#fics all through the wazoo

[pedgito]

𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 | Francisco Morales x reader

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summary | working your summer job you find yourself fawning over a boy you barely know, realizing by the end of the summer that letting go of him may not be the best idea.

content warning | young!frankie morales, reader is working in bar (if there’s some things wrong, just know i tried fjsjsj), background tf boys, phone texts, inebriated hook ups (frankie is a lil drunk but he’s okay i swear) smut out the wazoo, oral (m/f receiving, protecting p in v, hints of voyeurism, idk let me live in this dream pls

word count — 7.5k

The bar was supposed to be easy cash, a second job you picked up during the summer, between the interim of your final year of college and the beginning of your life—just some extra money to keep you afloat amongst the drowning seas of tuition debt. But, the job came with unexpected challenges—rude customers, drunk customers, (given that you worked in a bar you really couldn’t fault them) but it was the rowdy ones that really got under your skin. And you quickly learned the unspoken schedule of customers as they made their weekly round for a few drinks, some over-fried bar food, and a game of darts or pool.

Monday through Wednesday were some of your more favorite days, friendlier people who liked to visit earlier in the day before the bar got packed after sunset, some relaxed chit chat and a beer or two. They tipped very nicely, too.

Thursday was the slowest of the week, co-workers sliding in to catch a game of pool or watch some sports game on the old, ratty television tucked in the corner area of the bar, even with you squinting your eyes it was still barely visible and they almost always left the biggest messes at their table—but again, you couldn’t complain when it was only a few tables you had to scrub down.

Friday was always busy, the weekends just as bad—from open to close you were shuffling around behind the bar, in tune with your co-workers as you moved around each other. You knew some people by name and some would politely remind you—you saw about a hundred different faces every week, some were bound to slip through the cracks.

But, within your first week there, you found a particular group of boys would show up every Friday without fail—a few rounds of beers, a mountain of wings and fries and whatever else they could get their hands on, and a game or two of darts and a pool table they had just to themselves.

The charmer, Santiago, was the first to introduce himself.

A crisp hundred dollar bill slipped over in advance with a softer tone, “I’m apologizing in advance, they tend to get a little, uh, loud.” It wasn't the right word, but you smiled nonetheless, still checking the money behind the counter in case he tried to slide you a fake and mask it with a simple courtesy that wasn't shown often. Kindness. 

You start their tab, grab their orders, and within twenty minutes their voices are already booming over the rest and arguing about a stupid game of darts, three other boys crowded around Santiago as their faces are within an inch of the board, fingers pointing all over.

There is a straggler, though—a man who’s similar in age to most of the boys, late twenties maybe? He had to be close to your age or just a little older but the sodden expression on his face made him feel much older, sipping at the round of beers you had brought by as soon as Santiago headed back for the table.

They call him Catfish, whatever that means—and it seems like they all have nicknames for each other and you wanted to ask, but it didn’t seem worth it. Your Rolodex of names in your head was already bursting at its seams and Santiago was the only one you could bother to remember, especially when he’s sliding over a chunk of cash in advance rather than blowing up his tab and then scrambling to pay.

For a few weeks it’s just that. They come in, Santiago pays, and then they spend a few hours in the back of the bar arguing like boys, rather than men. But, they always leave you a hefty tip when they don’t fill out their tab or when they go over and pay it out and then some. 

And naturally, you’re curious. About them. About him.

So, when Catfish comes in on a Saturday night completely alone, that curiosity does get the better of you.

He doesn’t make much of a scene, sliding into the bar stool instead of taking up a table, and seeing how busy it is, he waits—quietly and with a faint smile on his face that you catch a few times in passing, refilling cups with ice and offering a polite smile back.

When you finally get to him you're slightly breathless, wiping your hands on the towel tucked into your back pocket, “Hey, sorry about—what can I get you?”

“Just a beer,” He says with a shrug, promptly sliding over a twenty as you pour and hand off the glass.

“Where’s the others?” You ask curiously, an attempt at casual conversation despite selfishly wanting to know.

“A party,” Fish explains, “Benny won his tournament so they’re celebrating that.”

The name sounds familiar but you can’t quite place it.

“The younger one,” He adds with a subtle smirk, seeing the furrow in your brow of you thinking too hard.

“So Benny, Santiago—but you get stuck with Catfish?”

It can’t be his actual name, but they never use anything else.

“Francisco,” He takes a generous sip of his beer before setting it down, tapping his fingers idly against the surface of the bar, “—but, just Frankie. If that’s easier.”

You tilt your head with a genuine smile, putting a name to a face and it feels fitting, the hat suffocating his mop of hair, curls peeking around the edge of his hat and the dark colored tees he always wore, some sort of dismay always written on his face. You can’t explain it, but it works for him.

Frankie. Francisco. Catfish.

“Well, Frankie—if you need anything just yell. That’s probably the only way I’ll hear you,” You tell him with a laugh before attempting to depart—the bar isn’t too bad at the moment, all customers dealt with but the roar of the bar is loud.

“Well—wait,” Frankie half shouts, grabbing your attention, “what’s your name? I gave you mine, seems fair to ask.”

You tell him with a shrug, “But, I only ever hear honey or sweetheart all night, so really, I’m whatever you want me to be.”

Frankie chuckles at that, looking away briefly as if to busy his mind with something else and you slip away then.

You don’t ask why he came alone—why he would skip out on a party with the men he came here every Friday night with—maybe he needed a break. Alone time. It wasn’t your business.

But, one Saturday becomes another. And two months later he’s come by every Saturday. Alone. And giving you his undivided attention. It’s sweet, you’ll admit that. 

He isn’t as closed off on Friday’s when he arrives with the other boys but isn’t as outwardly friendly as say, Santiago would be during that time. But, Saturdays—he’s a whole different person. Lighter. Happier.

He only ever orders one beer, makes small talk, and lately—he’s been walking you to your car. So, not only is he nursing that beer over the four hours left in your shift by the time he gets there, he’s waiting for you. To clock out, that is.

Really, it’s against your better judgment. Allowing a total stranger to know what you drive, where you park, what time your shift ends, but Frankie is a… friend.

He isn’t like most of the customers, terrible at small talk and flirting and only making half-assed, nasty comments toward you when they get a few rounds in. 

He’s seen it a few times. He never berates the guys, but he does pull your attention away, occupies your mind, and always manages to slip in a few words that make your legs go weak and encourage the dull throb between your thighs—even if it’s just a smile and an apology on their behalf. 

Frankie always shows interests, ask about you and your life in the politest way he can without seeming like a complete creep—you can tell he doesn’t flirt often, by the way he’s quiet around his friends when you stop by their table or how he never asks for your number despite twirling his phone in his hands idly most of the night, trying to seem occupied but mostly staring at a blank screen until he finally gains the courage to ask you another question.

The first night he walks you to your car it’s quick—he stays until you close up for the night and walks around back, a careful and watchful eye on your surroundings as he nods and wishes you goodnight with a half-hearted smile, kicking himself in the ass for not just asking for your number.

And it continues like that for weeks, within those couple months, and gradually Frankie bursts out of his shell little by little until you both are giggling one night over a particularly rowdy customer, having gotten himself arrested for indecent exposure and broken a table. 

His hand grazes your lower back as you walk out, a genuine mistake but you turn your head toward him quickly, soothing his worries with a smile as you stick the key into the lock.

“Don’t worry about it,” You tell him with a comforting tone, “I’m used to men being a little more handsy than that, so, if anything, you’re a gentleman.”

“Those aren’t men.” Frankie argues lightheartedly.

“Eh, men who act like boys,” You say, “they’re assholes either way you put it.”

Frankie nods, readjusting his cap on his head as he pushes his fingers through his hair.

You twist the keys in your hand and start the walk toward your car.

“Do you ever take that thing off?”

Frankie’s eyes dart up toward the hat and he chuckles, hidden under the scruff and grown out facial hair, “No. No, not really.”

“Would you do it if I asked you to?”

He contemplates but never gives you a straight answer, forcing you to prod him gently with the end of your key, “Don’t worry—I won’t. Not yet.”

Frankie’s fingers curl around the edge of your door as he holds it open and watches you climb in, mind swimming with a million ways to ask what he wants, but it never comes.

But, you see it on his face immediately, the caution behind his eyes in being so forward with you.

“Ask for it,” You tell him, turning on the ignition to your car, still looking at him as he looms between you and the car door, “—unless you want to make me ask.”

Frankie looks away briefly and you laugh softly at his sudden unabashed expression as he smiles and turns back to you, “Can I have your number?”

You hold your hand out in wait, thumbing in your number the moment the phone finds your palm. You send yourself a short text with a smiley face to make sure it goes through and hand it back over, feeling a sudden flutter of anxiety in your chest.

Not good, not bad—but it is something.

“Put it to good use,” You warn him, “don’t make me regret that.”

Frankie smiles wider that time, his teeth peeking out behind full lips.

“Right,” He agrees, “absolutely. I promise.”

He adds a soft goodnight and you depart, feeling your phone buzz again before you even pull out of the parking lot.

[Unknown Number]: Goodnight

You snort a quiet laugh to yourself.

An hour later, a toothbrush tucked into your cheek as you stare down at your phone when it vibrates. You had half the mind to save his number despite your exhaustion from the shift you worked.

[Frankie]: Home safe?

[You]: Yep. :) Thank you for checking on me

[Frankie]: :) Goodnight. 

[Frankie]: Again lol.

It’s stupid—it shouldn’t make you smile. But, it does.

You quickly find every day occupied by Frankie in some form, through text or just the thought of him. He’s everywhere and you can’t seem to care—and you give up sleep in the middle of the night for text conversations that come from just wanting to hear from him, as nervous as you are to just call—you could, you knew he wouldn’t care. But, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

You try to learn as much as you can about him.

[You]: Why Catfish?

It’s a random Tuesday when the text comes through his phone. He’s busy in class, cramming himself in as many hours as possible before he tests for his pilot license.

[Frankie]: Long story. Obnoxiously long. Why?

[You]: Just curious. It’s a strange nickname

[Frankie]: So what does that make me?

Frankie doesn’t get a response for a while and he knows you’re probably working, but he finds his fingers reaching for his pocket any time his phone vibrates in the hopes that it’s you.

[You]: Sorry. There was a mess at work. 

[You]: It makes you strange btw

[You]: I’m kidding. But, it’s still a weird nickname.

Frankie can tell it’s you from the constant buzzing and he takes a peek at his phone.

[Frankie]: Oh shit. How bad of a mess?

[Frankie]: I know. Maybe I can explain it another time.

You’re busy wiping the beer off your face as you look at his text, the security dragging out the guy who had splashed the glass of liquid back at your face.

[You]: Some asshole threw a beer at me. Nothing new. Clothes are soaked.

[You]: Don’t try to make a joke about that or I’m double charging you this Friday.

Frankie frowns at the implication that you think he’s first instinct is to make a joke at your expense, but you can’t help to protect yourself from the behavior you’re used to from most men.

[Frankie]: Do you need me to bring you something? I can stop by on my way home?

[You]: I’ll survive. Thank you, though. My shift is almost over.

A couple days later you end up going down a fireshot line of questioning to get to know him, much to his surprise.

[You]: Okay. Birthday?

[Frankie]: April 2nd. 

He returns the question to which you answer but add on another text with a joke at his expense.

[You]: Damn, a day short and that would be perfect for you. So, you’re an Aries.

[Frankie]: Yeah, whatever that means.

You laugh to yourself, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth as you walk through your local grocery store to pick up items for dinner that night.

[You]: It fits you. Oh! What do you do for work?

[You]: Fair game since you know what I do.

[Frankie]: We’re all in the army. I work on aircraft.

Oh, that’s…not what you were expecting.

[Frankie]: It’s new. I’m trying to get my pilot's license right now. I’ve got a big test coming up for it.

[You]: That’s so cool! Take me for a ride sometime?

You smirk to yourself as you press send.

[Frankie]: Yes.

You look ridiculous smiling at your phone in the middle of the aisle but you can’t help it.

In the army. A pilot. And a gentleman? Or, at least he’s provided himself to be nice enough. You were both young, so it didn’t surprise you that you were both unluckily single. But, Frankie seemed like such a catch—and it terrified you how badly you wanted him. Even in the simplest form. 

A friend, a best friend, even. Or more, definitely more. But, you didn’t mind either way.

He’s due to take the test for his pilot license the Monday after your last shift, showing up with the boys on that Friday before—typical routine and behavior, but he does seem a bit more handsy. Santiago has always been friendly, but he does hug you this time he sees you, catching you on the way back to the bar and he plants a kiss on your cheek that you welcome with a soft, playful shove of your hand at his face and if it strikes Frankie with jealousy, you don’t notice.

But, he does shock you when he wraps an arm around your front and hugs you lazily, haphazardly slumping his other arm over your shoulder as he plants a kiss in your the hair at the crown on your head and rubs your hip with his thumb, leaving you dumbstruck and wanton the rest of your shift, frazzled every time you glance his way.

Santiago orders a round of shots toward the end of the night and thanks you with a wink, departing for the table and interrupting the idle conversation the men were entranced in.

You’re not sure what was going on, wiping down the counter as the night slowed down and casually flicking your eyes up to check on them, hearing them laugh occasionally, glancing your way briefly and suddenly Frankie was headed your way, fiddling around with the brim of his hat as he pressed a forearm against the countertop you had just wiped down. 

You snap him gently with the towel and give him a look, he backs away slightly, hovering over the edge of the counter.

“What’s up?”

“They’re a bunch of dicks, I’m sorry.” Frankie deflected, glancing back at the boys who were staring on with sated smirks, clearly enjoying the sight of him fumbling and dropping the ball as he spoke to you. His eyes flick up wearily, soft and so distinct to him that it makes your heart ache. “Pope—Santiago, he dared me to come over and kiss you. And it’s stupid but if I didn’t at least try I would never hear the end–”

You pull him in by the collar of his shirt, the brim of his hat being pushed askew by the force as you press your lips to his in a simple, but unmistakable kiss. Tilting your head slightly as you pull away briefly to kiss him once more, dropping your towel to push your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck and it seems like his brain catches up too late, his fingers barely grazing your neck as you pull away.

You pointedly look around Frankie to flip the other three off with both hands.

“Get out of here,” You warn playfully, “before I murder one of them.”

Frankie huffs a soft laugh through his nose before he turns away, speechless.

They were out of there within a few minutes, but an hour later your lips were still tingling.

Frankie is different that Saturday—more energetic, seeming lighter and more playful. 

He drinks one beer, then two, surprisingly a couple shots of tequila—and before you know it, you’re seeing a much different side of Frankie than you're used to and it is quite the sight.

“Am I cutting you off?” You ask curiously, “I don’t want you nursing a hangover tomorrow when you have your test on Monday.”

“One more,” Frankie promises, “but—surprise me?”

You shrug, not finding a problem with it.

“Sweet or savory?” You ask him.

You feel your breath catch slightly as he pauses, his eyes doing a subtle drag over your body as you take a couple steps back, reaching for an empty glass.

“Sweet.” 

It has an underlying tension to it neither of you address. 

You make something up on the fly—fruity and sweet with the slightest bit of tang, nothing that screams Frankie but when you set it down in front of him and he drinks, his eyes widen slightly.

And for half a second you think he might spit it out, but then he’s chugging the rest down—and maybe it’s alcohol dulling his taste buds but he makes a quick show of assuring you he liked it, even if it’s mostly for your own benefit.

Shaking his head as he licks at his lips with his tongue in a way that feels so unnecessary that you can’t help but giggle, snatching the empty glass away from him as he smiles, his eyes half-lidded from the faint buzz he has going on, but otherwise he still seems fine.

You couldn’t let him get that drunk, not when he had so much riding on that test.

By the end of the night, your side hurts from laughing so much, forceably having to shove your hand in Frankie’s face to get him to shut up for half a second, his fingers circling around your wrist as he pulls you forward and you giggle into his shoulder.

“Stay. Let me close up and we can walk through the back.” You tell him and he nods quietly, though his grin never fades, his thumb brushing over his bottom lip idly while he watches you work around the clutter and reorganize, cleaning everything down before you’re flicking off the lights and nodding at him to follow.

If it were anyone else, you’d have given them a stiff kick to the balls and sent them on their way, but the moment Frankie noses at your neck your hard resolve melts and you shrug him away at how much it tickles your skin, feeling his hand wrap around the bicep on your left arm. He’s never been so touchy but you can’t say you don’t enjoy it. In fact, you’re eating it up at this point.

“Frankie,” You warn him playfully, working and failing to lock the door as uses his other hand to squeeze at your side, “come on—I can’t lock up with you doing that.”

“Try,” He teases, challenges, and you can’t help but like the bolder, less restrained side of himself he’s offering up to you.

The gentle nuzzling quickly turns to kisses, wet and open mouthed as he practically drapes himself over you, one hand pressed into the brick wall beside the backdoor and you sigh softly, leaning into his chest as you finally get the door locked and shrug him away.

“Am I going to see you next week?” He asks hopefully, knowing that with August looming in the distance that your job at the bar was close to being nullified. 

You shake your head with a bittersweet smile, “Tomorrow is my last day, actually. For now, anyway.”

Frankie’s brow furrows at that and he shakes his head slightly before he’s invading your space, hands cupping your face as he lifts your chin up to meet your lips and kisses you gently, your fingers coming up to curls around his forearms and you feel his lips part just as you pull away.

“What—what are you doing?” You ask him, feeling like an echo as he comes back to the surface with a delayed response, trying to kiss you again but you're pressing your fingertips over his lips until he realizes that you actually want an answer.

“I’ve wanted you all summer,” He admits and it makes your blood run hot, that distinct tingle of pleasure shooting down your spine and it is nothing you were expecting him to say, but tonight was full of surprises apparently, “do I need to prove it to you?”

He presses his forehead against your own and you shake your head in response. You believed him, you didn’t doubt him for a second—but it feels surreal. Those quick, fleeting summer flings you only hear about in passing, never expecting to experience it yourself.

You may never see him again, you had to strike the match while it was still in reach.

“Are there cameras back here?” Frankie asks hastily.

You snort, “No—we’re five minutes away from college dorms in the poorest part of town. People come here for cheap booze, not security.”

Frankie nods at that, “You’re right,” He responds but the end is muffled as he kisses you again, with less care and a lot more tongue as you open your mouth to him and find the words on your tongue are muffled by his.

And thank god the street lights were shit in the back alley, barely working amongst the occasional flicker, you eventually find your way in the darkened corner of the back alley with Frankie’s hand working at the button on your jeans, almost tripping over an overturned crate on the way there that causes you both to burst into a fit of giggles, laughing through the sloppy kisses Frankie can’t help but smother you with, sighing when his fingers dip past the denim and thin fabric underwear to cup your pussy with his entire hand, the warmth of his palm like an answered prayer.

His hat is frustrating though, constantly bumping and prodding at your head before you finally get fed up, plucking it off his head and tossing it to the ground with an annoyed sigh that forces a choked laugh from Frankie’s throat, dipping a finger down the center of your core before pressing inside of you, gasping at the sudden but welcomed intrusion. You release a shaky sigh and open your eyes to look at him, finding he’s plenty amused but still buzzed in his own way.

Half beer, half pleasure—but he looks like he wants to devour you.

Lucky for you, he was starving.

Your mouth hangs open slightly, breathing picking up as he angles his fingers and slips another inside, curling them toward you from within and you pull at the curls at the nape of his neck.

He smirks in amusement, “Wish you could see how needy you look,” Frankie comments, “all it took was a couple fingers, huh?”

You roll your eyes playfully, “Too bad it took you all summer,” You pester him as he picks up the intensity, using his other hand to push your jeans lower down your hips, “and some stupid fuckin’ drink to make you finally want to have sex with.”

“Sex?” Frankie jokes through a throaty chuckle, “Who said anything about—”

Your hand cups the front of his jeans firmly, a little harsher than necessary but you can tell he doesn’t mind, almost challenging you to tease him a little more but the moment you both hit a solid wall you’re tripping over each other’s feet and it pulls you back to the surface and despite your clothes being half-stripped away and Frankie’s hand still shoved down the front of your jeans, it brings back a surprising amount levity to assess the situation at hand.

“I mean, do you want to?” You ask him curiously, tucking a curl behind his ear as he blinks, considering how this would affect his relationship with you, as brief and fleeting as it was.

“You’re really asking me that?” He responds, “Of course.”

“Well, I mean you did just say—”

Frankie places his palm over your mouth, muffling the end of your sentence.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He deflects, hoping you’ll play along.

You work at his belt without hesitation, far over the small talk and tired of wasting time. Frankie pulls his hand away much to your disappoint, pouting slightly as he drag his hand up your stomach, under your shirt until he’s got it tucked under your chin and mouthing of your bra greedily, the fingers of his other hand peeking around the fabric to pull it down, taking the soft, pebbled nipple into his mouth and sucking with a satisfied groan as you dip your hand beyond his waistband and over his boxers, pulled tight against his thighs and groin. You could picture the sight of him in your mind for hours if you wanted, but you had him here, right here. 

Why not give yourself a peek at the real thing?

Frankie is lost, deep within the exploration of your body that he doesn’t even hear your voice when you plead with him, his voice grazing over the delicate skin of your breasts as he pulls away, already ready to descend and yank your jeans the rest of the way down, press his face between your legs and feast on you like it was the best thing he’s tried all night.

But, there’s the pout again—so subtle he would miss it had he not finally given you his full, undivided attention and he was right. You are needy.

His thumb rubs at the small sliver of your lip that’s poking out, rocking his hips gently into the hand still tucked away into his jeans—there was such a distinct charm to him, melting under his gaze the second his eyes made contact with your own. Every time.

“I don’t wanna keep you,” You whine emphatically and Frankie almost immediately begins to shake his head—

No. No, of course not. You wouldn’t be keeping him at all. Not a chance, not a fuckin—his inner monologue is going wild but he finds you perking up at the slowly growing panic on his face.

“But,” You breath, the thumb that was resting at your bottom lip trailing down the valley of your breasts before he cups one gently in his hand, “I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t give you at least something to remember this.”

“Couldn’t forget about you if I tried, actually,” He begins, but you shake your head, shushing him and pushing his hand away before you sink to your knees despite the immediate protest in your knees at the hard gravel—but god was it fucking worth it when you look up, half-lidded eyes staring back as you shake his jeans down his hips, just far enough that you can watch as he does the work with his boxers, cock bobbing free as he settles the band underneath his balls and if has to look away by that point, overwhelmed in the way your eyes roam but you don’t speak, clearly admiring and seering this to memory as you smile cheekily, taking his cock in your hand and jerk him slowly, thumb running along the vein that follows to the head of his cock.

“Get off the floor,” He begs pathetically, “gonna tear your knees up doing that.”

You laugh quietly to yourself and slide your tongue along the head of his cock, dipping down the slit of his head and to his shaft, pulling back at the skin and taking him into your mouth fully. He’s uncircumcised, thick and perfect—he fills your mouth out so beautifully in all his girth that you wonder just how much better it can feel between your legs, filling you out in the best way.

“Oh, jesus—baby, that’s,” You hum, bobbing your head in constant rhythm as your work your free hand around his balls, cupping them and allowing your other hand to cover the rest of what your mouth couldn’t take of his length and Frankie looks like he might actually pass out, looking around desperately for something, anything to lean on before he just settles for the wall behind you, resting both of his palms against the brick as he towers over you.

Frankie sighs shakily, dropping a hand to tuck against the back of your head, and your stomach swirls with anticipation as he allows himself to break his restrain a little, guiding his cock into your mouth with little aide given how eager you were as you took him as far as you could go, brush your nose against the trimmed patch of hair at the base and feel his hand flex in your hair, gripping it tight and attempting to pull you off to no avail, repeating the process until he’s begging for you to slow down, give him just a few seconds to breathe, ultimately finding that you don’t stop until he finally finds his voice again, stuttering out a desperate, “Stop, stop, stop–”

You pull away suddenly, worrying crossing your face but quickly dissipating as Frankie laughs, pulling you to your feet without much fight on your part and he does notice the few scraps on your knees, collecting with blood and he really wishes you would have listened but you brush him off, his body pressing you up against the brick wall behind you, pants still hanging at his thighs and his dick pressed against your stomach, shirt still sloppily bunched up over your tits.

“Can I fuck you?” He asks, so vulgar it makes you pulse around absolutely nothing, his eyes roving over your face curiously, his thumb tracing over your lips, with a soft mumble, “God, I need you so bad.”

“My car,” You respond, tongue pressing against the pad of his fingertip as you nod behind him, “Condoms, they’re—in the car.”

Frankie makes a face, sort of amused but a little confused.

“Shut up,” You null his question before it slips out—”It’s precaution, okay? Guys love to pull the whole—”

“No, I—I get it,” Frankie answers, a small laugh rounding out his tone, “I just figured, you know—we’d…go back to your place? Or mine?”

Your hand fists into his shirt slowly, pulling him impossibly closer like he wasn’t already pressed against every surface of your body.

“What if I can’t wait?” Your eyes soften, looking up at him and catching the swipe of his tongue over his bottom lip, wanting to taste that tinge of sugar that lingers with him, “Would you fuck me right now?”

Frankie nods eagerly and you don’t hesitate, grabbing for his hat, placing it against his chest and gripping his hand in your own before you shove him away gently and lead him to your car, mostly covered in darkness aside from the obnoxiously orange streetlight that glowed overhead. Your clothes haphazardly pulled back up as you clamber into the driver's seat to reach over the console and into the glovebox, aware of the hand that slides between your leg as you search in the poor lighting, squealing when he squeezes at the flesh under his grip and shoving the foil wrapper into Frankie’s chest when you finally get your hand on the box.

“Off,” He tells you, pulling at the zipper of your jeans, “all the way.”

There was so much going on in your mind, nothing you could pluck out and focus on but it buzzed with excitement, anticipation, the kind of adrenaline that only comes in situations when your judgment is hasty and not fully-thought out. You’re barely kicking your shoes off and pulling your jeans past your ankle before Frankie is manhandling you into the backseat, and pressing his face between your thighs as he licks into you, a surprised gasp tearing from your throat as you grip the seats wherever you can.

Your pussy throbs under the care of his tongue, and he carries on obnoxiously, making a mess between your legs as his fingertips grip at the flesh of your ass and force you to open yourself wider to him, “Frankie—” You interject weakly, but he silences you with his mouth, sucking at your clit like it was his new obsession and you whine so pathetically that you find you covering your mouth in shame, biting gently at your bicep to muffle the flurry of sounds that came out after.

He pulls away some time later—minutes, hours, days, you can’t even place it. But, you hear him shift, the rip of the wrapper and the jingling of his belt as he shifts his jeans further down and slides into the backseat more comfortably, hovering over you. His hands squeezing at your hips, a comforting gesture as he speaks from behind you.

“Are you sure?” 

It’s sweet, you can admit that. But, you don’t need that.

“Frankie.”

He wasn’t budging. Because, if by some sudden change of heart you didn’t want this, he wanted to know.

“Yes. Yes,” You say, turning slightly to look over your shoulder, his face only an inch or so away as you tuck your arm back and push your fingers into his hair, pulling his face next to yours as he pushes inside of you slowly, yanking gently at the strands between your fingers as he settles, a soft sigh falling from your lips.

“Let me hear you,” He begs, “It’s just us.”

He hears you all the time, voice carrying across the bar but never like this—for him, only for him.

He pulls back gently, snapping his hips firmly and you hum softly, slightly giddy over the entire situation. He continues that way, so gentle and cautious that it makes you wonder why you both avoided this for so long, “More?” Frankie asks. You nod and his pace quickens slightly, a little harsher, and your hand grips onto the passenger seat beside your head for leverage as he chest rumbles with a deep sigh, “Fuck this is—baby, you have no idea.”

“Tell me,” You plead, the quiet creak of the car drowned out by your loud, pathetic moans as Frankie’s fingers curl around your throat and hold, no pressing or squeezing, just another place for them to find a home.

“Thought about this—so many times,” He admits, “came here for months—fuck, months. And then you show up and I was nervous—couldn’t, couldn’t even think of what to say to you. I knew I’d embarrass myself in front of them.” He squeezes then, a gentle pressure on your throat that has your eyes rolling back in your head.

“I had to see you alone,” His throat is tight, his breath a little quicker as he speaks, his hips snapping into you at a steady pace that clouds your mind effortlessly, “wanted you for myself—and, I would’ve fucked you that first night if you’d let me.”

You cunt squeezes him tight at his words and he curses, “So greedy, baby. She’s drooling all over me—such a fucking mess,” And you need to see him, face the man who’s finally found just the right amount of confidence to make you speechless. You lean up suddenly and force a hand into his chest and he only looks slightly confused before you’re pulling him inside and forcing him to sit into the cramped back seat, uncaring of the open car door as the car rocks with the weight of your bodies and you seat yourself on his lap, gripping his dick in your hand and sinking back down onto him without a word, curling yourself over him as you push away the hair clinging to his forehead, damp from sweat and his eyes are blown wide, staring up at you like he was under hypnosis, gaze locked on your own.

“Tell me now,” You challenge him—nowhere to hide behind his words.

“Would you—have let me fuck you that one night I walked you to your car?” He asks.

You smile guiltily, remembering the heat of his hand on your back, never really an accident.

“I’d have let you fuck me over the pool table if you asked, Frankie.” You admit, “In front of your friends too, if that’s what you really wanted.”

Frankie laughs weakly, giving you the lead as you lift your hips with a sudden eagerness.

“Is that what you want?” You tease him, “You guys are all about claim, right? Army boys love to show off—I mean, they’d probably be into it. Santi, for sure—”

Frankie covers your mouth with his hand and you giggle, biting playfully at the flesh of his palm.

He squeezes at your hip with his free hand, forcing you into a hurried pace as he begins to move his hips to meet your own, lifting off the seat slightly with every snap of his hips. Your cry is muffled by his hand but Frankie sees it in your eyes, the flutter of your eyelashes that tells him.

“Touch yourself, babygirl,” He tells you, “Let’s see how bad you want it.”

You lean back between the open space of the driver and passenger seat, one hand gripping the upholstery of the seat while the other works between your legs, fingers drifting over your clit and into the mess of yourself that was leaking over Frankie’s cock from where it was buried inside of you and he wasn’t lying—you’ve never been so turned on in your life. Half-assed hook-ups and guys that didn’t give a shit about your own pleasure, Frankie was a goddamn dream and a hell of a good fuck. 

You know your body well enough that it doesn’t take long, but the show is for Frankie’s benefit alone, head thrown back over your shoulders as your middle and ring finger circle your clit, occasionally wrapping your hand around what of his shaft was available as you tried weakly to move your hips, squeezing to pull a soft little gasp from his chest. It was such a damn shame you didn’t have him fully naked, splayed out on the mattress in your shitty apartment. You wanted to dig your nails into his skin, leave half crescent marks and a reminder of you for days, weeks even. 

“Fuck, I’m right there, baby—” He warns, unexpectedly joining your own fingers and forcing you over the edge just before he pulls you in, a brutal snap of his hips before he’s muffling the deep groans of his orgasm into your skin, teeth sinking gently into your shoulder.

The next few minutes is spent in a blissful silence, moving off of him carefully as he discards the condom but never letting you drift to far, still curled up and half naked on his lap as he pushes a strand of hair away from your face, pulling you in for a kiss that takes your breath away, literally pulls from your chest and makes your heart stop.

Oh…this was not good. 

You breathe shakily and pull away with a smile that masks that sudden ache in your chest and kiss again at the inside of his palm. He leans his head against the backseat, eyes closed as he catches his breath and groans slightly when you move off of him, oblivious and exhausted as you redress hastily beside him, pulling your jeans back up your legs and over your hips, slipping your shoes on and readjusting your shirt, shaking him gently when you fear he might have passed out right there in the back of your car.

“Frankie,” You call out, saying his name a few more times before you call out, one last time, “Francisco, hey.”

His eyebrows raise in question, a subtle smile on his lips as he peeks an eye open to look at you.

“I really need to get home,” You tell him, laughing half-heartedly at his drunken stupor, “you’ve gotta go.”

Frankie seems to realize then that he can’t drag this out any longer, redressing himself slowly as he climbs out of the car, watching you fiddle with your shirt and your appearance, trying to not look like you just got fucked in the backseat of your car.

He seems to notice the slight dismay on your face, knowing that your lives were diverting down different paths, but this was still the present. Now. And he was still here.

He presses you into the driver’s side door and kisses you then, hands crawling up the side of your neck and caressing the curve of it, dipping his tongue past your lips and really stealing your breath away, moaning into your mouth like you were the greatest thing he’s ever tasted.

You pull away regrettably when you feel him start to ramp up again, “Good luck on your test, by the way.” You tell him honestly, “You can text me the good news when you pass.”

Frankie chuckles, “I will.” There’s a long pause and then he’s speaking again, the few words you weren’t sure you wanted to hear, “Can I see you again?”

The hesitance is obvious on your face and it kicks Frankie down a peg, but he gets it. He wasn’t a boyfriend, barely even a friend. But, he was still hopeful.

“Maybe.” You offer, “I mean—you still have my number. I’m just a text or call away, you know.”

Frankie couldn’t admit that you were the only thing getting him through this summer without relapsing or making another misstep, that wasn’t your burden. But, the weight on his heart is heavy and his own to bear, welcoming the hug you offer him immediately and squeezing you so tight you might break, but of course, you don’t. 

And he thinks that if he showed up broken, in pieces, that you would know exactly how to piece him back together, but he hoped that never happened. That maybe you might manage to escape him and he wouldn’t drag you down with him.

“Goodbye, Frankie.” 

He smiles and nods, settling his hat back on his head as he steps away.

You leave soon after, not sure why this sudden dark cloud is looming over you.

Frankie never texts you about his test and the texts you send in the aftermath are never responded to—and eventually you give up, feeling like an idiot for being hopeful in the first place.

↝ beta: @chaotic-mystery

↝ divider credit: yours truly.

[ace-race-ace]

Ok ideas for my potential TeamPrincipal!Fernando fic trying to establish Aston Martin as a championship winning team. With Lance as his top driver 🤭

Sexual tension up the wazoo! As teammates they barely resist each other but the risk is too high

Now w/ Nando being TP, it becomes even more risky as Lance is now his “employee”

Does that stop Lance??? NOOOOO

He keeps batting his eyes at him, asking Fernando for personal “training” and Nando has a hard time keeping professionalism

Eventually, Lance is essentially begging him to fuck and Fernando says something to the effect of “You want me to fuck you so bad? Win the championship first.”

Initially Fernando says more as provocation, believing that Aston doesn’t yet have the right car to win and that Lance will get over him by the time they do

Cue Lance suddenly working twice as hard to win, all while trying to break Fernando’s resolve

Still, Nando remains strong (barely) and doesn’t fuck Lance. He still praises Lance after every race and they get up to non-professional things but ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING

A lot of extra context, really getting into how the team operates, Drugovich as Lance’s teammate and getting suspicious 🤨 the car going through development (aka I don’t want the fic to be just about them, I want to expand the narrative a little)

Finally, Lance wins his championship and he gets to absolutely wreck the boy

(Maybe a little extra but not sure how it would fit in context, Nando actually wins his 3rd before Lance so now they get to see their names written next to each other on the WDC trophy forever—— this could also be its own one-shot tbh)

I want to get back to writing a longer fic so this idea might be the one! What do we think?? Yes? No? Needs more ideas? (I am open to suggestions 👀)

[a-canceled-stamp]

Hi Stamp!

For the ask game:

🥤 ⇢ recommend an author or fanfic you love   ❄️ ⇢ what's your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best? 🏜️ ⇢ what's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work?

Hi again Rae!!! This answer is very very late, but thank you so much for the ask 🥺💞

🥤 ⇢ recommend an author or fanfic you love  

IMPOSSIBLE QUESTION. But also a favorite. I shall choose 3 bc I can. buy back the secrets by sundiscus ( @vinelark ). TimKon fic feat. Identity Porn out the wazoo. I'm still obsessed with this one. It's so fricking good. It was the first fic we read in our book/fic club and y'all, let me tell you. We are still not okay. When chapter 6 drops all hell will break loose. A Premonition of Drift-Design by @shirokokuro. Amazing Tim & Bruce content. I first read this years ago when I first joined the fandom, and have been obsessed ever since. I reread it the other day for the memories and y'all. It is just as freaking good as I remember, if not better. The entire If That Happens, I'll Catch You and Secretary Tim (And Other Shenanigans) series are top notch tbh. Go read them rn, do it 🔫 And finally, a Malevolent fic bc this show is ruining my life [affectionate]. lacuna by @calamitxtum. I am 5 chapters in and have eaten my pillow. The mattress is next. I am so so so normal about these two. It doesn't help that Cal's writing is insanely good. NOMNOMNOM. The fic was completed the other day too so you can and should dive into it this instant. (Spoilers through ep 28 though). Go!!!

❄️ ⇢ what's your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best?

This was an impossible question to answer. I have been staring at this draft for 30 min. But I finally have an answer. I love the Hidden Injuries trope and have started reading more fics focusing on Bruce and Jason's relationship. And honestly, there is no one I trust more with this dynamic than lemongarden. They are the one who wrote Stargazer, and bro. Brooooooo. Holy shit. It is fucking incredible. I wish I could bottle their characterizations of Jason and Bruce in a bottle and study them for science. Stargazer is so incredible near and dear to my heart, I almost get emotional talking about it ahdjkhskjd. This sort of turned into another rec but you know what those are always great.

🏜️ ⇢ what's your favorite type of comment to receive on your work?

Honestly any kind of comment at all, like just a goofy smiley goes a long way. But comments that make me kick my feet are the keyboard smash, all capital letters, unhinged rambles - those fill me with immense joy. Also, the liveblog-esque comments are to die for. And the analytical, deep dive into the reader's own interpretation of events is so much fun to read. I know that these take time tho so I really don't expect people to do that (I once spent an hour on a comment. AN HOUR. It was 1384 words rip).

Thank you again for the ask, Rae! Ily :smek:

[theonemeathead]

Hello!

Unsure if your requests are open—if not, disregard this—but if I could request something that’s Medic x reader. SFW is my only real request, but hurt/comfort, fluff, a bit of angst, anything you’d like!

Have fun with it. I’ve read your sniper fic and your spy fic, and I absolutely loved both of them.

You’re doing amazing! I’m excited to read anything you make in the future <3

Medic x Reader, "Harsh"

hello! omg im sorry this took so long, ive been so busy working. i love medic, i hope i wrote him well, it's my first time! warning for light gore and some hurt/comfort angst. enjoy!

"You failed!"

The Administrator croaked, her voice ringing out through the speaker. The fight had been gruelling, all of you were exhausted. The other team had pushed you all back into your base, beginning an onslaught of terror. You were blown to pieces by an enemy Soldier, the enemy Demoman was using you for easy kills, and the enemy Engineer had sentries set up out the wazoo. You had been sent through Respawn countless times, your frustration growing everytime you were taunted as you died. At one point, the enemy Sniper had shot out both of your legs and then proceeded to point and laugh as you tried to crawl away. It was safe to say you didn't get far before your brains were strewn, unceremoniously, across the battlefield.

Back in the locker room, it was obvious nobody was happy. Normally, your teammates weren't sore losers, save for a few exceptions. But today had been so exhausting that even Pyro was in a sour mood. You sat down on one of the benches, rubbing your aching muscles as the other mercenaries cleaned themselves up.

"Man, that frickin' sucked!"

Leave it to Scout to break any amount of peace and quiet. You didn't feel like arguing with the wall, otherwise you'd tell him off for not staying on the point. You were bitter with multiple of your teammates, but none of them had quite pissed you off quite like Medic had today.

"AGREED, MAGGOT. I AM FILLED WITH SHRAPNEL AND CANNOT FEEL ANYTHING FROM THE WAIST DOWN."

"Yeah, well, that wouldn't be the case if we could've gotten some healing from, y'know, the one guy who's whole job is to heal." Your words came out passive-aggressive. You knew it was immature, but you also knew everyone had the same gripe you did. You instantly regretted even mentioning it as the locker next to yours slammed shut. Medic was unstable when he was upset, and he seemed to be the most torn up about this loss out of everyone. Silence overfell the locker room, yet again.

"None of you understand how tedious my job is," he began. You could hear the grit in his words, the emotions that were brewing and starting to boil over. Medic liked to praise himself as one of the more rational mercenaries, talking about how you must always have a cool temper when you're a doctor. Yet, here he was, his face slightly flushed from frustration.

"Your job wouldn't be as tedious if you did it properly," you challenged him. You stood up straight, as you folded your hands across your chest. You eye twitched slightly as you scowled at the back of Medic's head. You could feel other gazes, followed by various murmuring and receding footsteps; it was probably smart to leave before this escalated.

"Oh, really, maus? Well, if that's the case, then I no longer see why I'm needed on this team. Auf wiedersehen!" He forced a smile as he turned on his heels, hastily stomping off towards his quarters. He pushed past you, making a point that you were in his way.

"Fine! Be that way!" you called out, but your yells fell upon deaf ears. You looked around the locker room at whoever was left, making eye contact with Scout, who flinched away under your gaze.

It was going to be a rough night.

-

It had been hours since you and Medic had last spoken, which was unusual. You two were nearly inseparable, but enough time had passed for Engineer to start prepping dinner. You leaned against the counter of the kitchen, absentmindedly observing the tinkerer as he began slicing various vegetables. Engineer had always been a mentor, of sorts, to you; A beacon of wisdom. He was one of the few people on this godforsaken team who wasn't batshit crazy. He seemed to have picked up on your quietness, opting to fill the spaceless void instead.

"Y'know, sweetheart, I think tensions were just high earlier. Ain't no sensin' both of y'all bein' upset, why don'tcha be the bigger person and, I dunno, apologize?" He asked, earnestly. He looked up at you, smiling. His expression was slightly unreadable, due to the goggles he was wearing, but it was warm nonetheless.

"I guess, but—Everyone agrees that he was slacking on the field! I'm not in the wrong!"

"I know, darlin', but everyone has their off days. Hell, even I have those rounds where it feels like I can never catch a break from that damn Spy sappin' my sentry." He chuckled to himself, low and comforting. Engineer's laidback atmosphere was always so calming. "I reckon you have your days too. Last thing you would want is for somebody to point out how you missed a Heavy, who was about an arm's-length away."

"You saw that?!" You gasped, embarrassed. He was right, you didn't do too well either today. Maybe you were unfair to the doctor earlier. You pushed yourself off the counter with a sigh. "You have a point, I'll go see what I can do."

The journey to the infirmary was nerve-wracking. It wasn't full of anticipation and excitement to see your lover, no, it was anxiety-ridden and nauseating. You felt horrible, like you were wearing cement bricks, rather than shoes. You reached the sterile area of the base, the cold air of the lobby immediately sending goosebumps through your body. You took a deep breath, shakily knocking on the steel doors of the actual operating room. You were met with silence, although you could hear the various shuffling of papers and the familiar cooes of his doves.

You hesitated, pushing on the door slightly. You opened it, just enough to peak your head in. The sight before you was disheartening, to say the least. He was surrounded by multiple forms of paperwork, his hair slightly messy and his movements erratic. He seemed to frantically be searching for something, flipping between books and whatnot. You cleared your throat, the echo of the sound stopping him in his tracks immediately. He froze, not daring to turn and face you. "Medic...?"

"Ah, of course. I'm busy, can't you see?" His tone held a faux sweetness, as if he was one snap away from losing his composure completely.

"Medic, I— I'm sorry. I was mean to you back in the locker rooms, I let how I felt get the better of me. I was harsh on you and I shouldn't have been," you started, your voice shaking slightly from your emotions. He clicked his tongue, humming slightly in response. Although, he seemed to relax his posture, yet still refused to look at you. "Medic, we need you... I need you. You're a good doctor, I can't imagine anyone else fit to surgically implant baboon hearts—"

"Mega baboon hearts."

"Right, mega baboon hearts... into people. I love you, Medic." He swiveled his chair around, one leg crossed over the other as he had his arms crossed over his chest. He faced you, seeming to finally scan your features. He tilted his head, giving you a small smile. He tsked, pleased by your apology.

"Ah, schatz, you are forgiven." He beckoned you towards him, opening his arms up wide for a hug. You happily obliged, tackling into his large chest. He caught you, holding you and rubbing soothing circles into your side. "Ich liebe dich auch."

[megamindsupremacy]

a year and a half ago, i was in the throes of my Danny Phantom obsession. completely unrelated to this, i had undiagnosed OCD and anxiety out the wazoo. i was a high schooler at the time, and i would on occasion spend entire class periods vividly imagining how i would react in the event of a school shooting, running through endless iterations of different scenarios of how i could run or hide or fight to survive. my fears weren't entirely unfounded (my high school was definitely... something... and i still wouldnt be entirely surprised if a shooting happened there), which was absolutely not a help in terms of the aforementioned OCD/anxiety.

so obviously, like any other mentally ill nerd child, i channeled all these anxieties into a vent fic, which was at the time my longest prose fic ever. i published it anonymously in 2022 and got a small wave of comments at the time, and since then it's been mostly left to gather dust in the ao3 archives.

ive been considering taking it off anonymous for about a year now, but i never felt fully comfortable with doing so. now that i'm out of high school, though, i would like to have that fic attached to my ao3. it's tonally way different than my usual crack/humor fics, but it represents an important time in my mental health journey. i wrote it to work myself through those scenarios i would spend hours rolling over in my head, to fully realize for myself what a flight/freeze/fight situation could look like. the phandom was just the medium through which i decided to tell that story, and i greatly appreciate it for that.

anyways. i probably didn't have to write all of this, but it would have felt strange just dropping a two-year-old vent fic on yall without some sort of warning. here's Harmless.

[chickycherrycola]

Summer Nights

Hello and happy 4/20 friends! 😎🚬 In honor of the holiday, it is finally time to unveil a very special new fic! This one is a joint (hehe) effort between myself and my dearest pal @moriohpissky - our degenerate little love child, Summer Nights! I've teased bits and pieces of the first chapter over the past several weeks, and I'm so excited to finally release it to the world today, in all of its smutty, self-indulgent glory 😉🔥 featuring SoMa, the dorks in love as always, in a college/university, friends-with-benefits setting, and Soul as I've always wanted to write him - as a tattooed, weed-smoking, rock band guitarist 🤘 Full summary below:

Summer Nights

Rating: E (for explicit sexual content, marijuana use, partying and alcohol consumption. Adult stuff up the wazoo.)

Summary:

"On the heels of a messy breakup, Maka Albarn finds herself at the end of her junior year in college trying to pick up the pieces of her broken heart and fit them back together. When her roommate drags her to a frat party, an unexpected hookup with her handsome, tattooed, guitarist friend Soul leads Maka to scheme up the perfect remedy for her aching heart and shattered confidence: a hot summer fling with no expectations, no commitment, and no strings attached.

That is, if she can make it to the fall semester without catching feelings."

Ch 1 preview under the cut - or you can head right to AO3 and read!

Leah has also been cooking up a COMIC to go along with this first chapter! So if you like what you see here, please keep an eye out for that today as well!

She doesn’t usually do stuff like this. 

As her back hits the mattress and her field of vision tilts upward, she finds herself taking a mental inventory of her current state–a task that proves more difficult than usual, given the fuzziness in her brain and the tingling ache blooming low in her gut. Through the roar of her heartbeat in her ears and the electricity crackling in her veins, she craves the comfort of that which has always brought her solace–facts. Logic. Common sense.

Unfortunately, all of the above seem to be in short supply at present. 

Maka Albarn doesn’t go to frat parties.

The sour aroma of cheap beer in the air and the faint rumble of bass notes, the distant din of intermingled voices and the occasional whoop or shout from the lower floors of the house suggest otherwise. 

Maka Albarn doesn’t smoke weed.

The pungent, earthy taste in her mouth begs to differ, as well as the heat in her blood and the lag in her thoughts, the weightlessness of her limbs and the floating sensation permeating her senses.

Maka Albarn doesn’t hook up with guys she isn’t dating. She doesn’t hook up with anyone at all, ever, in fact.

The current body of evidence points to the contrary. 

The rustle of bed sheets beneath her and the tickle of rough lips tracing the line of her pulse, the callused hands cradling her face and slowly mapping the curve of her waist. The warm, intoxicating weight of a body–solid, hard, masculine–pressed against hers and the soft, pale hair tangled between her fingers. The heat of his breath and the lingering taste of smoke when his mouth presses to her lips, the click of her teeth against his and the slow, tentative trace of his tongue around hers as the kiss deepens.

Maybe, she thinks to herself, somewhat distantly, if Maka Albarn doesn’t do any of those things, then maybe… maybe, just for a little while, I can be someone else. 

Even if it’s just pretend.

Read the rest on AO3!

[bromcommie]

it's never over (hey, orpheus) stevebucky | M | WIP

Chapter 2 (presque vu) just posted for this fic! I still have no idea how you format these!!

Chapters: 2/? Tags: Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Then and Now, Music References Out the Wazoo, The Great All-American Revenge Roadtrip, Many many dream sequences, Unreliable Narrator, Identity Issues, World War II, Cold War Drama, Red Room Horrors, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Steve Rogers Needs So Much Therapy, Cap Quartet, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers the Lapsed Catholic, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn

Excerpt:

Two days, six hours, fifteen minutes. “Stop that.” “’m not doing anything,” Steve sniffs. Through the fog of painkillers strong enough to kill a horse, his sinuses twinge at him in outraged protest. "I'm bedridden." “Just because you're high as a kite doesn't mean you're not doing anything. I can see you trying to case the room." The soothing music crooning from Sam’s banged up phone on the side table is far too at odds with Natasha’s unimpressed expression. "This is a hospital. You’re a national icon. Have some decorum.” “Got plenty decorum. ’s wasting time I have a problem with.” Two days, six hours, sixteen minutes.

Read on AO3

[novantinuum]

heya! :D I'm so happy I found your blog, I just did a su rewatch this summer and I'm obsessed again! I was wondering if you had some fic recs to share? especially any and all that deal with steven's trauma (whether that be corruption aftermath, his abandonment issues, any of the traumatic experiences he had), anything really, just some nice and thorough hurt/comfort and healing <3 definitely up to any other recs you might have, even if they're about something completely different haha. thank you in advance!!

Ooooh heck yeah I can rec some of my favs! Admittedly, these days I haven't been reading that much new fic, so I'm not sure what new stuff is out there that's gone unnoticed, but I went through my bookmarks and found a few fics that still stand out to me today as ones I remember really vibing with when I read them-

First off, some fics that I remember delving into Steven's trauma (along other things)-

Aid to Navigation, by Ppleater (or @infriga here on tumblr)

Honest to god, this is my favorite Steven Universe fic on the whole goddamn internet. Post I Am My Monster hurt/comfort content galore. Emotional catharsis out the wazoo. Fascinating theorization about how Steven works as a hybrid. Sometimes there's even chapter artwork. ALSO NANEFUA AS AN IMPORTANT CHARACTER, WHICH I RARELY SEE LET'S GO NANEFUA

a world for the birds, by @fanfoolishness

Do you like Uncle Andy? Do you vibe with the idea of bird watching? Do you wanna read about Andy's outsider observations of the trajectory of his nephew's bizarre life as he shares his hobby of bird watching with Steven as a bonding activity over the years moving into the events of Steven Universe: Future??

Go read this fic, it destroys me. In fact, just do yourself a favor and check out this author's whole catalogue, because my next fic rec is from her, too.

Comminuted, by @fanfoolishness

Post Growing Pains hurt/comfort focused on Steven and his dad's relationship. I remember this one dropping pretty damn soon after the episode aired and it w r e c k e d my emotions and gave me all the catharsis my sappy little heart desired at the time.

WELCOME BACK TO THE VLOG, steven universe here! by waddlesthejoghog (or @thisisnotacreativeusername here on tumblr)

Here's a story with a COMPLETELY different format than all the others- this one chronicles Steven's life through a variety of videos he posts to his TubeTube channel over the years. (Which, if you watch the SU shorts, is a canonical fun fact about him! He posts unboxing videos and reactions and stuff online, ahah.)

Each chapter sorta like, "transcribes" what's happening in the video, and there's even a little views/likes/dislikes/subscriber count + mock comments section at the end of every one! I found it a very charming and fun read- but also it punched me in the face by the end because it's like a whole microcosm of Steven's character development throughout the entire show mashed into one 59 chapter story.

This one is not wholly focused on Steven's trauma, as it spans the events of the entire show, but that does play a decently big role later on in the fic.

__

As a quick little self-plug, I've also written a good deal of fics focused on various shades of Steven's traumatic experiences, and the following is (probably) my favorite of those:

A Memoir of the Marks Unseen (uhh... by me lol)

This one is focused on the topic of Steven + the headcanon of him having corruption scars like the other healed Gems, and picks up pretty soon after I Am My Monster. It spans months (and later Years) after that, detailing his journey towards accepting these remnants as a neutral part of him. I'm still very proud of finishing it, as I was pulling from some raw personal experience with this one.

__

Lastly, here's two Connie focused fics I remember slapping ass in their own various ways:

Xenopology, by CompletelyDifferent

Some Connie + all the Gems character study pieces!

The Stranger in Me, by Cyberwraith9

Connie accidentally gets perma-bonded with a poofed gemstone retrieved from a corrupted Gem. Hijinks ensue. I remember this one having a legendary level of character development for Connie and her whole family especially ;w;

[peppermintquartz]

When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass it on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love! 💙

OK here goes. I'm very shameless about my writing, actually. You might regret asking me this!

One thing to note: I lean towards the darker side, so if you do browse through my fics, be wary and read the tags. Lots of dead doves. And since I tend to write one story in different parts, I have grouped those that tell the same story.

1. Red Mist / Black Moon (Shadowhunters)

This set is one story, starting from Magnus rescuing Alec and then Alec saving Magnus. There are torture scenes which, frankly, I didn't go as dark as I would now, but the main focus for me was the relationship between Magnus and Asmodeus. Incestuous overtones in Red Mist becomes outright references in Black Moon, but there are plot reasons for it. I also loved doing the Chinese bits and also the multi-verse / trans-dimensional shenanigans bits.

2. Finn's Playroom (Pro Wrestling)

This is pure self indulgence. It has porn, plot, BDSM, angst, fluff, romance, friends with benefits, friends(?) with benefits, murder, attempted murder, torture, sexual abuse, recovery from abuse, breakup, make-up, BAMFs out the wazoo, childhood trauma, and lots of lore buried in there. But it's sexy AF. I gained a whole buncha wrestling moots with this fic!

3. In a Cottage by the Sea (Hannibal)

Oddly enough, this is the only one on this list that has no Dead Dove.

I wrote many Hannibal fics, and while I love the work I put into Bread & Music (massive age gap fic without Daddy kink), this one truly tested me as a writer because I tried being super minimalistic and sparse. I think, style-wise, this was the hardest to create, and I genuinely love this particular fic.

4. Contact / Touched / Caresses (Bleach)

Extremely Dead Doves. Be warned.

This is an interconnected story about the love between two of the main villains on Bleach (i reject Tite Kubo's interpretation completely), and in their unrepentant evil-ness, they are utterly devoted to each other. Love does not make a person good.

This was written 20 years ago, almost? so the quality of writing is sometimes 'eeeeeh' but i am proud that i did this in the first place. I wrote three different POVs of the same story, with some chapters happening concurrently, others filling in the blanks between the chapters of the other fics, it was completely insane, and I was utterly possessed by it because I was uploading one chapter every day or every other day. Lots of readers started rooting for the villains to have a happy ending... (see: number 5)

(This was written and shared on FFdotnet and transferred over to AO3 by copy-pasting from a download, so there are many typos. But given there are 263 chapters, and over 596,000 words in total, I am not editing this.)

5. Over All Things / I Will Remember You / You Will Remember Me (Bleach, conclusion to the above)

...And because of the impact of number 4 on this list, I could write this concluding trio of stories, again with multiple POV of the same incident, and I know I made a lot of readers cry.

For the very evil guys.

But, see, I woke up crying because this story unfolded fully in my head, so of course i had to inflict the pain on everyone else.

Thank you for letting me ramble about my fics, I really appreciated this ask!

[impishtubist]

I'm just telling you that finding your blong and works cheered me up *so much*, as a fellow person who loved Sirius back in the 2000s. Finally some food to eat!! What happened??

Well, the character assassination that Ootp unreliable narrator and the wired choices made in Hbd and Dh, of course.

Sirius being tall is mentioned a LOT in the books. He is a big scary dude and a big scary dog, and i miss punk Sirius listening to the Crush and Sex Pistols. Brilliant and wild and with a healthy tendency to question and defy authority. He clashes so hard with conformist characters like Molly and authority-respecting characters like Hermione bc he learned that questioning what you are taught and the people teaching you is important. He isn't irresponsible. PTSD up the wazoo, probably constantly triggered by being, well, imprisoned back at the site of his childhood trauma and suffering constant verbal abuse from the portrait of his original abuser, but not irresponsible or erratic.

Also, ppl who blame an older sibling for escaping abuse, wtf. As someone who's sadly familiar with how it goes, IRL, that's usually the narrative pushed by the abusive parents to divide the kids and push away the responsibility. All children in abusive homes are children, and the adults are the responsible ones. That is so ugly, as a person who has been there to see the struggles siblings like that go through.

Bonus:

Remus is gay little piece of wet tissue paper with self-esteem issues. He's a pathetic man who is very affected by social pressure, a chronic people pleaser who's afraid of genuine connections. He thinks no one can ever love his authentic self, so he will do everything to not let ppl know him, and so afraid of rejection, he will preemptively cut ppl out. He makes bad choices and then uses the guilt he feels as proof of being right. And I loved him like that. I read the coded gay when POA came out, and I called pathetic gay man with thinly vailed HIV metaphor.

You know what? I don't care, I'm putting this in the Sirius Black tag. Starting 2024 with chaos!

This is the greatest ask I have ever received. Yes, you get it! That is Sirius, not whatever is being portrayed in art and fic and headcanons these days. That is an OC who I do not know. Same with Remus! Prior to HBP and DH, yes, he was absolutely coded as a gay man and also a HIV metaphor (the latter of which is extremely fucked, but others have written tons of meta on that so I will not touch on it). But then of course JKR had to retcon that real quick when she realized what fans were writing, so of course Sirius had to die and Remus had to end up with a woman.

My first anon of 2024 is also now my favorite one, I'm not sure how anyone is going to top this 😂

[true-blue-sonic]

My dear friend from Discord asked me some questions as well🍀

🪐 ⇢ name three (more) good things going on in your life right now

I figured out what to wear for my interview XD

The weather's great out right now! The perfect temperature for a hike ^-^

I've been replaying Super Mario 3D Land these days, and I am tearing through it. I even remember basically all collectible locations up to world 7 or so despite not playing this game in years. It's a nice showcase that I've got much better with hand-eye coordination and what-not than when I was a kid, because boy, that game gave me troubles!

❄️ ⇢ what's your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best?

I've got so many Espilver ideas up the wazoo, I doubt I can ever finish them with how many more I keep getting at any opportunity, haha. Hmm, I'm really not sure... "Sonic Forces but more is done with Infinite and more attention is paid to the rest of the cast" is a nice idea, maybe? There's so much that I really enjoy in Forces, but I feel like there's also ample room to do more with it. Plus, it'll make me nostalgic for the days of 2017 before the game was released wherein so many people were theorising about how Gadget and Infinite were related and such! Or maybe a fic that focuses on Sonic in the world of SatBK with extra attention paid to the other knights (AND GALAHAD I want to see my boi)? Something like that! I'd say I would write it, but I simply won't have enough time for it all XD

🥐 ⇢ name one internet reference that will always make you laugh

No idea if it's an internet reference per se, but the concept of chirping crickets always make me chuckle. I gladly use it in my daily life as well!

🏜️ ⇢ what's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work?

I love comments that dive deeply into what sections the commenter enjoyed most, especially if it's got whole quotes attached. It allows for me to explain my thought process there, which I really enjoy! But all comments are appreciated🍀

🎨 ⇢ link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it

This one from @icycm24 because I have it in my house and it looks gorgeous <3

[capnhanbers]

you know I'm. good god I. man. man. man.

so, this chapter was the first one I've read of joat since starting my own (unrelated) fic, and it really all just straight up came rushing back of just how much your work has inspired me for my own writing. Your long running fic with incredible plot shaping and texture, rewarding foreshadowing, chokehold tight grip on your fascinating characterization of old favorites and OCs alike, character dynamics that make me go mad, humor out the wazoo that both enriches the story you want to tell thematically and makes the fic even more enjoyable to read, not to mention that buttery smooth writing style greasing the wheels of what already has got to be one of my most exhilarating voyages through exploring high art in fandom space- it's seriously all so incredible to behold, and a clear demonstration of skill in writing, narrative cohesion, and character exploration that I continue to reach for in my own works to this day.

genuinely, I can't begin to describe how much of a presence your writing looms in the sky of my mind space when I think about my aspirations to creating writing of my own. I can only hope that someday in my own fic I've been carving out in passion and search of personal catharsis I'll be able to create a clever, satisfying, Cleanly looped narrative-thematic-emotional gut punch for someone else as "A chara" was to me.

i don't even know what to say. what an absolutely, unbelievably, incredibly kind message like. i'm tearing up. i audibly mumbled "thank youu ;-;" at my phone screen. this is truly wild to think i might've had an influence on YOUR writing, like wow, like. fuuuuuck thank you dammit fuck thanks, wow, haha

"A chara" has meant a lot to me for a long time so really really thank u

[adelaidedrubman]

John and Jestiny put on a show for Skylar and Sherri. read here on ao3. 

notes: just in time for labor day, the sound of the summer is back! it’s hook, line, and sinker chapter 3 babey.  wordcount: 7.3k warnings: per usual, unhealthy relationships out the wazoo. stalking and harassment of past romantic partners (dealt with in a lighthearted manner but called for what it is in text), physical violence and semi graphic threats between present love interests (pre-relationship, but ft. john trying to pretend he’s not turned on about it), general deceit and manipulation, albeit mostly unsuccessful. humane animal death (it’s a fishing fic), weird sexual tension over fish gutting, littering, catchall johnjess warning. catchall my minimal proofreading warning.

���You got the plan down, right?” Jestiny hissed at the man fumbling uselessly with the task of baiting his hook, leaning into the motion of casting her line to inconspicuously shove in front of him and hopefully block the embarrassing display from Sherri and Skylar’s view. “Don’t need me to fuckin’ rehearse it with you again?”

By the time they’d parked the skiff just under the bridge connecting the road nearest Can of Worms Fishing Store with the island directly across from it where her ex-girlfriends were presently fishing, Jessie was beginning to think this entire thing had been a massive, undeniable mistake. 

“Yes,” John replied in a whistle through his own gritted teeth style into a grin, harmonized with a twang of his fishing line snapping. “You shouted it in my ear approximately ten times on the drive over.” 

He shuffled to her side, batting his eyelashes at her as he cocked his rod clasping hand back. “Dear,” he tacked on, with all the uncanny artificially synthesized saccharinity of a splenda packet. 

“Not your line,” she smiled in reply, letting go of the crank of the reel just long enough to reach over and bop the tip of his nose. There was no way she was going to let him actually cast in front of Skylar and Sherri. 

A well timed tug on her rod confirmed that luckily she wouldn’t have to — she was able to effectively knock his right arm down as she staggered back to oppose the force pulling against the line. 

She briefly darted her eyes to John to ensure was looking back with appropriately visible impressed enthusiasm — and not set to reach for his own rod — before settling her gaze on Skylar and Sherri as she wrangled her catch.  

The irritation at their stubborn refusal to look back was mildly assuaged by the sight of big, beautiful golden trout dangling at the end of her line as she yanked it from the water. 

“Oh, Jessie dear!” 

She resisted shooting another glare at the exclamation — Sherri and Skylar would know damn well she wouldn’t like being called that. 

This was definitely a mistake. 

“That might be the most impressive catch yet!” At least he was back on script now. “Please, let me have the honor of doing the work of gutting it for you.” 

“John,” she chimed bright with gratitude, dropping the fish into his outstretched arms. “That’s such a considerate thing to do for someone!” 

She gave a pointed look to Skylar and Sherri. 

“Anything for you, my dear.” 

She tried not to let tension settle too deeply into her jaw as she forced a grin. “I’ll cast your line for you while you do!” 

She made the barest of eye contact with her rod as she threw it out, the vast power of her stare settled on the tattooed hand bringing a knife down to pierce through the fish’s brain with expert precision. 

It was a genuine marvel to her how he managed to handle the task with such a natural grace that he seemed a completely different man from the one she’d watched flounder with the simple task of baiting a hook. 

If the fingers sliding down the clean, straight, perfectly placed incision along the fish’s underside weren’t branded with the same distinctive black ink, she would have thought they belonged to someone else entirely. 

She could almost imagine that he was someone different — someone she respected, even — as she watched his hand disappear into the cavern of the fish’s belly. 

The way he found the red knot rooting its spinal cord without delay, squeezing it tightly between his fingers. The way the delicate placement of his grip retained every bit of its exacting care even as his forearm flexed with powerful force to yank the long tether of nerves from the body. The way he remained completely unphased by blood dripping down to splatter atop those stupid, hideously expensive looking loafers. The way his arm flourished with a smooth, dramatic flair he threw the plucked out rope of organs into the water. 

“You’re good at that,” she murmured aloud before she even processed her mouth was moving. “I love watching you work,” she added with a deflecting chuckle and wink, forcing herself back into character. “Babe.” 

He blinked twice, a hint of genuine surprise seeming to spark through his eyes as he looked up to flash her a satisfied grin. 

“You might want to watch your line instead,” he replied with a nod towards her hands. “It looks like you have a bite.” 

Jestiny turned forward to see her pole bent to the point of being practically folded in half. 

“Fuck!” she screamed as she buckled her knees and yanked her arms back to oppose the fish. 

Jesus, this was embarrassing — how the hell had she missed the fish tugging? Had his shitty angling skills somehow infected her? She’d never had a fuck up like that when she was fishing with Sherri and Skylar. 

And now, thanks to him, she was making a fool out of herself right in front of them. 

Fuck. 

So embarrassing. 

Her cheeks flushed hot with fresh shame, only swelling as she successfully yanked up a massive largemouth bass. 

Fuck. She’d almost let a good one get away. 

This wasn’t like her. 

This was his fault, somehow. 

She should have never agreed to his stupid plan. 

This was a mistake. 

“What a catch!” the mistake in question cried with equal parts drama and vagueness, clearly lacking the know-how to comment on the specifics of the fish beyond the acknowledgement that it was one. “Would you like me to gut that one, too?” 

“She can wait,” Jessie replied, holding the fish up proudly. “Gonna wanna get a picture with her fully intact first. Sure beats that ten pound rainbow trout you caught earlier.” 

Listen to her. Even giving false credit for one of her catches. How far had she fallen? 

“Just pop open the cooler for me, then grab me some more bait.” 

She glanced forward again — Skylar and Sherri were looking now, at least, and she would tell herself they only started once the fish was pulled from the water. 

“Of course,” he offered pleasantly, to his credit tipping the cooler up so that the fish crowding it would be visible to her ex-girlfriends across the water. He was better at empty theater than he was at fishing. “All yours.” 

She swore she saw Sherri roll her eyes before turning to whisper something to Skylar. 

Those bitches. How dare they whisper secrets about her. 

Whatever. Moving on.

She swiped the cup bearing a proud ‘Drubman Marina’ logo perhaps a bit too hard from the cupholder, making a show of looking inside it. 

“Fuck!” she exclaimed, this time in feigned surprise. “Looks like we fished through all our bait!” 

“Fish biting a little too well, today.” 

“For some of us,” she replied, looking directly at Skylar and Sherri and the arrow-straight, undisturbed poles of their fishing rods. “But speakin’ of, I do believe that’s the proprietor of Cans of Worms Fishing Store over there with a full cup of bait. Let’s drive this baby over there to give their small business a little economic stimulus, at least.” 

“Jessie, do not fucking come over —” 

Jestiny cut off Skylar’s shouting with a rev of the motor rumbling to life, idling there as John pulled up the anchor. 

She could not so effectively drown out him whispering directly into her ear. “I didn’t say you could drive the boat,” he hissed. “The agreement was you would pretend to drive as we pulled up.” 

“I know,” she rasped back with a smile she didn’t have to fake. “I was pretending when I agreed to that. I deceived you. I’m good at that. You need work,” she said with a raise of her eyebrows. “You’re overselling. Make it subtle, don’t ham it up so much.” 

“Acting note taken,” he replied, scooching into the seat next to her. “Now give me the —”

She jerked the wheel and slammed her foot on the accelerator — giving it enough gas in the single pump that they were able to coast the distance to Skylar and Sherri’s place on the bank, the bow landing gently in the mud. 

“Expert docking, dear,” he commented syrupy sweet as he hurried to swipe the key from the ignition, slipping it onto his wrist. 

Possessive, paranoid, materialistic, overdramatic diva. 

Guess that explained the key she’d noticed hanging over his heart — must be to an even nearer and dearer expensive toy. 

God, she couldn’t wait to fake end their fake relationship. 

The sentiment only grew stronger as she watched him carefully tiptoe through the mud with sudden apparent concern over dirtying his already bloodied shoes. 

“Ms. Woodhouse,” John held out a hand towards the brunette that was met with nothing but a scowl in return. 

He made an apologetic ‘ah’ noise and wiped the hand on his shirt, but Jessie knew it was not the fish guts Sherri was repulsed by. 

“My apologies.” He bowed. “I haven’t yet had the privilege of patronizing your little store.” Jessie smiled. Patronizing was right. And Sherri deserved it. She had to admit she could revel in his condescension, when it wasn’t directed at her. “It’s so difficult when I have my own boat ramp right in the backyard to remember to get out there and support the small business owners in the community.” 

“Support?” Skylar cut in, scowling even harder than Sherri did. “When have you ever supported any business around here? You call trying to shut everyone down and take their property from ’em support?” 

Huh. That’s weird  — Skylar seemed to have history with this guy. And it was bad enough he was a lawyer at all, did she fuck up and start pretending to date a fucking foreclosure attorney or something? 

John waved the accusation off. “Please, I hate discussing business matters during my recreation time.” He reached into his back pocket to take out his wallet, pulling another hundred dollar bill from it. “I would love to support Can of Worms now.” 

He turned to Sherri, gauchely waving the bill in front of her. “I’m afraid my lovely date and I have fished through all of our bait. But it seems you have plenty left. He nodded towards the unopened can at Sherri’s feet. “I’d like to purchase it.” 

Sherri met him with a dead-eyed stare. “Store’s closed.” 

John turned, looking across the water at the Can of Worms storefront. “Your hours say open until 9.” 

“Well, I’m not on the clock.” 

“Oh, don’t be unreasonable. I’m paying well above market rate for something I could just waste time going over and buying from you, for much cheaper, in the store.” 

“No, you couldn’t,” Skylar said. “Store’s closed.” 

He pointed behind him. “I see it open.” 

“Store’s always closed to you.”

Jestiny gave up on pretending not to notice the conversation, setting aside her beer to slam her hands down on the side of the boat. “Well, fuckin’ sell it to me, then!” 

“God, Jessie,” Sherri groaned, leaning down to hold her head in her hands. “Can’t you just fucking leave us alone? Following us, harassing us while we’re trying to fish? We broke up with you. We don’t want you around.” 

“Shit’s sad,” Skylar agreed. “Just stop. Don’t make us get a fuckin’ restraining order or something.” 

Jestiny kicked the side of the boat, hard. “They’re called Orders of Protection, in fucking Montana!” 

“You learn that from your slimebag lawyer boyfriend?” Skylar asked. Jessie frowned. That was hitting below the belt, she thought. “And did he learn it from law school, or ’cause half the fucking County wants to take one out on his creepy ass?”

Sherri brought a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh at Skylar’s joke. “They really are perfect for each other, huh?” she giggled against Skylar’s shoulder, setting her chin atop it and looking up at her adoringly. 

Jessie felt flames crawl up in her belly. Of all the infuriating insults. 

“Yeah, we fucking are! I finally have someone who can keep up with me behind the rod and on an intellectual fuckin’ level!” she forced herself to flash an adoring smile of her own at the man she shouted over. “And he’s got an actual sense of humor! Just look at his outfit!” 

John turned to shoot Jessie a glare. 

“Yeah,” Skylar laughed, turning to nudge the flyaway hairs clinging to Sherri’s dewy brown skin away with her nose so that she could finally whisper her teasing directly into the brunette’s ear. “Looks like you and I were the only ones that didn’t think to come dressed for the circus.” 

“I fucking heard that!” she leaned over the side of the boat to screech, crumpling the styrofoam of the bait cup in her fist and attempting to fling the trash across the distance to Skylar and Sherri — the bits floating down to scatter impotently along the surface of the water instead. 

“Jesus, Jessie, a fish is gonna fucking choke on that,” Skylar cried, pushing herself up from her lounge chair. 

“And maybe I can’t stop you from driving a boat on public waters, but you can’t litter on my damn property,” Sherri agreed, reaching behind her to pull a net from the pouch on the back of her own chair and toss to Skylar. “That shit drifts to shore.”

Jessie crossed her arms over her chest with a huff, rolling eyes dismissively to duck Skylar and Sherri’s judgmental glares with an earnest wave of shame — she didn’t mean to endanger any poor fish, obviously, she was just angry — instead finding John’s gaze, oddly comforted by the quiet, embarrassed fury she saw simmering back at her, as if the bright blue glitter of his eyes was a temperate pool to reflect her own angry humiliation, unfiltered and undiluted in their vibrant heat. 

Then something in his stare sharpened, an almost imperceptible narrowing of the pinpoints of his pupils into focus, gaining all the ice-cold clarity of a glacial pond as he darted his eyes back to where Skylar reached forward to dip the hoop of her net into the water to scoop up the ripped up bits of styrofoam. 

“Hi,” John hummed pleasantly as he stepped up to Skylar, placing a hand atop the handle of her net. “John Seed. Do you remember me?” 

“The fuck you —” 

He slid his hand down the pole of the net, pulling it closer until his fist was circled just beneath the base of its mesh. “I tried to buy bait from you a few moments ago. You refused to sell to me.” 

“...Yeah?”

“Big mistake,” he barked with a tug of the net to cause Skylar to stumble slightly, barely catching herself to remain upright. “Big. Huge!” He forced a manic laugh, snatching the net from her hands. “Because perhaps had I been occupied with my own fishing, I wouldn’t have time now to ask if you have a proper permit to fish with a net.” 

Sherri stood, moving to stand between John and Skylar, defensively. 

“I do my business selling fishing licenses, dumbass,” Sherri grumbled, pulling two crumpled pieces of paper from her back pocket to flash. “You really think I’d come out here without one?”

“Ah.” John clicked his tongue against his teeth twice, wagging his finger and tapping it against the paper Sherri held out. “But I’d like to see your netting license,” he said in sing-song. “A Class A resident fishing license only allows fishing with a hook and line. Netting requires its own permit.” 

Sherri and Skylar exchanged confused looks. 

“Ha!” Jestiny let out a single, choppy laugh as she hopped over the side of the boat, splashing mud as she landed. “It does.”

It did, when it came to hoop nets. But of course even if he knew the law he wouldn’t know the difference between —

He waved a hand in front of his face, then rested it atop his chest. “Oh, I’m only joking, of course,” he said with a smile, bowing his head. “Montana Code Title 87, Chapter 6, Part 5 Fishing Offenses includes an exception in paragraph (1)(a)(iv) for landing nets.”

Jestiny felt a giddy heat blossom along her cheeks — that was unexpected. He knew the difference between a hoop net and a landing net. He’d actually studied up. 

He cocked an eyebrow, smile widening. “For after the fish has been hooked as specified in subsection (1)(a).”  He nodded down towards their rods. “And your hooks appear to be bare.” 

Skylar placed a hand atop her hip. “We weren’t even fishing with that net,” she said matter-of-factly. “We were just cleaning up the trash your girlfriend threw in the water.”

“That’s not what I saw,” Jessie chirped, throwing her arm around John’s waist and pulling him to her. “And I think the word of two officers of the court is gonna outweigh what y’all say.” Jessie leaned forward, snarling. “I think it certainly gives me probable fucking cause to seize all this shit as fuckin’ evidence of a crime, including the fucking bait,” she snapped. “I think it could mean both y’all forfeiting your fucking fishing licenses as penalty, if this shit gets charged.”

“And I have a feeling it would be,” John purred, turning to the side to beam at Jessie with a thoroughly convincing mimicry of proud adoration as he raked his fingers through her hair. His smile sharpened into a smirk as he turned back to their fellow fishers, hand still stroking up and down the side of Jessie’s neck. “I’m on quite good terms with the County Attorney.” Former prosecutor? Jessie worried in the back of her mind, not letting it distract her from their victory. “I think she’ll be quite concerned with such a flagrant fishing violation committed by a prominent player in the local fishing scene.”

“Good fucking God, Jessie,” Sherri huffed, swiping the can of worms from off the ground and shoving it in Jessie’s hands. “Here. Take the damn bait, since it means that fucking much to you. You win. We’re leaving.”

“Hell yeah you are!” Jessie cheered triumphantly at the pair throwing their tackle boxes into their truck bed. “Don’t let the trout bite you on the way out!” she called after them with a hand cupped at the side of her mouth. “Not that it’s been something you’ve had to worry about so far!” 

John threw his head back to laugh on cue at the jab, and Jessie had to admit as truck doors slammed to drown it out that he had something of a theatrical acumen. 

She turned to the side and clasped his face between her hands tightly as she grinned up at him in spite of herself. 

“That was amazing!” she said in a hushed roar. “I mean, I gotta fuckin’ hand it to ya, that was great, you —” 

She bit her lip as she watched him stand taller, a preening lift of his jaw as he basked in the praise. And for some reason she couldn’t summon the appropriate irritation at the vanity.

But as the engine of Skylar’s truck rumbled to life behind her, she nonetheless used the interruption to avoid inflating his ego further whilst keeping up the ruse by pulling him down to press her lips against his and kiss the smug smile away. 

He’s good, she thought as he melted against her obligingly with a swift but tender unwinding that felt shockingly natural, draping an arm over her shoulder to reach a hand around to thread in her short crop of hair as he kissed her back. 

His other hand rested gently atop one of hers still cupping his cheek, stroking along the leathery ridges of her knuckles as he dropped his jaw to deepen the kiss. 

It was so odd, the feeling of kissing him when they were playing at gentleness — the slow drag of the slick underside of his lip shifting up to expose the slight hairline cracks of chapping along its wetted surface, the surprising softness to the tickle of the whiskers of his beard that made her realize how meticulously oiled and groomed it must be, the careful way he mirrored her incremental movements as she finally parted, soft, panting breaths tingling against her skin as he dipped his head to stay leaned into her while allowing her the separation. 

“You, uh —” She drew in a sharp breath as she dragged her fingers through his beard, bringing their tips to rest just above his chin. “You knew the difference between a hoop net and a landing net.” 

He laughed, warm puffs of breath falling against kiss chafed skin. “It’s defined in the Fish and Wildlife Commission Regulations,” he said, his whisper further softened by the airiness of the deflection. “Keeping up with them actually comes quite in handy, in my line of work.” 

Jessie sighed pleasantly, then stiffened just as quickly. 

His line of work? 

She’d already been concerned about him being a bootlicking landlord lackey or overeducated cop of some kind, could the situation be even worse? 

Could he be — 

She gulped, dropping her arms and taking a full step away from him this time. 

Could he be some kind of in-house counsel for one of the commercial fisheries around here? One of the goddamn slimy corporate lobbyists for those corrupt, greedy bastards? 

No, she shook the thought from her mind — she couldn’t entertain such horrible possibilities, and the sudden blare of Skylar laying on the horn as she coasted by would have drowned them out anyways. 

“Jessie,” Skylar poked her head out from the driver’s side window to call out. “Can we have a quick, civil word with you?” she asked, punctuated with a pointed look towards John. “Alone?” 

All her catastrophizing about her pretend boyfriend’s professional life vanished with the giddy soar of accomplishment — this was it. Clearly Skylar and Sherri had talked about it, and after her impressive showing here today they had accepted what a horrible mistake it had been to ever break up with her in the first place, and were about to beg her to come back. 

“Sure.” She drew out the syllable with a nasally whistle, eyebrows raising with expectant understanding. “‘Quick and civil’ is my middle name.” 

Jestiny smacked the man beside her on the rear end to dismiss him, shaping her wince at the harsh impact of his uncushioned tailbone against her palm into a playful wink. “Give us a few minutes for girl talk, would’ya?” 

He pushed out his bottom lip, giving her a flutter of his eyelashes as he turned to head back towards his boat. “Don’t keep me waiting.” 

She wouldn’t — assuming the women were contrite enough, she was sure it would be five minutes flat before she was waving goodbye to him from the back of their truck bed as they all drove away together. 

Since he did know how to gut and clean them, she thought she’d let him keep the fish she caught as compensation for his efforts. 

“So, what’s on your mind?” she asked once John was sufficiently out of earshot, folding her arms along the window frame and resting her chin atop them to poke her head into the truck. “Need fishing tips?” 

“Look, Jessie, I…” Skylar gave her a pained look, drawing in a deep breath. “We talked about it, and… We really don’t want this to be any harder than it has to be, okay?” 

Jessie pursed her lips together, crinkling her nose and tensing her cheeks with a pressure she knew would cause dimples to sink endearingly into their rounds. She tried to not to savor the pained expression on Skylar’s face too much, but it was difficult not to indulge in the satisfaction from their begging with tail between their legs for her to take them back. 

Sherri nodded in agreement, leaning forward in the passenger’s seat to peer through the window. “We want to work this out.” 

Jestiny cocked her head further to the side, cheek resting against her arm. “I’m listening.” 

Perhaps she wouldn’t really make them beg, but at least a tearful apology was in order. 

“So, even though it’s right by my store, we’re willing to make a deal on this fishing spot.” 

Jestiny blinked up at them. 

“You can have it Saturday evenings through noon Sunday, and we agree to not come around,” Sherri explained. “Then we’ll take Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and you get Tuesday and Thursday.” 

“W-What?”

“It’s more than fair, I think,” Skylar tacked on, giving her a stern look. “Most of all, we don’t want it to be a big fight, anymore.”

“We want to handle everything peacefully,” Sherri said, expression pleading. “And we’re glad you found a new fishing partner, even if it is, well…” She shook her head, flashing a forced smile. “We’re just happy to see you moving on.”

Jessie clicked her teeth together, neck stiffening as she raised her head. 

This made no fucking sense. 

“Yeah, I mean…” Skylar shrugged, eyes darting over Jestiny’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth, y’all do seem really good together. Right for each other. Better than we ever were for you.” 

No fucking sense. 

Jessie slapped a hand against the side of the truck, pushing herself off its frame. “Are you fucking kidding me!?” 

“Seriously, Jessie?” Skylar deadpanned in reply. “It’s a really fair deal. We’re being nice, after —”

“Nice!” she croaked in mocking tone at piercing volume, throwing a too stiffly splayed hand up to swing through the air in the arc of a goodbye wave before clenching it back into a fist at her side as she stormed away from the truck. “Real fucking nice!”

The tension locked into her shoulders as she stomped through the mud, pinching tight enough it wrapped around to squeeze the cavern of her chest, push stinging bile up to catch and smolder in her throat in a heavy lump. 

“How was girl talk, my —”

The arm that tried to reach comfortingly towards her was quickly pushed away — fingers curling the soft leather cord of his key chain as she yanked it from his wrist. 

The polite clearing of his throat rumbled in synch with the motor roaring to life as she jabbed the key into the ignition and cranked it to the right. 

“My dear, how was —”

“We’re leaving!” she shouted over the harsh rattle of gas pumping through the motor to spin its blades, shoving the gear shift into reverse as she slammed her foot on the accelerator. 

“H-Hang on, let’s —” 

“We’re leaving now!” 

She jerked the wheel sharply to the left once she’d put space between the bow and the riverbank, leaving John flailing over the side to hurry to hoist the anchor. 

“Very well,” he ground out, loud enough to pierce over the racket. “But I’m driving the —”

She shoved the gearshift forward and stomped down on the gas again, sending them lurching forward with a bounce of the bow towards the sky. 

She barely even noticed the sudden, heavy pressure of something falling in her lap, the man at her side losing his balance and stumbling to land with chest atop her thighs. 

She rolled eyes that had begun to water from the wind cutting against them as the boat zipped along. 

“Those assholes,” she cursed, tightening the grip of her fingers around the wheel until they grew numb. “How dare they. How —” 

How dare they do what, exactly? her brain struggled to piece together as wind whistled in her ears harsher as the boat quickly gained speed, gliding over waves growing steeper from the force of her wake. “How dare they think they can just buy me off like that! Do they think — think this is just about a fishing spot?”

“Well,” John spat, heel of his hand smashing against her thigh as he tried to push himself up in the brief of lull of the boat’s course evening out as Jestiny weaved them between jutting mudbanks to an open stretch of water, slamming the gas down harder upon clearing them. “Isn’t it?!”

“Oh, fuck you, too!” she shouted down at him, jabbing her elbow at his collarbone to shove him away, off her lap and onto the floor. “This is about the fucking principle of the matter,” she hissed, wagging a finger at him on beat with the forceful up and down bobs of the boat along choppier waters. 

“This is about fuckin’ fairness, and justice, and getting what’s owed to me for the months I put up with their shit!” She briefly glanced up as she continued talking, distant greenish brown blurs of oncoming land fading from her line of sight as quickly as it popped up over the horizon, another jerk of the steering wheel bringing her to a wide expanse of clear, glittering lake. 

Good, she needed to do nothing but sail fast and directionless enough to outrun her thoughts for a while. 

“After all that they’re treating this like a fucking scheduling issue, when they should be —”

Should be what? She choked on a particularly strong gust of wind, stinging her chapped and sunbaked cheeks as it whipped against her face, a matching burn rising in her throat. Apologizing? Begging? Taking it all back?

She gritted her teeth tightly to steel against the wind as she continued. “They have the fuckin’ gall to act like they’re the ones being nice about this, when they can’t even —” She clenched and ground her jaw. “It’s a public shore! Sherri doesn’t own it, just because her store is nearby and it’s fucking convenient for them! They never even had a right to —” 

“You need to slow down!”

She pushed away the arm reaching for the steering wheel. “I’m fucking talkin’ at a perfectly fuckin’ measured and goddamn coherent pace! If you can’t keep up, that’s —”

“The boat!” he screamed, fingers clawing and pulling at her arm without managing to get it to budge. “You need to slow down the —”

Sudden warmth slung itself along the tops of her thighs — a glistening mix of blood and saliva spurting from his mouth as his jaw crashed against the glossy wood of the dash. 

And the air filling her lungs to feed the complaining shout building in her chest was knocked from her just as quickly by the heavy impact of his torso crashing against her as he was flung back — landing in her lap for the briefest heartbeat before they were both sent flying over the captain’s seat and tumbling along the length of the boat as its bow tipped upward and the smooth coast of water along its hull was replaced by a harsh, violent scraping. 

The pressure of his body weight only intensified, now fully pressed against her to pin her down back flat against the backrest of the row of seats at the stern — which now ran almost parallel to the ground from the angle the boat had landed. 

She grunted, trying to wriggle out from under his weight at least enough to free her arms and push him off entirely — the effort proving unsuccessful, his body staying pressed flush against her even as the vast expanse of tangerine marbled sky stretching out above her became blocked by his head, lifted so the scowl twisting onto his face could show. 

She shoved the heel of her hand against his chest, gripping his shirt and pulling when he failed to budge. “Get the fuck off me!”

The angry curl of his upper lip deepened, head jutting forward until their noses were pressed together. A droplet of blood fell from his mouth to land with sudden heat on her chin. “You crashed my boat.”

“No shit!” she spat back, butting her forehead against his. “You shouldn’t have been fucking distracting me!”

His brow twitched, his body tensing further. “You crashed. My. Boat!”

“And did you get some kinda fuckin’ head injury during it or something?!” she barked. “The boat crashed —”

“You crashed —”

“— you have sufficiently fuckin’ established that.” She shoved her hand harder against his collarbone, digging her nails into the mass of his shoulder. “So how about instead of sitting around goin’ off like a broken record you get the fuck off me and help me shove this thing back into the water? I’ll even give you the honor of driving the piece of junk back to the marina, since you have such a minnow up your ass about me doing it.”

“Oh, and wouldn’t I love to,” he hissed out through tightly gritted teeth, lips twisting into a smile leagues removed in its exaggerated pleasantry from the bitterness of his tone and the rage in his eyes. 

His smile dropped — a swift movement of his arm breaking her grip on him as he pulled it towards his chest, then shot the hand forward to bury in short strands of copper and grab a fistful. His palm settled cradling the side of her skull as he jerked her head towards him by the grip on her hair, then slammed it back down against the seat cushion at an angle that caused her neck to twist so her head was turned towards the side and at the edge of the backrest as she landed, forcing her to look over the back side of the boat to the motor. 

“Had you not certainly managed to damage it beyond the point of being able to cross a puddle!” 

She paused only briefly to take in through narrowed eyelids the sight of mangled propeller he’d directed her gaze towards, a sleek black and silver blossom of twisted and dented metal, one of its petals bent so far back by the force it looked plucked clean from the stem. The second outboard was absent from the boat entirely, just barely peeking up past the waterline at the base of the short cliffs they’d landed atop. 

She flicked her glare towards the hand buried in her hair, then back up to his face so she could savor the wince of pain in his eyes as her boot made contact with the side of his stomach to kick him off.

She scrambled to her knees to grab him by the shoulders and slam his back against the ledge of the stern, climbing atop his chest and pushing him back further until his head hung off the side, neck nestled between the shiny metal blades of the propeller. 

She replicated the force he’d exerted against her, pulling gel-stiffened locks from their place plastered against his skull to shove his head back and sideways until the edge of the twisted propeller blade dug into the delicate skin of his neck. “I bet it still runs good enough I could start up the engine and lob your head clean off your fucking body right now!” 

She watched pink crawl up the stretched column of his neck and settle deep into his cheeks, blood rushing to his head from the angle. She felt his chest tense beneath her as his hands reached out to grip her hips, heard the rustling of his adjusting his legs behind her — certain he was readying himself to push her off and retaliate. 

She elbowed away the arm reaching towards her hip before he had the chance, settling for the sufficiency of her threat and hopping up before he could strike. 

She jumped down from the boat to stand atop the rocks and survey the landscape, scanning along the rocky coastline, the peaks of mountains and the sharp points of pine trees standing in backdrop past the vast expanse of sunset sparkling water. Her eyes traced the outline of the suspension bridge running roughly parallel to the shore, which Skylar and Sherri would likely be zipping across on their drive from Can of Worms back to Skylar’s trailer up in the mountains right about now. It was too vast and treacherous a distance of lake to attempt to swim across, especially in the creeping darkness, and the only other land in reach were the smaller, even less likely to be inhabited islands. 

“We landed at that big ass fucking island that blocks off the lake from the West,” she announced, dragging a knuckle along her chin as she thought, smearing away the droplet of blood she’d forgotten had settled there. “About three-quarters north ways into it, I’d say.” 

She spared a glance to the man still in the upturned boat behind her, fidgeting and pulling down at the hem of his now thoroughly dirtied shirt as he rose to stand. 

She sighed, briefly reaching into her pocket to check with a sense of predetermined defeat the display screen of her cellphone, confirming a thick circle around a diagonal line greeted her positioned at the service strength icon. 

“We can keep hiking north, along the coastline,” she said resolutely. “We’ll hit the main road eventually, and we can hitchhike along it. Worst case scenario if no one picks us up, there’s a little general store on the other side of the water. If we get started now, we might make it before they close up shop.” 

“Hitchhiking?” he repeated, weighed heavy with incredulity. “No, absolutely not. This isn’t exactly the place for —” 

“Jesus,” she interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Look, I know you just lost one of your favorite toys, but we don’t have time for you to be a spoiled fuckin’ brat about how we’re getting out of here, too. It ain’t exactly my favorite pastime neither, but those of us born with mouths empty of silver fucking spoons know that sometimes you gotta do things that are —” 

“If you could stop talking down to me long enough to listen, perhaps you’d understand that I’m not protesting because I think it’s beneath me. I’m… familiar with this island, actually.” 

Jestiny rolled her eyes. Was there a thing on earth he wouldn’t find a way to brag about? 

“And I can tell you, there isn’t going to be enough traffic along the road for hitchhiking to be a reliable bet.” 

“Great!” she barked, pushing past him to reach for her now well dented tackle box. “All the more reason to haul ass towards Old Sun Outfitters before closing time.” 

“They’re closed already,” he deadpanned in reply. “Permanently. The owner and his family of si —” John cleared his throat, with a quick, hard blink, as if needing to abruptly shift his train of thought. “They shut down. I doubt there’s even a working payphone around there, anymore.” 

Jessie paused to study his expression, to scrutinize the strange, sudden dodginess behind the unnaturally soft smile and relaxed eyes. 

He was clearly hiding something. Had Old Sun really shut down? She’d only stopped by there a couple of times to pick up bait, and she couldn’t say she went recently enough to know, or often enough to keep track of their business. 

And how would he know, anyways? Was he — 

Her breath hitched, that same chilling, nauseating prospect bubbling back to the surface. 

Was he a foreclosure attorney? 

“But if we keep going west and cross the main road, there’s actually a —” he paused, the fluid wave of his hand continuing on beat as he stared on silent and searching for words. “...residential area, on the other side of the island. Closer than the rundown general store, and actually occupied. I know a place there we can shelter for the night. And some of my associates will be stopping by anyways tomorrow morning, and can drive us back to the Marina first thing.” 

Knowing the zoning for a place he didn’t live? Having associates in the area? 

Jessie gulped. This did not bode well. 

“No fucking way am I gonna go wandering into the woods at sundown with a fucking creep like you. And I’m sure as hell not joining you for a fucking sleepover.” 

“Oh, please,” he scoffed, throwing arms up into the air. “I could just as easily drown you under the cover of darkness during the little moonlit stroll along the coast you’ve proposed, were homicide my goal.” 

“Yeah?” she goaded with a raise of her brows. “And I could avoid the fuckin’ risk altogether by bashing your head open against these rocks, and selling whatever good samaritan I finally flag down a sob story about how my poor boyfriend just died in a boating accident.”  

“Oh, and how delicious and satisfying it would be to spend my final breaths watching you stumble helplessly lost through the woods, not finding another soul, until you finally collapsed from exhaustion and joined me in death.” 

“I would fuckin’ carve out your eyes and throw them in the lake first, so that the only thing you’d ever see of me again is my fishing hook when I came back here to catch whatever trout had the bad luck of eating you.” 

“Would you?” he gasped, with an unbothered, wild smile and a hand drawn to his chest. He pushed out his bottom lip so that his smile fell, clicking his tongue against his teeth and pinching his brow with feigned pity as he patted his pocket and added in taunting sing-song, “Because I still have your fishing knife.” 

She felt her jaw tense and her eyes bulge angrily, waving her arm as she stomped away to preserve whatever image she could of being unbothered by the revelation. 

“Keep it!” she shouted as she turned on her heels, beginning to stomp her way north in as steady of a march as she could keep atop the uneven rock. “I’ll walk my way back to the mainland alone, and you can fuck off into the woods!” 

“Oh, don’t be foolish!” John called after her. “It’s better that we stick together, you can at least be reasonable enough to see that.” 

“Sure fuckin’ can’t!” she shouted over her shoulder. “I’m following the road, whether you’re with me or not!” 

He huffed, impatient and petulant, stomping forward a few paces without properly committing to following after. “Would you just listen? You’re not going to find anyone to help, it’s —” 

Still, it was enough to let her know it was a bluff, and he’d be following along whatever path she chose. “At least I’ll be alone!” 

“Which is dangerous!” he bellowed after. “Jessie, will you please just follow me into the occupied part of the island? For fuck’s sake, do you even have bear spray?”

“Nope,” she chirped pleasantly, pausing a beat at the word ‘please.’ “I’ll take my chances!” 

“For the love of —” She picked her pace back up. “Wait!” His footsteps thudded more quickly behind her, and the arm swinging back with her upbeat gait was caught at the wrist by his hand. He let out a long, exasperated sigh. 

“There’s a very secluded little stream on this island, out by the abandoned mill,” he explained with a renewed slow, measured calmness. “Not many people know about it, and hardly anyone is ever there. But I have it on good authority it’s an excellent place to catch rainbow trout.” He released his grip on her wrist, as if testing her willingness to stay in place without the force. “I could show you where it is — and see to it the few other people who know about it make themselves scarce from here on, if you’ll follow me to make camp for the night.” 

Jestiny clenched her jaw tightly enough she thought her teeth might crack as she paused there, considering. 

She knew bait when she saw it. 

He was a devious, manipulative, conniving bastard trying to lure her in with cheap tricks she was too smart to fall for. 

Biting now would be yet another huge mistake, and she was above that.  

She drew in a deep breath. 

“Lead the way.” 

[crimeronan]

Was Hunter correct in assuming Lilith would throw a coup if Amity’s life was threatened? I know Amity said it was only a nice thought but I assume her self worth is only slightly better than Luz and Hunter’s.

Slightly unrelated but I’m also fascinated with whats going through Lilith’s head past assassination. Belos was a similarly horrifying presence in her life, but she also put so much of her self worth into the empire.

hunter is ABSOLUTELY correct that lilith would stage a coup if anything happened to amity bc of the empire. lilith is basically the same lonely friendless desperate-for-approval wreck that she is in the canon, save for like, steve -- and amity. she still wants to heal eda's curse and will ask luz to do it, but if the sequence of events went like: belos dies, luz takes the throne, amity is either openly killed or dies under mysterious obviously-murder circumstances immediately afterward...... lilith would lose her MIND. she desperately wants to keep her faith in the titan and in what belos has told her, but if anything happened to amity, the response would be very similar to when eda was sentenced to death in the canon.

amity doesn't realize this because she's still obsessed with power and control and categorizing every relationship into "person with power" and "person without power." she knows that lilith likes her and that she has lilith's approval, but she very very Very much believes that that approval is conditional. she has to keep proving that she's the best and that she's useful and that she's a good (read: authoritarian) leader if she wants to retain her place in the coven.

just. eclipse lake echoes out the wazoo for both amity And hunter here.

for her part, lilith believes that luz has the right to the throne and hasn't questioned it. she's also not questioning belos's death, possibly because she Absolutely Does Not Want Answers There. lilith is SO ANXIOUS about the succession, though. she doesn't want anything to change and is aware that everything is going to change and she's having turbo autism about it.

in the immediate aftermath, she's throwing all of her energy into running the coven smoothly and with minimal disruption. she wants things to all be normal and fine so she's going to do her damnedest to make them that way. things have the potential for complication especially when lilith talks to luz about eda, and luz lets on a little bit of Just How Drastically she wants to alter the empire..... but i'd need to write a full fic to figure out the exact shape of all that.

[lokisgoodgirl]

Hey, if you also want to play with the Writers asks

A, K and Z

💚💚💚

Girl you read my mind! I was about to reblog it after I sent yours and completely forgot...you're always one step ahead! Thank you for thinking of me! :D

A: Of the fanfic you’ve written, which is your favourite and why? Oh lord. I can't choose, I'm sorry. 😆 But.. As a 'body of work' I think I'm most proud of The Lakes - I put a lot of my heart into that and technically I think it's quite strong. And as a representation of what will be etched on my Tumblr gravestone, I'd submit the Hostile F*cks Collection - it's very me, through and through - and I'm really proud of it. Ridiculous, sexy, Loki out the wazoo, and ofc the outfits which are my calling card. K:  Do you have a guilty pleasures in fic (reading or writing)? Breeding kink comes to mind. I have no interest in Mr LGG turning out that kind of chat, but sometimes I just...need it🤣 The only time I've written it was The Urge and it resonated so I know I'm not alone but I need to be in a very specific mindset, which is why I've never written it since.

Z: Is there a story you’ve written that doesn’t seem to get much love? I'm very lucky to have some extremely loyal/horny readers who are appreciated with all my heart, so not really. I squeal like a little kid every time🤣 Some of my early fics are quiet - but then, whose aren't! And I wouldn't particularly encourage anyone to read those, I've definitely come a way since then (I think! I hope!)

[22degreehalo]

Aaaaand I finally return with my next update for the Summer Fic Reading Challenge by @ficreadingchallenge!!!

And the end really is coming up, hahah... But I hope I will be able to finish the whole card before then! :)

Reviews/links under the cut~ Ships include Yuki/Kakeru, Aegon/Larys, Dirk/Jake, Archie+Jughead gen, Kirk/Spock, and Aegon/Helaena!

Domestic/Curtain Fic Like Fireworks in the Night Sky by PrincelyHairdos (86k, ongoing, Yuki/Kakeru) Uaaaaghhhhhhhhh OTL I really can’t recommend this fic enough if you want to fuck yourself up!!!!!! Yes, there’s the pining, and the achingly-sweet relationship between the main two boys, but they’re both in relationships at the start of the fic, and the story explores every little beat of the pain and awkwardness and tension of that premise!! None of the characters involved are bad people, and the story is equally sympathetic to all four of them, but Yuki is very much just forcing himself in his relationship with Machi (comphet up the wazoo), and although Kakeru and Komaki sincerely love each other, he and Yuki so obviously have this long-standing unintentional and unaware emotional affair going on that just gets more and more in between them! I chose this theme because so much of the Yuki/Kakeru relationship revolves around how comfortable around one another as uni students living in the same dorms; they’re not actual roommates, but they may as well be with easily they share their space, and it’s that pre-established and on-going easy domesticity that provides all the delicious, awful tension in their actual official relationships!

Rarepair Last Hope by Yarwrit (1.4k, Aegon/Larys) Of course for this theme I had to use a ship that I never possibly would’ve considered prior to that final episode of the show :’D But this fic was exactly what I wanted: Aegon’s despair and Lary’s quiet support; Aegon’s rationally skeptical of his sincerity, but so desperately needs some sort of a real friend, and the commonality between them as two disabled men rings true. Larys might well still just be manipulating him (I mean, that’s certainly at least part of what’s going on), but his attraction, at least, is real, and meaningful <3

Space AU it’s only a canvas sky by Mayleavestars (9.2k, Dirk/Jake) I really struggled with this theme for a while because I’m not much of an AU reader and all the space AUs I could find just felt like normal fics with a hand-waved set dressing. This fic was my saviour: the vaguely Star Trek universe setting relates perfectly to the long-distance communication Dirk and Jake had in canon, allowing for a dynamic that perfectly supports their canon personalities and relationship while giving enough of a twist to the formula to justify the AU. Oh, the pining; the rituals!

Angst love story (but it's platonic) by sharksarewaterdogs (2.8k, Jughead + Archie gen) Another soulmate mark fic, and another fun twist! Jughead's angst is super believable, not just worrying about himself but how Archie would feel to know that his soulmate is an aro/ace guy. But Archie is so sweet, and once the shock wears off, their friendship really does shine through! I always love to see a-spec fics with at least a lil non-fluffiness, and this was nice and cathartic <3

Author’s Oldest Fic The Word Withheld by j_s_cavalcante (12k, Kirk/Spock) Of course for this theme I had to go with one of the chronologically oldest ships I’ve been into, and what a beautiful fic I chose for that!! I have memories of AOS fic about Spock Prime encouraging his younger self tom seize the day and make the most of the time he has with Kirk, but applying that plot to TOS gives it all the more resonance given the way things turn out in the canon timeline. The quiet intimacy between Kirk and Spock is on full display here, and perfectly reminded me why I once read so many fics about these two <3

Bittersweet/Unhappy Ending lost innocence. By ProjectFreelancer (1.4k, Aegon/Helaena) :’( These two deserved so much better… Among all the longfic in this fandom I was soooo happy to see this shorter and more melancholy missing-scenes type fic, elaborating on this relationship we haven’t gotten to see nearly enough of, with a particular focus on the actually pretty damn traumatic circumstances of their marriage!! It ends on a positive note for the whole family… but we already know how this story ends. :(

And that's all so far!!

Of the spaces left, I have a definite fic in mind for 'Enemies to Friends / Lovers' (it's just a matter of finishing it first; could've done that before making this post but I've delayed long enough already :') ), and a potential something for Take Your Fandom To Work and Secret Relationship. I didn't expect that last one to be difficult given how much I love the trope, but maybe I just need to try some other pairings... And I've always figured it wouldn't be too hard to find something for Whump once I get in the mood, heh.

So with all that, it'll just be a matter of which of the random non-recced fics I've read recently I should use for the Free Space!! n.n

(Also ahhhhh I really did expect to ask for another card before this thing ended... but that'd be kinda pointless now, huh :'D)

(Also? Yes, I have indeed managed all different ships for each square so far. :'DDD No idea how it's worked out that way, but I can't bring myself to stop now!!)