#fic: dsc

[seasonsbloom]

dime store cowboy 2 . (hangman)

pairing ; cowboy!jake seresin x female!reader

synopsis ; jake teaches you about the cowboy hat rule. (part two of dime store cowboy, but can probably be read separately.)

wc ; 6.5k

warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; explicit language, alcohol abuse, explicit sexual content (semi-public sex, sex while under the influence, p in v, fingering, riding, dirty talk, lil tiny bit of degradation maybe?, almost getting caught)

note: YEEHAW PARDNERS………. i hate this so much, but hey i finished! that's the only positive about this goodbe.

sol. sunderlust. you already know what i’m gonna say thank you for being my bestie :(

It’s a small town, so news travels like wildfire - soon, all the kitchens are burning.

When you walked into work on Monday, three of your co-workers told you not to get too involved with Jake. On a trip to the local mom-and-pop shops for nails to hang your newest art print with, the older woman at the register frowned, called you by name even though you don’t remember ever introducing yourself to her, and said, Jake Seresin is bad news, honey. At a diner, a whole table of mid-twenties girls glared actual daggers at you.

With the way he’s looking at you right now, sort of like he’s ready to reach across the table and devour you whole, you think you kind of know what they mean.

“You’re like… a local legend,” you tell him, toying with the straw in your margarita. Jake ordered it for you before you even walked through the doors, and you don’t know how to feel about him remembering your drink order.

Jake raises an eyebrow. He’s wearing a pale blue button-down tonight that seems more formal than the flannel you met him in, but the hat and obnoxious belt remain the same.

“Am I?” he asks and sounds a little too pleased for your liking.

You nod. “I got advised not to show up tonight by….” You count them off on your fingers. “... four people. And that’s not counting any of the girls who I think are planning my murder as we speak.”

It punches a chuckle out of him, but something about the sound is almost sad.

“Yeah, yeah,” he agrees, waving it off. “I may have a bit of a reputation.”

“What sort of reputation?” you ask, watching as your straw paints swirls into the pink slush of your drink.

Looking at him is dangerous business, you’ve learned this much by now. It makes you do crazy things, shuts off whichever part of your brain is responsible for logic and common sense. So you avoid his eyes, even as you feel his gaze burn holes into the side of your face.

“A bad one,” he says.

It’s ridiculous, and judging by the fake deep voice he puts on, he knows it too. So you laugh, duck your head, and wonder if you even want to know the real answer.

From what you’ve gathered, Jake is a bit of a ladies man. (Your co-worker’s description had been somewhat less flattering. At least you don’t think town mattress is going to show up on his CV any time soon.) Usually, that fact alone would have been enough to have you running for the hills, but you can’t forget the night you met him - his hand on your thigh and the easy banter and feeling sexy, carefree, grown-up in a way not even doing your taxes can duplicate.

Still. The uncertainty remains.

“You think I should listen to them?” you ask. The leather of the booth clings to your sweaty thighs. It’s a hundred degrees in this stupid bar.

Jake hums and shrugs his shoulders. “What I want you to do and what you should do are two entirely separate things, sugar.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He’s drinking whiskey neat. When he picks the glass up to take a sip, amber liquid trembles like a lake in an earthquake.

“It’s your choice, sweetheart.”

That’s not exactly an answer, and it doesn’t escape your notice.

Jake sets his glass back down, braces his elbows on the table’s edge, and leans forward, leans into your space, a conspiratorial grin pulling up the corners of his mouth and says, “If you’re asking me, though… I think you’ve already made your choice.”

You’re not exactly sure what you’re talking about anymore, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of saying what.

“How so?” you ask.

“Well.” Jake makes a sweeping gesture that seems to encapsulate both your little outfit and meticulously styled hair as well as the bustle of the bar. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

You can’t argue with that. A new song comes on, and a group of girls near the bar yell in excitement. You watch them for a second.

“What made you come anyway?” He has his arms folded on the tabletop, clearly trying to pull you back from whatever train of thought you’ve boarded and sailed away on.

That’s a good question, and it’s one you’re not too sure how to answer. Because, truth be told, you almost didn’t. Without the liquid courage of three strawberry margaritas coursing through your bloodstream, without him so close you could barely think of anything but his stubble between your thighs, your nerves caught up with you. You’ve agonized over this, even twenty minutes ago, sitting in your car and staring at the twinkling neon of the bar, your heart beating an erratic pattern that echoed in your words like the same question repeated again and again: Should I?

You shrug. “Curiosity.”

He grins, his teeth gleaming between the pink of his lips. You wonder if he uses Crest white strips or if he gets them professionally bleached. They’re almost too white.

“Curiosity about what, exactly?”

You take a sip of your cocktail to bide your time, to collect your thoughts. Then you say, “I’ve never been on a date with a cowboy.”

Casually, Jake leans back in his chair, folding his arms in front of his chest. His expression is unreadable. “Oh, so is that what this is? A date?”

Your heart drops to the vicinity of your kneecaps. Could it really be that you’ve misjudged this situation so completely? Could it really be that you’re so inexperienced, so out of tune with the signs and signals of the chase, that you can’t even recognize when somebody’s flirting with you?

And you were so sure of it all. That he had felt the same pull as you did that night at the bar. That he’d wanted you almost as much as you had wanted him. That he’d called the number you’d scribbled hastily on a napkin soaked in beer (called, not texted, and you’d been so sure it was a spam call you almost hadn’t picked up) because he’d genuinely wanted to see you again to continue whatever your co-worker had interrupted.

Back home, your friends used to call you romantically challenged, but you didn’t think it was this bad.

“Oh,” you say, and your cheeks feel warm as you shift your weight in your seat, as you pull your shoulders up like you’re trying to disappear between the blades, “I’m sorry, I just….”

Jake is shaking his head before you can finish the sentence you had no idea where to end anyway. “I’m only messing with you, sugar,” he says, his laughter warm even as he teases you, and for a split second, his fingers graze over your knuckles on the tabletop. “I’m honored to be the first cowboy to take a pretty lady like you out.”

That line has no business making your heart race the way it does. Where his fingers touched yours, the skin tingles.

Because you don’t know what to say, you down the last of your cocktail. 

For a while, the two of you chat about nothing and everything. Your new job, the adjustment to the countryside. His work on his parent’s ranch and his family. He names all of their seven dogs, and your eyes nearly bulge out of your head.

“Seven?” you repeat, a note of awe sneaking into your voice. “You guys have seven dogs?”

Jake laughs. “I take it you like dogs?”

“Like is like… the understatement of the century.”

“If you’re a good girl,” he says, looking at you over the rim of his glass, “maybe I’ll introduce them to you one day.”

That has your thighs clenching, your toes curling against the soles of your shoes. Jesus. He can’t just say things like that.

Jake orders you another cocktail from a waitress that does very little to conceal the glare she throws in your direction. When she comes back to deliver your drink and the beer that Jake has switched to, she leans so low both he and you get a good, thorough glance into her cleavage.

As she saunters away, hips swinging, you blink, caught between confusion and a tiny bit of annoyance, and Jake just snorts into the sweating neck of his beer bottle.

By then, the sugar and the alcohol are beginning to work their way into your bloodstream, and you feel just the right side of tipsy. Where your senses are dulled enough the bar fades away to a steady chatter of background noise, tuned out by the gleam of Jake’s smile and his eyes and his fingertips tapping rhythmically on the wood of the table. You feel loose and swaying and unsteady in a way that is funny, thrilling, instead of scary.

It’s strange to be so far from him, all the space of the booth stretching and elongating. Later, you’ll blame the liquid courage, but something (it’s definitely not jealous, nope, not at all) propels you to slide along the leather of the seat, feeling the sweat collecting in your kneecaps, heart in your throat, until you’re on his side, your legs just an inch or two from his.

Jake watches your migration with a faint smile on his face.

“Hi,” you say, blinking up at him.

“Hi,” he echoes back, his arm sliding over the backrest just above your shoulders. “You good?”

You nod. “I was getting lonely over there.”

As soon as the words are out, you cringe at yourself, mouth already opening around an apology, but Jake’s hand on your waist silences you. Wordlessly, he pulls you the last inch to him. And then you’re pressed to him, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, and he’s like a massive bulk of heat and muscle and the pleasant, spicy scent of his aftershave. Your heart stutters, stumbles, trips.

“Well, we can’t have that,” Jake says, his voice rumbling in his chest. “Pretty girl like you all on her lonesome.”

It has you grinning involuntarily. His arm goes from your waist to drape across your shoulder instead, heavy against you, and you set a tentative, searching hand on his thigh. The denim of his jeans feels rough against your palm.

“Better like this?” he asks, and the words are quiet, soft, like they’re meant just for you.

You nod. “Much.”

From your perch against his chest, you watch as he takes a sip of his beer. The bottle comes away, mouth wet just like his lips. His tongue pokes out just a little as he chases the flavor, chases a drop, and it’s like an intrusive thought, something planted in your mind by someone else, something…

“Can I have a sip?” you blurt.

Jake raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for a beer girl.”

You’re not. That’s not what it’s about.

You shrug, his arm moving with your gesture, and say, aiming for nonchalance, “Maybe I could be.”

He chuckles but hands you the bottle without further protest. It’s ridiculous, but something about the thought that you’re putting your lips where his have been moments ago excites you, sets your heart racing. Maybe you’re childish. If you reached up now and kissed him, you’re almost entirely sure he’d kiss back, but the tiniest, smallest spark of fear flickers inside of you at the idea. What if he rejects you?

So instead, you bring the bottle to your lips, take a single, tiny sip, and then, because you can’t help yourself, because apparently, this has become a habit in his presence, you lick the rim. 

Then you cringe. “Nah,” you say. “Still not a beer girl.”

Jake snorts, but his eyes stay fixed on your mouth for just a moment too long. “Can I try your margarita, then?”

You nod, lean forward out of the crescent of his arm for just a moment to pluck the glass you left abandoned across the table.

Jake takes a sip and, to your disappointment, does not copy your moves. There’s no licking off the sugar for him.

He grimaces. “Jeez,” he says, “this is like ninety-five percent sugar.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “That’s why I like it.”

“Well, sugar,” Jake says, his grin turning just a touch devious, “I bet you taste even sweeter.”

Now that has blood rushing into your cheeks, fingers tightening around his thigh. You can feel his hand tracing up and down your side in leisured patterns, the naked skin of your legs against the fabric of his jeans. Your foot in the dainty sandals just an inch shy of his boots.

It’s like you can’t stop touching each other. Like a circuit, the electricity only flows if all parts of the pattern are connected. Like you’re gravitating towards each other, hands always on the other, your neck, his knee, your hip, his biceps.

“You want to find out?” you ask, voice barely more than a whisper, and wonder where the hell that came from.

Jake’s mouth lifts into a grin at one corner. “You’d let me have a taste, sugar?”

I’d let you have anything you want. That’s what you want to say, but when you open your mouth, somebody else’s voice cuts over yours.

“Jake.”

It’s the waitress from earlier. She’s gotten rid of her apron and notepad and is smiling at Jake in a way that makes her intention crystal clear. This girl is definitely here on a mission.

“Hi,” Jake greets back. “We’re still good on drinks, thank you.”

She laughs, and the sound is almost musical. “That’s not why I’m here. My shift just ended.”

For the first time, you really take her in. She’s beautiful, tanned skin, full lips, long hair the color of butterscotch that seems to dance in the light breeze from a ceiling fan. If it hadn’t been for Jake’s arm around you, you would have tried to melt back into the cushions of the booth. Suddenly, you feel painfully inadequate.

But Jake just says, “Good for you.”

The girl casts a furtive glance at you, a furrow etching itself between her eyebrows as if she cannot understand what Jake is doing with someone like you.

Welcome to the club, you think and startle at how bitter that sounds. It’s not like you to pity yourself like this.

“You remember when you asked me out on that date?”

Jake takes a moment to think about that. When he speaks again, he somehow manages not to sound like an absolute douchebag, and you’ll take that as a testament to his immense charm. “Vaguely.”

The girl’s mouth twists like she’s just bit into a lemon. “How about it then?”

One of Jake’s eyebrows rises so high it almost touches his hairline. He says, “I’m a tad busy.”

You watch the whole exchange like somebody watching a tennis match. Sort of like you forgot you’re at all involved in this and not just an innocent bystander watching a girl’s romantic advances crash and burn. Then she sends a truly withering look at you, and you’re reminded that you’re smack dab in the middle of this thing.

“Alright,” she says, trying not to let the note of hurt in her voice show too much. Honestly, you feel sort of bad for her. “Give me a ring whenever.”

Jake hums, but he isn’t even looking at her. His eyes are fixed on your face, his thumb dragging in a long line from your hip down to the top of your thigh. A thoughtful expression crosses his face, and then he’s reaching for where he placed his hat on the tabletop earlier and planting it on your head again.

There’s a thrill to it all - a guy who could potentially have any girl in this town (pretty girls and funny girls and smart girls), but he’s looking only at you. His arm around you and his eyes on you, and his fingers on your leg. His hat on your hair.

You don’t even know if the waitress is still standing by the table or if she’s left. You don’t care.

“Did you drive here?” you ask.

Jake, preoccupied with adjusting the hat on you, glances down at your face and answers, “I did.”

Maybe you’re flattered by all the attention. Maybe it’s been too long since you last got laid. Maybe Jake is too pretty. Or maybe you’re just drunk. 

But there’s a sudden bout of confidence, a wind in your sails, a voice at the back of your head whispering fuck it, and another answering yeah, we’re trying.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. What matters is this: You say, “Do you wanna get out of here?”

You expected Jake to be surprised. Instead, he just smiles, something like amusement crossing his face, and you’re not sure how to feel about that.

“Sure,” he says. “Wait by the door for me, yeah, sugar?”

You agree. As he goes to pay, you idle by the entrance, acting like you don’t feel any of the eyes on you. Without his touch on you, you feel almost forlorn. A little sheepishly, you take off the hat and hold it to your chest, turn it over and over to stare at that label inside.

“Property of J. Seresin,” you read out in a whisper, running a finger along the thin leather of the hat band.

“You really like that hat, don’t you?”

Jake’s voice startles you. He’s smiling, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d call the expression on his face affectionate.

“It’s that cowgirl fantasy,” you say and watch as he stuffs his wallet back into his pocket.

“Yeah, I got my own cowgirl fantasies,” Jake mutters, and you don’t know how to respond, so you act like you didn’t hear him. Something at your core has gone liquid.

He takes the hat from you and plants a warm palm at the small of your back, steering you confidently toward the door.

And this time, when you twist over your shoulder to throw a last glance at the bar, there’s something a little smug to your smile. So what if everybody sees you leave with Jake Seresin? Let them talk about this come Monday then, let them talk about it in the break rooms and the supermarkets and the diners. Let them set the whole town on fire.

You don’t really care, not when you’re the one Jake is ushering toward his truck with something like urgency in his step.

Jake parked his car towards the end of the lot, where the lights of the bar turn into shadows, where the music and the voices are drowned out almost entirely by the chirping of cicadas. The air smells of gasoline and green things, growing things you never really knew back in the city with all its traffic jams and construction work.

When you tilt your head back, you see the stars like glowing pins stuck in the velvet of the night.

“Earlier,” you tell him, slowing your steps as you get closer to the truck, “you asked what I was curious about.”

Jake hums in agreement. He’s rounded the car with you, clearly intent on opening the passenger door for you, but now he stops when you do. You’re still in sync.

“I think,” you say, and wonder how your voice sounds so firm when you feel like you’re floating off into the stratosphere, “I was wondering what it might be like.”

In the dim of the night, Jake’s eyes look almost black. “What what might be like, sugar?”

You bite your lower lip. “That ride I owe you.”

He’s on you within seconds. 

One of his hands tangle in your hair, the other falls once more to that spot at the small of your back, pulling you towards you with enough that you go careening, that you crush into him. The alcohol still has you a little off balance, so you steady yourself with both palms flat on his chest, then make a sound against his lips when you feel the muscles beneath his shirt, the rapid beat of his heart.

It’s all so sudden that it takes you a moment to get used to it. I can’t believe this is happening, you think distantly as Jake opens his mouth against yours, as his tongue traces over the seam of your mouth. You react on instinct, letting him in, melting in his arms. It’s all hot and wet, and god, he’s warm. You know the backs of your thighs and knees are still damp with sweat, with the sweltering heat of the bar, and now, surrounded by the furnace of Jake’s body, not even the night breeze can do anything to cool you down.

Jake walks you backward until your back connects with the metal of his truck, and then he presses you against the door. The hand on your back wanders down, down, down, over the curve of your ass, and then he’s pinching the skin there, and you yelp.

The curve of his smile presses against your own mouth for a moment, and then he’s drawing back at the exact moment that he pulls your hips forward. He’s hard beneath the denim of his jeans, his cock an insistent pressure against your core.

“Oh,” you gasp.

Jake grins. “So do I get to be the first cowboy to fuck you, too?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, hips instinctively bucking forward and into him. The sound of those words tumbling from his lips, his tone so easy, so unaffected, has something inside of you clenching.

“I…” You clear your throat and take a deep breath. “Yeah. First cowboy.”

His voice is husky when he says, “Good.”

Then he’s leaning back in, his tongue sliding into your mouth, his feet kicking your legs apart so he can slot himself between them. His thigh nudges against your clit just once, the contact almost has you keening, and then he’s angling it away, holding your hips back so you can’t rut against him.

Jake is a good kisser. He’s probably had enough practice, you think, and then immediately abandon that train of thought. There’s nothing good down that line. It’s not difficult anyway, not when he does something with his tongue, when his hand slides from your hair to the back of your neck and your brain melts into a puddle anyway, all coherent thoughts shriveling up with it.

When you lick into his mouth, you find traces of the whiskey he had earlier, of honey and oak and smoke. His stubble scrapes against your cheeks, your neck when he leaves a trail of open-mouthed, lingering kisses along the edge of your jaw. Part of you imagines him leaving a mark, imagines the rasp of that bear along the inside of your thighs, and your breath hitches.

The hand has wandered from your ass to the very top of your thighs, where your skin is so tender and sensitive that you bounce up onto your tip toes when he lets the pads of his fingers stroke a figure-eight pattern against you. His answering chuckle vibrates somewhere low in your throat, tickles in an exhale of warm air against your collarbone.

“Sensitive, sugar?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

And that’s just about the only answer you give because then he’s inching your panties to the side, and one finger dips between your lips, and you have no air left in your lungs to form words with.

“Jesus,” Jake rasps. “You’re fucking soaked, doll. Have you been like this the whole time?”

You make a soaked noise at the back of your throat. Truth be told, you may have been wet since you walked into this stupid bar. It’s not your fault you’ve been wound tighter than clockwork since that night you first met him, it’s not your fault he’s so unfairly hot, not your fault he kept looking at you like he was mentally undressing you, not your fault he…

His finger finds your clit, applies a steady kind of pressure, and you throw your head back and moan so loudly you’re glad the parking lot is abandoned.

He grins again. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Then he’s kissing you again, his finger rubbing circles against you. You can barely keep up with the movement of his tongue, can’t really do anything but open your mouth and take what he’s giving you. The metal of the car is cold against your back, your head.

“Hold this,” he mutters without breaking the kiss, bunching the fabric of your dress up around your stomach and shoving it into one of your hands.

You do as he says, giving him better access to you. His mouth trails from your lips to your jugular, where your pulse is jumping so quickly it’s making you dizzy, as he slides your panties down your legs, taps the side of your thigh to signal you to step out of them. You go one foot at a time, knees feeling like jelly, but Jake steadies you. Bending down to retrieve the underwear, he presses a kiss to your kneecap on his way and mutters, “Good girl.”

Then he’s back up, your panties a crumpled up piece of fabric in his hand, and he presses his face right into the lace. Inhales deeply.

You’re going to pass out.

“Fuck,” he mutters, “can’t wait till I get that taste, sugar. You really are just the sweetest thing, aren’t you?”

It’s not really a question, but you still think it warrants some kind of answer. Your brain won’t cooperate, though. It’s completely and utterly blank.

You think he’s going to chuck the panties into the truck or something, but instead, he shoves them into one of his pockets, a bit of the pink lace peeking over the denim, and you swear you get even wetter.

“Souvenir,” he says, winks at you, and then you’re grabbing him by the collar, pulling him in, in, in, shoving your mouth to his, and kissing him like you want to drown.

If Jake is at all surprised by your sudden initiative, he doesn’t let it on. He takes as well as you give (if not better), fingers digging into your bare ass, your thighs, one sliding through your wetness and then inside of you. You whimper against his mouth as he fucks that finger in steadily, as he thumbs at your clit. Cling to him with both arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

The sound of gravel crunching beneath feet reaches you as if through a fog. Thankfully, Jake is quicker on his feet than you are, pulling his fingers out of you, tugging your dress down to cover you, and angling his body to shield you from whoever is approaching their car. 

You can’t believe this is happening to you.

“Seresin,” the man calls as he unlocks his car door. Most of your vision is blocked by Jake’s shoulder, but you see the silhouette of someone raising their hand in a wave.

Jake tips his hat in response, arms protective and reassuring around you. He greets, “Hal,” then stays just as he is until the sound of the engine has died away in the buzz of the cicadas and the faraway traffic of the highway.

“Shit,” he curses, but there’s a chuckle to his voice. “You alright, sweetheart?”

The thing is this: you actually are alright, apart from the very, very insistent thrum between your legs Jake is doing nothing to help with. In fact, you’re more than alright. It’s exciting in a way you can’t explain, to be right here in the open with him, to know he wants you so much he’s willing to do this where anybody could possibly see. To know you want him so much you don’t even care. But also to feel so incredibly safe with him, to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’ll take care of you no matter what…

This one, you definitely can’t blame on the alcohol. 

“Yeah,” you confirm. “Can we… can we get in your car, maybe?”

Jake nods immediately. “Sure thing, sugar.” He unlocks the car door and opens it for you. “You want me to drive you home? I can…”

But you don’t let him finish. For the second time that night, you pull him by the collar, shove him down into the passenger seat and then climb after, clambering into his lap with your knees pressing into the cushion by his hips. Behind you, you pull the door closed with a resounding thud.

Jake’s truck smells like the air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror, but you barely take note of that. He throws his hat in the general direction of the driver’s seat. His face is just inches from yours, his hands immediately settling on your ass, his eyes wide and blown, and his lip curling in a surprised, pleased smile.

“Sure you don’t wanna do this in a bed?” he asks, but his fingers are already shoving beneath the fabric of your dress again.

You shake your head, lower yourself down until you feel his cock against you, until you both exhale in shaky unison. “Owe you that ride,” you mutter and lean in to kiss him.

It’s torture after that. Jake kisses you like he’s trying to climb into your body, tugs at your hair until you feel each pull like sparks of electricity down to your clit. He pulls your dress down your shoulders, lets it pool around your stomach to get his mouth on your nipples even over the fabric of your bra, the lace soaked through with his spit and your skin aching. All the while, you grind against him, spread your wetness all over his denim as Jake ruts up into the movement, the friction almost unbearable. On every hitch of your hips forward, the obnoxious belt buckle nudges against your clit, and it almost undoes you - the cold of the metal against your heat enough to have your eyes rolling into the back of your head, your mouth opening around moans of Jake’s name.

Finally, he seems to crack, reaching around you to prop open the glove compartment and get out a condom. You watch as he finally unzips his jeans, gets out his cock, and hisses as he rolls the rubber down. Your heart is in your throat with the anticipation of it all.

And then you spot it.

In a split-second decision, propelled by something that must border on madness, you stretch across the middle console, reaching for the driver’s seat.

Jake frowns. “Where you going, sugar?”

“Just…” You strain until you can finally get your hands on the soft fabric, and then you’re sinking back down into his lap, your cunt rubbing over him, and a long, languid moan escaping you before you place his hat on your head.

Jake blinks at you for a moment, eyes glassy, mouth open, the fingers on your hips tightening.

“Jesus,” he whispers, “you gonna wear that, sweetheart?”

You can’t read his face, can’t read the expression, and the uncertainty slams into your chest like an iron-clad fist. Maybe this was a bad idea.

But Jake groans, says, “You gonna wear my hat as you ride my cock, sugar? That’s how you wanna play this thing?”

And shit. Okay, then.

“Yeah,” you breathe, plant both hands on his shoulders. “Can I?”

In answer, he surges forward to kiss you at the same time that he pulls you down on his cock. It’s a stretch, and it’s a slow slide down, but it feels so good, it makes you go a little crazy. You cling to him, let him kiss you, let him dig his fingers into the skin of your hips, pant into his mouth.

When he finally bottoms out, you can’t tell how long it’s been. Your legs are already shaking, your head spinning, your words failing.

Gently, Jake pinches your side. He’s undeniably beautiful, face painted in the neon lights of the far-off bar, shadows crowding behind him. His lips pink and swollen from the nip of your teeth. His eyes lidded and glazed. “Go on then, sugar. You owe me.”

You whimper and obey, move yourself up and down on him slowly at first. The slide of his cock in and out, the clench of your cunt around him each time, as if your body doesn’t want to relinquish its hold on you. His fingers on you as he finally slides your bra off. His lips on your collarbone, then on your breasts, his teeth grazing a nipple, his tongue soothing the sting… It’s almost too much, all of it.

The cubicle is filled with your sounds, the quiet gasps and the loud whines, with Jake’s moans muffled against your skin.

“Fuck,” he mutters, “god, you feel so fucking good, sugar.”

You just nod in answer, the hat almost slipping over your eyes again, and up the pace. You’re all but slamming yourself down on his cock now, the sounds obscene. It’s the wet squelch of your pussy every time he spears into you, the frantic slap of skin on skin as your thighs meet his, the noise of his mouth on your tits.

It goes on forever, something that spirals higher and higher and never reaches the pinnacle. The windows fog up. Your thighs ache. You chase a high that eludes you, time and again.

And all through it, Jake’s hands remain infuriatingly stagnant on your hips.

Finally, you give in and whine, “Jake….”

You can barely keep up the bouncing, your thighs trembling with the pent-up desire, the strain of the movement. In fact, you’re shaking all over, so far gone you can’t even control your own muscles anymore. Sweat drips in steady tracks down your back.

“Hmm?” The sight of him, his hair disheveled by your fingers as he trails a line of wet kisses from your clavicle down between the valley of your breasts, is almost too much. 

“I can’t….” You slump against him, the fatigue catching up with you, pant into the place where his collarbone dips in.

“You tired, doll?”

Without lifting your head, you nod.

His laughter brushes over your hair on an exhale. If you had any strength left in you, you might feel insulted at the fact that he’s laughing at your plight. But the alcohol and the exhaustion and the night in total have finally caught up with you, and you can’t think of anything but your dizzying, deafening, debilitating need to cum.

“That’s too bad,” he says, “You promised me a ride, didn’t you?”

And, like… fuck him, honestly.

“I’m too tired,” you whine, and you’re not too ashamed to admit it. Haven’t you been doing all the work for long enough?

Jake clicks his tongue and pats along the length of your spine. In a voice like melting honey, he says, “You want to come, don’t you, doll?”

You nod, words drifting far away from you like letting go of a balloon.

“Well.” He presses a kiss to your temple that is too soft for the moment. “Then you better get back to work, hmm?”

That’s the breaking point for you.

“Jake,” you say, pushing yourself into an upright position with both palms balanced on his pecs and glare down at his stupid, evil grin, “if you don’t fuck me right now, I’ll go back into that bar and find another cowboy to do it properly.”

You wouldn’t, of course. There isn’t anybody in there you trust the way you trust Jake, not a person you’d want even half as much as you want him.

But Jake doesn’t know that.

The shift is almost immediate.

His eyebrows furrow, his hands tighten on your hips. Something dark crosses his face.

“Don’t talk about other guys while wearing my hat,” he says.

You shrug, motioning to take off his hat. “I will if you can’t fuck me pr….”

Your words trail off into a squeak as Jake fucks his hips up, as his cock plunges into you with more force. Then he’s sitting up straight, wrapping one arm around your waist as he sets a quick, hard rhythm, as he plants a firm hand on the hat and pushes it back down.

“Don’t even say it,” he whispers into your neck as he licks at a drop of sweat, as he sinks his teeth gently into your skin. “You should know better than that, sugar.”

He’s fucking you for real now, hips pistoning in and out with abandon. Your breasts bounce with the force of it, your hands scrabbling for purchase among the curve of his shoulder, the leather of the headrest.

Into your ear, between pants, he’s pouring buckets of filth, saying, “They couldn’t fuck you like this anyway, sugar, and you know it. Nobody but me could give it to you like this, get that pretty pussy this wet, give you the ride of your life….”

Your mouth drops open, sounds pouring from you that could put most porn actresses to shame. When Jake’s fingers find your clit, you have to muffle a full-on scream into his neck.

“Jake,” you whimper, and it’s almost scary how big it is, looming just in the distance. So close now, you’re so goddamn close.

“Yeah,” he’s saying into your hair, planting his feet firmly on the ground and fucking up into your pussy, his cock plunging so deep you swear you feel him in your stomach, “fucking take it. You better not forget who’s fucking cock you’re taking, sugar, who’s hat you’re wearing, who….”

You don’t hear the rest of it. All you can think of is the weight of the hat on your head. All you can think of is that label on the inside of it.

Property of J. Seresin.

You cum with a strangled shout, with your cunt clamping down so hard on Jake’s cock he grunts, with a gush of wetness, with your back arching far enough the hat tips backward off your head, with your fingers and toes numb, with your head somewhere in the clouds, with your blood rushing in your ears, and your heart like a sledgehammer and your arms around his neck. And then you sob, gasp for breath, wriggle like a fish on land.

“That’s my girl,” Jake is saying into your ear when you regain enough presence of mind to tap back into your hearing. “Look so pretty when you come on my cock, Jesus, you’re so fucking tight, sugar, God….”

He pumps his hips a few more times before the rhythm stutters, before he groans and tenses and empties into the condom. His cock twitches inside of you, and you moan weakly, slumped against his chest as you are.

Jake’s arms wrap around you as he hauls you closer to press kisses down the slope of your shoulder.

“You good?” he asks softly.

You nod, eyes fluttering closed. God, you could fall asleep right here - completely sated, completely exhausted, completely full.

“Jake?” you whisper, and as your lips move against his skin, you taste the salt of sweat.

“Yeah, sugar?”

“Can I keep your hat?”

It’s so warm in the car, and he’s even warmer. Soon, you’re going to have to climb off him, going to have to pull your dress back on, let him take you home and step under the shower, wash off the remnants of this night, of this thing that will never happen again. Something you’ll keep locked in your heart forever, a warm, soft memory to melt you in the cold.

But just for now, you get to keep it. For another minute, for another moment.

Jake laughs, his shoulders shaking and your body moving with it.

“Since I’m keeping the panties,” he says, his voice almost tender. “Sure thing, sugar. It’s all yours.”

You press your smile into his chest, preen as he reaches around you to put the hat back on you, and then you think, Thank God for Carrie Underwood.

[kinnporschebigbang]

We're almost through with the Match Up process!! We've made all the matches, and sent out [almost] all the emails, barring a couple of confirmations from artists. Before we officially announce that all matches have been fully matched and Bang proceedings are, well, proceeding, there's one last thing to bring everyone's attention to - Emails!!

Over the last couple of days we've been sending out a lot of emails, to both artists and writers confirming their match ups. While we're sure everyone's gotten their emails and started chatting with their matches, we still request everyone to reply to their confirmation email from us! It could be a simple 'got it', or 'seen', or even a 'k', as long as we get an email saying that you got our email. It's just a way for all us mods to have access to that information, and keep a log of the correspondence - proof that you guys actually got our emails.

TL;DR - If you got an email from us, please acknowledge by replying back to us!! We would like to have this all sorted by the 21st, so please make sure we have those emails in our inbox by this Friday the 21st at the latest! If you think you haven't gotten and email from us, 99% you have so please check your spam folders! [if you've already emailed us back, sit back and relax, gold star for you ⭐ ]

[siderumincaelo]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Michael Burnham Additional Tags: Episode: s05e04 Face the Strange, Character Study, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence Summary: Michael fights herself in a turbolift, but this time it ends in a conversation instead of a nerve pinch.

[wearethewitches]

Hi!

I enjoyed your fic, Stars, hide your fire, and the idea of Michael having a not-so-planned Vulcan husband would absolutely fix a hole I have in my current writing project, but I didn’t want to step on your toes. Would you object to another Michael being kidnapped for the purposes of Ponn Farr fic? I would cite you as the source of the idea.

Thank you for your time,

-henry

Absolutely! Go for it!!! Always looking to encourage folks - steal away, and yep, leave credit wherever!

My ao3

Stars, hide your fires

[lilolilyr]

@thelastuncharteddawn thank you so much for this ask, omg that's a whole list of ideas! I'm going with the tattoos appearing prompt for Mirror Milippa this time but I thought I'd leave the ask in my inbox for future reference, so maybe you'll get another prompt fill later :D & I haven't written the full fic for this one yet but I've got the outline down, for now here's the already finished intro, and I'll let you know when I post the rest of the fic on Ao3!

Philippa had known about soulmates since she was young, of course. About couples and triads bound so tightly in trust and affection, nothing of the hard reality of their world could ever pull them apart. How they grew stronger through their bonds to each other, all their strengths combined in a single unit working together seamlessly.

Fairy-tales.

Of course, there was truth to it - no denying that most people had faint grey tattoos from birth on that darkened into definite black shapes over time, until they met their match.

But that wasn't all there was to it.

Soulmates could mean strength, sure - but they could also mean weakness, as a threat to a mate would leave the other with a singleminded focus on saving them, leaving no thought for the bigger picture.

Philippa, with her blank skin (well, not unmarred of scars and birthmarks, but untouched by any sort of grey or black soulmate tattoo), had decided early on that it was a good thing that there was no match for her in this world, that she was destined to rule it, with no distractions holding her back.

And ruthlessly rule it, she did, until one day she was pulled without mercy from her universe into another, leaving her life's work and legacy behind, going snapping and snarling and trying to ignore the fact that if she had stayed, she would be facing certain death by the hands of her erstwhile mentee and that pesky soulmate of hers.

It was easier to ignore all that and to be angry at the people she could actually face instead...

~

Lmk if anyone else wants to get tagged when I write more to this AU!

Taking prompts

[impala-dreamer]

Sam Winchester. Erotic hypnosis. Using you however he wants. For your pleasure. Praise kink.

Oh yes. I do have some E.H. coming up 💦🌀 but until then, may I direct you towards...

[97-liners]

home;run!minghao… diamond thief…… 1920’s shanghai…… noir……..

[neapeaikea]

I wrote some more Piler. I've been wanting to for quite some time, and SNW got me into the right headspace for it. This is kinda short, based on the image I had of Ash waiting for Chris at the cabin from ep 1 in SNW. I love the idea of them being vulnerable but comforting with each other. And there is porn.

I kept the conversation intentionally vague 'cos otherwise I had to care about a whole load of canon I just could not deal with for such a short story. So they're talking about whatever decision you want them to talk about!

I tagged it for SNW too, since I stole the cabin from there. But IDK what show this should really be tagged for, if any at this point. Oh well. I do so hope Ash turns up in SNW, or the Section 31 show that's supposed to be coming. Come on, give us more tortured Tyler!

[devotedlystrangewizard]

ok ok so the thing with destiny 2 is how inaccessible it is to new/returning players. we all know this. im perfectly fine with paying 10, even 15 euros every three months for a game that i enjoy. ffxiv is one of my favorite games right now. im used to paying far more. i dont mind messy storytelling. i think it can be fun.

my problem is entirely that because i stopped paying attention somewhere between beyond light and witch queen, there is no longer any way for me to catch up in the game itself. i got burnt out on destiny. i stepped away for almost the entirety of the witch queen - lightfall period. and now i can no longer get back into it. and thats not because im no longer interested in it. i still adore the lore and characters in destiny. but i dont want to have to watch videos on youtube to get a vague understanding of the plot?

and i get it. okay. the game is bloated. the last time i looked the destiny 2 file size (including all dlc) was around 100gb. but fuck if it isnt frustrating that i cant get back into a game i loved so much 2-3 years ago

[sapphire-weapon]

This may be a dumb question but what are your thoughts on Leon and pet names? Cause boy do many fics have him use so, so many. But he seems to like using peoples names? Like when I think about him talking to the various women he interacts with I can only think of when he calls them by name. The only time I can think of is when he calls Ashley sweetheart in og4 and doctor high hopes is him being a bitch. Granted I could be forgetting something.

There's also this moment in RE4make.

But I think it comes from a few different places.

Foremost is probably the fact that a lot of nicknames -- not necessarily pet names -- get thrown around when it comes to Leon in general. Way moreso than any other RE character.

Like, Billy calls Rebecca "dollface" in RE0. Jill has "the master of unlocking." Chris gets called a "boulder-punching asshole." But like. Those are all really isolated incidents.

Leon has the whole "comrade/rookie" thing going on with Krauser. Luis calls him "cowboy" in both versions of RE4, and Remake has him constantly calling him "Sancho." Ada calls him "handsome" in both versions. OG RE4 has Saddler call him "The American Pig." In Damnation, he's referred to by several characters as just "The American."

There's also the whole "knight and the princess" thing that Salazar does in RE4make.

Leon also calls people names when he's trying to be a smartass. There's the whole "The BSAA's Golden Boy and Dr. High Hopes" thing but like. He calls Salazar "old man." There's the whole "Right Hand" thing re: Verdugo. He deadass calls Mr. X "Trenchy" in DSC like 4 different times and I swear to god I still have PTSD from it and, for a while, it was the only thing about DSC I even remembered.

RE4make and Damnation both have him using official codenames for people, as well.

He's also prone to mean-spirited name-calling because he's a fucking child. (Calling Saddler a bastard in RE4make, etc.)

And he's a big softie who, in RE4make, calls the dog "buddy" and "bud."

So, there's that.

I also think that Leon calling Ashley "Sweetheart" in OG really left an impression on a lot of people, because he meant it genuinely/endearingly/was not trying to be an asshole about it, and, to my knowledge, it's the only time in the entire series that any character calls any other character a pet name like that without it being sarcastic (see: Billy's "dollface").

He also says it really, really casually -- like, it just comes out almost by accident -- like, it's what he would've defaulted to calling her if they hadn't been on an official mission together, but they were, so he hasn't been, until he lets one slip out.

So, like.

Historically, for me, when I've written Leon -- I have him call people nicknames when he's trying to be funny and/or a dick. I also have had him pull out pet names when he's trying to hit on someone -- but like, only one and only one time. You can't overdo it.

And I've also had him pull out more affectionate pet names when he's trying to be comforting, but also only in very context-sensitive scenarios, and -- again, only one and only one time.

And then I'm kind of liberal about it during smut. That's when all of the "good girl" and "sweet girl" and "princess" and "beautiful" comes out.

ymmv but that's how I've always done it.

[seasonsbloom]

dime store cowboy . hangman

PART TWO

pairing ; cowboy!jake seresin x female!reader

synopsis ; jake teaches you about the cowboy hat rule.

wc ; 2k

warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; explicit language, non-explicit sexual content (it's just flirting)

note: YEEHAW PARDNERS.......... i'm so obsessed with this i'm gonna cry, thank you forever to the anon who requested this. also what if this becomes a series what then WHAT THEN. sorta modified the title from that one kacey musgraves song lol.

sol. sunderlust. you already know what i'm gonna say thank you for being my bestie :(

The whole thing is Carrie Underwood’s fault. You’ll go to your grave swearing it.

It’s just that you’re three strawberry margaritas deep, the lights in the bar are all dimmed, all neon, all flickering, and Jake is leaning into your space like he’s trying to smell your perfume, smiles at you like he’s completely charmed, and then somebody starts playing Before He Cheats on the jukebox and your brain just sorta like. Short-circuits.

The song always gives you an unwarranted burst of confidence, makes you feel like you, too, could vandalize a cheater’s car in a flurry of righteous wrath, so it’s not that difficult to reach up, lifting half out of the bar stool, face suddenly just an inch from his, and steal his hat. The fabric is surprisingly soft beneath your fingers.

At first, Jake looks surprised, his mouth twitching in amusement.

“What you trying to do with that, sugar?” he asks.

And the thing is this. You’re new in town and decidedly more urban (cosmopolitan, you’d like to say, but really, who are we kidding here?) than the rest of the crowd. It’s all a bit strange, all unfamiliar, but when your co-workers invited you out for a Friday night of drinks at the local bar, you were beyond grateful. It was supposed to be a nice little get-together among people who would hopefully become friends. You didn’t expect a guy who looks like he could be Mr. August in a calendar dedicated to half-naked hot cowboys doing various types of manual labor to walk up to you and start flirting like his life depends on it.

At least you think he’s flirting…? You’re not that well-versed in this whole thing.

You shrug, hope you look more confident than you feel.

“When I was little,” you say, turning the hat over and peeking at the inside, where a label proudly states Property of J. Seresin. You let a finger run over it, tracing the shape of his name. “I used to dream about being a cowgirl.”

You flip the hat again and put it on. It’s big enough that it goes slipping down a few inches, almost covering your eyes.

Something on Jake’s face goes taut, his gaze darkens, the fist on the bartop clenches once then relaxes.

“Did you, now?” he asks, his voice suddenly lower, and he takes a step closer. His hip knocks against your knee where you’re angled toward him, every point of your body unconsciously straining closer during the conversation. He tips the hat back an inch or two from your forehead, clearing your vision, and looks down at you, searches your face for something. “Looking good.”

He’s silhouetted by the lights of the bar, bordered by the people crowding behind him to order, but you can’t see anything past the green in his eyes. He’s pushed so close he’s almost between your legs, your thighs like open brackets around the shape of him. The hand at the brim of the hat wanders down your back slowly before settling on the backrest of your stool. It’s not even a touch, just the allusion to it, but your heart goes pitter-patter in your chest.

“Do I?” you ask, breath hitching, legs bouncing with the nerves of it all.

You just don’t do this sort of stuff. Flirting with people, letting strangers chat you up in bars, going along with the quips and the banter and the coy touches… you’re so out of your element. And even Carrie Underwood and her misplaced pep talks have deserted you now. She just threw the match, and then she hightailed it out of here. Traitor.

Jake nods. “You’re real pretty, sugar,” he says. “I especially like the hat with that dress.”

You glance down at yourself and grin. The dress is decidedly too much for a joint where everybody else seems to show up in denim or flannel. You’re just glad you skipped heels in favor of sneakers to dress the whole thing down - you would have stood out like a sore thumb in the sea of cowboy boots.

“This isn’t really… saloon appropriate, is it?”

He laughs, and the sound of it warms your chest. “Not exactly,” he agrees. “But I like it. It suits you.”

“How so?”

Jake lifts a shoulder in a shrug, something unreadable playing about his mouth. “Makes it look like you’re not from here.”

You frown and ask, “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Sugar,” Jake chuckles, and the sound of that stupid, ridiculous pet name sends a shiver down your back, “that’s just about the highest compliment I could ever give a girl.”

You don’t know what to say to that - your cheeks feel kind of warm, and your brain is buzzing like a beehive. 

“I can’t really… see in this thing,” you mumble, tugging at the brim that keeps slipping. Suddenly a little frail.

Jake laughs again, and you decide that you don’t just like the sound - you love it. 

“You’re a cute one, huh?” he says, voice only a little mocking. He leans into your space, crooked grin so close to you that you can see the stubble forming along his cheeks and jaw, a golden dusting of hair against the sun-kissed skin. For a breathless, head-spinning moment, you think about how it would feel pressed to the inside of your thighs, raspy and tickling and just the right side of painful.

He rights the hat, pushes it higher up on your forehead, and then his hand travels to the back of your neck, stays there. His thumb brushes from the brim of the hat to the knob of your spine, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. You let out a shuddering breath, legs clenching.

“So you dreamed about being a cowgirl, yeah?” he asks, withdrawing his hand and taking a swig of his beer.

You blink a few times until your vision goes from blurred to focused. Then you clear your throat. “Yeah, like… in elementary school, I think.”

“What’s your opinion on cowboys, then?”

You shrug, turn your upper body sideways to finger the stem of your cocktail glass. “I suppose they have their uses.”

He laughs, the sound a little heavier than it was before, and says, “You ever dreamed about any of those, too?”

It’s crude, it’s forward, it’s an innuendo so thinly-veiled it’s pretty much translucent. It should make you balk.

But there’s something about the night. The music, the drinks, the boy. The heat of the summer outside and the thrill of a new town and a new dress and a new life. It all makes you feel a little bit dangerous, a little bit sexy, a little bit loose. Maybe just for one night, you can pretend to be someone else. Let your hair down.

“Maybe,” you say, hoping it comes off mysterious instead of guarded, closed-off, disinterested. You turn to take a sip of your margarita, and then, in a move so bold not even Carrie Underwood and her car-wrecking could claim it, you lick the salt off the rim of the glass.

When you glance up at him again, his pupils are blown so wide there’s barely any green left visible. He’s looking right at your mouth.

“Anything I could make come true?” he asks.

It’s an offer as much as it is an out. If you pull back now, you’re pretty sure he’d leave you alone. Jake is forward, confident, sure, but he doesn’t seem like the pushy type. For some insane reason, you feel safe with him.

“Depends,” you say. Your voice has gone so quiet you’re surprised he can hear you over the din of the bar. The song has changed, but you don’t recognize the tune. You can’t focus on anything except the man right in front of you anyway.

He doesn’t ask what it depends on, and you’re glad because you don’t have an answer for him. You’re playing this whole thing by ear, and apparently, your hearing is impaired.

It starts as a tingle, as pins and needles, and when you look down, you find Jake’s hand on your thigh, just above the knee. Fingers splayed wide, radiating heat. As your heart rate kicks up a notch, you squirm in your seat.

Jake raises his free hand and tips two fingers to the brim gently. “You know what this means, pretty girl?”

His thumb traces a path up the inside of your thigh, leaves goosebumps in its wake. Suddenly, your mouth is drier than the Sahara desert.

“What?” you ask stupidly. You feel like there’s an entirely separate conversation happening here, one you aren’t really following.

He smirks, but his eyes don’t move from your face. “It’s not really something good girls do.”

You’re distracted by the tuft of hair protruding from the unbuttoned collar of his flannel, the same color as his beard. You wonder if it stretches all the way down beneath the obnoxiously large belt buckle.

Your voice has gone airy. “Why not?”

He hums, fingers traveling just a little higher up on your thigh, almost creeping beneath the fabric of your dress now. You hope you’re not sticky with sweat. It’s so hot in here. But then his fingernails scrape over your skin, the softest of touches, and that thought dissipates along with any other.

“See, there’s this rule, sugar,” he says and leans even closer. For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you, but then he just goes on, “You steal the hat, you ride the cowboy.”

Your brain implodes. If you tried to get up right now, you’re pretty sure you’d keel right over.

“Does that really exist?” you ask, voice barely more than a whisper. He’s so close that you can smell his aftershave, can count the freckles scattered on his nose. So close if you just lean in an inch, half an inch, just a bit…

Somebody says your name, and you almost topple backward off the bar stool in your attempt to put distance between him and you.

Your co-worker stands a step behind you, eyebrow raised and a disapproving look on her face.

“I’m heading home now. You still need that ride?”

Part of you wants to say no. Let Jake take you home or to a bathroom stall or to the back of his pick-up. Make good on that rule you’re not sure he didn’t just make up. Give into the insistent thrumming of want in the pit of your stomach.

But there’s a rational part of you left, too, one that hasn’t drowned in margaritas or the green of Jake’s eyes yet. One that remembers who you really are, truly, beneath the thin veneer of tonight’s pretense.

So you clear your throat, slide off the barstool, and right into his arms. For a second, you’re chest to chest, stomach to stomach, then you’re stepping away, wondering distantly just how flustered you look and taking the hat off.

“Thanks for letting me borrow this,” you say sheepishly and hand it back to him.

Jake smirks, something in his eyes twinkling.

“Always happy to make a lady’s dreams come true,” he says, popping the hat back on. “Anytime, Ma’am.”

You grope around for your purse blindly, a lump in your throat that makes it impossible to speak. That and the fact that you have no idea how to answer that.

“Seresin.” Your co-worker nods at him.

He waves back silently, then casts another long, lingering look at you that makes your heart miss a beat or two.

“I’ll see you around?” you ask, voice trembling like a leaf in a thunderstorm.

The corner of Jake’s mouth lifts in a grin. 

“You can count on it,” he says and tips his hat at you. “I believe you may owe me a ride.”

[thh-despair-au]

Some information regarding this au that are different from canon (besides the fact that there are different remnants of despair)

-first and most important (as some of you might know), junko did not brainwash her classmates

The reason I did this is not because I dislike the brainwashing take but rather that I want to fully show her evil and manipulative side because to me that didn't shine as well in the anime as thh made it out to be, so her manipulating each of her classmates into joining her evil plan is much better for me. I can also show their troubles and flaws that junko exploits better that way

-jin didn't die in this au and is made the head of the future foundation instead

That is because junko and certain other remnants want him to see the despair caused by his academy and especially the tragedy that is happening inside. It also makes it easier for one of them to manipulate the future foundation to their advantage.

-ofc instead of the 78th class, the 77th class participates in the school life

There is no particular reason why I chose this. Rather since this is a roleswap, the 77th class follows the lines of the 78th in the canon game

-the captives of the thh cast are still in towa city, but instead of the warriors of hope hunting them down, it's the 78th class

The warriors of hope are still active in towa city and are hunting down the 77th class captives but some of the remnants are also hunting down their loved ones. Initially they were both kidnapped and the warriors of hope intended on hunting both down but the remnants involved themselves into it which ends up in a sort of competition

-there is no remnant helping the warriors of hope

Yea it explains itself

-komaru is still walking around in towa city but instead of toko, she's walking around with another captive

I haven't decided which one yet though

-I'm not sure if that was in canon too but the future foundation has a department that is investigating potential ultimate despair candidates and the whole reason for this outbreak

For this department, the future foundation hired detectives with a very high dsc rank (this is for you people who have read the drk novels) and that have been proven to be trustworthy. Their goal is finding potential threats to the creation of hope (basically the ultimate despair). The ff highly relies on their intel and often times their operations are based on what they found out

More might be added later

I won't include hard spoilers for my fic though

[siderumincaelo]

Michael and Saru repair some EPS relays, and discuss the captain they both still miss.

Michael & Saru friendship, set at the end of s1, 1.5k words

[my-gaydar-is-on-point]

Hello! I noticed that you were mentioning a Michael/Phillips discord - is that still running? I am a recent convert & would love to find other people to talk about it with! Sorry for bothering you, & have a great day!

Hi!! Yes it’s still running! A bit quiet now but people still share fic and photos and ideas :)) Ill send you link in messge we’re not supposed to just leave one out publicly so we can’t be overrun by lots of trolls suddenly haha

You do mean Michael/Philippa (startrek DSC) yes?

[lilolilyr]

of Pumpkins and Knives

Philippa's body has healed from the wounds inflicted during the battle of the binary stars, but the mental pain lingers, and sometimes comes to the surface in the worst possible moments...

Thankfully, Philippa has Michael by her side to help her through it all.

1k words, T, Michael Prime/Philippa Prime

Read on Ao3

I wrote this in one go completely ignoring all my wips and the rest of my responsibilities. Happy Halloween!

~

"Hey!" Michael slips onto the bench next to Philippa, pressing a kiss to her cheek before turning towards her meal. "What's up? You look so glum." 

Philippa sighs, sips her soup, eyes darting left and right to check which of their subordinates might be listening in. "It's nothing." 

Michael just nods. She'll ask Philippa again later in their quarters or if they find a moment alone while on duty. She understands Philippa not wanting to talk about what looks like it will be a personal topic out in the open. While she is more laid back than many others in her position, she still needs to keep a certain image as Captain, and the mess hall isn't the most private place on the ship after all. 

"Everything alright on deck three?" Philippa changes the topic, and Michael nods. 

"Engineering just needed to replace two parts, it's all good now. I've actually spent the last two hours in the lab after we were done there..." 

"Yes? Any new discoveries?" 

There haven't been, as of yet, but Michael's eyes still light up with joy when she gets to talk about her favourite work with her girlfriend.

Later that day, Michael is just getting out of her uniform when Philippa walks into the room out of their shared bathroom, wrapped only in a towel and her hair still wet from the shower. 

"Hey, can you pass me my nightgown?" Michael pulls off her boots and waits as Philippa picks up the nightie as she walks past it, but instead of throwing or handing it to her, she places it on the bed and crawls into Michael's lap while the other is still just in her underwear. 

"Oh, hey there." Michael ignores the gown in favour of stroking Philippa's back while two arms snake around her waste and squeeze tightly, Philippa's face hiding in the crook of her neck. "That bad? Anything else I can do to make it better?" 

Philippa just shakes her head and mumbles something unintelligibly, and Michael gives her a comforting squeeze. 

Her girlfriend gets this way sometimes, ever since she almost died during battle. Her physical injuries have long since healed, and the mentally bad days have also gotten less, she's been cleared for duty and back in her old position (a new, shinier Shenzhou II named in honour of the old ship, and sometimes Michael isn't sure whether the reminder is a blessing or a curse)... But she still does have bad days from time to time, and while she can keep it together and do her job without taking sick days for them more often than not, she tends to fall apart after her shifts, hiding in Michael's arms.

Michael rests her cheek on top of Philippa's damp hair and hums a lullaby, waiting comfortably for her to either fall asleep or pull away. 

A few minutes later, Philippa sniffles and presses a kiss to Michael's collarbone before sitting up. "Thanks."

"Any time." She means that, hopes Philippa believes it by now. "Want to talk about it?"

Philippa frowns. "It's silly, really." 

Michael doesn't correct her this time, Philippa already knows her opinion (which happens to match the opinion of Philippa's counselor), that anything that can reduce Philippa to tears, a state of panic, or complete mental exhaustion or apathy, is clearly not nothing. From the look Philippa gives her, she knows it too, even without the reminder.

"The ensigns Tilly and Tal have asked to have a pumpkin carving competition for Halloween next week," Philippa says, pulling her towel closer around herself.

Michael tugs the covers lose from the bed and pulls her underneath them instead. "Yes?"

"They've roped Jett into it already, so naturally I had to say yes." 

"Alright?" 

"It's just -" Philippa squeezes her eyes shut, her hand shivering as she holds onto Michael's forearm. "Carving... Knives..." 

"Oh, love." Michael instantly hugs her close again. "I should have realized!"

Since being stabbed by the mek'leth and almost bleeding to death from the wounds, Philippa has an aversion to any kinds of blades. She hasn't told anyone apart from Michael, and even she has had to figure it out herself from the clues, Philippa had been afraid to have her Captaincy taken away again so shortly after being declared safe to go back to work. And she can handle herself, she didn't back down when in diplomatic talks with a people whose officials were holding longswords, didn't flinch when engineers were using knives to manually cut apart a part of a door that had fused together with the wall in a freak accident...

But she never eats meals that require knives in the mess hall anymore, in the privacy of her own rooms she programs the replicator to only give out pre-cut pieces she can eat with a fork, and she switched to laser hair removal when until then she had always used an old metal razor. 

"It's silly," she had said when Michael carefully approached her about it, "it's not like I stabbed myself on my own blade, but it's worse when I'm holding the knife somehow, it's like I'm constantly afraid of cutting myself or falling into it!" 

That had been one of their first discussions about what does and doesn't fall under the term 'silly', and Michael had promised her not to tell anyone about her trigger, though she should really see the counsellor about it. She did, after some time, and it has gotten better, but still...

"I used to love pumpkin carving as a child," Philippa whispers. "A few years ago, I would have been delighted at Tilly's idea, the nostalgic childhood memories and the fun competition. But now..." 

Michael cards her fingers through Philippa's hair, carefully detangling a strand before placing it back down. "You know I can find you an excuse not to attend, if that's what you want, she says quietly. But... You do realize no-one will actually expect everyone from participating? I've heard Tilly and Adira talk about it earlier, the way I understand it, there will just be a few from every department chosen to do the carving, the rest of us will be spectators or judges... You could easily say that as Captain, you'd rather someone else from the command team does the actual carving, both because you don't want to take away that chance from someone else and because you might get called away at any moment." 

Philippa nods quietly, thinking about it.

"You still don't have to go," Michael reassures her. "Not if you don't want to. You said Jett wants to be there, I'm sure we'll find a time where she's free and you're busy, and say it's just happenstance. But... You said it's mostly just you holding knives that gets to you now, maybe seeing others use them for something fun wouldn't be so bad?"

Philippa nods. "I'll think about it." Then, she buries her face in a pillow, clearly hiding from the world. 

Michael doesn't begrudge her that, she knows Philippa is emotionally exhausted. She carefully extracts her arm from Philippa's grip, though. "Just give me a moment to take off my bra, yes? Then we can go to sleep."

Philippa giggles, sniffs again, then actually sits up and rubs her hair dry a bit on the towel before throwing it in the direction of the hamper, narrowly missing it. Michael's eye twitches - before living with her, she never would have thought the Captain of a starship could be such a slob. But she doesn't say anything. It's Philippa's room too, they've got to compromise. At least she tried... And Michael just picks up the towel herself when she goes to place her clothes in the hamper. 

Philippa is watching her when she walks back to the bed, and Michael puts some extra sway into her hips, though she doesn't expect Philippa to have the energy for sex tonight. "Enjoying the show?"

"You know it." Philippa smiles. The covers have slid down her body exposing her own chest to Michael, who looks her fill in turn before turning out the lights and climbing into bed. 

"Night, love." 

Philippa wraps her arms around her, feeling the comfort of her girlfriend's warm skin.

"Goodnight, my Michael."

Fini

~

Image sources: Philippa Pumpkin

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[impala-dreamer]

ok. this used to be a game we'd play on here and it was always fun. according the the archives, we last played in March 2020... Let's see if we can go again...

Welcome to-

On anon- or not, if you're brave- send me your biggest, darkest, sexiest fantasies. You know... the dirty stuff that gets your motor runnin'. Anything you want. Fic related or not. SPN, Marvel, RPF, Me- Whomever, whatever, now is your time to confess. Remember, this is a shame-free, safe space and you absolutely cannot shock, scare or gross me out.

And, if you're lucky... You may get yourself a fic down the line

Come on, whisper to me. Box is open all night...

(if you don't want to see this, as it will be NSFW in nature, blacklist #dsc)