in his dark eyes. You couldn’t help but let out a nervous laugh, shaking your head slightly. “I’m not sure what you mean, Mister Smith,” you replied, meeting his gaze.

Charles took a deep breath, the sound almost reverberating in the stillness of the forest. You leaned against a tree, crickets chirping as you revealed in the calm. “I tried the pie you made; it was great. I have never had one like it before.” Before you could stop, a big smile took over your face.

“That makes me very happy to hear about Mister Smith. I spent a lot of the day working on it!”

Charles inched closer, the subtle heat of his presence sending a thrill down your spine. “Oh, I could tell,” he said, his words sliding smoothly into your ear like a secret. “The crust was perfect, but what really got to me…” He let his arm brush against yours, just the slightest touch, but it was enough to send a shiver through you. “I could taste you in it.”

A surge of warmth bloomed in your chest, spreading like wildfire. Goosebumps danced across your skin, your pulse quickening. The words you had once playfully spoken to Javier echoed back in your mind, uncomfortably vivid.

“I’m sure that pie tastes much better than me,” you laughed nervously, but the sound was shaky, vulnerable. “I probably just taste like skin and sweat.”

And sin, you thought, the word lingering on your tongue, burning in your chest. If there was a test of your devotion, you knew right then you had failed it, miserably. The temptation was overwhelming, and you could feel it, as undeniably palpable as the heat rising between you.

Charles reached out, cupping your face, and you happily leaned into his strong hand. He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Maybe when you’re sober, we’ll have this conversation, rather (Name). I want you to remember.” These were the most words you’ve heard Charles speak since meeting him. Your eyes studied his face. You couldn’t tell by his face alone, but he was nervous.

“I’ll be much too nervous without the whiskey, Mister Smith. You’re much too handsome.” Your speech was more slurred than you would’ve liked. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and his other hand toys with the gun barrel to keep busy.

You stood up, no longer leaning against the tree for support. You realized Sean’s bottle was still in your hand and took another sip. You should probably return it to him.

“Sean might be a loudmouth bastard, but this is one thing he and I can agree on.” Charles leads you up the small hill back to camp, his hand very low on your back. You assumed he meant you ass but just didn’t want to say that out loud.

Charles bit you a goodnight, walking back into the wooded area; your eyes caught Hosea still at the table; your legs were aching, so why not sit?

“Good evening, Mister Matthews!” You settled onto the wooden stool, the whiskey bottle resting beside you. Hosea looked up, a warm smile spreading across his face as he set aside the paper he’d been reading. “You’re awful chipper, Father (Name). Glad to see you better from earlier.” You chuckled, remembering how dramatic you’d felt. With a soft sigh, your hand rested against your palm, taking in Hosea's relaxed demeanor. “I’m too old for this, Mister Matthews,” you admitted, stretching your back. “I should have gotten this energy out 20 years ago. Not when my back hurts from even just sitting wrong.”

Hosea laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners, radiating warmth and familiarity. He placed a supportive hand on your shoulder, the warmth of his touch sending a comforting flutter through you, almost like a gentle spark igniting something deep within. With a slight grin, he held out a small, weathered bottle toward you. “Homemade tonic. Trust me, you’re going to feel it tomorrow,” he said, his voice filled with a teasing undertone.

The bottle was unmarked, its surface smooth yet slightly worn from years of handling, hinting at the loving care that went into its creation. As you accepted it, a rush of gratitude surged through you, and your heart swelled just a bit. You met his gaze, finding reassurance in his warm brown eyes. “Thank you, Mister Matthews. I'll be sure to keep this on me,” you replied, tucking the bottle safely into your pocket.

“You’ve still got some youth left in you, Father," he continued a hint of mischief in his tone. “Giving up all those freedoms so young was bound to catch up with you at some point.”

You chuckled, then sighed, “It's funny. I thought I was BLESSED by Jesus Christ not to have sex matter to me. Never interested in women, just focused on God!” The laughter dissipated into a groan as you pressed your face into your hand, overwhelmed by the weight of your emotions. Hosea chuckled softly, patting your shoulder in a comforting gesture.

“I thought I was different from everyone else, that I was…special, capable of helping people find solace within the church.” This admission made you feel vulnerable, and you slumped against the table—the wooden surface, cool against your skin, grounding you amidst the swirling thoughts.

“You’re plenty special, Father (Name). Look around—you’ve got a group of outlaws clamoring to be in a church!” Hosea’s voice was gentle yet encouraging, his hand now gingerly rubbing your back. The scent of peppermint lingered in the air as he leaned closer, adding to the warmth of his presence.

He described Arthur, sharing tales of how he used to be much more argumentative and brash. “But since he first wandered off to see you, he’s changed. He’s been throwing himself into camp chores, even showing kindness to everyone around him. Just the other day, he went out of his way to get young Lenny a pocket watch after the poor boy lost his old one,” Hosea recounted; his admiration for Arthur is evident in his tone.

A sense of pride and purpose puffed up as you listened. Yeah, you were helping someone be better. Sure, it was an outlaw who still did the jobs he needed to survive, but as a person, he was seemingly better. Of course, Arthur told you this himself, but the confirmation was just as lovely.

You looked at tha table and saw that the pie you had brought was almost completely gone, a smile tugged at your lips. Hoping everyone was able to get a taste before it ran out. Turning your attention back to Hosea, you noticed his silver hair looked incredibly soft in the light. “He even went hunting with me to get a 1000-pound bear.” You sat up, staring at Hosea with wide eyes, “No kidding, you went out to catch a bear that big!” Hosea got a puff in his chest, “Sure did! It’s not the first time I stared death in the eye, and just like any other, I did not falter.”

You stared at Hosea in awe, imagining him taking on such a large bear. “I didn’t know I’d been in the presence of such an amazing hunter. Did you end up killing this bear?” The prideful look on Hosea's face remained as he let out a confident nope! “But I and Arthur scared it away back into the woods.” you laughed at the story and yourself for believing it. “You’re too funny, Mister Matthews, quite the silver tongue. I imagine you’ve gotten many people under your spell with that.” You stoop up from the stool, feeling much better. “What category can I put you under?” Hosea's hand grabbed yours, stopping you before stepping away.

You lifted Hosea's hands to your lips, “I am utterly bewitched.” pressing a kiss to his thinner hand, you walked toward the small scout's fire, spotting Kieran.

“Mind if I sit with you?” Kieran looked at you nervously before scooting over. Your mind still buzzed as you stared at the fire. “I’m sorry about getting aggressive with you, Kieran. I just thought those rumors were behind me now.” Kieran stared up at you, watching you intently as you sat on your knees next to him, taking his hands in yours, “Could you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

Kieran's face flushed, the sight of you on your knees and the warmth of your hands wrapping around his. Even just the fact that you were apologizing made him stir below the belt. “It’s okay, Father (Name). I, uh, I’m sure no one would be too happy to be called a whore, least of all you .” you sniffled, feeling very overwhelmed again. You pulled your hands from his, reaching up instead to cup his face, the roughness of his beard grazing your palms. The sensation was grounding, and you felt a surprising sense of comfort. “You’ll let me make it up to you?”

His breath hitched, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt, but all he found was a quiet, steady resolve. “I’d like that,” he replied, his voice soft but earnest. His face is bright red as you lean in closer to him.

“I just want to make things right with you.” His breathing mixed with yours

And then, without a word, his lips brushed against yours. You froze for a heartbeat, feeling the softness of his kiss, before your lips responded, deepening the kiss. His hand moved to cup the back of your neck, bringing you closer as the kiss grew more urgent, more frantic. You could feel the heat of his touch seeping into your skin, but you couldn’t feel anything else; the world around you seemed to fade until all that remained was the press of his lips against yours.

You melted into him, your hands finding their way into his hair, pulling him closer. His usual hat fell off of his head. It was slow and tender at first, but the more you kissed him, the less you worried about your lack of experience, just needing to feel him against you. The warmth of his body was the same as when you slept next to each other. So comforting.

When the kiss finally broke, both of you were breathless, your foreheads pressed together as you tried to catch your breath. His hands rested gently on your waist, and you couldn’t help but smile, but before you could say something, a familiar smell of a cigar was in the air.

“Kieran, my boy, would you mind checking on The Count? Somethings got him agitated.”

Kieran muttered something under his breath, but he nodded. “Right, Dutch. I’ll do that.”

He turned back to you, offering a small, apologetic smile. "I’ll be right back," he murmured, as if he were torn between staying and doing his duty. His eyes held yours for a moment longer before he stood, his hands slipping from your waist with reluctance.

You watched him go, your knees beginning to ache from the position. "Well, well…" Dutch’s smooth, low voice seemed to hang in the air. You looked up to find him leaning against a nearby boulder, his gaze fixed on you with amusement. His smile was sly, almost predatory. "Seems like you’ve got the boy all worked up, don’t you?"

“My mind got away from me. Uh could you help me up?” You held your hands out, the ache worsening. He casually pushed off the rock, his boots crunching on the ground as he stepped toward you. His presence was commanding in an unsettling and captivating way.

"Oh, I think this arrangement is just fine," he said, his tone dropping slightly, its weight on your shoulders. His eyes flickered to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “There’s something about you, isn’t there? Something... irresistible. Something just real special about you. Your attention, has all my men whipped.” His eyes trailed over your face, lingering on your lips, then meeting your eyes again with a fire in his gaze. "You know, Kieran’s a good kid. But I can’t help but wonder... does he know what he’s gotten into?"

Some of you still felt uncomfortable with how effortlessly he said these things. You couldn’t deny that Dutch’s charisma was magnetic, but you weren’t sure where it was all going. "He knows, I think; I’m not even sure I know," you replied, your voice steady, though you felt the heat of his stare still lingering on you. You groaned, the locking of your knees almost becoming unbearable.

Dutch’s smile grew a little wider, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Well, that’s good," he said, stepping even closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Because I’d hate to think he’s got a monopoly on you." His hand brushed lightly against your arm, his fingers grazing your skin in a touch that was all too deliberate as he helped you up finally. "Dutch, don’t start some odd competition about me."

He chuckled darkly, leaning just a little closer, the warmth of his presence almost overwhelming now. "Oh, I never start something I don’t intend to finish, darling," he said, his voice low and playful. "But that’s a story for another time, I suppose."

The air between you seemed to crackle with tension. The firelight danced off his face as he stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours. Your mind returned to the redheaded woman he had been dancing and smiling with just hours earlier. Why would he speak to you like this?

Dutch gave you a final knowing look before he straightened up, brushing a hand through his hair. “Well, I’ll leave you to your thoughts. But just know this—if you ever want to talk more... you know where to find me.” Your knees popped as you stretched, the pain subsiding slowly.

You saw Arthur stepping out of a tent. He nodded his head to you, and you walked over, hearing strumming again. Kieran followed behind you, now wearing the jacket that you had mended. The night had to be nearing an end as you saw all three women fast asleep, two men you hadn’t run into snoring next to Hosea, who was still reading by low light.

The singing was lovely as you approached the fire. Kieran guided your ever-swaying bottle to sit on the log without falling. Sean’s voice was quite pleasant as he sang with an older man you didn’t get the name of.

You didn’t try to hear the song's words; the fire was so bright you kept your eyes shut, letting it go through one ear out of the other. Kieran hummed the song next to you, and Arthur’s voice joined for a few lines, the whiskey letting you forget for a moment that each man had heard those rumors about you. You smiled as the song came to an end. You wanted nothing more than to lie down in your bed. Like your pillows and blankets called your name.

Your eyes were half-lidded. “I should head home now,” you smiled at Kieran, going to stand. “Thank you for having me; I've never had a night like this.”

Arthurs's hand pressed into your chest, stopping your walking. “I think it's safer for you to sleep here for the night. Yer vulnerable out there this late, drunk.” you scoffed, turning to face Arthur. “Am I that much safer here?” one of Arthur's hands went to his waist, asking just what you meant by that.

“You all invited me here, t—to make me impure! Other than dear Kieran here.” Your hand reached for Kieran's head, clumsily petting his head and mumbling about his hair being soft. Which Kieran slightly revealed in the public display of tenderness.

“Next time yer here, we aren't givin' you whiskey. Seems not to let you think properly.” Arthur huffed, holding your collar to stop your attempts to walk away.

“I’m thinking more clearly than ever, Mister Morgan!” you exclaimed, struggling to break free from Arthur’s grip as you cast your gaze downward, feeling the weight of embarrassment. He held on firmly, not letting you retreat.

“We don’t believe that (Name). It was just some gossip the girls picked up from town, and trust me, they didn’t take it seriously either,” Arthur replied, his eyes softening as he studied your downcast face, betraying the effort you were making to hold back tears.

To him, your expression resembled that of a puppy being picked up by the scruff of its neck. A deep sigh escaped his lips as he realized how much this affected you. “Look, we know you’re a man of the cloth,” he said, his tone more reassuring now. “So just take it easy! We’re bad men, not evil.” You sighed; his words didn’t quite sink in with your state, and you still felt vulnerable.

“If you need to be home that badly, we will take you.” His warmth was as comforting as that sleepy feeling.

The next chapter is a choose-your-own-adventure! if you want the updates as they're posted, head to my Ao3! or if you want them all at once, they will be posted soon!

[centrally-unplanned]

I watched two documentaries recently that were very "2000's nerd culture" which I thought were very fun! In like a meta way as cultural commentary, of course, it is me after all. The first was Indie Game: The Movie, a 2012 documentary on the making Braid, Super Meat Boy, and Fez. It is a "creator-focused" documentary and in particular for the latter two games the film crew actually filmed them mid-production & release, which does make for some authentically heartfelt scenes.

So in a certain sense all eras of documentary will contain this, but the 2000's going into the 2010's was absolutely rife with a new wave of films, often supported by crowdsourcing funds like Indie Game was, primarily concerned with the self-legitimization of niche subcultures. By creating something cohesive, academic, and prestigious like a documentary, the film can codify the subculture as "real" and "worthy", and additionally lend credence to narratives about the subculture that have grown prevalent. And to be clear, this is not a criticism, even if there are parts that are - all meaning and identity is forged in similar ways. But for nerd culture in the 2000's, there was a particularly intense need for this process, because this was the era of nerdom going mainstream. That level of culture shift generated demand for all the above, which films like this aim to supply. There were lot of films of this type - we made a brony "documentary" propaganda film guys, nothing was exempt.

Indie Game is overwhelmingly the story of outsider artists bleeding and dying for their art, which will triumph above all odds. And it leans, heavily, into the bleed; at one point Phil Fish (creator of Fez), openly states he might commit suicide if his game fails. Much screen time is spent on personal sacrifice, financial poverty, the "doubters", etc. This is of course a classic tale for artists, but if I may be so bold that is something of an easy sell - emotionally, narratively - for someone writing the Great American Novel. It is maybe harder to sell if you are making this?

(Cover art by Bryan Lee O'Malley btw - very era appropriate!) How do we make "dude in hat solves puzzles" worth the Starving Artist life?

We do that by positioning these games not as games, but as paradigms. These games, by dint of being the independent vision of unitary creators, are making games that Big Gaming never could. New digital means of distribution are allowing artists to cut out the middleman of publishers, groups that corrupt the real vision of creators. And with no barriers to development, now anyone (maybe...even you?) can make games that can compete in the big leagues. Indie games through this lens are a different product than mainstream titles, and these creators are opening doors. And their suffering is going to be financially rewarded with success and money to boot! That is the narrative Indie Game is selling to its audience of gamers, to understand why the indie games they bought and loved are meaningful.

And to be clear, as much as I am about to deconstruct this, it isn't like totally false or anything. Starting in the late 2000's digital platforms like Steam, more accessible development tools like Unity (released in 2005), and so on did in fact make smaller games appealing to more niche markets more viable, and by virtue of their nicheness yeah they can do things big budget games maybe can't. These creators absolutely had passionate visions for their games, sacrifice for your passions is fine (not bashing that part here), hats off to them. Indie games in this era would absolutely "change gaming".

But not really in the ways this narrative wants them to, nor with the "meaning" people of the time expected it to have. For one, there is a conflict in this documentary of them wanting to highlight "bold new visions" and also wanting to highlight...popular indie games. This is Super Meat Boy, for example:

Yeah, never had a 2D platformer blob guy dodging traps before in gaming! "No see its retro" yeah retro to what, old games? Like those Nintendo made back in the 90's, which you explicitly mention in your documentary? You know, niche indie studio Nintendo? This isn't a bash, at all, at the game itself, but instead the idea that "AAA Studios would never"; they totally would, and always did. There has never been an era where the large gaming studios weren't also making creative games, but for this narrative they need to be propped up as static for it to make sense. And the actual niche indie stuff that big studios wouldn't touch don't sell well enough to justify being in this film!

And the idea of the "solo developer" is also, hm, let us say a bit sus. Not that these developers weren't solo or small teams, they were (though ofc a solo core creator will often have dozens of helpers on supporting roles that get sidelined in this "unitary vision" narrative); but that such a model is all that new? How big do you think development teams were in the 90's for so many classic games? The original Pokemon Red/Blue game had less than a dozen core developers (the total staff list, including American localizers, is ~30 people - Super Meat Boy meanwhile seems to have 16 for comparison). You wanna bring up the dev teams for PC-98 visual novels? They were made in an Akihabara cave with a box of pixel art scraps by like 6 people! You think those games didn't have "unitary creative visions"? Small gaming companies have always been a part of the ecosystem, getting niche titles funded & published using insane magic and pure luck. The "indie boom" is better seen as a change in the numerator.

Though what did change is that, by being self-published, development was approachable by outsiders in new ways. Though even then, this is a bit of a lie - Jonathan Blow of Braid was an industry veteran, and everyone here plays the "convention circuit" and networks with people like the PAX crew and Xbox representatives. But with the games being published by an individual over a studio, even a studio of a half dozen people, it is far easier for the audience to see the creators as "one of them". No office, no suits, just a man in his gamer den banging out his dream. That aesthetic is core to why this narrative was potent at the time, and why making a documentary to codify it was seen as compelling. It takes an already ascendant idea, polishes it, packages it as nonfiction, and then sells the idea back to the people who invented it. LIke so much media, to be clear! I always enjoy seeing it, it is the dialectic of culture in action.

I also find it very funny to see a documentary made in 2012 playing tropes that will become far more ~problematic~ just around the corner. Burnout and work-life balance - in a documentary where a developer, crying, discusses suicide if his game fails, to remind you - is pretty much never mentioned, and a successful game launch is absolutely presented as justifying endless crunch. You would never see that today. The only women in this documentary are wives and parents - which is very amusing, because the co-creator of the film is a woman! No one thinks gender is relevant to mention. Boy would that change in a few years.

Indie games today, of course, are just a segment of the gaming market. They are incredibly common now, so much so that most people lose money making them, people discuss oversaturation, big studio companies have "indie wings" to cover consumer preference ranges, etc. There is no magic in it anymore, it is just dev strategy. So yeah, very enjoyable as a representative time capsule in a strain of culture that is pretty much gone now! The Capital-R Romantic Era of indie gaming; what a time.

In the next post, we are going much more niche, so stay tuned for that. Or don't, I don't know you, and like this was a loooot of writing. Maybe i'll, idk work on that for the next one? ...I probably won't -_-

[ipso-faculty]

Today's rabbithole: the origins of "dyadic" as opposite of intersex/h-word

TLDR: "dyadic" seems to come from 1970s radical feminism and seems to have entered intersex vocabulary via gender studies. This implies it is NOT a term coined from within the intersex community.

I've been reading Cripping Intersex since it's this month's pick for @intersexbookclub (and it's not too late for you to pick it up yourself! 💜). One thing that caught my attention is Orr spends a bunch of time presenting the origins of "endosex" and "perisex" as disputed for whether these terms were coined by intersex people or not.

Orr does this because they clearly prefer "dyadic" and are trying to justify why they're talking about "compulsory dyadism" rather than "compulsory endonormativity/perinormativity" etc. 🤨

Interestingly enough, Orr makes absolutely zero attempt in the book to find an origin for the word "dyadic". 🧐 Orr also never questions whether the term "dyadic" actually came from the intersex community. 🧐 So..... rabbit hole time!

Before I get into what I found on dyadic, I wanna quickly fact check Orr on the origin of endosex. Best as I can tell, the term was first used in German in 2000 by Heike Bödeker. Bödeker is controversial for supporting autogynephilia 😬, but I've never seen anybody doubt Bödeker having mixed gonadal dysgenesis. If anybody knows of an older use of endosex, please send it my way! But as far as I can tell, "endosex" was coined by an intersex person.

Okay, onto the origin of dyadic. Orr presents this word as though its only detractors come from its implication there is a sex binary, even though as @intersex-ionality discusses here there are other reasons people don't like it. One reason is that the term is considered to originate from outside the intersex community.

Orr never questions the origins of dyadic. But intersex-ionality's post got me wondering if I could track down an textual origin.

So I went to Google Scholar, searched for "dyad" or "dyadic" plus "intersex" or the h-word and kept changing the time period increasingly far back in time. (Initially I just used intersex until I remembered the h-word slur would be more common in older articles 😬.)

I went into this thinking maybe dyadic would be related to how in early intersex studies literature like Critical Intersex (2009) you can see authors trying out terms like "dimorphic" and "dimorphous" that reference sexual dimorphism. (Neither "dyadic" nor "endosex" show up in the book.)

But the earliest works by intersex scholars that invoke dyadic tend to use it in a way that implies to me it has its own origin - e.g. Malatino (2010) talks about "at one pole, the dyad of the dimorphic heterosexual couple and, at the other, the hermaphroditic body" and "the heteronormative promised land of proper dyadic, dimorphic sex" which gives me the impression dyadic has a more sociological origin rather than the biology origin of dimorphic.

This 2010 gender studies article by Mandy Merck that talks about the intersex rights movement was my first solid lead. Merck draws a direct connection between the intersex rights movement and the 1970 book The Dialectic of Sex by Shulamith Firestone. 😯

In the book, Firestone explicitly talks about the "male-female dyad". This book had a fairly big impact when it came out. Firestone was a big-name second-wave radical feminist. And as Merck puts it: "[Firestone's] aim is to release women and men from the culturally gendered[5] dyad of the “subjective, intuitive, introverted, wishful, dreamy or fantastic” and the “objective, logical, extroverted, realistic”[6] into a society undivided by genital differences. This she calls “integration.”" (emphasis mine)

Pushing the search terms to before the 00s, I found I there were some 1980s botanists kinda using "dyad" as an opposite to "hermaphrodite" (example). I don't know how standard this was though, and with Google Scholar it is important to remember that digitization becomes less common the further back you go. 🤷‍♀️

Judith Butler used "dyadic" in a 1985 article about Foucault's Herculine Barbin.

The Butler article got me searching for more generally - "dyad" or "dyadic" plus "sex-roles male female". I found lots of results using dyadic to talk about female/male sex roles from the 1970s.... and a rather sudden paucity of such articles in the 1960s. 🤔

When I restricted the search to anything before 1970, I get results from symbolic interactionist sociology. I.e. the sociology use of "dyadic" (i.e. any social interaction happening between a pair of individuals).

So looks like dyadic as a sex role thing entered the academic lexicon in the early 70s. Which lines up pretty damn well with The Dialectic of Sex coming out in 1970. 👍️ And indeed, many of the 70s uses of "dyadic" explicitly cite Firestone.

I'm guessing Firestone was probably influenced by the interactionist term. Lots of sociologists were talking about dyadic relationships and/or interactions such as teacher-student, parent-child, husband-wife, etc. In this context, it's not surprising that Firestone would pick dyad as a term to talk about male-female sex roles and interactions.

Other than the 1980s botany articles I didn't actually find much from the pre-2000 biology world, and no leads from the medical literature. This doesn't mean "dyadic" wasn't being used by physicans, just that it isn't showing up in my searches on Google Scholar.

I'm coming out of this with the impression that Merck's got it right to be connecting the intersex-related use of dyadic as originating from the writing of Shulamith Firestone. If anybody knows of competing evidence for an origin, *please* do send it my way as I'd be super interested. But in the absence of other evidence, I'd tentatively say that the term dyadic came out of second wave radical feminism and *not* the intersex community.

[malk1ns]

i read a fic recently with rookie sid and 2010 geno and i’ve been thinking of that a lot so… for your prompt maybe baby sid being enamored by an older geno? nsfw or pg is up to you :P merry christmas to you too btw!!

ok so once upon a time i wrote this fic which is pretty much exactly that premise! and i really loved writing it and it's still one of my personal favorites of mine, so i'm going to take your prompt and use it as an excuse to write a wee little follow-up, from sid's point of view...no smut or anything in this one, just a cranky 22 year old with a massive (reciprocated) crush on his captain. you'll have to read the first one for this to make sense!

Sid thought it would get easier when his dad retired.

Well, really, he expected that after a couple of months he wouldn't feel so desperate for Geno all the time. Not that he wouldn't still want him, of course not, Geno was the defining catalyst of Sid's sexual awakening and the star of 90% of his fantasies from adolescence onwards, but Sid thought that maybe after the first few times, when Geno didn't get sick of him or tell him they needed to stop, he'd be able to be a little more mature about the whole thing.

As it happens, though, he spent the rest of his rookie year in single-minded pursuit of two things: 100 points, and Geno's dick.

It's a good thing he had his dad's example to make sure he stayed focused on his game. If his work ethic and internal motivation weren't already firmly ingrained, Sid might have let his head be turned so far by getting what he wanted after so much time that he let his game slip.

Geno probably wouldn't have let that happen, though. He takes hockey more seriously than Sid does, even, and for as much time as they spent sneaking around to be together, Sid thinks they probably doubled that in extra ice time after practice, practicing one-timers and head-fakes and set plays to try out on the man advantage.

Sid's dad was always there too, is the thing. Sid lives at home still, his mom won't let him buy his own place until he signs his first real contract and isn't blowing an entire season's worth of income on a house, and Sid very quickly ran out of reasons to get his dad to head home early and let Geno drive him back. It made the time with Geno he managed to steal all the better.

Sid, maybe stupidly, thought that once his rookie year was over, when his dad officially retired and wasn't on the team anymore, he'd have a little more separation from his parents at the rink.

His dad barely stayed retired two months before his mom practically pushed him out the door directly into the goalie development role the Penguins offered him, though, and Sid's sophomore season starts the same way his rookie year did—sitting in the passenger seat of his Dad's truck, glaring out the window on the way to practice.

He must be making quite a face, because Geno's already there and half-changed into his gear when Sid walks into the locker room, and when he sees Sid's expression he does that thing with his jaw where he's trying not to laugh out loud.

Sid only scowls harder. Even Geno in his hockey pants and nothing else isn't enough to cheer him up.

It ends up turning out okay, though. Sid's mom stops asking so many questions about where he's going at night when his dad isn't around to give her the exact run-down of official team activities. Sid isn't sharing a hotel room on roadies anymore, so if he sneaks out after curfew and tiptoes down the hall to Geno's room, there's nobody to tattle, and no chance that he'll run into his dad out looking for the ice machine. And his dad gets so wrapped up in working with the goalies that they never finish practice at the same time, so if Sid makes some vague excuse about reviewing tape with the power play unit and he'll catch a ride, his dad waves him off without protest.

His schedule opens up, just like that. And Geno's more than happy to fill his time, tumbling Sid into bed and blowing his mind at every available opportunity. Their first California road trip, the one with built-in off-days for recreation, had been a revelation—after figuring out that yes, Geno really can eat someone out until they cry, Sid spent their beach day so distracted he was forced out of the volleyball game for bringing his team down.

There's a contract waiting for him on July 1, Sid knows. Pat hasn't sent him the details yet, but Sid knows it's good, something that will set him up for life pretty much, with signing bonuses to protect his earnings in case of another lockout and full trade protection as soon as he's eligible.

He's already talked to the realtor most of the guys use. She'd offered a few options in Cranberry, close to the practice facilities and where he grew up, but Sid told her he wants to get a little distance from his folks, somewhere he can set up his own house and not have his mom tempted to walk down the block and redecorate every other week.

And if the neighborhood he told her to focus on is Geno's, well, Sid's favorite breakfast place is there too, and he's always liked older parts of the city, with big trees and historic homes.

The fact that he could be within a ten-minute drive of Geno's house is just an extra perk.

[lilly-chou-chou]

Evolution of Gyaru

Hello everyone the long awaited post is here!! Sorry for the delay I has gone back to my he country to celebrate Lunar New Year.

As we all know Gyaru was and still is one of the most important fashion movement in the history because it's roots of opposing the "good girl" and "submissive" societal views of women that Japan had imposed into them.

During 90's with Namie Amuro being the first idol ever to popularize the Gyaru culture created a huge wave of community in all over Japan which eventually created many subcultures under it, over the years gyarus blossomed for 2 decades heavily but around early-mid 2010's the culture slowly died because people were now really trying to shun them out of the society, gyarus was losing it's popularity and old gyarus were getting to age of finding jobs or trying to get married yet the culture is still alive. There have been multiple support and love coming from international fans too.

Egg magazine, which is holy grail for us gyarus followers is still up and running to this day <3

Today i'll show you just a little glimpse of modern gyaru. Hopefully this will help new followers too.

Gyaru of the past:-

So let's start with how gyarus are usually seen, pictures below are gyarus from their peak eras so definitely from 90's to 2000's. They are all different subcultures but they all have one thing in common the eye makeup, gyarus were and are still known for their beautiful luscious eye makeup. They are what you call

They were our guide, our mothers and everything! Gyaru has always been the most supportive community to ever exist, over here women were allowed to cuss, they were allowed to be brash, they were allowed to have male friends without the judgement of two goody shoes with insecurities, they were allowed to wear clothes that liberated them doesn't matter short or modest.

People often forget that gyaru exists more than manba, agejo and kogal, few of the modest and lesser knows subcultures are amekaji and roma gyaru, although amekaji is is blue eyed perfect grass is greener on the other side take of American inspired fashion. Either way it is one of the most fun subculture to exist.

We as gyaru followers ow everything to these past mother figures, without them and without brands like alba rosa, D.I.A and MA*RS we and egg Magazine teaching us what? How? And why? We would never thrive in this era. We owe it to them all even after decades and decades the magazines, scans and tutorials on YouTube by the OG gyarus have done it all <3

Modern Gyaru:-

The pictures below are the present models of Egg magazine. The last OG gyaru issue was stopped in 2014 which was Egg last physical print of magazine but in 2018 Egg came back as online magazine.

A lot has changed in gyaru world. Long gone are the days of owning specific clothing brand or even wearing clothes that resemble even the least of typical gyaru fashion. The only key point which hasn't changed is eye makeup because that is utmost necessary thing for a gyal to have.

Over the years of almost dying to again alive fashion culture the meaning of gyaru has changed a lot, from dressing like the OG gyarus we have now evolved to the whole "gal is mind" mindset, now in this era dressing up as gyal doesn't mean that much because you can still have pointy acrylic nails, iconic eye makeup, wear casual clothes and still be a gyaru.

These days even the gyaru slangs have changed so much like instead of poyo, atonsu, pachikoku now we use yarirafi, kyun-desu, daijuobu-so?, tobu-zo and so on.

Although there are egg models that still somewhat follow OG gyaru fashion like @ / mahiroisme (left) and @ / kae. 06256 (right) on IG.

Conclusion:-

By this post I just wanted to show that as time passes it is inevitable that everything changes and fashion changing is a no brainer. What is hate is companies capitalizing and making their own rules for lure in newbies gyals who would do anything to "fit in" and ring the nostalgia bell for old gyarus and all I have to say is that no, you don't have to spend 100-500$ on eBay trying to find the OG gyaru brands because you can definitely wear your own casual clothes and still be a gyaru because if egg magazine who raised whole generation of x gen, millennials and Gen Z of gyarus then who are we to judge them?

Although if you still wish to dress up like OG then I definitely recommend finding clothes that match the subculture that you want to follow for example I follow agejo, Tsuyome and kogal so I shop in Amazon, local stores, Instagram stores, I order clothes fr abroad the most helpful and fast way to do that finding a vendor and my vendors are all from Instagram. Hope this helps.

I will meet you all in my next post bye gyals <3