#beyond the cage of pines

[bigi-bigotitos]

Abel is my own character from a comic idea I've had for a long time called "Beyond the Cage of Pines"

Here's a small fragment of his story if you want to know him better:

"Abel is the only son of a very important family of magic users in a village that has been isolated for centuries. He is cautious, persistent, calm and a dreamer. The reason why he has horns it's because of all the magic knowledge he has gained. Every magic user has horns. The more spells they learn to use the bigger they'll grow with time. His only friend is Ismael. They both want to be explorers and dream of going outside the village. The comic will show how their relationship develop and whether their dream come true"

[possamble]

Thank you for writing the (messy but neccessary) farcille breakdown. You handled it so wonderfully aaaaaaaah!! Like the other anon I was wondering how far "rock bottom" could get (because chapter 4 already felt pretty rock bottom) but. Yeah. That's pretty rock bottom, huh. The tragedy of loving someone but the other person not understanding <- this applies to both of them.

I think it was really neat how you flipped the question on who's reaching out to who with the academy flashback and the final scene with Namari, because... Marcille clinging onto Falin really is just a reversal of their academy days, isn't it? To everyone who met them after they reunited, it was always Marcille chasing after Falin, but to those who were at the magic academy, it was Falin chasing after Marcille. From picking flowers and berries to eat together, inviting Marcille out to see a play, and generally monopolizing her free time... I'm sure any of them would say the same thing as Namari, but in reverse. No wonder everyone thinks Marcille is just another friend to Falin. They weren't there to witness her pining /j. Idk!! I was rereading the chapter and the academy flashback girl was like "why do you hang off of Marcille so much" and I screamed to myself, "hey wait. HEY WAIT."

[pinkrelish]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶After a lifetime of questionable decisions, you moved from the big city to the sleepy town of Hawkins with your best friend, and took the first job you saw: answering phones for the most boring auto shop in the dullest place on Earth. It wasn't exactly the adventure you wanted it to be.. but attempting to win over the jaded mechanic who insisted on ignoring your existence proved entertaining.✶

NSFW — slow burn, eventual smut, strangers to lovers, flirting, mutual pining, angst, drug/alcohol mention/use, depictions of poverty, sort of grumpy x sunshine but eddie's just tired, reader and eddie are mid-late 20's

chapter: 1/20 [wc: 5.5k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11 / 12

AO3

Chapter 1: Surprise, Surprise

“Yes.” A simple answer which spawned as many awkward scenarios, as it did great ones. Your name was spray painted on the side of a bridge, you spent nights learning to tango on abandoned rooftops, the amount of tales you accrued of bad dates could fill a self-help book.

Whatever the question was, the answer was “yes.” Life was more exciting that way.

Well, your policy usually lended itself to exciting adventures, anyway.

Currently, you were sat behind a desk with your boss, Mr. Moore, who slouched on his black stool with his cheek propped on his fist, pointing a pencil at a customer’s pink invoice sheet in front of you, explaining who to call in the spiral-bound catalog for the parts to be shipped.

The tall counter top partially obscured the both of you from employees and customers alike, but as you soon realized, the number of employees was slightly above two, and the customers even less; and if any of them paid you any mind, you couldn’t tell from the disorienting mix of exhaust fumes, dirty oil, and grease wafting in from the glass door on the left.

Thus began the first day of your new job at David’s Auto Repair. Boring.

————

Your second and third days were hardly different. Arriving at the butt crack of dawn and beginning the routine that definitely wasn’t in the ad in the newspaper: clean the bathrooms (hey, at least they had two), start the coffee pot after scrubbing off years of neglect caked onto the inside, and organize the paperwork Mr. Moore left for you in his office.

Oh, and most importantly, after locking up your bike outside the front door, you made your way through the echoey workshop and poked your head out the back door to the parking lot–which, by all means, was a gravel alleyway with overgrown trees blocking your view beyond the sleek black car parked next to the dumpster.

“Morning!” you greeted the one employee who arrived early and stayed late. “Eddie, right?”

The man leaning against the gray brick wall didn’t bother acknowledging you. Didn’t lift his head from its dropped back position, nor open his eyes. Definitely didn’t take the cigarette out of his mouth to bestow you the gift of his chipper attitude, nor did he uncross his arms to offer you the bare minimum wave.

And much like the other days, you sat perched behind your desk and beamed up at him as he walked past you to the break room. And as usual, he slid his gaze to you. And like normal, he didn’t say anything.

But he did hold your eye contact for a fraction of a second longer, albeit, he looked a bit frightened when he did, as if he were suspicious of your smile.

You listened to the clunk of his heavy boots fade down the hallway, then return with him holding a mug of coffee.

This time, as he walked by, he remained vigilant, and your grin went ignored by his stupid big brown eyes surrounded by envious lashes.

Lucky you, the reception area was essentially a glass cage. Behind the black pleather seats for customers was the glowing blue sky, and beside you were floor to ceiling windows showcasing the artificially bright garage where the man in grease stained coveralls twisted gaudy rings off his fingers and placed them on a tray with his coffee, before picking up a dirty rag and popping open the hood of the car he worked on past closing last night.

“You’re welcome for the coffee,” you mumbled in a mocking tone, sneering at his red name patch–Eddie. “Jerk.”

————

Friday was different. You locked up your bike, chucked your backpack into your chair behind the desk, and made your way to the back of the garage for the routine, “Good morning.”

For some reason, you decided to reveal your whole self; more than your head stuck out the door, or rising above the countertop customers leaned on when trying to schmooze deals on parts–hell if you knew how to do that, anyway. You didn’t get paid enough to bargain.

You stepped onto the uneven gravel and surveyed the scenery, looking both ways down the alley to the major roads on either side leading to the heart of downtown Hawkins. Absolutely dismally silent. Void of life. Except for the small things you never noticed, like faraway birds, the hum of a distant motor, buzzing bugs before they disappeared for the cooler months. You felt the dew settling on your forearms, and swore you could smell impending rain on the cloudless day.

“Is it always this quiet?” you asked, face pinched in confusion as you took it all in. “I swear I can hear my own thoughts.”

Eddie may not have appreciated your joke, but he did surprise you.

He kept one of his arms crossed over his stomach, and took the cigarette from between his lips to flick the ashes. “You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked the dilapidated fence across from him.

Feeling cheeky, you schooled the thrill out of your voice from getting a response out of him, and said, “What gave it away?”

A drag on his cigarette was his wordless answer. Fair.

“I’m from New York.” The implied City followed without clarification. “Just moved here last week. My roommate’s from Hawkins, and she had to move back to help take care of her parents. They’re older and her dad has some health problems, and yeah, I couldn’t afford rent on my own, so you know, why not. Why not follow her to a town so small it’s impossible to find on a map.”

All your talking earned you a magnificent thing. Eddie finally opened his eyes, if only to pin you with a mild glare, and a skeptic pinch between his brows.

He said more to himself than you, “You must really like your roommate to come here.” The inflection at the end was both amusement and contempt, no doubt.

“We met in our first year of college and became best friends like that–!” You snapped. “Both theater kids going to school for acting, and we later made a comedy troupe with a few other people. When she asked if I wanted to move with her, I said ‘yes.’” Inclining your upper body towards him, you explained, “It’s sorta my thing. If anyone asks me anything, I say ‘yes.’ Obviously, I can veto shit that’s dangerous or crosses any boundaries, but it’s my policy to try everything. Life makes better stories that way.”

Your unique brand of wisdom furthered his obvious distaste for you.

Eddie inhaled his vice until the orange glow burned to the filter. Smoke fell from his mouth in a rush as if he were about to speak again, but he didn’t. He merely stared at you. And if he were having a staring contest, he won.

“Well, have a good day, then,” you said, spinning on the toe of your shoe.

You sat in your glass zoo for the day shuffling papers, making calls, and filling out forms. Most definitely not talking to the guy who appeared annoyed at your very existence.

Unfortunately for him, Hawkins was tiny and the pickings were slim.

Maybe it was his eyes, or the way the short layers of his choppy hair cut escaped his low bun to curl themselves in face-framing waves, or the fact he was twenty-years younger than the other two mechanics, but you took a liking to Eddie, much to his dismay. And due to your affinity for his annoyance, you noticed the subtle changes in his appearance sooner than you should. 

————

Dark purple circles announced the lack of sleep under Eddie’s eyes before the bags could. Bloodshot and struggling to open past a sliver, he sucked down half his cigarette before the routine minutes of peace he carved into his strict schedule were interrupted by the newest knot in his muscles.

“Good morning!” you said.

“Morning,” he returned without thinking about it. Rookie mistake.

You stood closer this time, inching down the brick wall, approaching him as if he would startle like a wild animal to get a better look at the years wearing heavy on the fine lines etched into his face. Perhaps no longer ‘fine.’

“You good?”

He didn’t have the energy to put up his usual front. With his chin dipped to his chest, he kept his eyes closed, nearly drifting to sleep as he muttered, “Long night.”

“Ah.”

Your clumsy shuffling alerted him to your movement, and he reluctantly observed you standing a few feet in front of him, rocking on your heels. He filled his chest with an incredulous sigh before you even spoke.

“You seem like you could use some cheering up,” you beamed. “I could juggle for you! Should I do three or four?” Eddie’s jaw went slack, and the cigarette stuck to the wetness inside his chapped lips. You bent down to gather large rocks into your palms, opting for four when he didn’t answer.

You stood up and stepped back. Made a big show of tracing invisible arcs above your head with your gaze, readying your hands. Sucking in a breath. Building suspense while his expression slowly crept into one of tempered curiosity.

Tensing, you tossed all four rocks into the air, and made a genuine effort to catch them before they fell unceremoniously around you, bouncing off the gravel in your scramble.

Clasping your hands behind your back in feigned shyness, you announced, “I don’t know how to juggle.”

For a moment you thought he was going to continue to regard you as if you were a bug in his coffee.. Then his veneer cracked.

He snorted. The cute way, when someone’s trying to suppress it. A subtle shake in their shoulders, keeping their head down, and their smile hidden behind the heel of the palm.

Eddie hugged his arm tighter over his chest, and chastised himself, “Why’d I let that get me.”

And truly, when he flicked his gaze to you with the lopsided remnant of his grin, you were imprinted with the heat of his wonderment, and your body remembered that feeling. Sensing it later when you sat at your desk, tapping your pencil, rattling off a series of numbers and letters for engine parts, and you snuck a coy look over the phone at the exact moment Eddie turned around to ask Carl for a wrench instead of getting it himself from the tool box near the window.

And he felt your stare during lunch when you promised an irate customer their car would be ready by the end of business hours, and hung up the phone with the type of heavy-handedness one used when implying a ‘fuck you’ without stating it.

You pushed yourself from the desk and went to the fridge in front of the circular table in the break room, eyeing Eddie’s odd choice as you walked by. A bologna sandwich–fairly normal–but also a stained orange tupperware container with an array of dried out microwaved leftovers. A corner of spaghetti, pale instant mashed potatoes with three peas stuck on top, unidentifiable sludge that may have been beef stew at one point, and a handful of Kraft mac n cheese.

Pitiful amounts of food that most people would’ve thrown out.

Not that you should judge. Your lunch was the blandest rice-based meal your roommate’s mom made the night before. The woman had never heard of salt, much less other spices, but she was letting you live in their attic for free until you and Bobbie found a place to live.

Breaking your chain of thoughts, you smiled at Eddie on your way out.

He didn’t look up from his paperwork.

Wholly ignored.

————

Over the rest of the month, you learned there wasn’t a definitive pattern to which days of the week were hardest for Eddie, but it was clear when he was enduring the worst.

As the evenings grew cooler, you left the lobby door open, and in doing so, were wise to the bite in his words, the edge to his voice. The quick apologies to Carl when he let his frustration show. The fluidity of ‘fucks’ flying past his mouth, the way he wrung his nape while staring into the distance, and the lurking stress of bottled emotions causing his teeth to grind.

He approached you with concern spurned from the windows being painted black with night.

“You don’t have to stay behind, you know that, right?” Eddie got your attention in the doorway. You blinked at him, still seeing the words of the book you were reading swim past your vision. “I have a set of keys. I can lock up when I’m done.”

It was the most he’d said to you in two weeks. Three entire sentences composed of more words than he’d uttered if you added them all up since your juggling stunt.

“I don’t mind.”

A meager response which resulted in a standoff.

Eddie wasted no time bunching his shoulders at your defiance. He left streaky fingerprints on the door handle as he reached for his neck, and tucked his fingers under his collar to run his thumb along his chain necklace in a self-soothing gesture. A layer of grime coated his skin. His disheveled hair stuck to his sweaty, dirty neck. The front of his coveralls were blackened with grease, as was the white tank top he wore underneath, peeking above the unfastened top snap.

On the other hand, you overturned your palms and glanced around the barren room. “Is it really that much of a bother that I’m sitting in here being quiet?” you drawled.

“Yes.” Automatic irritation.

“It’s not like I have somewhere to be.”

“Don’t have a comedy routine to rehearse with your roommate?” he intoned in complete monotony.

“Ha-ha,” you replied, just as emotionless. You thought about correcting him in regards to you and Bobbie no longer doing stand up, but decided to grab your backpack and leave without putting up a fight. His concern about you staying late may not be genuine, but it was evident he wanted–or needed–you gone. You didn’t want to push his boundaries when he showed this level of discomfort, especially when the burden of fatigue wore beyond acceptable exhaustion, and he was ready to snap, no matter how hard he tried to quell it.

You surrendered, “Bye, Eddie.”

No reply.

In total darkness, you unchained your bike and hopped on, pedaling past the mailbox when you heard the thunderous slams of the service doors being lowered shut.

And you made it to the edge of the trees before coming to a screeching halt in the middle of the empty street, cracking your neck at the speed of which you whipped around to gawk.

Your heartbeat skipped, then timed itself with the extreme drum beat and opening wail of a guitar accompanied by high-pitched screamed lyrics.

The music may have been muffled, and the inside fluorescent lights struggled to penetrate the dense fog from the upper warehouse windows, but it was as if Eddie was subjecting the desolate parking lot to his own personal Judas Priest concert, hearing be damned.

You didn’t even know the dusty radio in the shop worked. But whatever helped him blow off steam, you supposed.

————

Today was a good day.

Eddie liked Fridays. Most people working weekdays did, but when he came inside early from his morning cigarette, and you hadn’t finished sweeping the shop, he made a point to idle around the orange car at the center, seeking your attention and offering an apology. Not a spoken apology, mind you. But it was rare he initiated eye contact, and when he did it with the purpose of showing deference in his softened features, you understood.

You forgave him with a gentle lift at the corner of your lips for an incident yesterday afternoon, wherein he grunted at you to leave him alone when you were telling him about one of the plays you and Bobbie acted in. Sometimes you required your own reminder of when you were being annoying, and gave him an apologetic smile for bothering him. He nodded. All was right with the world. All was forgiven and now he could get to work.

He wiped his hands down the sides of his coveralls, and leaned his upper half through the open car window to reach the latch for the hood.

The perfect opportunity to mess with him presented itself in all its glory. But first, you couldn’t resist taking a long.. long look at his backside, head tilted, mouth more than a little hung open.

“Huh?” He nearly banged his head on the roof, rounding on you with the sharpest glare in the Midwest.

Under the guise of perfect innocence, you kept brushing the broom over his work boots and toward the dust pan. “Sorry, sir, just doin’ my job. Gotta clean up the filth.”

“An actress and a comedian, huh?” he posed, allowing his smirk to foster as he gripped the edge of the door. “Gonna tell me you were a clown, next?”

“Actually..” You were interrupted by Carl coming in, followed by the near-retired Kevin who worked two days a week.

You greeted them loud and proud, overdoing it in the joy department at the ripe morning hour. Asking about Carl’s wife, and Kevin’s dog; really laying it on thick for the purpose of sending a message to the looming ghoul behind you: I’m annoying you on purpose now.

Still, as you entered the lobby, you caught sight of the sneaky grin on his face before he turned his back to you. A tight-lipped thing he was clearly trying to rid himself of while pulling his hair back into a low bun, and taking the time to tie up a bandana to keep everything out of his face, thus losing his security blanket from the world perceiving he wasn’t in a permanent bad mood.

And of course, Eddie kept up his act through lunch. Stomping through the lobby in that way people did when they were so very obviously trying to appear aloof, and coming across as anything but. Eyes staring straight ahead, but too wide and too aware to not be soliciting a reaction from their periphery. Chest out, muscles flexed. Posture the very opposite of casual, causing them to walk in a stilted manner like a robot.

And his charade continued when he came back from the break room, rounding the corner with softer steps. Slower. Hanging onto the precious milliseconds where your back was to him, and he could absorb your image freely without being noticed. Then, he lifted his chin and returned to his project, pretending you weren’t there.

Yep, so painfully obvious when he forgot reflections existed and you were surrounded by glass.

~~~

Fridays were the days he anticipated most. Work was grueling, and he had many things to finish before the break for the weekend, but he didn’t mind staying late. He preferred it.

Fridays meant he could rely on someone else handling the stressors at home, and he was free to earn his late hours at the garage, indulging in his loud music, and unwinding the constant state of tension lurking beneath the surface. It was the only way he knew how to cope. To stay sane.

Yeah, he loved Fridays. Until a surprise came running at him in her tiny pink shoes.

Eddie screwed his eyes shut and exhaled a long, hard breath through his nose.

“Sorry,” came Wayne’s earnest apology as his nephew wilted; shoulders sagging, head hung. Tapping the wrench he was holding on his thigh. Trying his best to keep it together. “Don’t mean to drop ‘er off on you, but work called me in, so I came here after picking her up.”

Turning away from the engine he was installing, Eddie assumed his authoritative voice, but it came out as a weary sigh. “Adrienne, you know the rules,” he warned lowly, “No running in the shop.” After a beat, he corrected himself. “I mean, no being in the shop at all!”

She giggled as she skipped away from him, sloppy pigtails bouncing with mirth, plastic glittery shoes slapping the concrete floor where a myriad of items she could trip on laid.

“Adrie!” He called out, but she was too busy opposing him to pay attention.

Lucky for her, a certain receptionist caught her by the shoulders before she crashed into a rogue tire.

“Whoa there, little Miss!”

You looked to Eddie for further instruction on what to do with the girl currently laughing up a storm at your feet, but he was frozen. A bit paler, and wringing the back of his neck. Unable to articulate any of the broken consonants on his tongue as he stared at you. You switched your gaze to the older man beside him, but he was equally confused as to why Eddie was having trouble speaking.

Addressing anyone who would like to volunteer an answer, you asked, “And who’s this?”

“This.. This i-is my daughter. She, I, Goddamnit–I’m sorry, can you take her inside? I swear she’ll be quiet. Right, Adrie?”

Seeing the pure desperation settle around his eyes, you assimilated into the role of babysitter, wanting to alleviate his anxiety despite the sudden surge of your own. You held your hand out for her to take, and she did so without a second thought, grasping onto you with her little fingers and standing up, being the one to lead you to your desk.

As the door closed behind you, you overheard the older man clear his throat under the strain of bad news. “The water heater is broken again, and I couldn’t– ..Before I had to leave.”

Their private conversation was sealed behind the glass. You didn’t care to eavesdrop. It was too heartbreaking watching Eddie frantically catch his fingers on his bandana before removing it so he could tangle his curls into his fist, tugging them over his face as he groaned in a fruitless effort to hide himself from the world.

But on the subject of his brunette waves..

His daughter had the same curl pattern. Almost the same cut, too. Clearly Eddie was the acting barber of the family. Something you’d find adorable if it wasn’t for the pang of rejection in your stomach.

Daughter. Family.

The words repeated themselves in your head as your eyes wandered to the black tray beside the tool cabinet. He wore several large rings. Lots of jewelry, in fact, but you couldn’t remember if any of them were a wedding band, and the embarrassment of developing a crush on a married man for weeks without taking two seconds to cross reference his left hand burned your cheeks hot.

“Hi,” his daughter said cutely, swaying from foot to foot while holding two of your fingers.

You crouched to her level. “Wanna draw while we wait?” She nodded, sucking on the tip of her thumb.

Steadying your spinny office chair while she climbed into it, you made sure she was comfortable before bringing out the black stool from Mr. Moore’s office, and sitting next to her. You opened your backpack, flipped to a clean sheet in your sketchpad, and presented it to her along with your colored pencils.

“Hmm, what should we draw?”

Adrie snatched the bubblegum pink color, and began her masterpiece. “Mrs. Teresa read us a book about a mouse.”

Thank God she said it was a mouse, because you didn’t want to be the one to guess what the two oblong circles on the page were.

Adorably, she filled you in on the parts of the story she remembered, and added a triangle of yellow cheese under the mouse, then waited for you to prompt another thing to draw. You followed the nocturnal theme and asked for an owl. She hesitated on what colors to choose, and you helped her pick out the shades of brown and tan.

“How old are you?” you asked while she inundated her bird with too many feathers.

“Four-and-a-half,” she said proudly. “How old are you?”

You raised your brows. “Certainly not four-and-a-half.”

At some point, your arm had wrapped itself around her. Maybe to help shift her closer to the desk. Maybe to collect her in a pseudo-hug when she completed her art. Maybe to let Eddie know everything was okay when he craned his neck to check on you while conversing with the man outside, and you put on your best face, grinning at the story his daughter reenacted about a cartoon she watched that morning at preschool.

“What next? What next?”

“Let’s see.. Can you draw me a bat?”

She was more sure of herself, grabbing the black pencil and outlining an entire colony of bats mid-flight with more attention to detail. “My daddy has bats.”

“He has bats?” you questioned, sweeping loose hair out of her face.

She pointed to her elbow.

Thinking on it for a moment, you perked up. “Oh! He has tattoos?” She recognized the word, nodding vigorously. “Interesting, interesting.”

She’d hardly begun to fill in their wings when Eddie opened the door, and held up the comically small backpack slung on his arm, signaling it was time to leave.

You helped her down from the chair, and she excused herself to the bathroom, which only contributed to the awkward silence when she disappeared down the hall and Eddie was forced to wait at your desk.

It didn’t have to be analyzed, nor stated. The reality.

He had an entire life outside of work.

Duh. Of course he did, but still. It was one he never shared with you. Not like you earned the privilege to know, or to be included in anything he didn’t want to divulge, but with how private he was, it came as a surprise.

Invoking the thousands of dollars you spent on acting classes, you moved on, and kept your tone light, “The butterfly backpack suits you. Not sure about the color, though. Bright pink clashes with your navy blue outfit.”

Tough crowd.

His sulky demeanor permeated in his dull gaze trained on his stained sleeves. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Dumping her on you like that. Normally my uncle has the day off work and can take care of her, but he’s gotta go in because someone called out sick, so, yeah..”

If it were at all appropriate, you would reach across the countertop to soothe him from picking at his torn cuticles. But it wasn’t appropriate. So you didn’t.

You locked your hands behind your head and leaned back in your chair. “Funnily enough, I worked a brief stint as a clown for children’s birthday parties, so I’m actually quite comfortable entertaining them.”

“I’m shocked,” he said, void of shock. Finding the strength to lift his eyes from the animals she drew on your sketchpad to the encouraging curve of your lips, he tried to match your grin, but it fell flat. “At least you can go home on time today.”

You sucked in a breath for a quick retort, but Adrie interrupted you in her tiny voice, “Daddy! I can’t reach the sink!” And maybe that was for the best before you humiliated yourself more.

Because, the truth of the matter was, you always had the ability to go home on time. It was only because Eddie stayed behind that you made excuses to sit at your desk past your scheduled hours, prattling off some nonsense about memorizing the catalog.

“C’mon,” he said to his daughter, supporting her on his hip. “Let’s get going.” His tone wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t exactly patient, either. The creeping exhaustion he kept under wraps was breaking through. Stress fractures in the mask he wore around others. The sanity he gripped for dear life for the sake of Adrie.

He caught the empathetic pinch between your brows, and used the last of his energy to turn so his daughter could see you. “Say ‘bye,’ and ‘thank you’ for playing, Adrie.”

She waved with the same enthusiasm as a golden retriever wagging their tail. “Bye! Thank you!”

“Bye, Adrie,” you laughed. “Bye, Eddie.”

Like usual, he didn’t respond. Today that was okay.

————

Eddie was on the verge. He was trembling, failing to loosen a bolt on the water heater to investigate why it broke–again–when his hair was yanked–again–and his knuckles scraped a bent piece of metal–again.

He was kneeling on his kitchen floor, craving nothing more than a shower to wash away the work week until his skin burned, but he was not afforded the simple luxury.

No relaxation. Not for him. No one to call on when Wayne was gone. This was his life to fix. On his own.

After repairing cars all day, he was exhausted. Touched out. But Adrie needed something from him, something he couldn’t understand with his tired mind. All he wanted was a break. All he needed was a break from her using his coveralls to scale his body. All he sought was the energy to deal with her pulling his hair.

But he was not spared the fortune.

“Adrie, please,” he resorted to begging. And when she didn’t stop, he withdrew his arms from the closet, and pried her hands off his hair, peeling her away and setting her on the floor.

She made to grab him again, but he used his waning strength to squeeze her arms to her sides, giving her his full attention she fought for.

“Can I get you a snack? Or put something on the TV? Do you want a nap?” He listed off anything, shaking and desperate.

“I wanna play with Daddy.”

Guilt amplified the shame.

He was a shit dad. He knew. He did his best and it was never good enough.

“I know you do,” the words fluctuated in the wake of water stinging his eyes. “I know you do, but Daddy needs to fix this. I can make you a snack and you can eat it in the living room. How ‘bout that?” Under normal circumstances, that wasn’t allowed. She had a penchant for dropping sticky food on the carpet–which was just another thing he’d have to get around to cleaning–but he was willing to bend the rules for the promise of a shower.

Adrienne thought about his offer for a long while, and settled on his deal.

And yet, it was hours.. hours until he was able to sit down.

The water heater required more service than he initially thought, and his daughter wasn’t entertained by herself for very long. She came to him in intervals of minutes, climbing up his back and hanging from his neck. He stopped caring. He didn’t have it within him. He made sure she was safe, and that was it.

He fed her a dreadful dinner, and she was so happy for her overcooked noodles in pasta sauce. He saved the leftovers. Put them in the nearly-empty fridge and took out two beers for himself, cracking the tops before sinking into the couch.

Adrienne stood between his legs while he wrapped her in her favorite blanket, and placed her in his lap. The top half of his coveralls were tied by the sleeves around his waist. No matter how dirty he was, this was how they ended the night. Him staring blankly at the TV, and her cheek on his chest, ear pressed to his white tank top, listening to his heartbeat. Curling her fists into her tattered quilt in response to him nuzzling the top of her head, and resting there in a content hum. Closing his eyes. Turning off his brain. Tipping back swigs of beer until he felt better, and giving her kisses until she giggled and squirmed.

The kisses were as much for her as they were for him, giving and receiving the only affection in his life. Apologizing for earlier when he couldn’t stand to be touched.

Her hug was small, yet powerful. Clumsy, but what he needed. Another person to gather in his arms and have their weight fall asleep on his chest.

He collected Adrie, and gave her a few more doting kisses while carrying her to bed.

“Stay, Daddy.”

Sometimes he did, just to have a real bed to sleep in, but with how long it took to fix the water heater, there was only enough hot water to bathe her. He’d have to wait until the morning.

“Not tonight, Daddy’s still dirty from work.”

It hurt to walk away. It hurt more to sleep on the lumpy couch. Hurt worse when Wayne came home to crash on the roll out bed, and the sun funneled through the windows, and the day started all over again.

Hurt the most when Eddie thought about the surprised look on your face when you learned he had a daughter.

Hurt the least when he imagined a world in which you wouldn’t care, and still flirted with him come Monday morning, because fuck, it was the only thing he looked forward to after Adrie’s meltdowns on the way to school.

[grogusmum]

A Dark and Stormy Night (oneshot)

werewolf!FRANKIE MORALES X F!READER

W/C: 3500ish

RATED: E (18+)

WARNINGS: well, monsterfucking, oral sex (f recieving), rough sex, unprotected PiV sex (it's a fantasy y'all you know what to do!!). As always, if you see something, say something. Message me in my DMs, I'm happy to add something I missed.

SUMMARY: You stumble into a lighthouse to get out of a storm, and meet the handsome light-keeper, who has a secret, but is irresistible.

A/N: Oberyn and the Merling was technically my first foray into monsterfucking, but that was like teenagers humping in the back of a car...this is, well, it's as no holds barred as I've ever gotten. I hope it doesn't suck, lol. Anyway wish me luck! 💚

This was posted as a multipart fic, but when I finished the second part it made more sense to be all one piece. I may write more for these two, but as it stands, it is a oneshot.

You follow a boardwalk that becomes a path as the clouds roll in, obscuring the moon. You know you need to find cover before the storm.

Focusing on the shifting sand under your feet, as the rain begins, you speed up. The skies continue to darken; soon, you reach the first rocks of the jetty while the rain comes down in sheets. Looking up, you find yourself at the base of an old lighthouse. The lens swings across the black water as it lights up the dark and stormy night for those lost at sea.

Beach rose thorns tear at your sweater as you race up the slope. Beyond, scrub pines and pin oak trees create a small amount of cover; the wind picks up, but not before you hear the baying of a wolf… no, not a wolf. A coyote, there are no wolves in these parts. But there's something different about the howl; you speed up and bang on the door of the great beacon.

"Hello?" You shout, "please! Is anyone there?"

As if in answer, another howl rings out, making you jump. After a crash of lightning for good measure, you try the latch and push the door open, willing to disregard good manners. Looking for a switch or a lamp, you find only a candle in a heavy brass holder on a small shelf and a black matchbox holder attached to the curved wall. 

Running the wooden match across the strike pad, it sputters to life, and you light the candle. Slipping your finger into the brass ring of the candle holder and carrying it before you, the Gothic horror mood of the whole situation is not lost on you. With a sigh and a shiver, you wind up the spiral stairs.

"Hell-lo? I don't mean to intrude, but…" you call again and then with a chuckle in an undertone, "Our car broke down a few miles up the road. Do you have a phone we might use?"

Shivering in your soaked clothes, you reach the first level, which contains the living quarters. You can't help but rush to the woodstove, which warms the round room.

You hear a creak below as you take off your shoes and socks. Did you forget to latch the door entirely? Biting your lip in worry, you continue to listen; bracing yourself, you pull a poker from the coal scuttle.

You wait and wait. Time spins out—the only measure is your heart’s tattoo, like a rabbit's. As the adrenaline clears your system, you become exhausted. Swaying where you stand, the iron poker clangs on the pine floor, bringing you back. Deciding it must just be “old house sounds,” you move to the bed and sit, and without so much as a yawn of warning, your eyes slip closed.

In the middle of the night, you feel a weight on your chest, soft and warm. Your eyes flutter open, and blocking the light coming from the woodstove is an enormous shape pressing on you; as your eyes focus, it huffs a breath, and you recognize it as a sleeping dog sound. It's huge, with pointed ears. How did you not see or hear it when you came in? Whether a watchdog or not, wouldn’t it have come to investigate? The trunk of the animal is on you, its muzzle at your collarbone, a front leg on either side of you, fully caging you in. Your hand comes up, fingers sinking into its plush fur, like a wolf’s… you shake your head, not a wolf, of course, but those dogs that look like them. Its steady heartbeat and relaxed breathing lull you back to sleep; elk-hound, that's what the one, you think, as you drift under again.

Waking again at full light, you find yourself tucked into a patchwork quilt, your shoes placed under the stove, warm and dry, no dog to be seen. The smell of eggs and bacon draws you up the stairs, halfway up you can hear the food sizzling on the stove. You feel this need to check yourself over, but you seem fine. You fell asleep on the bed of a stranger, who is apparently back- you shake your head at how unbelievably dangerous that was. Then you remember the dangers outside… it's a calculated, if hastily figured, risk.

His back to you, in front of the stove, you presume, is the light-keeper, a cable knit sweater stretched across his broad shoulders. 

"He-hello?"

He turns, soft brown eyes, brown curls standing up as though he’d run his fingers through them just a moment ago, a sharp nose that suits him, with crease of his bottom lip that accentuates his mouth’s natural pout. Not that you had any real expectations on what a lighthouse operator looks like but... maybe like some old-salt sailor type with a beard and pipe. Silly, of course. You remind yourself that you are not a cod fish and close your mouth.

"Morning," came his rich baritone voice.

"I'm so sorry, I- I - the storm-” you stumble as you try to pull yourself together.

"Don't worry about that. I hope you slept alright. "

"I did, thank you, but  I- should get going." You start putting on your shoes, “ I really didn't mean to fall asleep, " ...on your bed.

“'S not problem, really; that was one hell of a storm last night.”

“I should go-”

Well,” he says, bringing breakfast to a simple pine table, “that's the tricky part…” 

“W-why?”

“The roads are impassable and there's more rain on the way.”

“Oh.”

“Nothing to be done about it right now,” he says, “have something to eat.”

You begin to eat, and after a bite or two, you introduce yourself.

“Where are my manners- I’m Frankie. Spending too much time on my own, I guess.”

“Are you kidding, I burst into your house like Goldilocks! Found sleeping in your bed.”

“And was it just right, Goldie?” He smirks.

You fluster a little; he is very handsome after all, and broad and was that flirting… 

“Better to be Goldilocks than Red Riding Hood, I suppose.” He says you get the feeling it wasn’t meant to be out loud. “I guess that depends on who the huntsman turns out to be…” 

He notices your eyes widen and smiles apologetically, brushing his comment aside. “Sorry, like I said, spend a lot of time on my own.”

"S-speaking of Red Riding Hood, where’s your dog? It came and slept with me last night.”

“Hmmm?" Frankie murmurs as he sets the table, "Oh, he’s- around.”

“Well, he kept me very cozy last night. What a cuddle bug; what’s his name?”

“His, um - it’s Cisco. You better dig into those eggs; they're gonna get cold.”

“Right,” you take up a fork of scrambled egg, “I will be able to leave today, though, right?”

“We’ll have to see,” is all he says before digging into his breakfast.

Frankie goes about his light-keeper duties, including hunting for his lost skiff. You aren't sure what to do with your time-

“Is there something I can do to help? I kind of feel weird just sitting around-”

“Well, the weather isn't going to let us do much outside safely, but-”

Frankie pulls off his ball cap, ruffles his hair, and plops it back on his head, thinking, “I mean, you could help clean the lantern glass …”

“Really?” You stand, excited to do a real lighthouse job. 

“Sure, hard to mess up… no offense, and safe.” 

You take no offense; on the contrary, you clap happily to yourself, to which Frankie chuckles.

After showing you the supplies and giving you a quick demonstration, he starts down the stairs to continue with his other duties and then stops and turns-

"Thanks, Goldie," he winks and then descends the stairs.

After a time, you see him out on the rocks despite the wind starting up again from the east. He must be looking for his rowboat. You decide to scout the circumference of the lantern room, looking out the windows to see if you can see the craft. 

To the northwest, you see something red against the rocks. It doesn't look good.

You step out onto the gallery. Luckily, this isn't a particularly tall lighthouse, but it's tall enough, and the iron balcony was small enough that you feel a touch of vertigo looking down. It doesn't help that the wind's really kicking up now, reminding you that this is just a break in the storm. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath and open them.

"Uh, Frankie!" 

Frankie looks up, hand going to the bill of his cap.

"Is that your skiff?" You point to the red “something” half in the water. 

He hollers his thanks and jogs over to where you are indicating, and you can see his frustrated huff as his hands hitch onto his hips in a disgruntled fashion.

Cleaning all that glass takes time, and your shoulders can feel the real work of it. You stop only when your stomach screams for lunch, and you find a sandwich under plastic wrap for you, but you haven’t seen Frankie, Lighthouse Keeper, the rest of your time working on it, nor Cisco, the Lighthouse Dog. 

He had brought the boat to a shed and disappeared inside it. When and if he came out, you didn't notice. You also realize you haven’t seen any signs of a pet anywhere; no bed or bowls. When you come down the spiral steps, you smell of the concoction used for cleaning the glass and lens; watered-down isopropyl alcohol and Woolight - but mostly the alcohol. 

“You'll want to wash your hands with this,” Frankie hands you a bar of soap at the first landing of the spiral stair. “It'll take care of the rubbing alcohol smell and keep your hands from drying out.” 

Frankie gives a crooked smile of apology at your startled jump. Murmuring your thanks, you take it and smell the bar that looks so small when in his hand. Fresh. Your mind wanders to how this fresh scent might mingle with Frankie's natural one. The bubble of revery is just a millisecond and pops like one the moment your eyes land on Frankie, who looks like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

When you join him in the kitchen, where he is again standing over the stove, the delicious scent of savory soup reminds you of coming home after a long chilly walk from school. The wind is howling now, and you can hear the crash of the waves, as high tide approaches, the pound of them like rumbling thunder. Its only rival is the whip crack of the actual thunder chasing the lighting strikes illuminating the windows. 

“Where’s Cisco?”

“Weather like this he likes to be below,” Frankie says after a beat, back still turned, “I have him set up with his bed down there so he doesn’t get anxious.”

“Oh,” you feel a little more at ease about not seeing neither hide nor hair of the beast of a dog all day.

“It'll be dark early due to the storm, and I’ll have duties up above. I’m going to ask you to stay in the living quarters. I’ll sleep up there, so, um, just - make yourself at home.”  

You do your best, but your mind is on Frankie in a way that makes what you would be doing at home, not at all appropriate, even when told to make yourself at home.  His dark eyes, big hands... him calling you Goldie. How many times your mind has gone back to him asking you if his bed was just right, you dare not admit, even to yourself. You don't know him, you remind yourself.

Suddenly, there's a bang and scuffle. Then you hear a yowl.

“Cisco?” You go to the door, preparing to go down to where you assume he's been set up, but a second sound confirms it's coming from above, not below… where Frankie is.                   

You turn and look up the spiral stairs. “F-Frankie?”

Your foot hesitantly lands on the first step -

“D-did Cisco follow you? 

More shuffling and a loud thunk on the floor bring you up short. Frankie asked you to stay below, but maybe he hurt himself, or Cisco made his way up there and was scared of the storm. Your feet start moving again up the winding steps. 

You pause, your head just above the landing, eyes adjusting to the strange light of the lantern room. Instead of finding a dog, on the floor is a pile of clothes, folded neatly, with Frankie's cap placed atop it. As you look up, you see Frankie from behind, sitting in the one chair the room affords. His skin gleams with a layer of sweat, and he gives a sudden quake.

“Frankie! A-are you alright? I heard-”

His head whips around and then down as you are still only partway up the stairs. 

“I told you to sta—” the lightning flashes, and you see Frankie's eyes have changed. They are no longer warm, sweet brown but glowing amber. 

“Wh- you- you're-” Everything in you screams to run as far away as possible, but when Frankie contorts in a new wave of pain, you scramble up the stairs. He almost wails in despair as you approach the chair. “Frankie, what is happening? How can I - hel -”

“ C-can’t, go G-gold-ie, please!” 

“I don’t understand, Frankie. What’s happening?” 

The light-keeper takes a steadying breath as if fighting every molecule of his changing form, Though he knows it’s too late. Too late to shield you. 

“C-come here,” he breathes.

Lighting flashes again, the boom of thunder right on top of it. When your eyes adjust yet again, you go around the chair to face him. Frankie takes your hand; long claw-like nails have sprouted, and you have cottoned on. Frankie is - 

While he has a firm grip, he causes no pain. Your brows knot as he pushes up your sleeve. 

“I will remember,” he says, as much for himself as for you. Then he presses his nose to your wrist, inhaling deeply, and his eyes flick up to yours. The storm rages, the lens does its steady turn, and Frankie continues to smell you. He stands, eyes never breaking contact, his bare skin glistening in the light.

 You had tried not to look down at his body. But he's so close, and when he stands, your resolve breaks. Frankie is strong and somehow more broad across the shoulders than when in the confines of his fisherman’s sweater but has a trim waist. His Adonis belt is so enticing, as is his soft belly. Below that, his uncut cock has an enticing curve. Your eyes travel back up. You find his waiting for yours; he lifts his head away from your wrist and pulls; you stumble a step closer, and his face burrows into your neck. He breathes in your scent.

“Didn't harm you last night, I won't… I’ll remember, promise. You smell so good, Goldie.”

The warmth you feel low in your pelvis is combined with a shiver as you clench on nothing.

“S-so, you-your…” you stammer as his clawed hands wrap around your waist; he tastes your collarbone, licking a long stripe as he finds his way below your ear. Your knees buckle, but Frankie has a firm grip on you. “Cisco?”

“ ‘m ssorry,” he slurs, his nose nestled where your ear and jaw meet. “You taste as good as you smell, Goldie… I wonder-” 

What Frankie is wondering is interrupted by a long canine whine as he pulls back, face contorted in pain as his teeth elongate into fangs.

The blood has surely left your face, and you're shocked as you become aware that it has rushed to lower regions. You can feel the wetness between your legs, and  Frankie, closing his eyes, breathes in how your scent has changed. 

The sinful look he gives sends more heat between your thighs; you know you're soaked by now. You can still see the handsome light-keep though his eyes glow, his ears are now pointed, and his hair is shaggy. A hungry tongue moves over sharp teeth. Teeth made for tearing your throat out.

The next thunderclap shakes the lighthouse, and it's only then that he breaks his grip on you. He cries out as his body continues to transform. It snaps you out of your trance. You run down the iron stairs, passing the kitchen, down to the living quarters, and you're brought up short by a full wolf bay sounding from above. 

“What am I doing? What am I doing!?” you look up the stairs, and almost against your will, you look through the doorway to the bed—the bed where Frankie had lain atop you as the wolf. Then your eyes drift upward again, biting your thumb in indecision. Or perhaps fear at the decision you're apparently making. You slowly undress, leaving the door open; you spread out on the soft bed and wait to see what happens.

How much time before you hear the click of canine claws on the treads of each step, you aren't sure. You only know the twist of arousal you feel arches your back, and Frankie hasn't even touched you. Are you afraid? Not as much as you think you should be. It's there; this danger lights up your brain and sends adrenaline coursing through you. But he didn't hurt you last night, and he said- he-

The wolf growls around the door; he is not on all fours but hunched, one front paw occasionally touching the floor. 

“F-f-” you stammer as his front paws press heavily on the bed. He is enormous, and he hulks over you. His snout investigates every crease and crevice. You close your eyes as he noses at your mound. “-fuck.”

The wolf's tongue dips between your legs, and you gasp as your legs open like an involuntary response, and Frankie seems to seize the opportunity to open you further, pawing at your thighs, opening them, holding them where he wants them. Claws press on your sensitive skin as he laps at you.

“Frankie!” Your fingers dig into the thick, soft fur as the twist in your womb tightens and you pulse. 

How much of the man is still present, you have no idea. You are, of course, banking on it, and you figure praying to every deity that he is there, keeping the beast from tearing you to shreds, can't hurt. 

You can feel the rumble from deep in Frankie's throat, and when his long tongue breaches your pussy, he is immediately rewarded with a gush as lights pop behind your eyelids and the coil in your belly snaps.

You cry out, and he drinks sloppily at your entrance. He doesn't stop until you start to come down from your high, your chest’s rise and fall finally slowing.

Then the beast towers over you, his cock weeping. In one swift move of inhuman strength, he's suddenly flipped you onto your stomach. His large paws holding your hips, he brings your backside up, and in one fast motion, he's sheathed himself to the hilt. 

As ready as his tongue had made you, you still are stretched beyond anything you've ever experienced. He is deep inside, and his snout nuzzles into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, making you feel utterly consumed by him. His brutal pace lifts your knees off the bed when he begins to move. His rhythm takes your breath away, his length hitting that delicious spot inside you that most find elusive, and it isn't long before the telltale swell of another orgasm begins to crest.

When you clamp down around him, he howls, and you know he has come right along with you. His rhythm stutters and slows. Frankie's tongue lazily drags over your shoulder blade, and he whines as his nose nudges at your hair.  As you both float back into your bodies, opening your eyes, the round room is drenched in moonlight. The storm has passed. 

The beast allows you to roll onto your side before covering you again, as he had the night before. He gives a chaste lick to your cheek, and you huff a laugh, wondering if you will even be able to look him in the eye in the morning. But you're too exhausted and drift to sleep before shame can take its turn to feast on you.

The morning sun blazes as it has a way of doing after a storm; shorebirds herald the day, and again, you wake to the smell of breakfast, sausage, coffee, and eggs. You're again tucked into the worn but well-cared-for quilt. Your eyes rove the room as you try not to overthink, and just as you reach for your clothes (which are neatly laid out at the end of the bed), Frankie, the man, comes in with a tray heaped with food—the smell of his delicious cooking filling the room.

“ ‘Morning, Goldie.” he smiles shyly. His eyes are not quite meeting yours, and he keeps himself busy with the breakfast tray. You return his smile, somehow his sweet bashfulness making you feel less self-conscious- 

“G’morning, Fran- Fran-cisco!”

Brown eyes sparkling in response to yours becoming like saucers, Frankie's smile widens.

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[fir3ylolol]

i had an idea…i’ve been thinking A Lot about that one johnny cage skin with the red shirt where he has the forearm tattoos…. maybe they’re those long lasting temporary ones and he has them on for a movie? and reader is realllllly into them

place beyond the pines

pairing: Johnny Cage x Reader

summary: your boyfriend comes home, with a couple of new additions 0.0

tw: vaginal penetration, fingering, afab reader, gn reader, slightly dirty talk, groping, established relationship, sloppy makeout, smut, shameless smut

a/n: im alive! ive beaten a cold, finally. glad to write again! it's almost break for me, so i'm gna try to stay consistent. and if not…don't be mad at me pls. ALSO check out my works in progress post linked in my pinned to see what's to come ;P

word count: 1.15 k

Ao3

The front door shuts firmly, and you perk up at the sound. That sound means only one thing: your boyfriend is home. He’s not usually home at this hour, so you’re really excited to see him more after a long, lazy day in sweatpants and baggy t-shirts. But as you rush out to see him, you’re stopped by the sight in front of you. There, standing by the doorway, is Johnny, in a tight red compression shirt with the sleeves pushed up. On his exposed forearms, you see black and white American Traditional tattoos, interlaced with a snake twisting its way up his arm. You’re caught off-guard, frozen across the room from him as he puts his keys down on the entry table.

He turns to face you, with a wide but tired smile. But he notices your still state and his face drops slightly in confusion. He walks over, shaking your shoulders lightly. “Love? You ok there?” You snap out of it, shaking your head as you do. “Yeah, sorry, I just…what are those?” You shakily reach your arms out to trace down the patterns. He lifts them to meet your hands, smile returning, “Don’t you think they’re cool? They’re just temporary, but it’s for that movie I was just cast in. You know, ex-cons tend to have tattoos so,” he gestures with his head. You start to fluster further, feeling the warmth of his skin under the intricate patterns and artwork. Finally, the gears start turning in his head and he laughs lightly. “You like them, don’t you?” Your head bolts up, embarrassed that you were so blatantly called out. You shake your head rapidly, stepping back slightly. “No, I just think the art is cool!” He steps forward, smirking at how flustered you are, lightly grabbing your wrist.

“Really? Because it feels like you think it's hot, and it’s flustering you,” his other hand coming up to cup your face tenderly. You try to turn it into a joke, pushing past his touch to walk towards the kitchen. “Come on, stop playing. You must be hungry, ri-” You’re abruptly cut off as that familiar pair of arms wrap around your waist and hold you in place. You’re about to protest until you hear a gravely quiet voice in your ear, “You’re a shit liar, you know.” Suddenly, your feet no longer touch the ground, being carried towards the couch with little to no say. You would fight it but…you don’t really want to. Your eyes are locked on the sight of them, art straining against the veins that pop out of his skin as he constricts around you. You feel him slowly sit down, grip on you still tight as you end up on his lap. You expect him to ease up, but when has Johnny ever gone easy? You notice his hold on you loosening, but his hands start to travel. One traces its way up your chest, reaching your head and gently holding your jaw. The other slips towards your waistband, fingers moving teasingly slow. He leans his head forward, warm breath against your ear as he whispers, “I had a pretty long day…wanna help me relax, baby?” Overwhelmed slightly by him, you nod against his hold on your face.

You watch as his inked hand slides lower, not as teasing anymore. But he loves to put on a show, and he shuffles your sweatpants off slightly. His voice, slightly louder this time, rasps out, “Gotta make sure you can see the whole show.” Helping direct your head down, you watch as his fingers circle against your clit. You jolt at the feeling, but his grip on you tightens slightly, keeping your back pressed into his strong chest. You’re slightly dizzy, watching as he sinks one finger inside you, hand tensing at the feeling. You can feel a heavy sigh from him, as he continues to curl in and out of you. His thumb reaches up, returning to sit comfortably against your clit again. As he moves, speed increasing bit by bit, you can’t help to whine out. The sight of his detailed art disappearing inside you, the feeling of his rough thumb moving so softly. As he slides another finger in, a gentle moan slipping out, he lifts your head again. He tilts it back, resting it against his shoulder. You watch with half-lidded eyes as he brushes your face off, his face barely visible from your angle. But he never stops, steady pace as you squirm at the sensation. But his free hand shows up again, clinging to your chest. It’s as if he’s holding himself back from moving at a ruthless pace, but he can only hold so much back. You can hear murmurs echoing through his throat against your right ear, incoherent, but very much through gritted teeth.

Suddenly, he’s speeding up more, his hand on your chest loosening slightly. At the angle of your head, you can’t muffle yourself, louder and louder moans as his hand starts to grab and massage your chest. You can hear him clearer now, voice carrying better, “God, look at you. You look so good like this, spread out just for me. You feel so good, baby, shit.” You can feel him growing sloppier, and more impatient than before. But you’re not far from cumming, your hands desperately searching for purchase. One latches to his thigh under you, and the other on his wrist, moving as he pumps his fingers inside you. You help guide him slightly, shuddering as he touches the exact right spot. You’re nearly seeing stars, but you lift your head, letting it flop forward. His entire arm is moving at this point, both flexing at the effort he’s exerting. As you manage to gasp out that you’re close, the hand on your chest lets go and shoots back to your jaw. He turns your head, angling in back and to the side, as his lips collide with yours. His kisses are as sloppy as his moves, desperate for more of you than there is. Your grip tightens and you feel him groan into your mouth at the feeling. That does it, a harsh flinch as you cum around his fingers. Both of you are moaning at this point, unable to break the kiss. You’re not sure which voice is yours anymore as it echoes through your head. But as he removes his fingers, you break the kiss, taking a deep breath as you rest your head against his shoulder again. You hear as he brings the drenched fingers to his mouth, wanting to get every last bit of you as possible. But it only lasts so long, as he removes them with a quiet, “Ew, these things taste bad.” After a pause, he scrambles to clarify himself, “Not you! The tattoos! They taste bad, not you.”

[cera-writes]

First Impressions - A Kurt Wagner x gn!reader one-shot

Summary: You first met Kurt at the Herr Getmann's Traveling Menagerie. The first time you laid eyes on the blue elf, you were smitten. Fast forward to the 90s and you and Kurt meet again under much different circumstances. tags: fluff, coming of age, mutual pining

The Bavarian sun, a pale orb veiled by a dusty scrim, cast a sickly yellow glow upon Herr Getmann's Traveling Menagerie. The peeling paint on the rickety wooden sign promised wonders, but the air itself held a different story. It reeked of damp straw and the acrid tang of manure, a far cry from the anticipated scent of popcorn and sugared treats. Disappointment gnawed at you, a shadow settling over your heart despite your parents' enthusiastic promises.

Your parents had dragged you along on this trip. It was your summer vacation and apparently you were there to also stay with distant relatives. But you knew your parents were in it just for the free stay and a vacation away from the States. Out of all the touristy things your parents could have picked for you to do, they chose a musty, worn down circus. Honestly, you were ready to be back in America with your friends at the arcade or skating rink. This wasn't how you imagined you'd spend your summer at all.

"C'mon darling. The show is about to start!" Your mother ushered you inside the tent as the ticket master tore your ticket stubs in half as your father followed close behind.

Inside, the spectacle was every bit as underwhelming as the exterior. The big cats, once proud denizens of the savanna, paced restlessly in cramped cages, their magnificent coats dull with neglect. Their amber eyes, once fierce and watchful, were now clouded with resignation. The stench of their confinement hung heavy in the air, a stark counterpoint to the vibrant posters plastered precariously on the weathered orange and red canvas walls. You took a seat in the rafters for the best view, if you even could call it that.

Suddenly, the loudspeaker crackled to life, the announcer's voice a tired rasp battling with static. "Presenting," he declared, his voice tinged with a hint of forced excitement, "our opening act of the night, the Mystifying Nightcrawler!" A spotlight pierced the gloom, bathing the center ring in a harsh white light. From the shadows emerged a figure unlike any you had ever seen. Your eyes widened. Was he- was he really a mutant? You had never seen one in person. He was absolutely beautiful.

"It's him..." you mother sneered. Your parents however, held gazes of contempt and disgust towards Nightcrawler, and any other mutant for that matter. You tuned out their nasty whispers and just focused on the boy standing at the platform.

He was clad in a costume that shimmered with an otherworldly sheen, a deep cobalt blue that seemed to drink in the stark light. A mask, sculpted from some unknown material, obscured his face, but a shock of blue black hair, as vibrant as a summer sky after a downpour, peeked out from beneath it. It was a stark contrast to the peeling paint and sun-bleached canvas that surrounded him.

Then, he moved. There was an effortless grace to his every action, as if defying the earth's very pull. He launched himself from a platform hidden in the shadows, his form a blur of blue and black against the harsh white backdrop. He wasn't just swinging; he was dancing, his body twisting and turning with an impossible fluidity. Every leap, every flip spoke volumes of preternatural strength and agility. He was a silent symphony in motion, an enigma wrapped in cobalt and shadow.

But it was more than just his skill that captivated you. There was an aura about him, an undeniable magnetism that drew you in like a moth to a flame. It was a mystery that whispered promises of adventure and a world hidden just beyond the confines of the dusty circus tent. With each breathtaking leap, with every impossible maneuver, a spark ignited within you, a yearning for something more, something extraordinary.

For a fleeting moment, his gaze seemed to find yours through the harsh glare of the spotlight. A jolt of electricity shot through you, a connection forged in that shared glance. Then, with a flourish that echoed the fading magic of the moment, he vanished back into the shadows, leaving behind a trail of shimmering blue and the lingering echo of wonder in your heart.

The rest of the night was a blur. The other acts faded into oblivion, their performances mere afterimages compared to the spectacle you had just witnessed. Your mind replayed the image of the Nightcrawler, his impossible agility, and the enigmatic smile hidden beneath the mask. The program, clutched tightly in your hand, became a talisman against the fading magic, a tangible reminder of the night that had stolen your breath and ignited a latent flame deep within your very core.

As the applause dwindled and the spotlight dimmed, you felt a frantic energy surge through you. You couldn't just let this incredible encounter end. You had to meet the Mystifying Nightcrawler, to thank him for his amazing performance. It totally didn't have anything to do with your newfound crush. Nope.

Despite your parents' apathy towards mutants, their dismissal fueled a rebellious spark. Seeing the way they interacted with the worn-out animals solidified your resolve. This wasn't a place of wonder, but a place where the extraordinary was exploited. But Nightcrawler, he was different. He brought a touch of magic to the dreary spectacle.

"Come on," your mother called, her voice laced with impatience, "Let's get some overpriced cotton candy and get out of here."

You mumbled an excuse, your heart hammering in your chest. Scanning the emptying stands, you spotted him – a flash of blue disappearing behind a faded red curtain. With a last furtive glance at your parents, now deep in conversation with a vendor, you sprinted towards the backstage area.

The worn canvas walls billowed in the evening breeze, and the air thrummed with a low murmur of voices. You navigated the maze of caravans, each one a peeling testament to the circus's nomadic life. Just as you were about to give up, a figure emerged from one of the larger caravans.

It was him. The Nightcrawler. But instead of his vibrant costume, he was clad in worn jeans and a simple white shirt. He held a red rose in his hand, its vibrant color stark against his stark blue fur. His mask was off, revealing kind golden eyes and a mischievous grin.

Your stomach did a nervous flip-flop. This wasn't the enigmatic performer you'd admired from afar. He had to have been around the same age as you. His vulnerability made him even more captivating. You hesitated, unsure of how to approach him.

Sensing your presence, he turned, his yellow eyes widening in surprise. Then, a smile spread across his face, as warm and genuine as the setting sun.

"“Hallo Schöne”," he said, his voice a melodic baritone. "Seems the Mystifying Nightcrawler has a little fan."

You stammered, cheeks burning. "I, uh… I just wanted to thank you. Your performance… it was incredible. Um, you're also the first mutant I've ever seen. Sorry, I'm not from around here. I'm from America." You played with the hem of your shirt, fidgeting nervously around him.

He chuckled, a rich, rumbling sound. "Thank you, frau. You make a kind audience. I hope I did not frighten you. I know I look a bit... ungewöhnlich."

He held out the rose. "Would you care for this?"

You hesitated for a moment, then reached out to take the flower, its soft petals cool against your fingertips. "It's beautiful," you breathed.

His gaze held yours, an unspoken question lingering in his eyes. "So," he said, his voice dropping a touch, "what's a junge Dame like you doing backstage at a traveling circus?"

You inhaled deeply, the scent of hay and diesel fuel filling your lungs. As you spoke, a strange tingling sensation crawled up your arm, making the hairs stand on end. It felt... electric, like a current running just beneath the surface of your skin. You flinched, dropping your gaze from Kurt's captivating golden eyes to the rose in your hand.

"I…" you started, your voice catching in your throat. The tingling intensified, spreading across your body in a wave. Panic surged through you, a primal fear of the unknown. Before you could apologize or explain the sudden tremor, your vision blurred at the edges. The world seemed to distort around you, the vibrant red rose in your hand pulsing with an otherworldly glow.

Kurt's demeanor shifted instantly. His playful smile vanished, replaced by a mask of concern. He reached out, his hand hovering a safe distance from yours. "Are you alright, Freund ?" he asked, his voice laced with worry.

You struggled to speak, your tongue thick and heavy. The strange energy within you crackled, yearning to be released. This wasn't the first time your body reacted this way. You feared the worst. You were starting to believe you were a mutant too. But you could never reveal that to your parents.

They'd disown you in a heartbeat. All those scholarships they made you apply for would never matter if they found out you were different. You knew you needed to get away, to disappear before you lost control and revealed your secret in front of the mysterious Nightcrawler.

"I… I don't feel well," you managed to force out, your voice shaky. Shame burned in your stomach for the abrupt change. "I should get back to my parents."

Kurt's eyes flickered with understanding. He nodded, a hint of sadness in his gaze. "Of course," he said gently. "Let me take you to them."

He moved with his trademark agility, guiding you through the maze of caravans with an ease that left you breathless. You stumbled slightly, your legs shaky under the weight of the unknown power coursing through you. Kurt offered you his arm for support, but before you could reach for it, your parents' voices cut through the air.

"There you are!" your mother exclaimed, her voice laced with annoyance. "We've been looking everywhere for you!"

You turned to see them approaching, their faces etched with concern. When they spotted Kurt hovering beside you, their expressions hardened.

"Don't touch our child, freak!" your father barked, his voice thick with disgust.

Shame washed over you, hot and suffocating. Kurt's hand recoiled as if struck. His shoulders slumped, the joy that had previously emanated from him extinguished.

"I was just helping, Herr," he said, his voice mild yet firm. "They seemed unwell."

Your mother scoffed. "Don't need any help from your kind." She grabbed your arm possessively, dragging you away before you could even look back at Kurt.

"Wait!" you cried, struggling against her grip. But your voice was lost in the bustle of the crowd. You stole a final glance over your shoulder, only to see Kurt standing alone, with one hand rubbing subconsciously over his other right bicep.

His yellow eyes, once filled with warmth, now held a flicker of sadness as they looked off in the distance. He was the first of his kind that you had met and you finally felt like you resonated with him. But it was all too short lived. All you were left of him was the single red rose he'd given you as a memory of your encounter.

With a heavy heart, you were whisked away from the circus, your first encounter with the Mystifying Nightcrawler ending abruptly, leaving a bittersweet aftertaste and a burning question: would you ever see him again?

The 90s were a whirlwind of discovering and finally, somewhat, honing your mutant abilities. Mutants, now looked down upon more than ever, made you even more of an advocate for your kind. You got that scholarship but at the expense of your parents actually disowning you after a fight at the dinner table ended up with your mother's smashed fine China on the floor at the expense of your powers.

For some reason, they'd brought up Nightcrawler again and it sickened you to the point that you'd had enough. When they found out you were just another "freak" that was the last straw and they kicked you out and you never heard from them again. Good riddance you'd said.

The only thing that sucked about them kicking you out was that you had to quickly find a job and a place to live or you'd end up just another homeless mutant on the streets. All that trust fund money had long gone down the drain when they cut you off completely.

You were residing in New York now. You found a dingy little apartment to live in while you finished up your degree in Advanced Physics. You were finally set to graduate this month and after that, who knows.

You wanted to find a job and finally move out of the crappy little apartment you'd called home for a few years now. At least your neighbor next door, Peter Parker, was usually quiet and it gave you room to study without having to complain with a knock at his door, even if he did come and go at odd times of the night.

One particular day, you were sitting at your favorite little corner coffee shop, studying for your final exam, when all hell broke loose on the street. A piece of large shrapnel flew through the glass of the shop, eliciting screams and terrified shouts from pedestrians as people flew to take cover.

You dove for cover under the overturned coffee table, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. The tremor that had rattled the windows had morphed into a full-blown city-rattling rampage. But it wasn't an earthquake. The tremors moved, a monstrous crimson figure stomping through the city streets, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.

Juggernaut. You recognized him from news reports – a mutant powerhouse the X-Men struggled to contain. And here he was, rampaging through your city like a bull in a china shop.

Panic threatened to consume you, but amidst the chaos, a voice in your head rose above the fear. You were no longer the scared kid, afraid of their powers, who watched Nightcrawler perform at the circus.

If this new era taught you anything, it was discovering your mutant abilities, the escalating anti-mutant sentiment, and the brutal fight with your parents that ended with disownment and shattered family heirlooms. The memory of them calling you a "freak" like Nightcrawler still stung, but it also ignited a fire within you. You wouldn't be another victim.

Squinting past the overturned table, you saw the X-Men, their familiar blue and gold uniforms standing resolute against the crimson giant. And there he was, Nightcrawler – older, even more handsome than you'd remembered, but with the same twinkle in his eyes. He fought with a desperate grace, teleporting in and out, trying to flank Juggernaut. But the red behemoth seemed unstoppable.

It was now or never. Taking a deep breath, you channeled the theoretical knowledge from years of studying advanced physics. The raw energy of the city pulsed around you, a live wire waiting to be tapped into. It felt almost like an extension of yourself, hungry for release. You stood, running from your sense of security, and joined the chaos outside.

With a surge of will, you unleashed it. A concentrated beam of pure energy, hotter than a thousand suns, erupted from your outstretched palms. It slammed into Juggernaut's side, the red giant staggering with a surprised grunt. The X-Men seized their chance, a flurry of attacks momentarily halting the crimson tide. Cyclops blasted an optic beam, Storm unleashed a swirling vortex of wind, and Wolverine harried Juggernaut with his adamantium claws.

Kurt, finally free from the relentless onslaught, materialized beside you, his yellow familiar eyes widening in disbelief. It was as if he'd seen a ghost. "It's you," he rasped, his voice barely audible over the din of the battle.

You offered a small smile, a mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion. "Helping hand, remember?" Your voice was hoarse, but it held a newfound strength. With another surge of energy, you deflected a stray blow from Juggernaut, allowing Storm to unleash another torrent of wind.

The X-Men, rejuvenated by your unexpected intervention, pressed their attack. Professor Xavier's telepathic voice boomed, urging Juggernaut to stand down. The fight raged on, but your power tip, the concentrated beam of pure energy, proved to be the turning point. Juggernaut, overwhelmed by the combined forces of the X-Men and your unique ability, faltered. His helmet had crumbled, rendering him vulnerable.

Finally, with a roar of frustration, Juggernaut surrendered, taken away by the NYPD as they forced his hefty frame into the back of a mutant prisoner containment vehicle. Exhausted but victorious, the X-Men regrouped. Kurt materialized beside you once more, his gaze still filled with awe and disbelief. "Freund," he repeated, his voice thick with emotion. "Is it really you?"

You met his gaze, no longer the scared kid from the dusty circus tent. The years of hardship and self-discovery had forged you into a new person. With a defiant smile, you nodded, ready to tell your story and finally find your place amongst the X-Men.

You wanted more than anything to catch up with the infamous Nightcrawler. But Professor Xavier was making his way over to you, clearly wanting a word. The look on his face was nothing short of astonishment. Kurt, sensing this, gave you a reassuring nod as he turned to join the others once more.

"Are you alright, young one?" he inquired, his voice warm and calming.

You nodded, finding your voice a little hoarse. "Yes, Professor. Just a bit… surprised, I guess." You couldn't believe you were talking to the Professor X.

"Surprised?" he echoed, raising an eyebrow. "I imagine so. But you were quite… extraordinary out there."

The compliment brought a shy smile to your face. You explained how you'd been studying advanced physics, how the energy in the city resonated with you, and how you'd finally been able to control it. You confessed your situation too, about the fight with your parents and being disowned. Shame burned in your stomach, but you held Professor Xavier's gaze.

"It seems you have much to learn, young one," he said, his voice filled with understanding. "But you also have much to teach. We've been looking for someone to help our young mutants hone their abilities, someone who understands the science behind them." His eyes twinkled. "Would you be interested in a position at the X-Mansion, once you graduate of course?"

A wave of emotions washed over you – relief, hope, and a flicker of something more. The X-Mansion. A place where you could belong, where you could use your abilities without fear. You looked at Kurt, who stood a few feet away, a wide grin plastered on his face. His saffron eyes held a spark of excitement, mirroring your own.

"I… I'd be honored sir," you stammered, a genuine smile blooming on your face.

Professor Xavier chuckled. "Excellent. Now, how about we get you cleaned up and settled in? The X-Mansion can be your home. In the meantime, we can work on your new alias." He chuckled lightly.

The mansion, a sprawling structure that seemed to rise organically from the wooded landscape, took your breath away. It was a world away from your cramped apartment, a sanctuary for those who were different. You settled in quickly, the warmth of the X-Men a stark contrast to the cold rejection you'd faced at home.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the lake behind the mansion in hues of orange and pink, you found yourself drawn to its peaceful serenity. As you sat on the edge of the dock, a sudden bamf! sound reverberated next to you as a scent of brimstone hung in the air. It was Nightcrawler.

Suddenly, you felt very conscious and shy all over gain. It was really him. There was no mistaking that sheen of blue fur that lined his skin.

"Quite the entrance you made today," he said, a playful glint in his eyes.

You laughed, a nervous flutter in your chest. "I figured you could use some help."

Silence settled between you, punctuated only by the gentle lapping of the water. You took a deep breath, finally ready to share your story.

"Remember what you said at the circus? About me being a kind audience?"

Kurt nodded, a flicker of curiosity crossing his features.

"Well," you continued, your voice dropping to a whisper, "I wasn't just kind. I was… smitten. You were the first mutant I ever saw, and it was like watching magic. The thought that for one second, I wasn't alone. That there was another similar to me."

You explained how your parents' reaction had fueled your fear, how you'd kept the rose all these years. You confessed how they'd called you a "freak" just like you'd mentioned, and how you'd ended up alone after they disowned you.

Kurt listened intently, his expression a mix of sympathy and something else you couldn't quite decipher. When you finished, he reached out, taking your hand gently in his. His blue fur felt surprisingly warm against your skin.

"My Freund," he said, his voice soft yet firm, "You are no freak. You are extraordinary. And your parents… well, they were wrong. Trust me, I've lived all my life thinking I was an abomination."

You felt a twist of pain at his words. He was so kind and sweet. Even just so as the night when you'd met him the first time back at that old, sketchy Bavarian circus.

He squeezed your hand, and a spark shot through you. You looked into his eyes, seeing a reflection of your own feelings there.

"The truth is," Kurt confessed, a hint of a blush creeping up his neck, "you've never left my mind either. There was something about you that day, a spark I couldn't ignore."

Your heart was hammering inside your chest. The thought of him feeling the same way all those years sent a warmth throughout your body. The thought that you'd somehow made an impression on him sent butterflies wildly dancing in your stomach.

The truth hung heavy in the air, a silent confession echoed in Kurt's blushing cheeks and your own hammering heart. The twilight sky, ablaze in fiery hues, seemed to witness the unspoken yearning that crackled between you.

His touch, a gentle pressure on your hand, sent a jolt of electricity through your body. You leaned in, drawn by a force stronger than gravity. The kiss, when it came, was a revelation – tentative at first, then deepening with a passion that mirrored the vibrant tapestry of the setting sun.

His lips were warm and surprisingly soft against yours, the sweet taste of berries lingering on his tongue. Your hand reached up, tracing the contours of his face, the velvety texture of his blue fur sending shivers down your spine. He reciprocated, his touch delicate yet firm, as if afraid to break the spell.

The kiss deepened, a silent conversation flowing through the press of your lips. He tasted of adventure, of something innocent but also skilled in the ways of romance. A gentle breeze rustled the nearby leaves, momentarily pulling you apart.

"It's Kurt... my name is Kurt Wagner," he'd finally told you his name.

You gazed into Kurt's eyes, a newfound understanding blooming there. The dam holding back your emotions seemed to break.

"Kurt," you whispered, your voice thick with a desire you could no longer deny.

He responded with a low rumble in his chest, his blue fur darkening with a blush. Without a word, he scooped you up in his arms, teleporting you both to a deserted corner of the mansion's rooftop.

The cool night air whipped around you, carrying with it the distant sound of laughter and music from the common room. The city lights twinkled in the distance, a glittering backdrop for the nascent intimacy unfolding between you.

His touch became bolder, exploring the exposed skin of your arms, sending shivers down your spine. Your fingers trailed down his back, tracing the ridges of his spine and the surprising strength hidden beneath his lithe frame. Clothes became an unwelcome barrier, discarded in a tangle of limbs and whispered promises.

The moonlight, a silent witness to your blossoming love, bathed your entwined forms in an ethereal glow. Passion flared like wildfire, fueled by the years of unspoken attraction and the shared trauma that had bound you together.

The night unfolded in a symphony of whispered endearments and stolen breaths. With each touch, each lingering kiss, the anxieties of your past faded, replaced by the promise of a future brighter than the city lights on the horizon. You'd found each other, and this time nothing would take Kurt away from you.

[diorkyeom]

: : songbird.

joshua x dokyeom, idolverse, hurt/comfort, pining, set post-caratland '24 bc wtf were carats on that day

4k+ words, no warnings

also on ao3 | kinda me projecting thru josh in this fic,,, seokmin deserves to know he's loved and i think shua deserves to be the one to tell him

summary: “hey,” joshua said again, softer. seokmin didn't meet his eyes, gaze flitting around like a nervous bird, panicked at being caged in. joshua's heart constricted. “just slow down a little for me, okay? what’s wrong?” - or seokmin has always been delicate, in joshua's eyes. and he'll hold seokmin's face gently, even when the tears begin to fall.

In some kind of delicate, precious way, a way that extended far beyond the restrictive spheres of “romantic” or “platonic”, Joshua kind of belonged to Seokmin.

It was the same way that Seokmin kind of belonged to Joshua, too: a mutual possession, a mutual protection, a mutually beneficial sort of scheme. Where Joshua could hold Seokmin’s face in his hands, call him his entire world, and Seokmin could do the same to him, and they’d both instinctively know that they meant it in ways that no one else could ever explain.

Part of Joshua was always, eternally, everlastingly, owned by Seokmin—sweet, golden, angelic Seokmin. It was something that hardly needed pointing out, as ingrained into the universe as it was.

Though, on some days, Seokmin hardly seemed to know that at all.

“Hey,” Joshua said as Seokmin brushed past him, looking intent on booking it out of the waiting room, making it out of the stadium and getting home as soon as possible. “Seokmin, wait.”

He placed a hand on Seokmin’s arm, before his eyes widened and his fingers gripped tighter, startled. 

Seokmin was shaking.

“Hey,” he said again, this time far softer. Seokmin wasn’t meeting his eyes properly, his gaze flitting everywhere around them like a nervous bird, panicked at being caged in an unfamiliar place. It made Joshua’s chest constrict, and he took a rattling breath. “Hey. Just slow down a little for me, okay? What’s wrong?”

Seokmin hadn’t even let the stylists remove any of his makeup, his hair still stiff with hairspray and his eyes lined with dark eyeshadow and little smudges of glitter. None of them had even begun to get all cleaned up yet either, with only he, Seokmin, and a few others with their mic packs removed at all, and it was a testament to how startlingly eager Seokmin was to just leave.

He kind of thought he knew why—what had happened at the concert would hurt anyone, and Seokmin was one of the gentlest people that he knew—but he still wanted Seokmin to let him know, to talk to him, to reach out and let Joshua hold him in his arms. 

Joshua tried to follow Seokmin’s gaze, tried to make him look him in the eye, but it was a fruitless task. Despite all the makeup designed to make his eyes larger, more intense, more there, Seokmin’s irises were brittle and he looked so small, eyelashes shuddering with every breath he took.

Seokmin finally met his eyes for a brief moment, and then looked away.

“Nothing,” he said, with a smile. “I’m fine.”

Then he tried to pull away, tried to finally leave the room and escape, but Joshua simply held tighter, bringing his other hand up to hold Seokmin’s shoulder, keeping him in place. 

Seokmin wasn’t trying to escape whatever cage of intrusive thoughts he’d gotten himself stuck in this time. He was merely flying headlong through the door, willingly flinging himself inside and letting others lock the exit behind him.

Joshua sighed. Seokmin was a fool if he thought Joshua would allow that to happen.

“You’re not,” he said gently, and then let go of his shoulder, using the hand on his arm to drag him back further into the waiting room. 

Around them, the rest of their members were bustling noisily about, removing mic packs and kicking off shoes and arguing over who could get into the stylists’ chairs first to remove their makeup. Jeonghan, however, had situated himself on one of the couches, eyes shut and arms crossed, looking like he’d accepted he wasn’t going to win that fight any time soon. For all his mental intelligence, he was still built like a fragile paper doll, after all. 

Seokmin frowned as Joshua dragged him across the room to where Jeonghan was napping, forcing him to sit down on the couch. “Hey. Hyung, what are y—”

Joshua tapped Jeonghan on the shoulder, making the man scrunch his nose in annoyance. “Jeonghan, could you watch Seokmin for a moment for me? Just while I get a few things.”

Jeonghan just grunted noncommittally, but he adjusted his sleeping posture so he could see Seokmin better out of the corner of his eye.

“I'll be right back,” Joshua said to Seokmin, who looked both tired and confused. “Don't go anywhere.”

And then he was gone, set on carrying out his task. 

The entire room was thick with noise and cologne and the sticky heat of too many bodies sweating in a small space, so Joshua made quick work of gathering up his and Seokmin’s belongings from where they’d been scattered everywhere due to their pre-concert stress. He ended up shoving two phones in one bag and definitely accidentally gave Seokmin his chapstick that he was now never going to get back, but it didn’t matter.

What Seokmin needed was to be somewhere quiet. Being somewhere too loud only amplified his own thoughts, multiplied his feelings, until he was overwhelmed both by the noise and his own fears. Like being trapped within a devastating storm, the destruction would only increase until there was no other option than to just pray and wait it out.

So it had made sense that Seokmin had originally tried to leave on his own. But that wouldn’t do, either: if left unattended, Seokmin would throw himself back into that cage, and it would be nearly impossible for him to escape.

“Chan,” Joshua said to their youngest member just as he was about to sit down at the last empty vanity, “Could you go and grab my charger for me? It’s over by the clothes racks there.”

Chan looked up from his phone and whined. “Can’t you get it yourself? I literally had to fight for this chair, and if I get up, Mingyu hyung will definitely—”

“I’ll guard it for you,” Joshua promised. “Please, Chan? I don’t ask things from you often.”

“Fine,” Chan conceded with a sigh, standing up. “Be right back.”

As soon as he left, Joshua took the opportunity to swipe several makeup wipes, cotton pads and the entire makeup remover bottle from the vanity. He struggled to fit it into both his and Seokmin’s bags for a few moments before promptly giving up and simply running off before Chan returned.

“I’m back,” he said, coming to a stop in front of the couch he’d dropped Seokmin off at. He was still there, thankfully, and Jeonghan still looked to be fast asleep. 

Seokmin looked up at Joshua, taking note of the two bags and the makeup removing equipment that he hadn’t been able to shove away. There was a flicker of confusion in his gaze before he sighed.

“Hyung, what are you doing?”

He looked exhausted beyond belief, and part of Joshua—the part that belonged to Seokmin—ached. That kind of bone-deep, heart-paining exhaustion wasn't something that Seokmin deserved to experience at all. Nevertheless, he just smiled, extending a hand in Seokmin’s direction and pulling him to his feet, wrapping that same arm around his waist. 

“I’m taking care of you.”

Seokmin looked at him, lost, but Joshua just smiled again, pulling him in close.

“Come on. Let’s take you somewhere else.”

───────────── ও

Somewhere else ended up being the bathroom, because it was the nearest, quietest place that Joshua could take him to in the shortest amount of time. 

The thirteen of them weren’t actually cleared to leave the stadium just yet, with fans still clogging up all the hallways and exits, so he couldn’t even head towards the company cars which would have given them more room to sit in. (Now that he thought about it… with the clearance not even being granted yet, Joshua didn’t know how Seokmin had originally planned to leave.) He couldn’t have taken him back home, anyway, because it would have taken far too long, and he needed to help Seokmin as soon as possible.

So here they were, squished into the bathroom which was, thankfully, one of those single-person places rather than full of communal cubicles. Joshua sat Seokmin down on the toilet lid before rummaging through the things he’d brought with them, busily pulling out tissues and that large bottle of makeup remover that hadn’t fit in any of their bags. His movements were unusually messy, clumsy in a way that he rarely ever was, but. This was because of Seokmin. Because Seokmin always made him do things like this, act out and say and do things he’d never do otherwise, all to help him and remove him from danger as fast as he could. 

Because Seokmin was his to keep safe. 

Seokmin watched him, and he was acting unusually too, sitting there far too docilely and far too quietly, his irises still devastatingly too fragile when he met Joshua’s eyes.

“We’re going to remove your makeup, okay?” Joshua said softly. “You’ll forget if we don’t do it now, and you’ll end up with bad rashes tomorrow.”

Seokmin blinked up at him. “Why…” he paused. Swallowed, then nodded. “Okay.”

Joshua smiled as reassuringly as he could, before bending down and pressing the cotton pad against Seokmin’s face.

Holding Seokmin’s chin steady with one hand, he swiped the cotton over his cheek with the other, rubbing off as much of the products as he could. Seokmin was still shaking under his hands, the slightest tremble like he was a little wren whose heart was beating too fast in its ribcage, but he seemed to calm down the slightest bit as Joshua removed the rest of his makeup with slow, steady strokes.

Neither of them uttered a word. Joshua was too focused on getting Seokmin cleaned up to say anything, and Seokmin seemed too focused on tracking his movements with those autumn-browned shivering eyes. 

Finally finishing with the first cotton pad, Joshua released Seokmin’s face and straightened up to set it aside on the sink before prepping another. Then he bent over Seokmin once again, hand cupping the side of his face and gently tilting his head up towards him. Inexplicably, the movement made Seokmin’s breath hitch.

Joshua paused, worried, and drew back. “Is this okay?”

Seokmin’s expression had softened, just the slightest, and his voice was a whisper when he spoke again. “Yes,” he said, eyelashes shuddering. And then he added, “Thank you.”

It made Joshua smile, bending down over Seokmin once again even though his back groaned in protest. 

“No need to thank me,” he responded in the same soft voice. “You know I’ll do anything for you, Seokmin.”

It was a soul-achingly truthful thing for Joshua to say. He winced internally, briefly embarrassed, but Seokmin didn’t seem to mind. He breathed in slowly, then exhaled, relaxing into Joshua’s hands. 

“Yeah,” he said, and when he smiled, it looked more genuine than before. “I… I do.”

Joshua smiled back, and continued his work. 

It was a kind of mesmerising process, being able to watch and feel in real-time as the idol skin was wiped away, leaving just Seokmin sitting there before him, less polished, but more real. More vulnerable. He brushed a finger over the bare skin of Seokmin's cheek, wiping away the tacky moisture left behind, lightly pressing against the pretty little mole that was now visible on his skin. 

Seokmin watched him do so, his expression curiously unreadable, but when Joshua's fingers pressed down against the soft skin of his cheek again, imitating a gentle, adoring pinch, he closed his eyes and smiled. 

After using up the second cotton pad, Joshua straightened, deposited it away and prepared yet another. Before he could reach for Seokmin and bend over him again, however, a hand wrapped itself around his wrist, staying his movements.

“You’ll hurt your back if you keep doing it like this,” Seokmin murmured. He looked up at Joshua through half-lidded eyes, thumb rubbing feather-light circles around the wrist bone. 

If Seokmin was feeling a little better, Joshua would have grinned and replied with something along the lines of it’ll hurt me a lot less if you just did it yourself, all teasing and light in the way he always talked to Seokmin. But Seokmin wasn’t feeling himself, and that was the entire reason Joshua was here. And when they were like this, just Joshua and his Seokmin, Seokmin and his Joshua, he couldn't help but soften his words with a honey-sweet, truthful sort of care, baring parts of his heart which would have been teased and jabbed at in the light of day. 

So Joshua just hummed contemplatively, straightening up once more to look around them. 

“There aren’t any stools here. It’s alright, I’ll be fine,” Joshua assured him.

Seokmin didn’t look convinced. He looked up at Joshua properly, tilting his head back further, and though his irises still looked a little glassy, he melted the moment he met Joshua’s gaze.

“We can just sit on the floor,” he suggested. Before Joshua could even protest, he was already sliding off the toilet, tugging Joshua down with him. “It’s okay. It’s not that uncomfortable.”

“But it is dirty,” Joshua chided, despite the fact he was already sinking down to sit in front of Seokmin, shuffling closer. “Oh, well. Just send me your dry cleaning bill after, okay?”

Seokmin laughed at that, a tiny hiccup of noise like the chirp from a baby chick. Joshua smiled and reached forward to cup his face again. He noticed that he was no longer shaking. The smile was returning more naturally to his expression, now, and Joshua hadn’t realised he’d missed it so much.

This was good.

Seokmin was finally remembering that he had Joshua, always.

Quietly, Joshua continued to clean him up, moving from the cotton pads to wiping the entirety of his face with wipes. He hadn’t brought any cleansers with him, having been too rushed in his grab for anything he could find. Briefly, he wondered what the rest of their members were doing, and if they'd noticed their absence. He wondered whether Chan had ended up finding the nonexistent charger he’d asked him to fetch.

In the end, only Seokmin’s eyes and lips were left, and a little colour had returned to his face, the natural warmth blossoming across his cheeks, spring-like. He hadn’t stopped following Joshua’s actions with his eyes, and now, when they made eye contact, he smiled.

Joshua smiled back, relieved, as he discarded the last of the wipes, finally bringing out the last of the cotton pads.

No longer did Seokmin look like a terrified little wren whose heart was too big for its chest.

“There we go,” Joshua said with a smile. “You're looking much more like yourself again.”

Seokmin raised an eyebrow, a half-teasing, half-honest vulnerability in his next sentence. “Much more ugly, do you mean?”

Joshua tilted his head, as if he were truly considering Seokmin's words. He took in his warm skin, the little dips and divots from acne scars, the dark moles and those gentle eyes. He smiled again, and ruffled Seokmin's hair: his dark hair, back to its natural colour that made him look younger, sweeter, like the feathery colours of an adorable wren.

“No,” he said decisively, truthful. “Much prettier, in fact.”

Seokmin smiled, and it was clear he didn't believe him, but Joshua let it slide.

“We’re going to do your eyes, now,” he carried on, lifting up a liquid-soaked cotton pad. Seokmin’s eyes drifted away from his face to look at what he was holding. “I’ll do them one at a time, if that’s okay.”

Seokmin nodded. “It’s always okay.”

Joshua smiled.

He raised the pad closer to his face, and Seokmin instantly fluttered his eyes shut, trusting. The skin around one’s eyes was the thinnest, and Joshua held his breath every time he applied pressure, but Seokmin didn’t seem to mind. He looked almost… content, a relaxed air settling over his frame as Joshua held his face with one hand and patted cotton over his eye with the other.

Joshua ceased his movements with the pad, eyeing Seokmin carefully to see if he’d missed anything. Seokmin peeked at him with his untouched eye, curious. They made eye contact, and Seokmin laughed softly.

“This is kind of weird,” he said. “We’re sitting on the floor, in the bathroom… and you’re taking off my makeup for me.”

“It is kind of weird,” Joshua agreed. He quirked a grin. “Did you only just realise?”

“Yeah,” Seokmin said, as Joshua wiped the moisture off of his eye and then moved onto the other. Without being asked, Seokmin shut his eyes again, letting Joshua carry on as he talked. “Also, hyung, did you steal these from the stylist noonas?”

Joshua laughed. “Maybe.”

“Hyung! Stealing is bad, you know.”

“Uh huh. Running away from everyone else to wallow in your feelings is also bad, you know.”

Seokmin stilled, quietening under Joshua’s touch. “That wasn’t what I was going to do,” he protested under his breath. Joshua continued to gently dab at his eyelid, removing the last of his makeup.

“I’m not scolding you,” he murmured. “It's understandable. And it’s alright.”

He finally set down the cotton pad, brushed away the remaining moisture, and coaxed Seokmin to open his eyes. Eyelids fluttering, nose scrunching at the uncomfortable change from dark to light, Seokmin eventually looked at him, eyes flitting back and forth between Joshua’s own. His expression was troubled, emotions all tangled together like tree branches tangled together by harsh winds.

“But I’m here,” Joshua added. “I want you to come to me. It’s okay to need some time to be quiet, but I want you to come and be quiet with me.”

Seokmin swallowed, lips parting just slightly, and it was only then that Joshua noticed how close they were sitting, Seokmin pressed up against the toilet bowl, Joshua crowding into his space, practically in his lap. He could almost see every unreadable thought darting through Seokmin’s mind.

“Just come and use me. Be with me. Make me do things like—like removing your makeup in a tiny bathroom in the middle of the night, because I’ll do anything you need me to do, Seokmin. All I want is for you to feel safe again.”

It sounded like a confession, almost. Seokmin breathed in sharply, and Joshua panicked, fearing that Seokmin would now draw away, only for his eyes to widen as he did the exact opposite.

Seokmin’s eyes welled with tears, and he leaned into Joshua’s space, burying his face into Joshua’s shirt, clinging to him as he let out a sob, the shudders returning with full force.

Seokmin began to cry.

“Oh, angel,” Joshua breathed, automatically pulling Seokmin in for a tighter, more secure hug as he shook and cried into him. “It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

Seokmin didn't respond in any sort of coherent way, simply pushing himself further into Joshua's arms, thighs spread over his lap, fingers twisted into the fabric of Joshua's shirt as his cries gradually raised in volume until he was wailing brokenly against him. 

Joshua hadn’t planned on making Seokmin cry like this. He’d never want Seokmin to cry at all, but on days like this, where everything had felt so off and Seokmin had done his best to push through and make others happy only for that to be thrown right back in his face in the end, Joshua had accepted that, perhaps, it needed to happen. Seokmin needed the chance to release all those complicated, complex emotions that had been warring inside him.

He’d planned to let Seokmin cry it out back at his apartment, though. In a safe, comfortable space, where he had tissues, hot chocolate, and all the soft blankets that Seokmin would need to clutch onto like a lifeline. 

Not here, on the bathroom floor of a stadium, where Joshua only had a few stolen makeup wipes and his own concert-sweaty self on hand to comfort him with.

Seokmin deserved more than just him to be there as his comfort, really. He deserved all the most comforting things in the world, especially when he cried. But still, Seokmin clung to his shirt, pressing his face into Joshua’s neck even though he probably smelled really bad and was still sticky with sweat, looking like he had no thoughts of moving away for a while, and Joshua thought that perhaps, sometimes, Seokmin thought just Joshua might be enough.

“You did well,” Joshua said, rubbing circles into Seokmin’s back. “You did so well today, angel, I promise. You really did. Anyone who tells you otherwise is being foolish.”

Seokmin didn’t respond, still too busy trembling in his arms.

“Even if it’s you telling yourself that,” Joshua continued, gentle. “You always do your best, so why shouldn’t that mean you did well, too? There is no universe where your best efforts equate to something bad.” 

Seokmin gave a hiccupping sob and made a strangled, distorted noise, evidently trying to mouth words into Joshua’s skin. “I… hyung… I-I just feel so bad for being so—”

Joshua gently stopped him, threading a hand through his hair. “Shh, it’s okay. You have nothing to feel bad for. I promise, okay? You did nothing wrong. Everything you feel guilty for, everything you feel went terribly… none of that was your fault. It's the fault of the people who made you feel this way, not you. Never you, angel, never you.”

As Seokmin trembled and cried against him, Joshua continued to soothe him as best as he could, making soft noises and patting his hair. He was so small, and Joshua knew he was anything but, knew the broadness of his frame had almost rivalled his own until Joshua decided to work out intensively a few months ago, but Seokmin had always felt delicate, to him. He looked it now, too, as he hid himself in Joshua's arms, buried himself against Joshua's chest. 

He sounded so hurt, sobs fragmenting with every other breath he took and it pained Joshua to think that some people—some terrible, terrible people—had done this to quite possibly the kindest person he knew. 

Joshua pressed a kiss to the top of Seokmin's hair, blinking rapidly to push down his own feelings that were welling up in the face of Seokmin's sadness. 

“I’m here, shh, it's okay. I’ll be here for however long you need. We can talk later, but now, you can just cry. I’ve got you.”

Joshua could feel Seokmin's pulse thrumming rapidly from where his chest was pressed against his own. It was as if he really had turned into that little wren, whose heart was too large and beating too fast and threatening to swallow him whole.

Seokmin was just a devastatingly tiny songbird, in Joshua's eyes. A little wren, with a rapturous, magnificent voice that seemed almost ridiculously at odds with the delicacy of his stature. Because for all his blindingly golden smiles and loud and boisterous expressions of love, Joshua would always see who he really was, right down to his very soul.

Seokmin’s dawn-pale soul, begging to be cared for, to be cherished, to have its feathers stroked by someone who would adore him no matter how big or small he may be. 

Joshua could see it all. He could see it now, as Seokmin draped himself over him, clung to him tight, sobbed into him like the world was ending around them and Joshua was the only person who could save him. 

Seokmin just wanted to be loved.

And, well. Joshua just wordlessly pulled him in even further, blinked away his own tears rocking him from side to side and let him cry until his skin and the shoulder of his shirt was stained with tears. He held him impossibly close and impossibly tight, as if holding him tighter could help put back all the small, soft feathers Seokmin had lost from people cruelly ripping away at his kindness with their words. Due to the amount of people who couldn't see just how much love Seokmin was giving to them, whilst humbly asking for only a fraction in return. 

It was a good thing that he had Joshua, then, who would always be there to love him. 

After all, a part of him would always, eternally, everlastingly, belong to Seokmin. 

taglist (send ask if you wanna be added/removed!): @my-moarmy-heart @weird-bookworm @bangantokchy @bittersweet-folder @leigh-darling @ahuiahoe

[ozfi]

mabel and stanley are very entrenched in reality. they have no choice. mabel uses her imagination and stanley straight up lies to people. and this is how mabel copes with the bad parts of reality "shes 12" AND YET PEOPLE ARE MEAN TO HER FOR THIS. and this is how stanley has lived her whole life since she was abandoned by her family. stanford and dipper have been bullied for being "weird" openly, as in having Physical Differences, and in this they turn away from reality and look to cryptozoology and other occult things to look away from the humans they dont feel comfortable with. and dipper wants to be cool with the older teens and people not his own age, stanford believes hes meant for Better at nerd college, and in their own ways mabel trying to live a normal life as a 12 yr old girl and have fun in the real life with her brother and twin (didnt have normal friends before grenda and candy, but now does!), stanley wanting to spend time with her brother (who was her only friend at school because she was a problem child), and both of them just wanting to be with their family/friend/twin cause rifts in dipper and stanfords desires to go Beyond to see More to be Better Than This because of how isolated they feel from the people around them (those meant to be their "Equals"). dipper never gets a friend his own age but ends up being actually friends w wendy, fiddleford abandoned stanford when things got dangerous because he didnt want to be involved with the end of the world.

theres the instance of stanley saying dipper reminds him of herself in the earlier mind episodes which is a red herring because shes projecting in a trans way . which im getting into. the happiest character in this show is consistently mabel. and shes very entrenched in reality. shes imagination. shes real. she finds a way to be happy no matter what. and she is happy despite being a pre/teenage girl. that takes POWER. but you contrast that with stanley whose entire sense of masculinity is a facade and uses it to scam and manipulate people, and has been doing that the majority of his life as a defense mechanism and to survive, but ... in comparison to dipper, who she does say some pretty charged stuff to, and dipper, who uses almost the majority of the first season getting offended about his masculinity being insulted and then making that everyones problem and ruining everyones day. dippers masculinity is a cage, his thoughts of being better than others are #coping, his "more feminine" traits are what make him happy, the name Dipper was not his choice but a cruel nickname used by his bullies about his birthmark (his difference, his weirdness). which - thats what stan is relating to dipper about! "people think hes a good for nothing and that he'll never go anywhere" while dipper is chopping wood . Physical Strength. where dipper is trying to be cool. and masculine. i could put this better but i was saying it the whole time. dippers attempts at hypermasculinity hurt him. stans hypermasculinity hurts her. neither of them are happy like that. they are both Transfem as fuck

and also let me talk about the antisemitism cuz HOO-EE this is the reversal of good christians going to a small town and being accosted by the occult and ambiguous jews and weird pagans. this is a show about a jewish family in a small conservative town that treats them very oddly and theres the inherent distrust of them even outside the huckster shack (and stan being a conman is important to ME OKAY). all open human enemies are christian as fuck like gideon (+his dad. his poor mom needs to get out of there i really hope she does) is the reason bill gets out at all, and the general unease and overall malaise of the town with a background church that is never used or addressed reminds me of, say, the small-town hometown deltarune analysis, where Christianity is never mentioned but everyone acts like socially conservative christians who harass people for being different. and the pines ARE different! each and every one of them. dipper and stanford are physically so, mabel is a glowing star that also lets grenda and candy feel comfortable, and stan is a CONMAN!!! WHICH MATTERS TO ME!!! shes weird and odd and strange and people dont like her very much but shes an irreplacable part of the community that keeps people dreaming and looking forward and having a place for abnormality even in a town that was looking away from that weirdness for so long (soos in weirdmageddon III points this out of course) and also symbolises how shes alienated from the world around her. nobody accepts her nobody has ever liked her shes always been half of a duo and nothing more so she lied her way in and presents a false front because people dont like her for who she really is.. .. its an interesting spin on Jewish Shyster where the jew has no choice but is sympathetic for this and with everything that goes into it. she would be dead without lies. but she could LIVE with her family. when she finally gets to be with them. fuck theres this shot in weirdmageddon II where bill is graffitied on a cop car and the other triangle is drawn underneath and it looks like a magen david and thats when i thought for sure on some level it was absolutely intentional that this town is christians who consciously and unconsciously shun their local jews and treats them poorly, something that could absolutely be taken as a really questionable symbol just feels natural for people used to demonising the jews in their lives... there were lots of little things that spoke to me. maybe some of it was S&P not letting alex use certain things, but little phrases and actions that made the pines feel like secular jews living a secularly jewish life in a small christian town where neither of those words are allowed to be uttered. but this is a town where the abnormal is shunned and kept away from the public eye by force, where weirdness and difference is consciously and subconsciously denied and rallied against. and that narrative alone being the entire main plot of the show is, to me, the most important part.

theres so much i said out loud ill not be able to remember without fully rewatching the show and i resent that but this is a big dump of words from someone who just finished the show like an hour or so ago and now wants to think about it forever and the stan twins reuniting and getting to forgive each other for their mistakes and finally having their first friend back and being able to live a life that makes them both happy and can have a positive impact and dipper and mabel having a fun future together and getting through high school together and talking through arguments and getting to live their own lives but always having each other and not repeating the mistakes of their grunkles (who they do love so much)

[http-paprika]

Bite the Hand / Phillip Graves

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⋆★⋆ part five - sun, moon, sky ⋆★⋆ masterlist ⋆★⋆ previous ⋆★⋆ next ⋆★⋆

summary with her mind all over the place, frost goes for a run to free herself, only to come across the source of her problems.

werewolf!au / pairing phillip graves x female!reader / callsign frost / wc 1995 / warning swearing

notes so, my family has covid again which means i have no work and can focus on writing. hopefully I'll be able to write the next chapters before i go back to work. and i was losing my ever-loving mind writing this, listening to the same song on repeat to capture this chapter.

It began in her mouth, the constant uncomfortable dryness and a thirst that no amount of water could quench. She was unwilling to admit that her scent was laced with something sweet, a glow in her face, and the ache in her bones whenever she passed Graves. Like she was losing her mind, she sat hunched over her desk, face buried in her calloused hands. 

“Frost?” Lurch stood in front of her desk, staring down at her like she was some bizarre alien creature who’d fallen out of the sky. Her teammates had begun to pick up on her erratic behavior, once or twice she’d heard Dipaolo telling Vance he was glad to be born a man. Not that being a man would’ve saved her from her distress. It was a trouble that plagued many, she was just the unfortunate soul to be struck down then.

“Maybe you should get out, go for a run, go hunt. You’re acting like a caged animal. Your reports have been looking like shit.” To prove his point, he dropped the stack of papers in front of her, Frost was embarrassed by the highlighted passages. It was sloppy and humiliating to read, below her standard. “I’d hate to bring this up to the Commander but if this is going to continue to be a problem, I will.” 

“No. No. It won’t be a problem.” She quickly argued, standing out of her seat and yanking up her jacket. The early cold of winter had surprised her that morning, a welcomed relief from the unbearable Texan heat. “I’ll be back in the morning.” 

Hurried out of the office, she returned to her room and changed into running clothes, something that Frost wouldn’t mind if it got soiled or stained. She could only pray her run would be long and tiresome enough, there was a hope that it would stop the endless loop of thinking about him. As her hands slid over her body, pulling off her uniform, she couldn’t help but imagine the callouses of his hands replacing hers, a warm breath against her ears. 

Her eyes snapped open, and her own breath caught in her lungs. He’d be the death of her, and Graves would never know. 

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The smell of juniper and pine trees filled her nostrils as she finally stopped running, having gone to the northern border of the Shadow Company’s hunting grounds. Her chest rose and fell as she stared at the rapid river that divided her land from uncertainty. Frost often wondered who hunted in the lands beyond, and how far she could run without being shot at or entering enemy wolf territory. 

Below her skin, her muscles tightened and ached as she dropped to the edge of the river, rocks digging into her knees as she stuck her hands into the cold current. The water tumbled over rocks, and the crickets sang in her ears as the sun dipped further below the pines. Frost would need to plan for the evening, she’d need to eat before tempting to run the miles back to the base. But hunting alone had little appeal, and the exhaustion in her bones dissuaded her from shifting. 

She wondered what it would be like to let the rapids take her, if it would drag her south to the sea. If she could disappear like a fossil in the rock beds below the currents. Ancient fossils didn’t have to deal with the pain she felt, the tug in her heart. He was the wrong person, and more importantly, Frost was the wrong girl. It was already luck that had allowed her to cross his path, to speak to him and listen. Then there was the unspoken, fear and experience that had pushed her back into a cage. Venomous words that made her hate herself more than her father ever had. 

Frost wouldn’t offer that to Graves, he was already gracious enough as it was. But it didn’t stop her from closing her eyes, fantasizing about showing him every version of herself. Letting Graves take her in his arms, telling her the past didn’t matter.

But she knew better. 

“Frost?” She wondered if she had willed him into existence as he stepped towards the river, the hunting rifle slung over his shoulders again. The wind turned in her direction, allowing her to breathe in his smell and let out a contented sigh. “You’re out far, y’know that?” 

“Lost track of where I was running, sorry.” She said, quickly standing and trying to dust the dirt off her skin. Ever so slightly embarrassed by her appearance in front of him. Graves had a concerned look on his face as he set the rifle down, an expression she’d never seen that made her breathing hitched. 

“Lerch told me you’ve been acting strange. I’m worried about you, is everything alright?” He asked, closing the gap between them until he was standing right in front of her. One of his gloved hands comes up to her face, brushing a few hairs and sweat away with a slow motion. “We’ve moved past keep secrets, you can trust me with anything.” 

“There’s a reason they’re secrets, Graves. They’re meant to be hidden.” She said, frowning and wondering if he could feel how hot her skin was or hear the way her heart pounded against her thick ribs. Frost blinks rapidly, trying to keep unforeseen tears from falling. He wasn’t supposed to see her like that, no one was. Staying hidden with her feelings and past meant staying safe. 

“Frost, you could tell me you murdered a man and I’d help you dispose of the body. I’m not one to judge.” How familiar his words were to her, like the past was repeating itself just with a different man. A different face, a different heart, a different ending. His hand stayed on her face, brushing the hot tears from her cheeks as he waited, ever so patient.

“I can’t.” She told him, Frost hated to cry in front of anyone. A lesson engrained in her mind from a young age, a lesson she couldn’t easily forget. And crying in front of Graves felt pathetic, it didn’t matter if he was understanding. Didn’t matter how many promises he made to her and her brothers that they were safe in his company. Frost couldn’t. 

“Yes, you can.” 

“I–” She turned her gaze up to the sky which was a watercolor of violet, orange, and blue as it attempted to hold onto the sun. The knife in her heart twisted further, splitting her in two. All that flooded her mind were broken promises, gnashing teeth, and apologizing over and over again for feelings and things she couldn’t control. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to tell you the truth.” 

Graves’ hand dropped from her face, down her shoulders, and arms, and picked up her hands. The leather rubbed against her skin, his thumb brushed over a set of knuckles. It was so caring and gentle that it made Frost want to scream. 

“Come on, let’s not stay out. ‘Bout to be a new moon, let’s go into the light.” Graves suggested, still holding onto a hand, another picking back up the rifle before he turned and led her along the riverbank. Soon, they reached a swallow crossing, and she followed him up a rocky path. In the distance through the trees, lights blinked at her in a warm greeting. The trees split apart into a small clearing where an a-frame house stood, and a truck with a Shadow Company bump sticker was parked in front on a gravel drive that stretched back into the trees. 

He’d taken her to his home. “Most the boys don’t even know this is where I live. Like to keep it that way, quiet, private.” Graves said to her as he unlocked the house, letting her into the warm interior. 

“So I’m special?” Frost asked, a bit of humor in her question as Graves put the rifle up in a cabinet before shedding his gloves and boots. 

“Very.” Her heart almost combusted as he flashed a wink at her before walking through the home, moving to the kitchen. “Make yourself at home, if you break something, I will make you buy it.”

Frost shakes her head, taking off her stained and ragged sneakers and trying to force herself to loosen up. The house wasn’t what she expected, he kept a large collection of vinyls, and his shelves her lined with books, pictures, and awards from his long life. But somehow, it made sense to her, reminding her of his cluttered office. 

“Why me?” She asked suddenly, turning to look at him in the kitchen as he poured himself a glass of bourbon. “What makes me so special? I’m not a soldier who got the medals for being outstanding, was never the top of my class, and I’m nothing to write home about here either. I just don’t understand what someone who recruits some of the most ruthless and talented soldiers and mercenaries there are sees in me.” 

“Well, it’s clear we don’t see each other the same way at all. Because you put me up on a podium I shouldn’t be on Frost.” Graves responded hesitantly, looking up at her from the crystal glass. The light danced in his eyes, his brows knit together as he looked at her. A look of a man who was giving her his full attention. “And affairs of the heart have never been logical.” 

She could’ve fallen apart right there, hearing the words leave his mouth felt wrong, unnatural. It shouldn’t be happening. Frost’s feelings weren’t supposed to be returned, they were supposed to fizzle away, staying hidden from sight. His admittance was dangerous, how easily it could destroy her, destroy the new life she’d built at the Shadow Company. Graves called out her name, her real name, which yanked her attention back to him.

“You can’t mean that,” Frost stated, backing away as Graves stepped around the counter to her. She wondered if she could find her way back to the Shadow Company base from his home. Maybe it would be better if she got lost in the woods instead, wandering like a forsaken beast. It would be more bearable than letting herself completely fall. 

“What are you so scared of, Frost?” He kept his distance, waiting until she was ready to let him in. There was a patience in his tone, something so gentle about the way he spoke that made her knees want to buckle. 

“Everything that I’ve lost and can lose again.” She admitted, gripping the wooden countertops. Her breathing had become uneven again, the weight in the air was crushing. Frost could only hope he’d throw her out in the cold, she thought she’d die if he continued to look at her like she was sun shining after a long winter. 

“I can’t change your past, but I can shape the future, and I don’t want to hurt you. You deserve everything you want, everything you crave, and I want to give it to you.” Graves was so close to her, but she was the one to reach out now. Resting a hand against his chest, she felt the rhythmic thrum of his heart. The smell of his skin was intoxicating, causing her to swallow hard. He placed his hand on top of hers, the other settling on her waist. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” 

Before she can think or speak, his mouth is on hers. Capturing her in an embrace as her teeth catch on his lower lip. He surrounded her, consuming her senses as she continued to hold onto him desperately and kiss him. The lingering taste of bourbon on his tongue, the sweet smell of pine needles radiating from his skin, and the warmth of his hands keeping her body flush against his.

Frost could’ve died happily there.

taglist (open) @iamcautiouslyoptimistic @delusionally-loveless-by-choice @bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus @anna-banana27 @unicorngirly1

[marcmarcmomarc]

Spider-Man: Beyond the Spider-Verse

Shameik Moore

Hailee Steinfeld

Brian Tyree Henry

Luna Lauren Vélez

Jharrel Jerome

Jason Schwartzman

Jake Johnson

John Mulaney

Kimiko Glenn

Issa Rae

Karan Soni

Amandla Stenberg

Masi Oka

Shea Whigham

Greta Lee

Lily Tomlin

Andy Samberg

Pedro Pascal

Marc Maron

Liam Neeson

Bobby Cannavale

Mark Hamill

Keanu Reeves

…with Mahershala Ali

…Nicolas Cage

…Daniel Kaluuya

…Kathryn Hahn

…Liev Schreibner

…and Oscar Isaac

Cast

Shameik Moore as Miles Morales

Hailee Steinfeld as Gwen Stacy

Oscar Isaac as Miguel O’Hara

Mahershala Ali as Uncle Aaron

Bryan Tyree Henry as Jefferson Davis

Luna Lauren Vélez as Rio Morales

Jharrel Jerome as Miles G. Morales

Jason Schwartzman as Spot

Jake Johnson as Peter B. Parker

John Mulaney as Spider-Ham

Kimiko Glenn as Peni Parker

Nicolas Cage as Spider-Man Noir

Issa Rae as Jessica Drew

Daniel Kaluuya as Hobie Brown

Karan Soni as Pavitr Prabhakar

Amandla Stenberg as Margo Kess

Masi Oka as Takuya Yamashiro

Shea Whigham as George Stacy

Greta Lee as LYLA

Lily Tomlin as Aunt May

Andy Samberg as Ben Reilly

Kathryn Hahn as Doc Ock

Liev Schreiber as Wilson Fisk

Pedro Pascal as Otto Octavius

Marc Maron as Adrian Toomes

Liam Neeson as MacDonald Gargan

Bobby Cannavale as Aleksei Sytsevich

Mark Hamill as Maxwell Dillon

Keanu Reeves as Flint Marko

Melissa Sturm as Mary Jane

Michelle Ruff as Mayday

Peter Sohn as Ganke

Rachel Dratch as Ms. Weber

Ziggy Marley as Lenny

Nathalie Morales as Miss Calleros

Erick Avari as Inspector Singh

Priyanka Chopra as Gayatri

Elizabeth Perkins as May

Atsuko Okatsuka as Yuri

Jack Quaid as Peter Parker

Freida Pinto as Maya Auntie

J.K. Simmons as J. Jonah Jameson

Zoë Kravitz as Mary Jane Watson-Parker

Edwin H. Bravo as Visions Academy Guard

Lorraine Vélez as Maria

Ayo Edebiri as Glory

Nicole Delaney as MJ

Antonina Lentini as Betty

Anthony Ramos as Benny

Chris Pine as Spider-Man

Marvin Jones III as Tombstone

Joaquín Cosio as Scorpion

Jorma Taccone as Adriano Tumino / Green Goblin / ‘67

Jorge Gutierrez as Officer Gutierrez

Donald Glover as Aaron Davis

Stan Lee as Stan

Lake Bell as Vanessa Fisk

Kim Yarbough as Alchemax Scientist

Nic Novicki as LEGO Spider-Man

Sofia Barclay as Malala Windsor

Taran Killam as Web-Slinger

Danielle Perez as Charlotte Webber

Michael Rianda as Max Borne / Ezekiel Sims / Spider-Man Patient

Leland “Metro Boomin” Wayne as Metro Spider-Man

Yuri Lowenthal as Insomniac Spider-Man

Josh Keaton as Spectacular Spider-Man

Rino Romano as Spider-Man Unlimited

Grey DeLisle as Spinneret

Meg Turney as Annie-May Parker

Paola Andino as Anya Corazón

Ryan O’Flanagan as Tarantula

Lauren Ash as Cyborg Spider-Woman

Daran Norris as Spidercide

Tara Strong as Spider-Canada

Jess Harnell as Officer Parker

Robbie Daymond as Ultimate Spider-Man

Post Malone as Brooklyn Bystander

[heliads]

Hi! Could I please request a Nikolai Lantsov x reader where they’re childhood friends that fell out of touch (with mutual pining, no doubt :) but meet up again on the open seas, when he’s tailored as Sturmhond but wants to talk to them as Nikolai? I like the idea of a pirate reader, though I’d love to see where you go with the idea. Thank you so much! Love your work ♥️

the vibes of this request >> let me tell you anon i was THRILLED

masterlist

There was a time when you thought the world could only ever end, that you would live your life start to finish within the same four walls, or at least variations of them. You centered your entire being around insignificant things that could never last long— a wildflower left without water in the dry earth outside your home, a friend you made when you were just a child— and grew consequently hopeless when they all left in turn. 

What do crackling leaves and vanishing golden blond boys have in common, though? They teach you lessons no one else will. Lessons about how if you crave something not given to you, you must take it by force. Lessons about how although everyone leaves, it is far less painful if you are the one shipping out on strange tides. You did your time of learning, and now you push it further still on the bow of a ship you taught yourself to sail and master. 

Few people would expect someone who had once been a well trained Ravkan to trade their entire life for one at sea. Those who know you, though, wouldn’t even bat an eye. You have never been made for cages, and now you break them. It’s as easy as that. 

There were a few times when you wondered if you were making a mistake to cast off all your old ties for this. There had been moments when you swore your precious Ravka held everything you could ever need. There was a family, once, that promised you the world. There was a friend, once, who made you think that you could have it. 

Your childhood has long since disappeared, however, carrying with it parents and their fables as well as blond boys who know too much for their own good. You know what was expected of you, and you hated it. Too terrified of turning into those same people you saw every day, you fled. Let the gilded gates of Ravka wither with rust. You will not be there to see them fall. 

Thus a ship was acquired and a crew was found. It can be difficult to track down men worth trusting in any province, let alone one run by gold-drunk old men, but you make do with what you’ve got, you always have. Convicts and criminals may run with wolves every night, but they’ll protect you in a heartbeat, and rather do it above anything else.

That was where one chapter closed and another began. You’ve been on the seas for a few years now, staying afloat through odd jobs that have a miraculous way of paying you far more than they should. Interest runs high when there’s no one to check you. It would certainly be a shame if your men took more than their fair share from those who have too much money to ever miss it, wouldn’t it?

You’ve gained a name for yourself over these years as well. Among the lighthearted community out there on the sea, few could hope to have half the reputation that crowns your head. There’s one like-minded soul that you wouldn’t mind meeting, but then again, the list of people who’d like to meet Sturmhond could fill an armada. You’ve heard rumors that he’s talked of engaging with you as well, but you can only take those with a grain of stolen salt. Thieves of the sea forge truths as often as false documentation; until you meet the man himself, you’ll never know for sure if he truly wants to know you or not.

Still, when you’re out with your crew one day, heading out of the Ravkan harbor after another successful voyage, it isn’t beyond you to search the endless seas for some sign of another ship. And, when one of your crew stationed up in the crow’s nest for lookout shouts something down about seeing a schooner speeding up towards you, you can’t help a leap in your chest. Everyone’s heard stories about the Volkvony, but fewer still have actually seen it in person or lived to tell the tale.

When you stride over to the side of the deck to get a better look, though, your hopes are confirmed. It is indeed the Wolf of the Waves, Sturmhond’s flagship, and it is indeed approaching you. This close to Ravka, it’s hard to tell if the privateer could actually be gunning for you or just headed towards the coast, but they drop anchor soon enough.

You haven’t done anything to irritate the infamous seaman as far as you’re aware, so this meeting could be merely a passing pleasantry. All the same, you tell your crew to be on high alert. Sturmhond is notorious for narrow escapes and bold moves. It would be just like him to rob a fellow privateer just for the thrill of saying he could do it.

When the redheaded man first steps foot on your deck, however, you do have to wonder if he could truly be here for any nameable crime. His face is harsh, weatherbeaten and rugged as if carved into being by a blade instead of shaped by any Saintly hands, but it still holds a certain something that lends itself well to receiving stares. He takes his time getting a good look at the ship and the crew before he looks at you, so you have the pleasure of studying him before Sturmhond is ever able to consider you.

You take your time in it, too. You have never met the privateer, and would certainly remember it if you did, every detail down to the flamboyant teal frock coat, yet you can’t shake the feeling that something about him is familiar. You find yourself searching his face for some sign of recognition– perhaps a shade of muted green in his eyes that you’ve seen elsewhere, or a lock of copper hair that reminds you of a sailor you’d passed before, but can find no explanation anywhere in your memories.

At first, you think you must be confused, merely trying to delude yourself into thinking that you could have a connection with such a famous master of the seas, and then Sturmhond looks at you at last and you know you’re not making things up. He is careful to keep his face light, his expression sharp yet bright, but for a moment his demeanor slips. There is one half second in which you lock eyes and you swear that he recognizes you, and in that brief infinity, you know that you were wrong to ever doubt yourself.

The instant is over in a heartbeat, and then Sturmhond is back to his usual self. He claps his hands together, announcing for all the world to hear that he had heard of your ship in passing and wished to meet a fellow captain. He’s done this before, you’ve heard of Sturmhond evaluating sea captains to see if they’d fit in well with his fleet, so it’s not unusual for him to pay you this visit.

Still, when his eyes linger on you, you can almost convince yourself that there’s another reason for his presence here, something that he’s not telling you or at least won’t mention in front of the crowds of pirates surrounding him. You nod once and extend a hand towards the captain’s quarters.

“How about we speak somewhere in private? I would welcome any chance to confer with a fellow seaman.”

Sturmhond laughs briskly at the understatement of his title, and strolls over to accept your invitation. He keeps up his air of unconcerned bravado while all eyes on him. It is a different story once the door shuts behind you and the voices of the crew fade into the background.

You take a seat behind your desk and gesture for Sturmhond to relax as well. He makes a show of flicking his coat as he sits to show off rows of pistols, knives, and other weapons, but it doesn’t faze you for a second.

Instead, you steeple your fingers on the table in front of you. “Do you want to tell me why you’re really here?”

The privateer laughs again, and you swear that there’s something familiar in it, some sort of tone that you’ve heard before. “Can’t I just drop in on a friend?”

“We’ve never met before,” you counter, but add on something more when his face drops almost imperceptibly, “or have we?”

“I would hope that I’d make such a fantastic impression that you’d have no choice but to keep vivid memories of me wherever you go,” Sturmhond says pleasantly, “If that’s not the case, I’ll need you to keep that to yourself. I have an image to uphold, you see.”

You nod once, eyebrow raised. “Oh, of course. And how does that image relate to the fact that you’re being Tailored?”

Sturmhond’s face drops in a flash, although he picks up his charade a half second later. Still, even the momentary lapse is enough for you to recognize that you’ve seen straight through him. “I hope that’s your way of saying that I’m so handsome that I have to be the work of a Grisha, but it’s not the case. Many have tried to discredit my natural beauty, but–”

You cut him off with a raised hand. “But it’s true, isn’t it? You look at me like you’ve seen me before. That would only work if you’re wearing a different face than when we met. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You knew me as someone else and you want to see what’s become of me. Tell me, was it before or after I took to the seas?”

Sturmhond waits a second, two, and you’re just about to wonder whether you’ve colossally misread the situation and Sturmhond really isn’t Tailored at all when he sighs. It sounds like the dying breath of a god, all weighty pain and deep grief.

“Before,” he whispers, “long before.”

It is the easiest thing in the world for a pirate to lie; you’re all taught it at a very young age. Still, you know instantly that Sturmhond is telling the truth. You don’t know how you know, you just do. You know him better than you know yourself. It is something only many years of contact would teach you.

“How old were we when we met?” You ask tentatively. Pieces are starting to click together in the back of your mind, memories you haven’t thought about in quite a long time. His face may be changed, but his voice– something about his voice, maybe, his eyes, the way he looks at you–

The corners of Sturmhond’s mouth prick up into a half smile. “I don’t remember. Very young. We knew each other for quite some time too, and then I had to leave suddenly. I don’t even know that I was able to say goodbye. I was–”

You interrupt him again, this time with a shaky laugh. “Blond. You were blond and a prince. Saints, Nikolai, what have you become?”

It is a gamble to say his name like this, out of nowhere with little to no evidence to back it up. All the same, seeing Stumhond– Nikolai– and the way his face lights with some indescribable emotion the second you say his name is how you know you’re right beyond measure.

This is him, then. This is Nikolai Lantsov. This is the childhood friend you worshipped when you were barely knee height, the boy you grew up with until he disappeared one day without a trace. You had met him somewhere you can’t remember, on a street whose name is both the only thing you will ever know and also the first to vanish from your mind when you need it most. Nikolai had been your best friend, your truest friend, and the one whose absence hurt more than any blade when he left.

It makes sense now, of course. Nikolai was a Lantsov above all else. Of course he would be called away from you at some point, he had duties you couldn’t even begin to understand. You heard rumors that he was in the military, or studying in Ketterdam, and then some other grand plan that criminals like you wouldn’t be privy to in a thousand years, no matter how well you knew Ravka’s golden youngest son.

Here he is now, though, wearing a face that isn’t his and smiling at you like he has finally found the one treasure no pirate could ever dream of taking. You look at him, and although every facet of his face is changed, you see him. Nikolai. Your Nikolai.

You can’t help a smile. “What are the odds that we’d both pick this career path?”

Nikolai grins as well. “Surely very small. I didn’t think you’d recognize me this easily, though. I have to say, it’s making me doubt my own appearances, and I prefer to do that as little as possible.”

You chuckle. “I’ve known you for years, Nik, you can’t honestly believe that I wouldn’t see straight through you. What was your plan, then, if I didn’t recognize you? You would sweep up to my ship, engage in some idle chatter, and leave without telling me a thing? Would you really be so cruel as to let me go another few years without knowing that I’d met you again?”

Nikolai’s eyes shine at the nickname. “I didn’t know what my plan was. I had heard stories, but I didn’t dare connect your name with them until I saw you and knew for sure. When my men spotted your sails this morning, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay away unless I saw you again. It’s been too long, Y/N. Far too long.”

You nod in agreement. “What will you do with yourself now that you know it’s me? Pack up your things and sail off to another distant corner of the world just like you’ve been doing all this time?”

Your tone holds no malice, only the faintest hint of regret. Losing Nikolai had been like losing yourself when it happened all those years ago, and now you’ve got to say goodbye to him all over again despite just getting him back.

Nikolai, too, seems unwilling to part ways just yet. “We don’t have to separate,” he whispers, “I’m in need of a good captain in my ranks. Someone I can trust more than anyone. That has always been you and you know it.”

You let a small smile slip onto your face. “Are you offering me a job, Sturmhond?”

You emphasize the false name and he rolls his eyes. “Your old friend misses you,” he replies, “isn’t that enough? That and the promise of untold wealth?”

He holds out his hand, and you shake it without a second’s hesitation. “I’d follow you anywhere,” you say simply, “I would hope that you’d know that.”

Nikolai stands, and, crossing around the desk, pulls you into a tight embrace that leaves you breathless. Without his Tailored face hidden in the crook of your neck, you can pretend that nothing has ever changed, that you are both still children growing up on Ravkan shores that have yet to cast you off.

“I don’t want to let you go again,” he says against the top of your head, “I look forward to seeing you fly my colors, moi kapitan.”

You laugh. “Always the flirt, weren’t you?”

“Anything for you,” Nikolai says breezily, and extends a hand towards the door. “Shall we tell your crew of the good news? I’m sure they’ve been waiting long enough.”

You nod, but steal one last moment to stand here and look at him. You have your friend back, your Nikolai, your captain. Nothing could make you happier. At last, you walk to the door of your cabin and push it open. A wave of dazzling sunlight threatens to blind you, and through the rippling light, you see Nikolai by your side. Him and nothing more.

grishaverse tag list: @rogueanschel, @deadreaderssociety, @cameronsails, @mxltifxnd0m, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @thatfangirl42, @amortensie, @gods-fools-heroes, @bl606dy

[fallinglikethis]

Fight For Us

By: FallingLikeThis

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: One Direction (Band) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Marcel (Best Song Ever)/Louis Tomlinson Characters: Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik, Marcel (Best Song Ever), Liam Payne, Niall Horan, But just barely - Character Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Verse, Alpha Marcel (Best Song Ever), Omega Louis Tomlinson, Omega Zayn Malik, Beta Liam, omega rights, Omega Niall Horan, Dildos, Omega slick, Imprisoned Omegas, Discussion of Consent Issues, Activism, Harry Styles is Marcel, smutty epilogue, Pining, Angst

Summary:

Louis isn’t okay.

It’s beyond wrong, the way they’re held in a cage waiting to be chosen for mating. It’s the way it’s been all Louis’ life, but he never wanted to end up like this. He’d hoped against hope that he’d present as a beta since they don’t have these same restrictions on them. They don’t have to adhere to their biology.

And one dark night, long after all of the other omegas in the pen have fallen asleep, biology comes calling for Louis.

Written for @wordplayfics Week 4: Forge.

[fir3ylolol]

.⭒☆━━━✰━━━☆⭒. masterlist

✩ - completed, ❀ - unfinished/in progress, ♡ - smut, ➳ - fluff

Mortal Kombat Johnny Cage

make up, break up - ✩, ♡

we want you! pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5 - ❀, ♡, ➳

smile! you're on camera - ✩, ♡

double feature - ✩, ♡

i'll have what she's having - ✩, ➳

star-studded cast - ✩, ♡

stay behind the rope - ✩, ♡

sleepless in seattle - ✩, ➳

dazed and confused - ✩, ♡

sunset boulevard - ✩, ➳

place beyond the pines - ✩, ♡

Raiden

lighting in a bottle pt. 1 pt. 2 - ❀, ➳, ♡

Five Night's at Freddy's

Mike Schmidt (Movie vers.)

cure for insomnia - ✩, ♡

[hestzhyen]

Chapter 44 Museposting

Hello internet void. What a great conclusion to a fantastic arc! I'm locked in and ready to spend the rest of my life with this manga now. ...Maybe. No matter how the manga proceeds from here, I'll hold the Rakuzaichi arc close to my heart for it's nuanced examination of family and duty. And for introducing my favorite character in ages.

Hakuri the precious unhinged bean is STAYING! Another rescued abuse victim for the goldfish bowl, hooray! I hope he isn't shelved after this arc but my goodness he definitely deserves a break. The whole cast does, yeah, but this boy still has a lot to process.

I love how Hakuri's character arc is resolved here - he's finally free to choose his own path after everything he's been through. Ice Lady broke him out of the Sazanami mindset, Chihiro proved there was hope for him, and Shiba gave him an opening to leave his cage behind. Now he can truly find out what's waiting for him beyond the misery and despair he lived with for so long. Oh Hakuri, you deserve all the happiness you find.

And once again, Chihiro's empathy is on full (if somewhat subdued) display. The scene of him wanting to encourage Hakuri as he says he's lost now that his dad is dead squeezed my heart into pieces. Yeah, Kyoura was shitty. But losing an abusive parent isn't a ticket to sudden happiness and purpose most of the time. They were still your guiding star, as Hakuri himself says- for better and worse. Especially if they only became overtly abusive later in your life. The grief that comes with their passing is hella complicated and often leaves you feeling worse off even if your life will be objectively better from now on.

Hakuri was in survival mode for so long thanks to Kyoura that he doesn't know what to do now. He and his remaining family are better off without each other too. Chihiro probably doesn't grasp the complexities of this kind of grief but he does know what it's like to lose everything and be set adrift in the world far too young. So he gently reminds Hakuri of the potential waiting for him outside of the cage...

... and Hakuri responds so sweetly:

Aaaah my heart. You shouldn't talk about yourself like you're property, Hakuri!

This gives me some hope that we're not quite done with him yet. Hakuri's free now but he (understandably) has a low opinion of himself. He still feels the weight of failing the Ice Lady and Chihiro trading Enten for his life and wants to do more. Be more. Feel worthy of what they've done for him. And who better to help him make the most of his new lease on life than the guy he sees as hope incarnate? The grief might overwhelm him at times, and the effects of the abuse he endured won't fade for quite some time. But he'll be alright as long as he's with his samurai.

This is Chihiro's story above all else so I don't think we'll get another deep dive into Hakuri unless it's to further our protagonist's character. But I'm waiting to see what he's set up to do going in to (what appears to be) the Kamunabi arc with baited breath. I hope he really does get to be Chihiro's equal instead of learning the art of Offscreen Sorcery from Shiba. And even though it'll probably be Hiyuki's turn to shine next, I hope she doesn't overtake him in terms of importance to Chihiro's story and the narrative as a whole.

I'll save the doomposting for another time (if it's even warranted). I've got a ton to say about Hakuri now that the arc is over, but that'll probably be a separate post made while we all succumb to brain rot during the break. But yeah. Hakuri. I love him so much. I just hope I'm not pining for scraps of him after all the work the author put in to making him so endearing.

No dwelling on what-ifs! Onward! What about that random shot of a drum?

I think it's interesting that we get a small panel of taiko/wadaiko. They have nothing to do with any major themes in the arc itself, other than the sticks used to hit them being called bachi (Hokazono probably patted himself on the back for that one). I think it's used to lend a sense of finality to the end of the proceedings for the Sazanami clan. These drums have a variety of uses through their long history in Japanese culture, but the one most relevant here I think is in theater and performance arts. Small taiko drums are used to help accentuate performances by setting the mood. Here in Kagurabachi, I think it's specifically linked to Kyoura's line at the end of Ch. 39:

Yeah, the origin of the meme. The EN translation is apparently pretty conservative while the original JP line had more of a showman flair to it. "The show must go on" or along those lines. I'm not a pro at Japanese by any stretch, but it would tie in nicely to the continued use of performance-related terms in this week's chapter. The cruel spectacle is over for good. The curtains are drawn and it's time for all the living participants to go home.

2/2 on destroyed buildings marking the end of an arc. Let's keep it up!

But what is next, indeed? How many people expected Chihiro to try joining the Kamunabi, anyway?! Definitely wasn't on my short list of things that could happen, but I'm really warming up to the idea because of what it says for him as a character.

Normally, a shounen protagonist is someone who is reacting to the plot as it happens. Even if they're out to change the status quo, something has to occur to give them an opportunity to act (yes, even after they've answered the Call to Adventure). Bad guy acts first, something happens to a loved one, natural disaster strikes, etc. The universe gives them an opening and the protagonist strikes. But here, Chihiro creates his own opportunity.

Hiyuki and Tafuku could have just taken the blade away from him in his weakened state and left him at square one trying to find leads. Most authors would take this development path I think! But this is Kagura-fucking-bachi so we get to see another fascinating side to Chihiro instead.

Chihiro recognizes that he doesn't know as much as he thought about his dad's legacy. And that he can't continue his crusade without some serious power on par with the Hishaku clan. So instead of doing the typical shounen protagonist thing and resolving to push through adversity with friendship and sheer force of will, he adjusts his tactics. His resolve is intact but his strategy is changing.

This was indirectly foreshadowed courtesy of Shiba in ch. 12 and reinforced by John Hishaku in Ch. 32:

Don't you love it when characters consistently actually act how we're told they do? Chihiro's always thinking and learning; he's not waiting for fate to give him a chance. No matter how strongly he feels about recovering the swords, he's able to accurately assess his own situation and make the most rational decision (hot-headed moves fueled by deep empathy for others being an exception). I love a protagonist that recognizes when they're out of their depth and adjusts accordingly, man. No practicing slamming his head against a brick wall until it breaks for this guy- he'll find some scaffolding to climb over it instead. Or ask a badass woman to punch a hole through it for him.

I also think it's quite significant that Chihiro's directly asking others for help now. In the beginning he seemed uneasy about letting others share the burden of his father's legacy, but now he's trusting Hiyuki and the Kamunabi to help him manage it. Obviously he's asking to join because he won't let them take full control and responsibility, but he's still facing reality head-on. How will that play out for him? Opening up to Hakuri and trusting in him paid off massively, so maybe it'll work out again?

The last time he worked with the Kamunabi, most of the squad was wiped out by Sojo though. I would not be surprised to see a grudge match of some kind between Chihiro and Kazane despite both of them being on the same side in the same org this time... but we've gotten a few glimpses of all kinds of potential inter-group conflict since very early on. It's not surprising that the Hishaku may want to exacerbate those fractures by letting the Kamunabi get a hold of Magatsumi:

Ch. 7

Ch. 11

Ch. 18

Ch. 22

Ch. 24

So as of Ch. 44, it's clear that internal politics will play a major role...

Chihiro I love you for being able to put the pieces together yourself instead of relying on someone else like other protagonists often have to do.

I expect that working within the Kamunabi will help Chihiro form a firm opinion on whether or not they can be trusted to help him in the long-term. It'll probably also be Hiyuki's development arc as she reconciles her ideals, what she sees in Chihiro, and what she's witnessed at the Rakuzaichi with how the group operates.

I don't want to speculate too much on exactly how it'll all play out but I'm so freakin' hyped man. This is also a great chance to learn more about Kunishge, Azami, Shiba, and the Seitei War...! Oh man! LORE! WORLDBUILDING! I live and breathe for this kinda stuff when it's done well. The war criminals' different takes on the Kamunabi have had me interested in the org for a while now so I wonder what Chihiro will think of them by the end of the arc. Will he be able to work with them for the rest of the series? Will they splinter due to their internal conflicts and the Hishaku's machinations? Will Hiyuki stay with them or go her own way? I want to know! Hmm... on the topic of working with the Kamunabi... I know I said earlier that Chihiro's been opening up since he met Hakuri and is willing to work with the Kamunabi full-time now, but I don't believe he's at the point where he's willing to fully entrust the dangerous, painful parts of his dad's legacy to other people yet. Chihiro's still feeling personally responsible for the deaths the sword WMDs are causing while putting all the pressure to succeed on his own head. He's letting other people help him out but it's his duty alone to minimize the damage. I won't be surprised if this is touched on either in the Kamunabi arc or a later one. Keeping Shiba's "you'll break" line in mind once more, I think Chihiro learning to share his pain and burden could be a major turning point for him.

I don't want to say it must or will happen -I'm not the writer. I just think it's a very potent thread that's had some buildup since the start. Who can Chihiro trust to help him with more than logistics and fighting? Does he even need someone like that or is he going to become strong enough though learning from his enemies? I'm really interested in seeing if the little family he's building will be able to do more than cheer him on from offscreen at the very least... I've got some worries about the story structure going forward but I want to wait and see what happens in the next arc before letting my hopes be crushed.

Seriously, I'm not going to doompost yet. Really. I'm just going to fucking die waiting an extra week to see what happens next.

[itsthestutterforme]

Our Special Night (Aemond Targaryen x black!reader)

Summary: You and Aemond are recently betrothed, but you needed to finalize the betrothal on your consummation night.

Notes: GIF is not mine, mistakes are my own, PURE filth, read at your own risk, sexual themes (oral sex, p in v penetration, fingering, exhibitionism, overstimulation), possessive Aemond, dom!Aemond

**

It was consummation night and you were beyond nervous. Aemond is a man of few words, which meant you had to read more into his body language and mannerisms. You didn’t know what to expect. The two of you rarely talk about the little things like our favorite food. Talk about our.. sexual experiences never came up.

The first time you met Aemond was different from your other suitors to say the least and you remember it well.

You sat in the banquet room for breakfast with your best friend Rose and your mother, Queen Camilla Chrystalla of the Reach Kingdom.

“I don’t understand what the gossip about Targaryen men. The way I see it, they are just as meek as the others-“ you trailed off when Aemond and Aegon entered the room. You and Rose stood from your chairs when the kingsman introduces the guests. “We present to you Prince Aemond Targaryen, first of his name, rider to the largest dragon in the world. And Prince Aegon, second of his name, heir to the Iron Throne.”

You bowed to the princes, your eyes fell to Aemond as you straightened your back. You waited for the princes to sit down before you sat down and Rose followed suit. You took a few seconds to take him in. The scar peeking from his eye patch intrigued you more than scared you.

His leather, pine green vest accentuated his broad shoulders, smaller waist and pale skin. But what drew your attention his wide, confident gate and his face looked like the gods sculpted it themselves. The intense gaze from his single eye didn’t help.

You broke eye contact when Rose nudged you. “What, did he have you in a trance?” She snorts. “Hm?” “Gods be good, he has, hasn’t he? And he was only in our kingdom for a day,” “Shhh,”

Come the weeks end, was your betrothal. Much to your dismay, the celebration was massive. You never liked attention. If you could help it, you would be at your favorite waterfall, Vieques, laying on the soft grass as you read your books.

Now came the most embarrassing moments of the entire betrothal process. The council remain in the room with you and Aemond have sex, solidifying your union. The council was already in the room when you and Aemond walked in. He walked in first, guiding you to the bed.

You sat on the edge of the bed, watching as he unbuttoned his leather vest and tugged off his undershirt. Your breathes became heavy when you eyes settled on his toned abdomen, rigid lines defining his pecks and abdominal muscles. Scars and scratches littering his arms presented themselves when he caged you in between them.

He leans in close but not to the point of touching. He wanted you to close to space between you, wanting you to set the pace of the consummation. Truth was, you’ve laid with a man before, on your eighteenth birthday. The man did everything whilst you just laid there, trying to keep quiet. It was pleasurable at times, but you never orgasmed.

And now here you were, your doe eyes looking up at him nervously. “It’s okay,” he says softly, pressing a soft kiss on your lips. Similar to the kiss he gave on the day of your wedding, soft and warm. And it left as soon as it came.

You followed his lips to deepen the kiss, your lips moving in sync with his slowly. Leaning on your back, he soon follows you and bunches your dress at your waist without breaking the kiss. You pulled away to ask, “Do you need me to remove my clothes?” “No,”

He watched your brows knit together in confusion and he leans in to whisper, “I don’t like others looking at what is mine, Princess.” He kisses you again before suctioning on the base of your neck. A soft moan left you at the sensation of his soft, plump lips kissing your exposed skin. He does this for a few paces before trying something different.

Dipping his hand between your legs, running the tips of his finger along your slit. Your hands grip his bicep at his advances. “Kiss me,” he complies, humming at the softness of your lips on his. You gasped when he rubbed slow, hard circles on your bundle of nerves.

Your eyes fluttered closed when he kissed from your jawline down your neck and to your breasts. He unravels your corset with one hand, not slowing his advances on your clit. Your stomach tenses as you gently roll your hips into his hand.

He pulled down your corset enough for one of your breasts to fall out. He wraps his mouth around you nipple and sucked on it until your back was arching. “M-my Prince,” “Aemond,” he correct before resuming his advances. The coil in your stomach was growing and your hips quickened until your orgasm washed over you.

A breath hitched in your throat, your hands desperately trying to push him off of you to alleviate the warmth overtaking your body. “Fuck,” you whimpered when you’re finally able to breathe. You made eye contact with one of the councilman while you were still dazed from the orgasm.

You covered your chest from his eyes and Aemond noticed your body tense under his touch. He looks up at the group in the corner. “Leave us,” “But my Prince, you haven’t officially consummated-“ “Trust me when I say it will be done within the hour. Now leave us, I won’t say it again.”

The council men filed out of the room and alerted the guards to not allowed anyone to disturb you. “Are you alright?” You nodded, slowly pulling your arms away from your chest. He resumes kissing your neck, sliding his hips in between yours. “Has anyone touched you like this?” He circles your nipple with the tip of his tongue.

“No,” you moaned, your hand fell to the back of his head. “Do you want me to do it again?” You nod and he pulls away from you. “Speak,” “Yes,” “Good girl,” he rubs hard circles on your clit before testing a finger inside of you. You weren’t aware your eyes were closed until he said, “Open your eyes. I want to see your face when I do this,”

Your walls expand around his two fingers, your body surging forward when he curls them into a sensitive spot and your mouth fell open in bliss. “You look so pretty when you come, do you know that?” He whispers into your ear, sinking his fingers in the same spot.

“Please,” “Please what?” “Fuck me,” “As you wish,” he mutters into your neck, he unravels the rest of your dress and corset. You sat up to pull your dress down your legs and he pulled your under garment gown over your head so you were completely bare to him.

And that didn’t make you nervous in the slightest. He kicked his pants off and your gaze fell to his dick. Fuck he was twice the size of the man you laid with, but not as thick, and his felt like it was splitting you open. “I..” “Do you trust me?” “I do,” “Good,” he settled back in between your legs, trailing the tip along your folds.

He widens your legs and kissed down your neck when he slowly slides inside of you. The pressure made you wince and you dug your nails into his back, making him groan softly. “Tell me when to move,” you kissed him warmly, your hands combing through his thick, silver hair.

He waited until you took a deep breath and nodded to shallow his thrusts into you. He gripped the sheets next to you, practicing restraint. You scratched at his back when he bottoms out entirely before thrusting in slow, deep thrusts.

The bed shook with the intensity of his thrusts and a low whine left your throat. He gathers you in his arms and pulls you into his lap with his knees sinking into the bed. He wraps an arm around your back, you move your hips up and down on him while he thrusts up into you.

His thrusts grew faster and his free hand rubs your clit once again. You moaned loudly as your second orgasm ascended in your stomach. “A-Aemond,” you gripped his shoulders when your orgasm ripped through you quicker than the first. Your clenching sent him over the edge, he finished inside of you.

His lips parted by heavy breaths, gently dropping you on the bed and slowly pulling out of you. He reached over to hand you a glass of water and you took a few sips. “What.. was that?” You asked, laying on your back. “How do you mean?” His soft baritone voice felt heavenly.

“You’re very stoic and stone faced with everything else. But come consummation night, and you’re giving praises and lingering kisses.” “Did you not like it?” “I- well I didn’t say that,” “So you did like it,” you laid on your side to face him whereas he laid on his back with his hand tucked behind his head.

You rested a hand on his chest before pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I thoroughly enjoyed it,” “Then what are you trying to say?” “I.. like when you touch me intimately,” you explained. “You’re saying you throughly enjoy when I give you affection?” “Yes, I do,” “I’ll keep that in mind,” he watched as laid your chin on his chest, sending him a warm smile.

**

Your body was mellowed with sleep until you felt an odd pressure between your legs. You grumbled a bit and went to flip over on your stomach when you noticed a weight holding you in place.

“What?” You rubbed your eyes and opened your eyes to see Aemond’s head settled between your legs. “Aemond, what are you doing?” “Having breakfast,” he says, massaging your folds with the tip of his tongue.

Him making eye contact as he kitten licking your clit was enough to make you cum at the sight. A groan left your lips, your head falling back into the pillows. But it shot back up when you heard a hard knocking. Your eyes widened when Aemond wasn’t stopping his movements. “Aemond, what are you doing?” You whisper.

He spreads your folds with his thumb and sucks at the skin under the hood. Your body shook when you attempt to keep your moan at bay. “Princess?” The guard says. “Y-yes,” “The Queen is expecting you in the banquet hall,” he announces. “Very well. T-tell her I’ll be there soon.” “Oh fuck.” You clapped a hand over your mouth when you realized how loud you moaned.

“Yes, Princess.” You heard his foot steps descend from the room. “My Gods, now they’ll think I’m a whore,” he alternatives from kitten licking your bundle of nerves and circling it with the tip of his tongue. It made you feel so dirty how much you were enjoying the wet sounds of him licking you from the inside out.

When the heat was starting to get too much, you pushed at his head for him to stop. He grumbled in annoyance but didn’t pull away. “Aemond, please.” You whimpered, turning your body away from him and moving yourself to the headboard.

Tears formed in your eyes when he followed you to the headboard, trapping you until you came with a sob. He licks up yours juices in broad licks. He continued to lick you until you came again and he fucked you for good measure afterwards.

“What was the lesson?” He asks calmly while the two of you walked into the banquet well passed the time you promised. Your legs trembled with every step you took and he peers down at you as he waited for your answer. “Never push you away,” “And?” “Take whatever you give me,” “Mm, good. Don’t let it happen again,” he stays, motioning you to walk into the hall first.

“What is the meaning for your tardiness, Y/N? Are you feeling ill?” Your mother asks. “My apologies your Grace. We slept through the guard’s announcement.” You gave you and your father a kiss before finding your seat. Aegon looks at you with an amused smile and you avoid his gaze. You and Aemond sat next to each other, with his brother and your best friend Rose on either side of you.

“How was consummation?” Aegon asked. You were grateful that your parents and the hand were caught up in their own conversations so they couldn’t hear yours. “That bad, huh?” Rose states. “Or that good,” Aegon comments.

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment and you reached for a string of grapes. “So good that they continued it in the morning,” Rose added. “Did you make her cry, brother? Her eyes look red,” you rested your hands in your face, wanting to disappear and Aemond tuts at you.

You met his gaze when he held your chin in between his pointer finger and his thumb. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he pressed two a quick pecks to your lips and links his hand with yours. “That’s enough talk about consummation,”

[montrosepretty]

And I heard a voice, from somewhere out beyond the freefall

ID: Collage style digital drawing divided into several scenes by a road map of Bell Swamp, North Carolina. On the left is a clearing framed by pine trees, with a stone altar in the center. The full moon hangs in the sky, surrounded by stars. On the right is a lobster floating in a cage underwater, a beam of light filtering down from above. The space between scenes is filled with rows of abstract symbols. Text in bottom center reads "GET OUT" in large, blocky capital letters against an iridescent background. End ID.