#get you a man who can fuck around on one plane while simultaneously finding out on another

[icenineporcupine]

On the casually insane antics of Illusionist!Gale…

I don’t usually wax poetic about the blorbos on main, but I keep thinking about one specific aspect of Gale’s act II romance scene that makes me completely feral.

Sure, it’s impressive that he can project a pretty aurora into the sky, and recreate his rooms in Waterdeep from memory. And maybe somebody with better knowledge of 5e spellcasting rules has a really mundane explanation of this and it’s nbd (if so don’t tell me XD)…

… but purely based on what we’re being shown, Gale just blithely conjures an illusory copy of The Art of the Night — and with enough detail — that he can then use it to simultaneously cast a second spell (when he has Tav place their hand on the diagrams in the book) that transports two souls into the Weave? And is presumably maintaining concentration on both? While also blowing Tav’s mind?

It’s one thing to be able to cast/maintain two spells at once; but that’s not even the whole of it; he’s casting the second spell using materials he imagined into existence with the first…

Maybe my Tav and I are just hopeless smitten nerds (we are), but that’s some Inception, dream-within-a-dream fuckery. Gale mentions he can’t create such elaborate illusions very often, and it’s fair to assume that he was referring to the scale or the grandeur of it; but the multi-channel processing is so much more galaxy-brain, imo? And at that level of detail?? Babygirl’s got photographic memory in that terrifying tadpoled head of his, on top of raw magic talent.

And let’s not even get into the combat implications of being able to just pull entirely functional spellscrolls out of thin air, even if only on occasion. At that point, what’s the actual difference between illusion and reality? God!Gale may not be an emotionally healthy ending for him, but with illusory talent like that, it’s easy to understand how quickly the lines blurred for him—even without a heavy helping of hubris dumped on top…

[Karlach voice, rubbing the back of my neck] Anyway, what were we talking about….?

[thatshithurted8]

Out Of Character

Summary: In which JJ and the Pogues are left confused as to why you ran off with Barry’s money, but their worry only increases when they find you in a brand new hot tub at John B’s. 

Hey! I have another idea for a Jj imagine. What if the reader and jj are dating and instead of jj in the hot tub scene it’s the reader because her mom is abusing her. Requested by: @joshy-obx

Word Count: 2.1k 

Warnings: Mention of physical/verbal abuse, panic attack and injuries. 

Every member of the Pogues had their own respective roles, which made the group click so well. Kie was the mom of the group, always scolding the boys for doing something stupid while simultaneously giving out amazing advice. Pope was the smart and logical one, and despite him being the only one out of the group with a promising future he would do anything for his friends. John B was seemingly the leader of the five teenagers and he was known as being strong willed. He could get things done no matter what the risks were. JJ was the smart ass, but also the one who always got the group into trouble. No one could really relax around JJ as he was always causing trouble. And lastly there was you. Your role in the group was being the strong and optimistic one. When things got rough you were always the first one to look at the bright side, in fact none of the Pogues have ever seen you cry. 

So when you seemingly acted on pure impulse and adrenaline the rest of the Pogues were shocked and at a lack of words seeing you get defensive for stealing Barry’s money, causing you to ultimately run off with it. It wouldn’t be until later that night that they would understand the reasoning behind your actions. 

When you ran off naturally the Pogues searched for you since you were acting so out of character. However, JJ was the most worried. You two have been dating for the past year and have been friends for the last five. Over the years you and JJ have gotten extremely close so it alarmed him to see you act out. 

The four remaining Pogues plus Sarah all split up to look for you. Sarah and John B went together while Pope and Kie went off on their own as well. JJ went off by himself, making sure to check every spot he knew you would go to like where you guys went on your first date or where JJ would find you after you had a rough day at home and you needed to clear your head. Despite the groups efforts they couldn’t find you. 

Obviously JJ wasn’t going to give up on looking for you, but he hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning so he found himself walking up to the chateau. As he steps foot on the property the whole yard is illuminated by fairy lights strung throughout the trees. 

He furrows his eyebrows in confusion, none of that stuff was there when they left this morning. The blonde rounds the corner and his heart drops when he sees you sitting in a brand new hot tub. 

“Y/N?” He calls out while walking over to you, his hunger being completely forgotten. 

“Yoo I’ve been waiting for you to get here!” You exclaim as your eyes fall onto your boyfriends figure. 

“What is all this?” The blonde asks reaching the hot tub while looking around at his surroundings. 

“I decided to get something nice for my family for once.” You slur. JJ looks around the hot tub and notices beer cans in the cup holders and some were even floating in the warm water. 

“Y/N you can’t be serious right? You stole money from a drug dealer and spent it on a fucking hot tub! He’s going to kill you.” JJ stresses, but you simply roll your eyes. 

Just as JJ was about to open his mouth to give you another lecture your attention moves to find the sound of a car door being shut. A smile appears on your face when you see your best friends Kie and Pope start to walk over to you two after Kie locked the car. 

“Hey what’s up guys!” You exclaim raising your arms above your head like a referee calling a field goal. 

“What the hell Y/N?” Kie asks as her and Pope make it over to JJ’s side who had his arms crossed over his chest and a furrow deep in his brow. Pope and Kie looked at JJ confused, but he only answered with a shrug, he was out of the loop as much as they were.

“I was hoping you guys would be coming! Hey look at this.” You say pressing a few buttons causing a disco ball above you that none of the Pogues noticed before to start spinning and the jets in the hot tub to splash upwards. 

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion when your friends don’t look amazed by the cool features in front of them. With that being said you really wanted to impress them and have them join you so with a swig of your beer you start to press random buttons hoping something cool would happen. 

“What the hell did she do?” Pope asks turning to JJ. 

“I don’t know man it was like this when I got here.” 

Kiara turns around to try and convince you to get out of the hot tub so they can understand what the hell happened and why you seemingly had a breakdown, but the sound of the screen door opening and closing causes you all to look over at the chateau. Your younger brother and sister run down the steps of the porch and race each other to the hot tub. This only causes JJ, Pope and Kie to become even more confused. It was a known fact that you didn’t allow the two kids to be out this late. After all you’ve been practically raising them since you were ten. 

“Y/N our movie finished can we come in?” Your brother Braxton asks dipping his hand into the warm water while your sister, Moira gave you puppy dog eyes.  

“Of course!” You exclaim while giggling, causing your siblings to turn around and race back into the chateau giggling, to get changed into their bathing suits. 

“Uh Y/N shouldn’t they be in bed?” Kie asks once the rambunctious kids were back inside and out of ear shot. 

“Who cares? My mom and step dad don’t and my dad doesn’t either so why should I?”

“What do you mean your dad doesn’t care?” JJ asks, the last time he checked your dad was living on the main land with your step mom and you guys were welcome to stay with him when ever. 

You simply roll your eyes and take another gulp of beer before throwing the now empty can somewhere in the yard. “I was going to ship Brax and Mo off to see my dad.” You slur while saying your siblings nicknames. 

“But when I called him all I got was voice mail. He says that we can come and visit when ever, but he doesn’t mean it. He’s too happy with his new family and we’d just ruin everything.” You recall sitting back into the warmth and jets of the tub while allowing your legs to float up, your toes poking out of the water. 

“Who cares right? Now we have this sick hot tub!” 

“You could’ve still got them plane tickets!” JJ exclaims, Kie cutting him off right after, “Or you could’ve donated the money to literally any charity!” 

“Or even give Barry the money back, he’s going to kill us you guys!” Pope stresses looking at everyone in the group. 

Annoyed with your boyfriend’s and best friends critiques to your actions you stand up quickly, water falling off of your body. “Well I didn’t okay! I spent the money on something my friends - no something my family can enjoy so if you guys are going to keep on judging me and my fucking decisions then leave!” 

Chills run up JJ’s spine at your speech and how your torso looked when you finally stood up. Along your stomach, especially around your rib cage were dark bruises and a few cuts. As Kie and Pope realize the damage done to your body as well, the yard falls silent except for the sound of crickets and the hot tubs jets. 

“Y/N.” JJ says softly stepping closer to the edge of the hot tub. He was filled with anger, knowing exactly who did this to you, but all he wanted to do was comfort you the same way you do when he endures a beating. 

Neither you or JJ notice Kie and Pope scurrying to the chateau’s porch to bring Braxton and Moira back inside who just came back out, clad in their swim suits. 

“It’s fine J.” You say, tears welling up in your eyes. 

Your boyfriend kicks off his boots and socks before stepping into the hot tub, not caring that his cargo shorts and the contents in the pockets were now wet. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you towards your chest. Once your cheek makes contact with his shirt you let the emotions that you have held in for so long out. 

JJ knew your home life wasn’t ideal, but he didn’t know it was this bad. You have always been so strong. Even when he would meet you at your special spot in the boneyard when you were having a rough night you never even implied that you were getting physically abused. Yes, he knew your coked up mom and step dad were both verbally abusive which was still horrible he had no idea things have gotten physical. A part of JJ felt as if he let you down since he had no inkling as to what was happening to you when you were at home, causing a part of his heart to break especially knowing you have been there bandaging up his cuts and scrapes from his father while your own bruises and injuries were healing themselves. 

“I just wanted to be a good sister for once and get them out of there, but it didn’t work nothing ever works.” 

“Hey hey look at me.” JJ says pulling back and holding your face in his large hands. “You are a great sister to Braxton and Moira. Without you they would have nothing. You are the best thing that has happened to them and they love you so much.” 

You simply look into your boyfriends eyes with tears falling down your face. Seeing you like this made JJ’s heartache. “You know that right?” He asks to make sure since you didn’t look too convinced from what he said. 

In all honesty you knew how much your siblings valued and loved you, but life was tough. You never signed up to be Moira’s and Braxton’s primary caregiver, especially at such a young age. Nonetheless you had to do what you had to do, you had to play with the cards you were dealt. However, at this point you were so tired. So tired of playing mom, balancing school, searching for the gold and being the brunt of the physical and verbal abuse from your mom and step dad. You wanted to give up, but the way JJ looked at you made you realize that you couldn’t.

Nodding your head yes you let out another sob before pulling JJ closer to you. 

- 

JJ walks out of his bedroom where you were currently sleeping, and he makes sure to close the door behind him quietly. He walks down the hallway into the living room where he found Kie, Pope, John B and Sarah. The rooms atmosphere felt tense as all the teenagers were concerned and worried for you. 

The blonde was successful in calming you down and getting you out of the hot tub after your emotional moment. He ran you a bath and bathed you while your body continued to tremor from the after shock of your panic attack. While he dried you off and bandaged your injuries John B and Sarah returned, confused as the other Pogues just an hour before. Kie explained to the couple what happened as Pope tiptoed out of John B’s room where Braxton and Moira were sleeping, he just got them to fall asleep. 

“How is she?” Sarah asks quietly, worry evident all over her face once she see’s JJ walk into the room. The rest of the Pogues look up at the blonde expectantly. 

“She’s as good as she can be right now.” JJ says quietly while walking over to the screen door where his boots were. The four teenagers watch him as he slips them on. 

“Where are you going?” John B asks.

“If Y/N wakes up tell her I’ll be back soon.” JJ says ignoring John B’s question before opening the door and walking down the steps of the front porch. 

JJ was going to make sure that your step dad and mom never laid a finger on you or your siblings ever again. 

- 

Question of the day: What is your “role” in your friend group? 

[up-to-some-good]

Part 5: 5 times I fixed it...

“Mr and Mrs Potter,” Dumbledore started. “I’m afraid I have some bad news regarding the prophecy.”

Lily had had a bad feeling when he had pulled them out of the meeting early to talk. They had heard about the prophecy a month ago, but at that point it was between her baby and Alice’s, both born at the end of July.

“He thinks it’s about Harry,” she said.

She thought of her son. He was with James’s parents at Potter manor while they were at the meeting. He had been asleep when they left for headquarters. It was hard to believe there was a target on his back.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore responded.

James took a sharp breath and pulled Lily’s into his lap, squeezing her fingers. He reached for her whenever he needed comfort; every time he found out about another casualty, he pulled her into his arms. It was a comfort to both of them, but it didn’t work this time.

“What do we do?” James asked quietly.

“I believe you should go into hiding,” Dumbledore said. “Are you aware of the Fidelius charm?”

“Yes,” Lily said. “You conceal the secret of your location in another person. You cannot be found unless that person chooses to divulge the secret, but it cannot be coerced or otherwise forced out.”

“Correct,” the old man said, his eyes twinkling.

For a moment, Lily felt like she was back at Hogwarts, answering her Professors’ questions to win back the house points the man sitting next to her had lost.

“I suggest you use it to hide your family, until all is safe,” Dumbledore said calmly.

“All due respect, Albus,” a voice came from the door. “But that is a terrible idea.”

Professor McGonagall walked into the room and passed each of the Potters a biscuit from the tray downstairs. Dumbledore gave her an indecipherable look.

“We all know there is a spy in the Order,” she continued. “You cannot guarantee the person you choose will not betray you and, even if they do not, they could be found and killed or tortured until they revealed the location.”

“What do you suggest, Professor?” Lily asked.

“Leave the country,” she said simply. “Go somewhere far away, like Australia, where there are no Death Eaters, and return when the war is over. I suggest the Longbottoms go with you as a precaution.”

“How do we stop Voldemort from simply following us? We won’t have back up in Australia if he comes for us,” James questioned.

“A simple diversion will do,” McGonagall responded. “We will place two houses under the Fidelius as if you were living there. They will serve the purpose to hide your true location without putting you at risk.”

“Who will be the secret keeper?” James asked.

“Myself and Alastor,” McGonagall said easily.

“Okay,” James said. “I trust you.”

Two days later, the Potters packed their bags and headed for the airport. They said goodbye to Euphemia and Fleamont the night before at dinner, pretending they would be reunited, but knowing the elder two would not be around much longer. Alice and Frank met them at the airport with Neville and gave them tight hugs. No one in the Order, not even the other marauders, knew where the families were going, just that they would be in hiding for the foreseeable future.

“Ready to go?” Frank asked.

“As much as we can be,” Lily said.

The six passed through the airport and boarded the plane together, disappearing for the next year.

***  

When he arrived at the flat, Sirius poured himself a glass of Firewhiskey and retreated to his bedroom. James and Lily had been gone for a month and things were getting harder. The remaining marauders were always on separate missions, gone for days at a time and not telling each other where they were going.

Remus came back injured and held on to Sirius as tightly as he could when he came back, but they didn’t talk. Sirius loved him as much as he ever had but wondered how much longer he could go without knowing what Remus was doing or telling Remus what he was doing.

Peter did nothing but talk, guessing who the spy was and changing his opinion daily. The day he suggested Remus, Sirius asked him to move out of the apartment. He had to trust Remus and Peter. They were all he had left without the Potters.

A sound from the living room startled him. Someone had apparated into the flat, someone unexpected. Remus always apparated outside the front door, so his boyfriend wasn’t back, and Peter always sent an owl ahead, so it couldn’t be him.

He grabbed his wand and stormed into the living room to find –

Regulus, lying on the floor and drenched. He looked like he was breathing, but the strain of apparating had clearly knocked him out. There was some sort of locket clutched in his hands.

“Merlin,” Sirius said, running to crouch at his brother’s side.

He started casting every healing and warming spell he could think of, grateful for Remus’s lycanthropy for the first time. Regulus was a known Death Eater so Sirius shouldn’t have been helping him. He was his little brother, though, and he couldn’t watch him die on his living room carpet.

Eventually, Regulus started awake, sitting up rapidly and nearly collapsing again from the effort. Sirius caught him before he fell and moved him carefully to the sofa.

“Sirius?” he asked weakly.

“What the hell happened, Reg?” he asked.

Regulus started laughing, leaning his head back on one of the throw pillows. Bewildered, Sirius watched his brother laugh hysterically for a few minutes before he calmed down and looked back at him.

“I should be dead,” he said eventually. “I thought for sure apparating to a place I barely remember from underwater would kill me, if the inferi didn’t first.”

“What are you talking about?”

Regulus didn’t answer. Instead he sat up and threw the locket at Sirius, who caught it easily.

“What do you know about horcruxes, Siri?” he asked tiredly.

Within the next few days, Regulus repeated his story multiple times, to Dumbledore, Remus, Moody, and any other Order member who wanted to hear it. He wanted to join the Order, help with the hunt for horcruxes, but few trusted him.

“I’ll swear an Unbreakable Vow,” he said eventually. “I’ll vow that I won’t betray the Order, that I’ll be loyal.”

Dumbledore agreed and, once the spell was cast, Regulus was welcomed into the Order of the Phoenix.

Everyone’s missions were cancelled, unless absolutely necessary, in lieu of the hunt for horcruxes. Dumbledore guessed at the number and objects and sent them out to look for them. Within a few months, the Order had gathered the cup, locket, diadem, diary and ring after a few daring missions and one small, albeit destructive, heist from Gringotts.

“Now what?” Sirius asked. “How do we get rid of them?”

“There are two known methods,” came the calm answer from Dumbledore. “Basilisk venom or Fiendfyre.”

“So we’re fucked?” Remus asked incredulously. “Unless someone as a pet Basilisk they’d like to share?”

“There’s rumoured to be one at Hogwarts,” Regulus said mildly. “But I don’t know where.”

The Order looked at the objects on the table and collectively sighed. The few months tracking them down meant nothing if they couldn’t destroy them.

“Anyone have a house they’re willing to burn down?” Remus asked the room eventually. “Preferably one with an astounding amount of protective charms so we don’t have to cast them?”

Sirius and Regulus shared a look. Walburga Black had died just a month ago, leaving Grimmauld Place entirely empty. Orion had been an especially paranoid man, so the house had always been protected with every charm he could find. Neither of them wanted the house and they had already set Kreacher free – it was perfect.

“Actually,” Regulus said. “I think we do.”

Watching the house burn was incredible, skulls rising from the smoke as Voldemort’s soul died in the fire. It was almost fun – until the Death Eaters arrived.

A fierce battle started, everyone fighting to get to the centre, where Voldemort himself was fighting Dumbledore. Sirius stood with his back against Remus’s, righting Bellatrix and Rowle simultaneously. Remus was engaged with Yaxley and Malfoy, occasionally shooting a jinx at Goyle, busy fighting Regulus.

Across from them, Peter and Snape were engaged in a duel, neither of them focused on anything around them. Unexpectedly, Peter stunned Snape and moved on. Even more, unexpectedly, he joined Sirius’s duel – on the Death Eaters’ side.

“You little rat, Pettigrew,” he yelled. “How could you?”

“You’re not going to win, Black,” Peter yelled. “Last chance to switch sides!”

“Fuck you,” Sirius sneered.

A second later, everything changed. Dumbledore landed the killing shot and Voldemort crumpled. Bellatrix pointed her wand at a distracted Sirius. He yelled in pain and fell to his knees, but she didn’t let up, keeping her focus on torturing her cousin as if he were personally responsible for her master’s death. Peter cursed Remus before disapparating with the other Death Eaters as Moody began stunning everyone in sight.

Remus collapsed next to Sirius, blood pouring from the cuts on his chest.

“Avada kedavra!”

A green beam of light hit Bellatrix in the chest, she and Sirius collapsed simultaneously, the latter panting and shaking.

“I never liked her,” Regulus said mildly, pocketing his wand.

Sirius and Remus woke up to a sound in the living room a week later. They had left the hospital a day before, both of them still exhausted and still in pain, but alive. They slowly got up and grabbed their wands before padding to the living room, where they were tackled into a group hug by a flash of red hair.

“Lily,” Sirius said breathlessly, hugging her tighter. “You’re back.”

He pulled away and looked up to see James, holding Harry, who was almost a toddler at this point.

“We’re back,” James said quietly.

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 21

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

“Hi,” she greets him as he walks in the door, “I have something for you.”

She’s perched in the armchair, a smile that’s coy and playful curling the corners of her mouth. He gives her a curious smirk as he slips off his shoes and overcoat.

“Okay, like a gift?” he asks, crossing the room to plant a kiss on her lips, stealing another to enjoy the warm feeling of her mouth against his, which is chilled from the wintery air outside.

She shakes her head as he goes into the bedroom, changing into sweats and a T-shirt.

“You’re going to have to find it,” she calls from the other room, and he smiles to himself.

This is his favorite version of her; playful and flirtatious, quick to smile and laugh. He loves all aspects of her personality, but the rarity of this one makes it feel special. She almost never acts this way in front of anyone else, even her family; it feels like it’s just for him. He moves to stand at the threshold of the living room, leaning against the wall.

“Are you going to give me a hint?” he asks, and she considers the question with a thinking man pose.

“Well, I will tell you that right now you are very, very, cold,” she finally says.

His eyebrows lift in understanding and he walks back into the bedroom.

“Colder!” she calls, and he moves to the kitchen.

“Still cold.”

He walks to her desk.

“Mmm, slightly warmer.”

Next he steps close to the fireplace.

“A little warmer.”

He turns to look at her and narrows his eyes. He takes a step towards her.

“Oh, warmer.”

He stands directly in front of her chair.

“Getting hot,” she says with a playful lilt to her voice.

He drops to his knees between her legs.

“Very, very hot.”

He slips his fingers into the waistband of her pants.

“On fire,” She says with a smile.

He moves to pull her pants down and the tips of his fingers meet with something foreign near the top of her thigh. He quirks his head quizzically, fitting his whole hand into her pant leg and pulling out two long strips of cardstock. Airline tickets.

“How do you feel about a California Christmas?” she asks hopefully, and he looks at the tickets to see that the destination is San Diego, December 22nd.

He knew that she and her mother had been talking about flying out to see Bill for the holiday, but he’d assumed that he’d be left at home.

“What about Priscilla?” he asks, both touched that she wants to include him in her family’s celebration and nervous about meeting her older brother, who he understands will hate him by default.

“We can ask the Gunmen to look after her,” she offers. “Unless you don’t want to come with me?”

He can tell by her tone that it’s not meant to be a way for him to opt out, but a test of his willingness to go. She clearly wants him to.

“Of course I want to go with you,” he replies, moving close and wrapping his arms around her waist. “I will admit to being a little worried about meeting your brother, and in his home, on his turf.”

She gives him a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry too much about Bill. Missy and Charlie are going, and Mom of course, and they love you. I know Tara will too. So even if he does pull the big brother card and give you a hard time, we have strength in numbers.”

“Is Byers going?” he asks hopefully, and she shakes her head. “Missy only just barely told Mom about him. It’s too soon for them.”

“But not for us?” he asks with the smile he reserves for the times when she alludes to the seriousness of their commitment.

She shakes her head slowly. “Not for us,” she says.

———

“Oh my god, I’m going to lose my mind, Mulder.”

She’s pacing around the apartment, putting things into different piles and open suitcases, her level of stress palpable in the air.

“Honey, stop for a second,” he says, grabbing her by the shoulders and dipping his head to meet her eye. “Take a deep breath,” he instructs, waiting as she does so. “We don’t need to leave for the airport for another twelve hours,” he says, keeping his own tone calm and level to counter hers, “we have plenty of time to pack.”

“It’s not just the packing, Mulder, this entire week was a nightmare. Everything I was hoping to accomplish before this trip was waylaid in one way or another; I missed my doctor’s appointment because of an emergency autopsy and forgot to reschedule it before they closed on Friday, Trudy was out sick half the week so I had to absorb her workload, the dry cleaners lost the dress I was going to bring for Christmas Eve mass, Priscilla is out of food AND litter, and I can’t find my earplugs for the plane,” she rattles off.

He pulls her into a hug, feeling her relax a bit with the contact.

“I will go pick up cat food, litter and earplugs,” he says, pulling away to look at her again, “and I’ll remind you to call the doctor tomorrow and reschedule. Wear that blue dress with the little flowers on it to mass, it looks beautiful on you. And try to breathe,” he finishes, giving her a sympathetic smile.

She forces a small smile onto her mouth and takes another deep breath. “Thank you,” she says quietly.

He pours her a big glass of wine before bundling himself up against the cold and venturing out into the December night.

———

She glances at Mulder intermittently, watching for signs of overwhelm. She knows that coming from a small, dysfunctional family means that he’s not accustomed to the type of gathering they are currently entrenched in; the entire Scully clan plus Tara’s parents and brother, and several members of their church. He seems to be faring okay, sipping a beer while talking sports with Charlie and a few others.

As nervous as he’d been about meeting Bill, he was well prepared. Scully directed him to speak highly of the Chargers while eviscerating the Patriots, and to go easy on the PDA. While they aren’t exactly best friends, Bill doesn’t seem to actively dislike him, and they are calling that a win.

She’d fully expected them to be set up in separate rooms given Bill’s traditional family values, but the number of people who needed to be housed made that impractical. They ended up relegated to the guest room and a single twin bed, though the enormous stack of pillows and blankets arranged on it suggest that one of them is expected to make a bed on the floor. They don’t do that, of course, instead sleeping nested together like spoons, Mulder continuously making half-hearted attempts at getting frisky while she laughs and slaps his hand away.

They are dressed for midnight mass on Christmas Eve, Scully in her flowered blue dress and Mulder in one of his typical weekday suits. They sit in the pew between Mom and Charlie, hands clasped chastely on the bench between them, suppressing giggles as he leans over to warn her that he is at risk of bursting into flame. He traces patterns on her palm with his index finger and she realizes at some point that they are letters. She concentrates, trying to understand his message, expecting it to be ‘I love you’ or something similarly sweet. When she puts together that he is spelling out ‘sex tonight?’ she looks over at him with wide eyes and then purses her lips together tightly to keep from laughing, doing her best to glare at him.

They file sleepily through the door at nearly 2am, quietly going off into their respective bedrooms and pull-out couches, hoping to get some rest before Christmas festivities in the morning. Scully quickly brushes her teeth and washes her face before darting to the bedroom, wriggling under the covers and pressing her back against Mulder, her cold toes brushing against his shins.

“Hm, you’re cold,” he says softly, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her closer.

“Thanks for going to mass,” she whispers back, “it meant a lot to my mom to have all of us there.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” he answers, his breath hot on her neck, “it’s nice to feel like a part of a real family.”

She threads her fingers through his where they rest on her belly, squeezing his hand. She tries to go to sleep, but his chest rising and falling against her back and the heat of his groin tucked against her backside are distracting. She wiggles a little bit against him.

“Hmmm,” he responds, thrusting his hips against her gently.

She swore that she was not going to have sex at her brother’s house. She knows that they can go without for the week they are here. But as she feels him grow hard against her ass, the throbbing between her legs suggests otherwise. No doubt it’s exacerbated by the forbidden nature of the situation; the door doesn’t have a lock and the house is quiet and still, though packed with enough ears that the risk of being heard is high. When his lips press against the back of her neck, she knows she’s done for.

She reaches behind herself to slip her hand into his pajama pants, stroking him firmly as he breathes hard into her ear, suppressing the groan that she knows would normally result from her touch. He pushes his pants down to his knees with one hand, then hurriedly brings hers down as well. She emits a small gasp when he slips inside her, simultaneously pushing his hand under her pajama top to squeeze her breast.

“Jesus fuck, you’re wet,” he whispers harshly in her ear, and she wants to make a joke about not taking the lord’s name in vain on his birthday but when he starts pumping in and out deliciously slowly, the thought slips from her mind.

If he moves too quickly the bed squeaks, so he keeps a languid pace as he pinches her nipples and kisses her neck, then slides his hand down to play with her clit in the tight space between her legs, which are still pinned together by the pajama pants around her knees. It feels incredible, and yet the necessary slowness and need to stay quiet make her wonder if she will be able to come. As if intuiting this, Mulder withdraws momentarily, sitting up and freeing her top leg from her pants, then lies back down and hitches her ankle behind his knee; her favorite position. He pulls the blanket back over them for warmth and modesty, though if anyone were to walk in now they’d have no chance of plausible deniability. With more room to move, he resumes his slow strokes and pairs them with hard and fast circles around her clit, murmuring little affirmations into her ear so softly she can barely hear them, much less anyone else. The vibration of his voice, the slip of his cock, the rough brush of his fingers, all come together in crescendo as she stiffens in his arms, turning to muffle her cries against his mouth as she comes. Now able to focus on his own release, he continues to pump slowly, pressing his face into her neck and letting out a low growl as she feels him throbbing inside her.

He slips quietly out of the bed, retrieving one of his dirty T shirts and swiping it between her legs before he pulls her pajama pants back into place. They get comfortable again, the sexual tension that had prevented them from relaxing before now dissipated.

He kisses her cheek softly, murmuring “Merry Christmas, Scully,” into her ear just before she drifts off to sleep.

In the morning, they sit around the lit tree, drinking coffee and eating pastries as they shake off sleep.

“Is your house haunted, Bill?” Charlie asks, and Bill gives him a doubtful look. “I swear I heard some weird noises, like creaking and whispering, I felt like I was in a horror movie,” Charlie defends.

Scully hides her face behind her coffee cup, glancing over to see Missy giving her a pointed look.

“I’m sure it was just the Christmas spirit,” Maggie says jovially. “Who wants to open presents?!”

[ri-ahhh]

Can we have some sexy time with gray that stars out rough but ends up soft and cute🥺

I’m gonna make it a continuation of this concept bc low key it’s one of my faves and yk.. why not.

Also I was gonna try to finish this on my laptop so I could put the keep reading break so I don’t clog ppls dashes but tumblr never fucking works on there and I couldn’t do it :/ sorry

A/N: hi hello just finished writing this and it turned out to be garbage but I wanted to post something for the ppl asking. If you are one of those ppl I’m sorry for this haha truly it was just the best I could do for now.

***

For the first half of the ride home, Grayson’s hand doesn’t leave your thigh. You can feel the tension still brewing in him in the way his calloused fingers grip the soft, bare skin; in the heavy sighs he releases every few minutes and the sudden revs of the engine as he speeds down the highway.

His lingering frustrations at the situation that happened in the mall make you smile softly, and you interlace your fingers with the ones stroking your thigh. Eyes big and sympathetic, you bring the back of his hand to your lips. “Baby, relax,” your murmur against his skin quietly. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

Grayson shakes his head and glances at you as he pulls your joined hands into his lap. “I fuckin hate guys like that. Can’t believe he put his hands on you.”

“He touched you?” Ethan piped up from the backseat, voice incredulous. “Oh, fuck that. If that has been K...”

The short remainder of the car ride was filled with the twins loud, enthusiastic rants about douchebag chauvinistic men who have no respect for women. It warms your heart, makes your chest fill with pride at the thought of how good your man really is. You squeeze his hand and stroke his arm gently, dragging your nails up and down the veins popping out from the stress and anger he’s both somehow releasing, but also still carrying.

The three of you make it home, and Ethan is immediately hopping out of the car with his shopping bags, eager to see his girlfriend and show her what he had bought her while she had been out with friends. Grayson’s jaw is clenched as the two of you follow his brother inside, and you make your way immediately to his room; you think you know exactly what he needs to get rid of that last bit of well-intended machismo energy he’s got in him.

Sure enough, Grayson shuts the door behind him with a little more force than he really intended, tosses all the shopping bags he had carried in for you to the ground, and wraps those strong arms around your waist in all of two seconds of the door being locked. You giggle and let him hoist you up, wrapping your legs around his waist and cupping his stubbled cheeks in your hands gently to bring your lips together.

He walks the two of you to his bed and lays you down as gently as he can while you’re still clinging to him, mouths never separating as he captures your lips over and over again in hot, relentless kisses. When your back hits the mattress, you moan softly and hitch your leg higher up his side, his hand sliding to your ass and grabbing a handful of it through your shorts.

“I need you,” he says gruffly between kisses, panting heavily. He squeezes your cheek again, and uses his grip to haul your hips closer to his while simultaneously lowering some of his weight onto you. You can feel the hard ridge of him against your center, and it makes you gasp. “Can I, please?”

“Yeah, baby,” you agree easily, almost as desperate for Grayson now as he is for you. He’s sexy and kind and good and you love him, and you imagine the scenario of some girl running her hands on those thick arms you love so much, or the swell of his abs over his shirt, and you realize the healthy possessiveness very much runs both ways. Your blood runs hot, and you slip your hands under his shirt to feel the rippling planes of his back. “Want you so bad.”

He growls, deep and primal, and you bite your lip as he sits up and whips his shirt over his head by the collar. It gets tossed blindly to the corner of his room, and you’re instantly reaching out to run your hands over all those muscles covered by soft, tan skin.

Grayson sighs and lets you indulge for a few moments, his lips quirking up at the corners for a quick second and ruining that sexy scowl as he watches you admire him.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. His big, warm hands cup your hips, and he shuffles down some as he slides your oversized shirt up so your stomach becomes exposed for him — supple skin that’s just begging to be kissed.

So he does. His lips are soft and a little wet from the kisses you had shared just a minute ago, but they’re hot and insistent as he makes his way up your torso. Goosebumps flare in their wake, and you shudder beneath his smirk. Grayson pushes your shirt up further, just beneath your bra now, fingers shifting grips from the dips of your waist to the ridges of your rib cage now.

You don’t need words to know what he wants, so you lift your arms overhead the second he bunches the shirt up past your tits. His tongue drags over your sternum once it’s thrown across the room, then he’s swiping it over the buds of your nipples peaking through the sheer mesh of your bra.

Your back arches up into him with a gasp, fingers delving into his thick hair as he grunts and tugs the cups of your bra aside to free your tits for him. Your nipples tighten even more, damp from his tongue and now completely exposed to the cool air of his room — not to mention, the way he’s looking at you right now has every nerve ending in your body excited.

His pretty hazel irises, usually so soft and comforting, are consumed now by the dark of his pupils, despite the warm sunlight shining through the window. Those smoldering eyes stay locked on yours as he ducks his head to suck your left nipple into his hot, wet mouth, his hand kneading your other breast roughly.

“Love your tits,” he huffs against you after a minute of making you writhe beneath him. His tongue trails to the center of your chest, and he nuzzles your cleavage, breathing in the sweet smell of your skin. His stubble scratches against the plush, delicate flesh there, but it’s a mere second before he’s switching breasts to give each the opposite treatment.

You lose his eyes when he shuts them to really absorbe the touch and taste of you, but you don’t mind when he smells so good and feels so familiar and uses those lips and tongue and fingers so fucking good. You whimper and clutch him even closer to you than he already is, perfectly content to have him suck at your tits for as long as he pleases. The feel of him big and heavy and warm on top of you is as relaxing as it is arousing, being so consumed by the sensations of him up top while his erection fits snugly against your pussy.

“Grayson,” you whisper desperately. He looks up at you, and you’re taken by the softness behind the desire in his gaze. He follows the tug on his hair you give to drag him up for a kiss, and you both sigh happily into one another’s mouths when they reconnect. It goes without saying that you could kiss this man forever.

You tighten your legs around his waist and and urge him to rock his hips into yours. Grayson obliges readily, a quiet grunt escaping his lips as he starts grinding into you. His hand returns to your ass, holding you against him for the perfect leverage while he sucks on your tongue and tries to find the right angle to put just the right pressure on your clit.

It’s like any moment of softness and slowness gives him time to remember what got the two of you here this afternoon in the first place, and the ravenous energy from before picks right back up. You’re definitely not complaining by the ebb and flow of everything; it only heightens your own desperation for him, to know he cares so much and wants you to the point of making you cum just from some heavy dry humping.

As if he can read your mind (or maybe you his), Grayson pulls away from the kiss and drags his free hand up your thigh, squeezes your waist, and punches your nipple on his way to grip your cheeks gently but firmly in those strong, calloused fingers. He makes sure you’re looking him dead in the eye again when he tells you in a deep, rumbly voice, “Wanna make you cum in these fucking shorts. Can you cum for me, baby?”

You nod as best you can in his grasp, shifting your head enough to slip his pointer finger into your mouth. You watch him watch you suck it, his hips pressing harder into yours as the pleasure and overall arousal turns up for both of you. His cheeks are flushed and his chain dangles between you, glinting in the sun and reflecting bright spots on the tan skin of his pecs.

A moan escapes you, vibrating around his finger before you add the middle one for a few moments, too. You let him push them down your tongue until the tips touch the back of your throat, and you pull them out with a slight gag and a seductive smile.

“Make me cum,” you murmur hotly, guiding his hand between your bodies and slipping it past your waistband — leaving the shorts with that little logo on the leg on, just as he requested. “I’m so close already, Gray. Please.”

Grayson moans himself and shifts his weight so you’re flat on your back and he’s hovering over you with a hand planted next to your pillow. He touches your pussy for the first time this whole afternoon just as you arch your back to reach beneath you and unhook your bra.

You fling the useless garment across the room and grab immediately onto his forearm by your head, the other clutching the sheets in attempts to ground yourself from the sudden surge in pleasure emanating from your clit. Grayson circles it a couple of times before sliding one, then two, fingers to the hilt.

“Jesus, you’re so fucking wet, baby,” he groans. You can only nod and moan, then cry out his name when he curls his fingers just right and finds your spot, like he knew right where to look and wanted to waste no time getting to it. He latches onto your neck, sucking a bruise into your pulse point while he builds that wave inside you. His fingers don’t pump in and out, but stay hooked on that spot that’s making you moan and whine, using his wrist to vary the pressure on it until you’re absolutely losing it, exploding on his hand with broken whimpers of his name.

You’re still high in the sky when he sucks his fingers in his mouth with an appreciative moan and tugs off your shorts finally, then his own, before crawling back on top of you. Naked together and still riding the lingering aftermath of that orgasm, you hum contentedly and accept the hot, desperate kiss he pulls you into.

“Wanna fuck you. Need to fuck you,” he mumbles against your lips, already reaching between you to rub the tip of his dick up and down your soaking wet folds. Even though you’re still sensitive and satisfied, almost nothing can bring you back to a stare of pure arousal like when he teases your hole like that — so close but not enough. It awakens this primal, incessant feeling of absolutely needing to be filled up, and you can’t wait anymore.

You thread your fingers through the back of his hair and arch your hips to encourage him to slip inside, which he finally does with a guttural groan.

“Fuckin give it to me, Gray,” you say once he has a steady rhythm built up. It’s not enough for either of you today, though, and you both know it. You need closer, hotter, harder, more.

Grayson looks wild, his hair sticking up in all directions from your wandering hands, eyes dark but bright, a thin sheen of sweat illuminating ever ridge and valley of muscles on his torso. He doesn’t give you much more time to look, however, as he hooks your knees over his elbows and leans down over your body.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and he tucks his face against your own as he starts pounding, his balls slapping against you ass with every hard thrust. The angle is catching you just right and the sharp, pleasurable pain of his teeth sinking into your collarbone only brings everything to a new level. His quiet but audible grunts and moans float right to your ear, the best sounds in the world as he delivers exactly what you asked for.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whine, digging your nails into the sinews of his back. Grayson keeps driving into you with renewed purpose, absolutely set on getting you there again with nothing more than his cock.

“Yes, baby, please,” he begs, groaning loudly when he feels you start to clamp down on him. “That’s it... all over my dick... pussy feels so goddamn good.”

You should be sleepy and beyond satisfied at this point, but his heated words make you want to absolutely ravage him. With that, there’s the glow only a couple of amazing orgasms from the man you love can make you feel that fills your chest. So when you’re able to voluntarily move your limbs again, you push back on his chest so he has to stop sucking sweet little kisses into the collumn of your neck. He looks at you a little confused, but you just smile gently and keep putting pressure against him until he ends up on his back.

You settle between his tattooed legs and admire the way his dick lies flat against that solid tummy of his, glistening with your juices. Your mouth waters at the sight, and you take him in your hand to guide his throbbing length between your kiss-swollen lips.

You suck your cum off his skin, humming in satisfaction while you watch him lay back with one hand behind his head and the other petting your hair gently.

“Love your dick,” you say before sucking the leaking tip into your mouth. “Only want yours, baby. Just made me cum so hard...” you trail off with a wanton moan, then get to work sucking him off for real. His eyes fall shut and his fingers work deeper into the loose strands of your hair for a firmer grip. You roll his balls in your palm, pulling out all the tricks you know he loves to get him there as well as he did for you. “Mine.”

He guides you deeper with the hand on your head, never pushing more than he know you’re willing to take; he loves the tangible feeling of that sweet mouth sucking him off, taking him as far down your throat as you can. You make it sloppy for him, letting all the drool and saliva coat his shaft until it’s dripping down his balls. You lift off him with a gasp and massage the slick into his skin before ducking down and sucking them one at a time into your mouth for a tongue bath while you jerk his dick off above you.

You can hear the hitch in his breath, see the short heaves of his chest when you follow the pressure he pulls on your hair in silent request to get you to suck him again. All signs point to him being about to bust, but you want more than his cum in your mouth.

You hurry to mount him, smiling when you catch his look of surprise. He moans as you sink down on him, and you pick up his hands to interlace your fingers for intimacy and leverage.

“Cum inside me,” you tell him, bouncing on him so your tits jiggle for him.

Grayson watches as long as he can, holding out until his eyes roll back and his fingers dig into the backs of your hands as he fills you up with deep, drawn-out moans. You grin in satisfaction, happily obliging him when he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you down so your chests are flush together.

You hum as he comes down and pepper kisses across his jaw, his nose, his closed eyes. Any bit of that handsome face you love so much that you can reach with your lips gets a sweet peck. Grayson sighs and lets you keep going until he’s gripping your hips and lifting you off his softening cock.

“Sorry if I got too caveman,” he mumbles tiredly after a few moments. “I just love you.”

You shake your head and bury your grin into his neck. “No need to apologize. Actually, I can’t wait to go back to that store with you. I still want those leggings.”

“Fuck off.”

[edens-breathless-melodies-moved]

words: 3.4k

pairing: kageyama t. x f!chubby!reader

prompt: sweat kink

warnings: cursing, oral (female receiving), fucking in a personal gym, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), sweat licking (he’s a freak lmao)

summary: kageyama knew you looked good while working out. the way your soft arms would suddenly flex and he’d see the muscles you were so good at hiding.

he knew he liked to watch you work out, but he never would have known that the sight of you covered in sweat would stir something so primal in him.

a/n: kageyama likes his women chunky you can’t change my mind. just to clarify, reader is an american who came to japan because iwa convinced her she’d go to the olympics if she followed him. she met iwa in her first year of college and quickly became friends. reader is insinuated to be a rather plush woman, but she’s ✨ s t w o n g ✨

“group bonding exercise?”

you repeated dubiously, blinking owlishly at the blonde in front of you as he just sits there and smiles, nodding his head.

you look to the other men in the olympic gymnasium for help, but they either shrug their shoulders in equal confusion or nodded their heads with atsumu.

when you had walked through the gym doors this morning with iwaizumi, ready to start the days training, you didn’t expect to have atsumu come up to you and propose a “bonding experience”, in his words.

hinata came bounding up to you with that ridiculous speed of his, orange hair bouncing in his excitement. he was practically vibrating with energy, hazel eyes glowing under the fluorescent lighting.

“yeah! we overheard you saying how you wanted to get back in shape and slim down a little, so what better group to help you out than us?”

all the men in the gym froze at his oblivious words, shocked that he really just said that to your face. kageyama froze in the middle of his lunges and choked, eyes wide.

‘this idiot really has no class…’ they all thought simultaneously as they watched the scene unfold with bated breath, waiting for the inevitable moment you ripped his head off and stomped on his body.

if there was one thing they all knew, they knew it was to never mention a woman’s weight. especially to you. you weren’t exactly the thinnest around, but that didn’t make you any less attractive.

in all honesty, you were hot, in all your foreign, sexy glory.

to everyone’s obvious surprise however, instead of killing the ginger, you laughed instead and patted him on his floof, thanking him for reminding you.

the team sweat dropped as hinata bounced around, clearly enjoying the head pat as he started spouting off different types of exercises they wanted you to do, bokuto and atsumu quickly joining in.

they all surely expected you to spike his head off or something, but they were pleasantly surprised and grateful you didn’t. they couldn’t afford to replace him so close to the games.

you see, you were no stranger to physical violence or getting physical in general. you had been recruited to manage the japanese men’s olympic volleyball team by none other than iwaizumi hajime, himself.

it was funny how things worked out because you two had already known each other before the offer was even offered.

you had met previously during college where you both graduated with the same degree. having spent the last four years taking the same classes and becoming best friends, it wasn’t a surprise when iwa asked you to come back with him to japan.

though you were pretty adamant in staying in america, despite knowing japanese, you somehow were convinced by him. before you knew it, you were saying goodbye to your hometown of los angeles and saying hello to tokyo.

because of your past with iwaizumi coupled with the fact that you both had the same degree and title, you two were known as the demon trainers from hell.

where iwa was all obvious brute strength and harsh glares, you were much more reserved but still equally as terrifying with your sickly sweet smiles and icy words if the boys were getting out of line.

but just because you preferred to make them cry with your words instead of your fists, that didn’t mean it wasn’t common to see you either hitting one of them upside the head or spiking a ball at them with deadly accuracy.

when the team first met you, however, they could hardly believe that you were a certified athletic trainer, let alone their manager on top of that. it wasn’t anything against you, you just… didn’t look the part.

standing at a whopping 5’4”, all the men on the team easily dwarfed you in height, and your body wasn’t all hard planes and corded muscles. you were soft and squishy looking, running a little heavy for your height.

you just looked so adorable and soft. your cheeks had this permanent blush across them from your constant sunburn (blame the california sun), and they always puffed out when you pouted.

but that was their first mistake; underestimating you. even kageyama, your boyfriend, had underestimated you, though he denies it now.

it was actually how you two had met, though it was under less than ideal circumstances.

he was bold enough to question whether you were even meant to be on their team your first day meeting them, unintentionally offending you and all your hard work to get where you were.

“it’s nothing against you personally, but you just don’t look like you’re meant for the job.”

kageyama had said without looking at you, and everyone, including the coaches, were stunned by his blunt and brash words. even ushijima was rendered speechless.

kageyama looked around confusedly at everyone’s silence and wide eyes. what? did he say something wrong? he didn’t mean to offend you, he was just telling the truth how he saw it.

it was only when iwaizumi snickered and everyone broke out of their shocked reverie that all eyes shifted from kageyama to you.

chills ran down their spines at the eerily calm smile you gave kageyama, eyes closed tightly as you took a deep breath in. “you really fucked up now, kageyama.” iwaizumi chuckled.

everyone’s hearts stopped when you opened your eyes, and even kageyama shivered when your gaze met his. the way the fire in your eyes seemed to run so hot it could freeze over hell, looked eerily similar to the look hinata gives on the court.

“so i “don’t look the part”, hmm?” you muse, smile growing even wider as you watched the setter fumble over his words, trying to save face.

you let out an over dramatic sigh as you tossed your head back, clicking your tongue once as iwaizumi let out another laugh before walking over to stand by your side. apparently this happened often.

kageyama stopped fumbling over his words as he watched his old senpai cross his arms over his chest. you chuckled as you shucked off your trainer jacket, revealing your plain black t-shirt underneath.

the team never took their eyes off of you as you raised your arms above your head and stretched. gasps rang out across the gym as they saw your flex and the muscles that bulged from underneath your fluffy flesh.

“y’know, kageyama-san,” you drawled, lowering your arms as you began methodically stretching your thick legs, sharp eyes never leaving his. “you’re not the first person to say that to me.”

“she’s right,” iwaizumi mused with a smirk. “i’m pretty sure i was, and i still regret it to this day.”

kageyama gulped nervously and the team could only watch in awe as you finished your stretching before bending over slightly to your left.

you lined up your shoulders with iwaizumi’s hips as you placed a firm grip on his knee and around his shoulders.

with wide eyes and jaws dropped to the floor, the entire team and even the coaches watched you lift iwaizumi with ease and settle him into a comfortable fireman’s carry.

atsumu, bokuto, and hinata audibly screeched and even the usually stoic sakusa and ushijima choked on their spit in shock.

without breaking a sweat, in a sheer display of strength and power, you casually walked towards kageyama, and iwaizumi couldn’t repress his snickers because kageyama looked like he’d just seen a ghost.

how are you so strong?!

your smirk never left your lips as you stopped only a couple of feet away from the shocked olympian, and raised an eyebrow at him mockingly. “what’s wrong, kageyama-san? cat got your tongue?”

you grin grows maliciously as he struggles to answer you, obviously flustered. “do i still look too “soft” or “weak” to be able to handle you guys?”

when kageyama still didn’t answer you, still too flustered and shocked by your impressive display of strength, (cause iwaizumi is not light, that man is straight muscle), you sighed before giving the gym a quick scan before settling on one of the team's liberos.

“yaku-san.” yaku jumped at your polite tone when you called his name, but he quickly recovered with a sincere smile. “yes, (l/n)-san?”

you shot him a sweet smile of your own, and chose to ignore the blush across his cheeks to avoid embarrassing him. “can you give me a number between one and twenty?”

yaku stared at you confusedly along with the rest of the team and iwaizumi fully burst out laughing, shaking on your shoulders. you fought back your own grin as you threatened to drop him.

“um, ten?”

you grinned as you widened your stance, feet placed shoulder length apart as you took in a deep breath, preparing your muscles.

“good, i wanted a decent workout today, anyways.”

and when you began to squat your best friend with perfect posture and ease, kageyama didn’t even register the howling screeches of his teammates as they lost their minds over this mini she-hulk they just got as a manager.

instead, kageyama could only focus on the blood rushing through his ears and to his cheeks as he watched you squat his senpai with a smile on your beautiful face, a singular bead of sweat rolling down your temple.

oh, he was in deep now.

—————————

kageyama knew he should be ashamed of the way he was staring at you, but he couldn’t find it within himself to tear his eyes away.

with a harsh gulp and wide eyes, he watched you as you continued on with your leg presses, eyes closed as you took in even breaths.

you didn’t even seem bothered by the amount of weight you were pushing, but then again, 300 lbs was something normal to you.

finishing your reps, pushed your legs out fully before locking the press, taking a deep swig of your water as you lifted yourself up from your reclined sitting position.

blue eyes followed the trail of your sweat as it glided down the side of your neck before being absorbed into the fabric of your sports bra strap, and he gulped again, pants suddenly feeling tight.

that feeling only intensified when you lifted the edge of your shirt to wipe at your soaked brow, exposing your pudgy and soft tummy. you’ve never looked more delicious to kageyama than now.

when your boyfriend of six months and olympian in training had invited you to his home to work out in his personal gym after you finished atsumu’s little “team bonding experience” you didn’t expect him to just stare at you as you went about your reps and sets.

you chose to ignore the hungry way he gazed at your plush body as you moved over to where the squat stand was, bar already loaded with your preferred weight.

not minding the intense stare from across the room, you bit back a smile when you heard the light gasp come from your boyfriend as you ducked under the bar and settled it comfortably on your shoulders.

you stood up straight and relished in the familiar weight against your flesh. stepping back with a deep breath, making sure your posture was correct, you squatted your first rep.

as you came back up, you weren’t surprised when you noticed your boyfriend had disappeared from his seat by the shoulder press.

what did surprise you was the sudden warm presence behind you, and you bit back a startled gasp when you felt his large hands come to gently rest on your waist.

“as a professional trainer, you should know it’s dangerous to squat without a spotter.” kageyama’s deep voice muttered out. he resisted the urge to dig his fingers into your soft skin as you chuckled.

“you’re right, but i think i can handle myself.” you musea. you held back a gasp when he leaned forward to nudge his nose against your jaw, breath cool against your sweaty skin.

kageyama inhaled the musky yet sweet scent of your sweat against your skin and had to bite his lip to repress his groan. why was he getting so worked up over this?

“squatting 320 isn’t something you just cover on your own.” he growled into your ear, and you finally realized how worked up your boyfriend was from watching you work out.

not that you can blame him, however. watching him do his arm reps and the way his back muscles rippled under his plain white tee whenever he lifted himself for pull ups had your yoga pants feeling a little damp.

sensing things were about to get hot and heavy, you stepped towards the squat stand to put up your bar, kageyama’s hands never leaving your waist.

just as the weight left your shoulders and was properly put away, you let out a gasp when you felt his cool tongue slide sensually up your neck, and you blushed at the deep groan that left his lips.

your own moans soon filled the air as kageyama ground his hard cock against your ass through his joggers, groping your soft sides fully with his hands.

you rested your head against his chest as you let him massage your body roughly with his dexterous digits, mewling and panting at the way he teased and pinched your nipples through the fabric of your sports bra.

“you have no idea what you do to me,” he rasped in your ear, maneuvering your bodies to lay on the padded gym floor. you let him spread your thighs as you propped your body up on one elbow.

you panted lightly as kageyama looked down on you from above, kneeling between your legs while gazing over your glistening form.

your baby hairs stuck to your sweaty forehead as your skin seemed to glisten under the fluorescent lights above.

blue eyes zeroed in on a stray drop of sweat that glided from your neck and began its descent down the valley of your breasts.

something in him snapped and he lunged forward, causing you to yelp in surprise before moaning as he tongue followed the sweat drops path, groaning against your heated skin at the salty taste.

he needed more.

“the way you look when you’re working out, the way your sweat makes your skin glow,” a whine escaped your lips as he nipped gently at your collar bone.

he lifted his head to meet your eyes and you gasped at the feral look in his blue orbs, pupils blown wide with lust.

“you make me so hungry, (y/n).” before you had a chance to respond to him, the sudden sound of fabric tearing and your inner thighs exposed to cool air made you balk, and you stared at your boyfriend in shock.

“you did not just rip open my yoga pants!” kageyama gave you a blank look before shrugging, leaning his face down to your exposed core, pleased to find that you were already dripping onto the floor.

“i’ll buy you another pair.” a breathy moan replaced your curse for his causal destruction of your clothing as he licked a fat stripe up your cunt, fingers digging harshly into the plumpness of your thighs as he drank in your flavor.

moans spilled from your parted lips uncontrollably as kageyama ate you out, tongue flicking and suckling against your clit as one of his hands released your thigh in favor of sinking two fingers into your hot core.

“fuck!” you choke out in a whisper as you wind your fingers through his silky locks, gripping them tightly as you roll your hips into his face.

kageyama took your grinding on his face in stride, speeding up the movements of his fingers as he searched your walls for that one spot that made you see stars.

“a-ah!” you cried out, thighs clenching around his head as he smirked into your flesh. found it. tears began pricking your eyes as your body was assaulted with pleasure, kageyama’s fingers slamming right into your g-spot.

kageyama knew you were getting close when he felt your walls flutter around his fingers and your soft moans began growing louder as you neared your release.

with a snarl, kageyama pulled his fingers from you roughly and sat up from in between your legs. your whimper at the sudden emptiness was swallowed by him as he slammed his lips to yours hungrily.

you moaned into the kiss, tasting yourself as you felt him fumble with the tie on his joggers before pulling them down along with his boxers to free his cock.

kageyama pulled away from the kiss, greedily taking in your breathless and flushed expression before slowly pushing his length into you, groaning as he forced your walls to accommodate his girth and impressive length.

tears sprung in your eyes and fell down your soft cheeks as you cried at the stretch, mind going delirious from the pleasure as your boyfriend continued to sink into you.

kageyama leaned down to lick up your tears before roughly snapping his hips into you, sinking the rest of the way in as his pelvis settled flush against you.

you choked as he bottomed out, and your hands instinctively went to grip onto his muscular shoulders, nails digging into his flesh hard enough to leave marks.

kageyama groaned at the feeling of your walls clenching around him, and he pulled back before slamming into you, relishing the way your walls seemed to suck him back in.

“tobio!” you cried out, voice breathless and wobbly as he slammed directly into your g-spot. kageyama smirked at your already fucked out expression, and slammed his cock into you again.

nothing but the sound of skin against skin and your wanton moans filled the stuffy gym air as kageyama pounded into you.

“fuck, (y/n),” kageyama groaned, leaning back on his haunches as he pounded into your sopping cunt, holding your legs up by your knees while biting his lip, watching you lose yourself on his cock.

your soft stomach jiggled with each thrust, shirt having ridden up while you squeezed your breasts through your bra, eyes crossing from the pleasure.

“fuck! you feel too f-fucking good!” you moaned, voice stuttering from the intensity kageyama was fucking into you with. kageyama smiled down at you, cheeks flushed from the compliment. “you’re taking me so well, pretty thing.”

he hissed as you clenched around him. apparently you liked that. so he continued.

“you feel so nice and tight around me, pretty girl.” he moaned out, feeling his high begin to approach him as your soft walls fluttered around him. he let one of your legs drop as he brought a hand to your aching clit.

rubbing tight circles into your sensitive nub, he sped up his hips until you were practically sobbing from the pleasure, coming dangerously close to tipping over the edge.

kageyama groaned at the sight of your flushed cheeks shining with tears and sweat, swollen pink lips caught in your teeth as you stared up at him with furrowed brows.

“i-i’m close!” you stuttered out, body beginning to seize while you could practically taste your orgasm. kageyama wasn’t any better, his hips losing rhythm as he opted to just pounding into you with whatever he’s got left.

“go on, pretty girl.” he huffed out, lazy smile curling his lips as he continued rubbing your clit with precise circles. “make a mess on me.”

a scream ripped through your vocal cords as you spasmed on his cock, eyes clenching shut as you clamped around him so tightly kageyama became lightheaded.

with a choked moan of his own he came deep inside you, filling you up to the brim with his cum as he fell forward, stopping himself from falling onto you as he held himself up with his arms.

you both sat there for a while, desperately trying to catch your breaths as you eventually came down from your highs.

opening your eyes, you find that kageyama was already staring at you, eyes softened and face still flushed from his high. you watched as a singular bead of sweat rolled down his nose before dropping onto the corner of your mouth.

without even thinking, your tongue swiped out to lick it up, and you saw your boyfriend’s eyes harden again, and a gasp escaped you as he rutted his hips into yours, cock twitching back to life.

a devious smirk filled his face, and he raised a singular eyebrow at you in challenge.

“you don’t think we’re done, do you? we still have a lot more sets to finish.”

taglist: @lovelypasteldreams @living-for-drama @arixtsukki @month-seasoning @bakarinnie

[aceofspadegrass]

Hey hey! Imagine blind Niragi?

Like how would Aguni and everyone else would react-

Okay, okay, I'm imagining...... hmmm........

Listen, are we talking about 'Legitimately blind I cannot see what is going on my eyeballs are naught more than two jelly filled doughnuts in my head cups' or ' Niragi you dumb fuck put your glasses back on this is why you need them' because both are reasonable.

So, because I have nothing better to do, let's do for both options. Both options are good.

Option A - Niragi is genuinely blind he can't tell you a green apple from a red one without cramming it into his mouth

Now, this can come in one of two ways I can think of: He was blind since forever and he's just really darn good at pretending he isn't, or during a game the poppy seed bagel got hit in the face with acid and it permanently blinded him.

Now, as he uses a gun, it's only going to be more dangerous, considering he can't see what he's shooting at. He's playing the entire thing by ear. Aguni, obviously, would need to keep an extra watch on him because now there's nothing stopping this high-strung madman from shooting anything that makes a noise.

Everyone else is also cautious about it because he can't see and will just shoot willy nilly, but Niragi's smart and probably figures his way around everything. 100% will hurt his chances at games, because he now has to rely on his other senses and it's going to suck if a game requires sight.

Now if he was just blind since the start, it's pretty much the same deal except everyone is a lot more aware that he's a blind gunman once he finally reveals the truth (that is, if he hid the fact from everyone). Which still isn't safe in the slightest, but Niragi can at least aim by ear. He's got years of practice. He probably has a white cane (blind walking stick) to get around and maybe smack people's ankles with. That, or he's using his rifle as a stick to gauge his surroundings.

(I like to think Niragi drags Last Boss in as his 'seeing eye person' because as much as there's a chance a lot of things are blind friendly Niragi still has to deal with anything that isn't. So Last Boss to the rescue. The only problem is that Last Boss is quiet and sometimes Niragi has to play the game of 'Where the fuck did he go now' when the man is just shuffling right behind him without revealing himself.)

Option B - Niragi is legally blind but by all standards he can see just not well

Niragi is still 'blind', but more as he just refuses to put his glasses or contacts on and his vision is just fucking shit. Just imagine squinting at a sign that just looks like a smudge of colour while simultaneously reading it through a fogged shower glass pane after a hearty shower session.

Yep, just like that.

Niragi can see, but the poor bastard sees only coloured shapes and smudges at best and text is pretty much nonexistent. He's a nearsighted motherfuck and he refuses to look like a nerd now because he is adamant on looking like he's gonna steal your wife and best friend in the same night to have fun in his room.

So cue to the rest of them finding this out, because Niragi met them after he discarded his eyes in favour of coolness factor, so for a while everyone just accepted him as is..... until they found out he can't see shit.

So Aguni is trying to find a optometrist to find his chaotic blind son-figure some glasses or maybe some contact lenses, because even Aguni knows setting Niragi loose on the world is going to be extra bad news if Niragi can't tell two people apart if their colour blob is any way similar. Yes, he is aware that the Borderlands has practically no rules and it sucks for the people who get in the way of Niragi, but Aguni has dignity and a reputation. That, and he can't risk Niragi shooting the wrong guy.

Hatter finds it a little funny but also thinks Niragi deserves to see everything in it's 1080p glory, Chishiya can and will make fun of his blindness and how Niragi is stupid for not getting glasses/contacts, Arisu is very concerned about how Niragi has survived this long, Last Boss is again put as the 'seeing eye person' but mostly just to read things for Niragi, and everyone else is on a range of concern for everyone else's wellbeing.

Oh, and just so you know legally blind Niragi has probably made the mistake of walking down stairs in the dark. Never a good plan. That, or he's run into similarly coloured things on different planes, because when everything is coloured like a powdery 'oh fuck I stood up too fast and my body has instigated automatic shutdown mode' then nothing is going right.

[marvelobsessedteenager]

All The Hurt - Chapter 5

Pairing: Peter Parker x fem!reader

Warnings: ANGST, Peter was an ass, reader is a hurt and petty bitch, fluff to make up for the angst, curse words, lots of “coincidences”

Word count: 2.5k

A/N: had to make this one short because the next one is hella long

------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Phew, all right,” you wheezed through fast pants as you finally reached the computer room, hand numb and aching from the dripping ice pack in your palm, “you need to explain to me what’s happening. Because- man, I’m out of shape.” You placed your hands on your hips and bent slightly for a moment, taking a huge gulp of air before marching over to Ned and giving him the pack, “I’m confused as fuck, Ned.”

One of his hands continued its work while the other reached out to grab the pack. His fingers continued to type away with speed you’d never seen before as he spoke, eyes never leaving the screen, "Okay, long story short, the day you were at the bodega-” you flinched, “-was the same day that bank was robbed using high tech weapons. Those weapons were part human and part alien, and were being created by a dude who has wings on his back. Peter found out that that guy is Liz’s dad, and now Peter’s going after him to stop him from selling even more weapons.”

He hissed as he placed the ice on his eye. You blinked, nodding once as you felt entranced by the layered codes on Ned’s screen. It was weird how you understood it and read them like they were normal words and letters. You mentally thanked your summer coding camp for the extra knowledge. "I..feel like there’s a lot more to the story than that but yeah, okay, I got it.”

A buzzing from your purse interrupted your entrancement. You shook your head and opened your purse, pulling out your vibrating phone.

Incoming call from..Flash.

You furrowed your eyebrows and rolled your eyes, taking a seat across from Ned and starting up your own computer, "Now’s really not a good time, E.”

"It’s not Flash, it’s Peter!” Peter practically screamed, making you wince from his panic-stricken voice and loud background noise that was filled with New York’s most obnoxious honks.

"Wha- did you steal Flash’s phone?” You asked incredulously, putting him on speaker while you typed away, hearing the same swift clicking coming from Ned’s side.

“No! I asked him for it!” He paused for a moment, “And his car!”

“What?!”

“You stole Flash’s car?” Ned asked, jaw-dropping and eye-widening in amazement, “Cool!”

“Yeah, it’s awesome, it’s awesome!”

"Peter! You’ve never driven before! How can you be driving?!” You scolded, suddenly feeling a twist in your gut at the thought of an accident due to his lack of experience in driving. Peter was never one to make impulsive decisions as dangerous as this. You guessed he changed over the months that passed.

"I know, this is a really big step for me and- ahhhhh! Get out of the way! Get out of the way!” Your hands froze in their place as you awaited a crash with a thundering heart, but it never came, which made you sigh in relief. The engine’s sound increased in volume as the car accelerated, but Peter’s voice was still louder, "I can’t see anything in this car!"

"Which car did you..borrow?” You asked, fingers returning back to work. You figured if you could help him, he’d get out of the vehicle at a much faster rate, and all you wanted to do was keep him safe and unharmed.

"How many does he own?” Peter asked in awe, honking the horn multiple times and screaming a couple of‘ move’s!

"Not important right now! What’s the logo of the car?"

"The four Olympic circle thingies."

"An Audi.” You said under your breath. Thank God, you thought, a car I'm familiar with, “Do you know how to turn the headlights on?

"No!"

"There’s a knob on the left of the steering wheel. Turn it clockwise.”

Peter repeated your instructions, and released a small laugh of victory, ”How’s Ned doing with Happy?”

“Uh,” You peeked over your screen, noticing beads of sweat form on Ned's forehead, even with the cool ice helping his eye, “Ned?”

"Getting to him..” He said, not paying you any attention.

"Have you found my phone yet?” Peter asked.

"Working on it, sit tight,” you replied, finally seeing a moving blue dot pop up on your screen, "He’s on Jackson Avenue and 48th Street."

“Perfect! And Happy?”

You once again awaited Ned’s answer, and worried when a distressed look flashed upon his face, “He hung up on me.” He frowned, "I’ll try again.”

You looked back down at your screen and realized that the blue dot had suddenly stopped moving. You squinted, “Hey, he stopped at 10th street and 43rd avenue in Brooklyn.”

"What? That makes no sense!"

"Welcome to my world,” you mumbled, hearing a small chuckle come from Ned before he focused on talking to Happy again.

“He said he was going out of town!” Peter explained, obviously having heard you, but it did nothing to diffuse your confusion. Why would Liz’s dad stop in Brooklyn when he said he was leaving?

"Weird..” You commented, rubbing your eyebrow as you started to feel the pressure. Jesus Christ, is this what Peter goes through?

“Dammit,” Ned muttered, catching your attention, "Happy sounded like he was catching a flight,” he said, “he mentioned something about taking off in nine minutes."

"What?” You and Peter simultaneously said, and you fought the butterflies that made their way to your stomach. Now’s not the time.

"He was surrounded by a bunch of boxes,” Ned clarified.

“Boxes?” Peter wondered out loud, and you were sure you could see his face as he put two and two together, "It’s moving day! It’s moving day, it’s moving day, he’s gonna rob that plane, I gotta stop him! Shit, I don’t know how to get the directions on this car.”

You jumped at the chance to help again, pleased that Peter finally had a destination to get to, "I’ve got his location, I’ll lead you.” You pulled up Flash’s location from the Find My Friends app, eyes jumping back and forth between your phone and the computer’s screen as you voiced the directions to Peter.

Peter’s foot pressed harder on the gas pedal, causing too much skidding, and you had to try your best to hold your tongue as to not to be a backseat driver. You wondered if you were in the position to berate Peter for impulsively stealing Flash’s possessions and driving recklessly. You found it amusing that the crime fighting Spider-Man had committed two crimes as of tonight.

"Slow down, there’s a right turn up ahead. You’re gonna take it.” You directed, just as Peter’s dot passed his exit, "Parker! Turn right, turn right!”

Peter screamed as the engine roared and the car skidded so loud you were barely able to hear his web shoot out. Your eyes widened in fear as you heard metal grinding against the concrete before coming to a halt with a harsh thump. Peter’s hasty breathing seemed match yours.

"Are you okay?!” You and Ned asked, your voice cracking and brain melting.

"I’m okay.” He breathed, making you drop your head in relief, shoulders easing up, "Just keep trying to get through to Happy.”

"It’s been an honor, Spider-Man.” Ned saluted, and you gave him a look of disapproval.

But then you both turned your heads at the piercing sound of high heels clicking in the hallways that were getting louder as the person headed in your direction. Ned’s face became as white as a sheet, surely matching yours.

'What do we do?' He mouthed, eyes rapidly bouncing back and forth between the door and you.

You bit your lip and glanced at the door before sighing and getting on your feet, “I’ll distract her,” You whispered, removing all traces from the computer, “keep calling Happy.”

Ned nodded in affirmation as you straightened out your dress and took a deep breath, cautiously opening the computer room’s door and stepping outside. Ms.Warren was peeping into the science lab across the computer room, and you took this as your chance to make it look like you were just making your way in.

She turned around and jumped, “Jesus!” She placed a hand on her chest, “What are you doing-“

She stepped closer and squinted at your figure in the dark, “Y/n,” she seethed.

She said your name with poison dancing on her tongue, causing a deep frown to settle between her eyebrows as she popped her hip and crossed her arms, "What are you doing here? There’s a dance, and you know it’s prohibited to be in this area.”

“I know, Ms.Warren,” you surpassed the urge to literally bite this woman’s head off and pretended to be vulnerable for a moment. You looked down at your feet, trying to conjure up an excuse that was easy to believe - Ms.Warren wasn’t exactly gullible, and wasn’t fond of you, either. Your reputation for causing trouble in her class cost you her trust, but you frankly couldn’t give a fuck. Plus, it was fun to mess around with her, what’s one more time?

“I just..” Your mind went blank as her eyes searched yours, a small glint of mischief shining in them. Oh, you bet she fantasized about the day she’d get you expelled from Midtown, but you weren’t ever going to let her see that day. So, you did what you always did when you got into trouble.

Play the absent parents' card.

“I just..I just w-wanted to call my dad. It’s quiet in here.” You said, faking your wobbly voice. No teacher liked it when they had to deal with crying students, especially those who hid the fact that they had no role models around them, like yourself. A look of confusion flashed in her eyes.

You were getting somewhere.

“It’s just..h-he’s been gone for so long, Ms. Warren, and I never see him. He called me tonight, and he never has before.” You fiddled with the ends of your hair, “What if he tells me he’s here? Here to see me? While I’m partying down t-there?” You sniffed for extra effect, somehow feeling your eyes swell with tears.

Weird.

You took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling to make it look like you were trying to hold yourself from falling apart, “I-I just wanted to call him,” you repeated, thickening your voice even more, “maybe he’ll apologize for never being there for me, especially after m-mom left us when I was ten.” You were almost impressed with yourself as you felt hot tears run down your face, traced with the mascara you applied before coming here.

In Ms.Warren’s shadow, you could tell her eyebrows were furrowed, and she was looking anywhere but you, clearly trying to choose between two options.

“I’ve never had a parent in my life.” You pushed, "No one taught me how to ride a bike, or swim, a-and I feel so left out because all the other kids have parents and I don’t!”

You grabbed onto her arms, looking her dead in the eye, “Please, please, just let me piece my life back together. Let me call him.”

For a moment, you swore you saw her demeanor soften. Just a moment where you felt like she understood you, not pitied you. But, just as quick as it came, it disappeared when she cleared her throat and looked around.

“Okay, okay.” She sighed, "But make it quick,” she stepped back from your grasp, ready to bolt, but you took the chance to make her slightly more uneasy.

What?

This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, of course you were going to take it.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” You sprung into her, arms folding around her tightly as she stiffened, clearly feeling uncomfortable about the affection you were displaying. You breathed in through your nose, hard, and nearly laughed when you felt her hands on your shoulders, trying to peel you off of her with a face of disgust.

“Don’t mention it, s-sweetie.” She said, discreetly rubbing her hands on her dress, "You better go now before your dad gets busy again.”

“You're right, you’re right."

And for your final act, you pretended to sniff and wipe your nose with your arm, catching Ms. Warrner’s eye twitch. She was known for being a massive germaphobe, which really only came in handy during her class - until now.

She cleared her throat once again, turned around, and marched down the hallway, practically running away from you until she was gone. You placed a hand over your mouth, muffling your giggles as you entered the computer room once again, slowly closing the door behind you.

“She’s gone?” Ned swiveled in his chair to face you, cracking a smile when you happily nodded and wiped at your face.

“How about you? What’d Happy say?” You walked over to him, running your eyes over the lengthy call history, which was mainly filled with declined calls from your side.

“Um,” Ned rubbed his arm in shame, “he cursed. A lot. And he..he blocked me,”

Your face dropped, hearing Ned sigh and imitating him.

“What do we do now?” Ned asked, desperate as ever.

You waited for a moment, feeling a lightbulb go off in your head as you rushed to the other side and opened your phone.

“Give me his number,” You said, dialing the number Ned voiced to you and putting him on speaker. You crossed your fingers and waited for him to pick up, each ring only causing you more anxiety.

“Yeah?” Happy said, sounding quite annoyed.

“Well, damn, you don’t sound like a Happy to me. You sound like a grumpy.” You rolled your eyes, immediately regretting what you said.

“Not this shit again,” He said angrily, and you were pretty sure he was going to hang up, making you panic all over again.

“Someone’s going to steal Mr. Stark’s shit!” You blurted, wincing when you heard nothing from the other line for a moment. You were going to check if he hung up on you when you heard a, “what?”

“T-the plane!” You exclaimed, "The plane with all of Tony’s stuff! There’s a guy who’s going to steal it and Parker’s going to stop him!”

“You know what? How about you tell Parker that he has some delusional, weird fr-“ His voice suddenly faded out, “Holy shit.” He breathed.

“What? What happened?”

"The plane just crashed.”

Your heart dropped to the feet as the color drained from your face, feeling the blood rushing through your ears and fear spiking in your chest. Somehow, somehow, you knew Peter was where the crash was, and you feared the worst possible outcome. You didn’t even hang up as you rounded the table, picked up your keys, and ran out the door.

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tags: @peachescream06

[maxwell-grant]

Charlie Chan. Who is fascinating, because he was created explictly to be an anti-Yellow Peril character. Unlike most Chinese characters of the time, he's both intelligent, physically capable, and unambiguously heroic. In the novels, he's simultaneously proud of being Chinese AND proud of being an American citizen. He gives orders and instructions to white people, and the narrative treats this as perfectly normal and acceptable. There's a bit in the first book, when an attempt to trap the..(1/2)

(cont'd)There's a bit in the first book where an attempt to trap the protagonist fails, because a message supposedly from Charlie clearly isn't because Charlie's English isn't broken, it's like poetry. Etc. The movies made him more stereotypical, & played by white actors in yellowface, but still, he's a heroic Chinese man, who is as capable and patriotic as any white man. Nowadays, he's thought of as racist caricature. Which he is, but still, it makes one think.

I'm not nearly as acquainted with Charlie Chan as you are (and I definitely suspected he was less racist in the original books because that's nearly always the norm when it comes to pulp characters) but yeah, that "Which he is" is forever going to be the most unfortunate and saddest part of it all when it comes to Charlie Chan. For all the virtues that can be bestowed on Charlie Chan, for everything great that the character had going for him and inspired, the fact that the least offensive image of the character I could find to put here for illustration's sake is from the Hanna-Barbera cartoon kinda exemplifies the big elephant in the room when it comes to Charlie.

Charlie Chan is a great example of two things: One is the way progress is never a fixed quantity and often what was progressive and forward-thinking in it's time can become something outdated and backwards and downright offensive given enough time, and the 2nd is my constant stressing that this is all the more incentive to reclaim the pulps and either highlight or fix aspects of them, instead of dismissing every aspect of them based on the preconception that everything about it's history is unforgivably bigoted and must be handled with the nuance of a sledgehammer.

I stress time and time again the need to highlight and understand the prejudices that went into pulps, because either ignoring them or wielding them as a weapon to attack them does no favors to anyone. The pulps weren't exceptionally bigoted - look at literally any medium in it's time period and you'll find bigotry and prejudice and hatred - and they were exceptional in the number of POC heroes and heroines. Pulps were a medium of experimentation and cheap entertainment that gave way to much, much more varied kinds of protagonists than were permitted in films, serials, novels, comics and radio serials of the day. Imagine if no one was allowed to bring up and discuss superheroes without mentioning the Superman Slap-a-Jap posters or the Captain Marvel story so horrifingly racist it was recounted by an American ambassador after it deeply offended a friend's son and a major influence on the 1950s anti-comic trials. "Pulp fiction had deeply, unforgivingly racist depictions that deserve intense scrutiny and cannot be ignored" and "Pulp fiction was significantly ahead of every other medium at the time in regards to authors and editors striving to publish stories about heroic POCs, this cannot be dismissed and is something that needs to be perpetuated" are not exclusive facts. "A product of it's time" is not an excuse and never was, but it's a fact nevertheless.

Every time someone speaks favorably of Charlie Chan in any capacity, they have to start with a long preface of everything positive that the character had going for him. Yes, he's a deliberate subversion of the Yellow Peril, he's a heroic protagonist, he's plump and good-natured and humorous but far from a joke, he's friendly and pleasant and well-educated and wise, he's a good dad and family man and a terrifically sharp detective who's so good at his job he gets called to solve crimes all over the world, and none of these traits are apparent to people who have to google the character and repeteadly see a white man in awful make-up into every single image of the character, who watch the movies and cringe at the broken English. It's hardly relevant in the face of all the Asian-American critics who acknowledge the character's virtues but rightfully point out that this fortune-cookie spouting caricature, acting subservient to whites and whose virtues are based around his proximity to a white American ideal, doesn't represent them and they shouldn't pretend it does.

Which isn't to say that to like Charlie Chan is "wrong", a lot of East Asians love Charlie and the character's obviously got fans in Asian Americans. It's a complicated subject and I obviously cannot begin to vouch in a subject so heavily based around perceptions I cannot experience. And I deeply detest the idea of speaking for others on their particular experiences on this kind of matter, which is something Americans do a lot everytime they talk about representation in media.

So instead, I'm going to tackle this on a roundabout manner by going on an unrelated tangent to bring up an example of representation that isn't quite representative of what it's supposed to be, has a lot of issues that have been dissected by critics among the people it was supposed to represent, and none of that stopped the character from being popular and beloved and from being claimed anyway. And it's a Brazilian fighting game character, which means it's completely within my ballpark.

Yeah, obviously Blanka doesn't look like anyone who lives in Brazil (whatever resemblance he bears to redheaded jungle protectors of Brazilian folklore is purely accidental). Obviously neither Jimmy nor Blanka are Brazilian names or even exist in the Portuguese lexicon. Obviously there are issues in Street Fighter's approach to representation across the board, sure, and I'd actually say Laura is much worse than Blanka in that regard (again, my opinion, obviously not universal), but the fact remains that Blanka is and has always been pretty controversial. Obviously there's Brazilians who took offense to Blanka and they weren't wrong to do so, and I obviously do not speak for everyone here, that goes without saying.

Obviously the idea that Brazil's major representative in a global cast of characters, the first big name Brazilian character in videogames, is going to be a freakish jungle monster who roars and bites faces has problems, as is the fact that all the others get to be regular people representing fighting styles from their countries while Blanka doesn't. None of the Brazilian SF characters represent Capoeira, which is kinda shitty to be honest. And there's a whole stereotype of Brazil as a backwards land of beasts and savages that Blanka's creation played into. There's no shortage of ground to criticize Blanka's representation and Ono actually apologized in an interview once, but then he learned one teensy little thing:

Street Fighter is very popular on Brazil. Would you like to leave a message to the fans from there?

"Ono: Yes, I'm aware. At the time of Street Fighter II a lot of the arcade machines produced went there, so I knew we had lots of fans there. A message to Brazilians, well, I'd like to apologize. I know Blanka's a weird character and I don't want any Brazilian to feel uncomfortable with that.

When Blanka was conceived, we knew there were forests in Brazil, and so we thought he could look like that. I was actually kinda nervous knowing I'd meet Brazilian journalists. Still, this is the first Street Fighter in ten years, so we'd like all fans to play, including Brazilians, which are many.

Thanks. Well, but you should know that Brazilians love Blanka

"Ono: Ah, good! I was scared of getting beat up if I ever went to São Paulo! (laughs)"

(That's from a 2012 tv special called The Greatest Brazilian of All Time where over a million viewers voted to elect whoever they wanted, and Blanka was going to win. He was polling ahead of Aryton Senna and PELÉ, fucking Pelé, yes this happened. He wasn't even disqualified for being a cartoon character, it was an open poll, he was disqualified due to canon stating he had been born in Thailand, which I think may have been retconned since then. Again, A MILLION BRAZILLIANS voted for this contest, and Blanka was going to win.)

Blanka is great and sweet and lovable, he made the best out of the incredible shitty hands fate dealt him and became a cool and strong green man who shoots lightning and flies, a self-taught warrior who rides whales and planes to fighting tournaments, and he loves his mom and friends and kicks ass and after he's done he dances in joy and gives the kids of his village piggyback rides, and Brazil loves him. He doesn't represent any existing person or fighting style, he's rooted in a negative stereotype and incorrect assumptions, he's not even really Brazilian, and he's our boy and nobody can take him away from us.

No criticism of Blanka, no matter how in-depth or even right it is, is ever going to affect that, because regardless of what was wrong or misguided and offensive about him, we claimed him and loved him so throughly that Capcom kept playing up Brazilian representation in every subsequent game post Alpha, and because of Blanka's impact and reception in such a big game, Brazilian characters have become a staple of fighting games, and that's how we got much more diverse representatives in those games. Fighting games have more Brazilian representation than LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE on media not produced here. It started as BAD representation, with way less thought put into it than Charlie Chan, and it still mattered to a lot of Brazilians who reclaimed it and made it better than it was ever intended to be, and as a response to it, it gradually became better. 

Progress is not a fixed quantity, it's an uphill battle, and it's not unwinnable. Everything's gotta start somewhere.

The Good Asian is a ongoing comic that I think does the best job I've seen yet of handling an Asian American detective protagonist, which is not really a high bar in the first place, and more to the point, The Good Asian illustrates the 2nd part: the reclaiming. The Good Asian deals a lot with the realities that a 1930s Asian-American detective would run into, the strained circumstances and relationships between said character and the world around him, because it's born from an author who took a look at Charlie Chan and Mr Moto and the like and recognized the potential in those stories that could not be fulfilled in it's time period by the people writing said stories. 

The Good Asian pays little reverence to Charlie Chan, but it acknowledges that it cannot exist without Charlie Chan, and it reclaims the Charlie Chan premise at the hands of someone more adequately equipped to tell a gripping story that goes places none of Charlie's contemporaries would ever go. Regardless of how good or bad of representation Charlie Chan was, Charlie Chan mattered and was beloved and inspired a better example for others to improve on or rebel against.

I desperately wish that I could google Charlie Chan without having to look at a guy in yellowface, and the ONLY way that's going to happen is if the character ever gets meaningfully brought back and reclaimed for good by people who can meaningfully tackle the character and present him as he should have always been presented.

And then, I imagine it would be a lot easier to show people on how swell Charlie really is. A true, positive role model and hero, who no longer has to look like a gross cartoon to be able to exist at all. Who can finally be what he was always meant to be, and always was deep down.

[neonir]

LETS TALK ABOUT THE PLANES

D&D has a bunch of planes, these are essentially a whole list of universes within the universe, while most adventures will take place on the material, many will dive into some other planes, or at the very, very least will interact with some of their inhabitants.

Gunna go over a handful of them for now

Structure: What the plane looks like, it’s general layout

Inhabitants: Who lives there, what they do.

Main threats: What your tombstone will say

Notable things: Fun facts about a neat place!

Further reading: If you want some things to look into on your own time

THE BLOOD WAR DUO FIRST:

These next two guys *hate each other*. The exaaact reason behind this can change on the setting, but essseeeentially a whole bunch of angels came down to act as vanguards against the abyss to stop demons from coming up and ruining everything. But it turns out, being in a super evil charged plane for extended periods of time, doing nothing but killing and being killed will do a number on you. Needless to say, they all kinda "fell" and are now devils, holding onto their old lawful nature, but replacing their good with evil and remain almost entirely dedicated to just killing every devil they can get their hands on

Demons meanwhile just kinda wanna ruin everything cause that's just what they like to do.

Anyways depending on the setting the blood war is either done and demons are in an even deeper pit for now, it never ended and they’re still at it to this day, or maybe it wasn’t called the blood war in that setting they just hate each other. Either way this is one of those wonderful cases where the guy you hate and the other guy you hate, both hate each other more, and constantly kick each others heads in. It’s swell.

THE NINE HELLS:

Structure: There's 9 layers of it, each one is ruled by an archdevil. Each layer has a different theme, each theme is more or less based on the guy running it. Or vice versa. Don't ask me they're matchy is the point.

Inhabitants: This is where devils live. The Devil is in the details, because of this they make deals. Lawful evil. Bad guys, but when they agree to something, they'll keep their end of the deal. By the letter of the law, not the spirit. Again, ruled by Archdevils, which are just the most powerful (politically, magically and physically typically) of the inhabitants of that layer.

Main threats: Devils are rude and super duper want your souls. Also demons keep invading. Which the devils really, really, REALLY hate. Also each layer can be anywhere from "on fire" to "Literally colder than the antarctic" so just jot that down.

Notable things: Devils like to make deals for the souls of mortals, specifically because they can claim these souls and either use them as a fun alternative to firewood, or can have them turned into handy dandy devil soldiers to fight demons for eternity.

Further reading: Archdevils are each different types of interesting and have a lot of shared lore to play with. Asmodeus is the top dog and has a lot of drama history with pretty much every archdevil in the place.

THE ABYSS:

Structure: Depends a little on the setting, but it can be anywhere from 99 layers to infinite layers, but it's essentially a big roiling pit of bad. Nothing is consistent and the only thing it exists for is to tear the rest of the cosmology apart. It's bad limbo, and limbo's already a mess.

Inhabitants: Demons live here, yes, that's different from devils. Chaotic evil. This is just a bunch of assholes. Literally looked up "How to be a dickhead" in the dictionary and then ate the book and spat on its writer because that's literally all they know how to do. They're ruled by Demon Lords, who are just kinda the biggest dicks of them all.

Main threats: This whole place is pretty much just the worst. Everything here just wants to ruin your whole deal. The only organization is enforced by big bad dude's literally beating the less big bad dudes into submission so they can order them to beat up less bad big dudes.

Notable things: Many powerful beings have carved out chunks of the abyss to call their own personal homes. These guys tend to freaking suck.

Further reading: Really you're gunna wanna investigate the river styx, it'll kinda cover a lot of useful stuff about how these guys go about stuff. More or less these guys are just bad for the sake of it.

THE AXIOMATIC ANACHRONISTIC PALS:

So these two are just kinda "Raw chaos" and "Pure order" There's actually other similar planes that share a lot in common with each of them, Archeron and Pandemonium, but they're just kinda like "What if you had these two planes...but they were kinda BAD!!!!" And we've just covered the bad versions of law and chaos so screw that nonsense tbh.

MECHANUS:

Structure: A wonderfully designed infinite series of interlocking floating continent sized gears that are in constant motion, be it fast or slow all simultaneously fitting into one grand ever turning perfect machine. This'd probably be one of the most wonderful to behold things in the setting. Shame if you kick a rock over you might be sent to infinite jail.

Inhabitants: Modrons! The lovely little goofy mechanical box/ball boys who fly around with very specific tasks (Such as counting every single living thing alive in the entire universe) or just organizing things "The right way". Each one listens to the one above it, which comes to an ultimate point with Primus, the ultimate law in the realm of absolutes.  There are also some very cool dudes called "Inevitables" which are just the shit.

Main threats: Well, Primus likes for its shit to stay the way it put it. Don't make a mess. If you are here, be here the way it allows people to be here. Otherwise you get an inevitable on your ass and these guys *do not* fuck around. They literally can't.

Notable facts: Did you know you can go to get contracts done up in primus' halls to ensure legitimacy? Did you know if you try to break one of these contracts one of types of inevitable called a marut comes over and rather politely yanks you and the person whose contract you broke back to Primus. You may then attempt to justify WHY you thought it was a good idea to break your contract, and should it not be a good enough reason, the Marut will then proceed to beat you unerringly into a fine paste.

Further reading: Look into modrons and the plane itself mostly, it can be hard to find details on the inevitables so don't stress too much about that. Primus can be interesting to investigate depending on how much history you wanna look into.

LIMBO:

Structure: Man fuck I ain't even gunna try. This place is a mess. It's literally whatever the fuck it happens to be at the time.

Inhabitants: A lot actually! Lots of folk call this place home from the very zen and chill Githzerai and their "Live and let live" jedi vibes, to the remarkably less chill Slaadi, who are big funky many coloured frog men who vary from "silly frog man" to "Sentient Hole in Reality" depending on how far up the pokemon style evolution chain they've climbed.

Main threats: Well, the whole place is more or less non euclidean mass of ever churning raw chaos. Aside from that, watch out for Slaad Lords, which themselves can vary from "Funky dude with god like powers who uses them to wander around doing whatever comes to mind" to "Lord of entropy who wants to more or less bring about the heat death of the universe"

Notable facts: With some force of will, one can actually instill some amount of order into this place, which is how the Githzerai make their homes, literally just concentrating on keeping an area of it "approximately home shaped" collectively defining the place they live as what it is.

Further reading: Honestly the slaad lords are equal parts fascinating, hilarious and on occasion a little dissapointing. The history of the slaad is neat (Primus is kinda responsible for their existence) and the plane itself has been through some stuff. The githzerai are one half of the race that once gave the mindflayers an unparalleled beating before turning their sights on each other and then bugging off in their separate ways.

NEXT TIME MAYBE: ELEMENTAL PLANES, THE ETHEREAL AND THE ASTRAL.

IF I’M LUCKY I WILL NEVER HAVE TO WRITE ABOUT THE FEYWILDS OR THE SHADOWFELL.

[iamnightduchess]

Hi Queen ❤

I love your headcanons so much and I don’t know if you’ve ever done one of these, but I’d really like to imagine what it would be like if Mikasa and Reiner fell in love after the end of the manga, what this discovery would be like and how they would deal with this!

(Forgive me for my lousy english hahaha)

Hello dear, thank you for the Ask! 💖 It really helps me to envision a more ideal post-ending universe because the potential ending right now does not look promising that both of them will somehow survive (together) because I am foreseeing one of them voluntarily dies to save another person. I hope i'm wrong! 😢 I've only done a tiny snippet of ReiKasa in this Post-Rumbling HC AU. But, here's what I envision how it could possibly be IF they survive & they happen:

Reiner x Mikasa (ReiKasa) Post-Rumbling AU (Gen) Headcanon #16

Before we delve into Post-Rumbling period, it's interesting to observe the tiny moments where the seeds of trust and possibly, love between these two former enemies turned allies might have possibly begun sprouting.

The Rumbling

We've seen the way Reiner had implied on the plane in ch.133, how Eren might want to be stopped by someone. Reiner was using himself as a pretext; an example. If HE was the one with the FT & somehow finding himself unable to control it, he'd want to be stopped by someone he knows is capable of doing so (someone more powerful & stronger than he is) When he said that sentence, he was gazing at Mikasa.

There are 2 implications here, i) He is indirectly admitting in front of everyone that Mikasa is his weakness, like a failsafe. The one he knows who can take him down if he's the one with this enormous power & he's losing control, ii) Because to him, ever since they were younger, Eren is her family & a sensitive subject to her. Him voicing out his opinion and indirectly hinting that Eren is beyond the path of no return will hurt Mikasa's feelings & emotional state.

During the Paths Intermission, the moment Eren basically told the alliance to go fuck themselves, that he will keep moving forward for his freedom, while the alliance members are free to fight him if that is what they want; Reiner was horrified to know that Eren basically confirmed his deduction & how much pain and devastation Mikasa would be in upon receiving the awful truth from Eren himself. Even after pleading to Eren to let her share the burden of his sins, which as direct as it could have been to "I don't want to be so far from you. I want to be with you through both light & darkness inside of you. Please come back to us." Mikasa still believed that the previous Eren that she knew is still there somewhere, which is no longer the case.

The shock-induced tears in Mikasa's eyes - seeing her in pain, hurts Reiner too. He'd knew how heartbroken she would be.

In Ch.135, when everyone was on the verge of dying as they're losing the battle with the raised forms of past titan shifters, Mikasa reached her breaking point & Reiner felt helpless, because he was at his last limit & Mikasa was planning to make herself the primary target just to buy the rest a little bit more time.

There's this woman who's fighting towards an expected death in front of him - any man would be an idiot for not seeing how foolish yet selfless and brave this last female warrior of Paradis was. She's always been a fearless woman who has their backs and protects their fronts. He has never stopped respecting this woman. This might have been the starting point for that seed to have sprouted inside Reiner.

If Annie's timely rescue never came and they truly met their end there, the only regret Reiner has was he couldn't do anything else but watch this woman's final moments without being able to do anything to support her before his own ensuing end.

When Levi, Jean and Connie all collectively & firmly agrees that killing Eren is the only thing that stands between the world's survival, Reiner was silent the whole time. He believed he has no right to say anything, but he saw the vulnerable look on her face the moment Jean reiterated their ultimatum: "We need to kill Eren."

Reiner did what he does best: he took charge. When Reiner told her, "You go help Armin." He was indirectly telling her, "You do what you can. I will shoulder your burden with Jean. Let me be the strength for you to do what needs to be done." This was Reiner's way of telling her, he will carry her burden for her and shelter her from an unbearable pain. Just like how she told Eren much earlier in Paths. Reiner's indirectly telling Mikasa that she's important to him too.

This was the moment that the seed had sprouted within her heart. She realized that Reiner's communicating to her in the way only she would understand. How much she feels for Eren, Reiner feels for her in the same way because you can't give a reason why you care for or love someone. You just do. It just happened without signs. Annie, however, was able to catch that short but impactful interchange between them.

Post-Rumbling

They barely survive the last stand against Eren's final form but they did with Ymir's divine intervention in Humanity's New Dawn.

Reiner sustains extremely heavy injuries on his physical body. Mikasa is emotionally & psychologically affected by Eren's true death.

The remaining humanity struggles to rebuild from the ashes of destruction. It was beyond devastation. The world is almost completely annihilated but hope is a powerful energy. Hope persists.

Reiner sees her grieving - like a pair of wheels suspended in motion - trapped while the rest of the world moves around her. She refuses to eat, she barely sleeps but when she does, she would toss and turn around restlessly. Annie tells him in passing that when Mikasa sleeps, her body contorts and freezes simultaneously like she's in a lot of pain.

Seeing her drifting through the days like a soulless vessel pains him a lot. No one could humanly survived what she had to go through without serious ramifications towards her emotional and psychological state. Mikasa becomes withdrawn and sullen.

Yet, he retains his distance like he always does & watch silently from the sides as Annie, Armin & Jean tried to reach out to her to no avail. Reiner himself is haunted by his failed attempt to hold the Founder's original form down that, in a way, had forced Mikasa to do what needs to be done. He feels responsible that he couldn't prevent her from having to go through those painful yet pivotal moments of securing humanity's survival. The day the alliance managed to save the world, well, the world that she built for Eren inside her heart was destroyed in return.

One day, she mysteriously disappears without trace. A panicking Armin searches on his own but Annie tells Reiner that Mikasa's missing, nowhere to be found. Reiner and Armin later found her at the crater where Eren's last resting place had been. The exact same location where she had to slay him with her own two blades.

Mikasa says that she just feels lost and empty. Like there's a huge dark void inside her body that she can't escape from. She just sits there amongst the dust and debris, staring blankly at a makeshift, unmarked grave. She confides that she's terrified of falling asleep because she sees Eren's face in her nightmares.

Armin wants to console her but Annie holds him back as she notices Reiner already making his way forward and settles himself next to her. Armin understands what Annie was trying to do.

Reiner only tells Mikasa, "You don't have to do this alone...Lean on us." He offers his hand, despite knowing she wouldn't even touch him. "When you feel that you can no longer breathe, I'll breathe for you. If you feel like you're drifting, I will hold you."

It takes her a while but she accepts his hand and he holds it tight in his. Reassuring her that he is here to stay for as long as she needs him to be.

Little either of them know that it would possibly be forever.

It is Annie who helps to bridge these two together with Armin's help.

Ever since the day they talked, Mikasa slowly finds herself regaining an ounce of strength. Reiner talks a lot to her and offers his silent company as they go for walks together so she does not feel alone.

Reiner makes sure that he'll check in with Mikasa from time to time when he's not supporting the remaining forces with rebuilding, too frequent not to be noticed by everyone close to them in the survivor's settlement. However, none of them questions him about it. It is an understood, unspoken notion that Reiner cares a lot about Mikasa, and her for him eventhough she's being subtle about it. Armin could see Mikasa's eyes lit up whenever Reiner is nearby.

Mikasa shares a living space with Annie and Pieck. When her night terrors get too much that Mikasa thrashes around, screaming in pain despite being in a deep sleep, the two former shifters know that they couldn't possibly restrain the Ackerman girl physically on their own. They called for Armin, Jean and Reiner for help. When Armin and Jean hesitate to hold her down, it is Reiner who holds her tight even when Mikasa's unconsciously trying to struggle against him. They could see Reiner's face holding back his own physical pain from fighting against the immense resistance coming from her. But he'd never released his hold until she eventually wakes up and calms down. He stayed with her until the break of dawn.

After that night, however, Reiner seems to be pulling himself away from Mikasa as he couldn't get over his guilt and his helplessnesss as he also didn't want Mikasa to think that he's trying to take advantage of her vulnerability. The problem is, when he avoids Mikasa, she reverts back to the darkness she's slowly overcoming with Reiner's help and he's becoming miserable himself.

This frustrates Armin, Annie, Jean, Levi and even Pieck because it was fairly obvious to everyone but the two people in question that both Reiner and Mikasa are self-sabotaging and self-punishing themselves from pursuing something more than friendship despite their beating hearts calling out for each other.

Mikasa feels she's betraying her memories of Eren and she's afraid of moving on lest she would forget about him. Reiner feels he has no right to offer Mikasa anything more than friendship because she deserves someone better than him.

Mother's Intuition

Reiner's mother, Karina, finds herself naturally drawn to this young woman who seems to have her son's attention, even when he's trying very hard not to be obvious about it. She catches Reiner staring (longingly, she dare say) at the female warrior of Paradis from afar.

Apart from Mr. Leonhardt's daughter, she too, helps to bring her son and Mikasa closer. Karina has witnessed this woman's bravery and have heard from both Gabi and Reiner of her selflessness when she had saved both her son and her niece's lives. Through Reiner's story, Karina sympathizes with the pain this young woman is going through.

Reiner tells her that he feels helpless that he isn't able to help Mikasa and that she hasn't been eating well. Therefore, Karina brings her homemade meal and visits the young woman, wanting to get to know her better. Mikasa doesn't want to be impolite and relents to having the sudden company.

However, the moment Karina holds her hands to offer her comfort, Mikasa breaks down. She had lost 3 mothers/maternal figures in her life: her own, Carla & Hange. For some odd reason, she feels grateful to have an opportunity to be held by a mother again, even if it wasn't her own.

Karina finds herself growing fond of this young woman and deep inside believes that Mikasa and her son are meant for each other.

It is Karina who advises Reiner to fight for his own happiness and her mother's intuition tells her that his feelings isn't as one-sided as he thinks. Karina urges her son to tell Mikasa how he really feels and after all the years of fighting wars for Marley, Reiner needs to fight one last war: the one within his own heart and to win the heart of the one woman who had conquered his.

However, the relief entourage that arrives from Hizuru, led by Kiyomi Azumabito prevents him from telling Mikasa how he truly feels. He knows that she is destined to become the new empress of Hizuru and that her future would be brighter without him being in her way.

Mikasa tells him of her decision to ascend the imperial throne and Reiner feigns happiness for her decision, reassuring her that she will make a great empress and that she would have a better future there. Mikasa takes Reiner's words as him indirectly telling her to move on with her life without him in it.

Reluctantly, Mikasa leaves for Hizuru. Karina is upset that her son is still sacrificing himself & his own feelings even after being relieved of his Titan powers and its curse.

Karina tells him, "You've lived your life for me and for our family, Reiner. Now it's time for you to live for yourself."

Reiner thinks he's lost the only chance he still has left as Mikasa is already en route to the East Sea country. It is Armin who tells him that the Azumabito's ship is still docked at the nearest harbor because Armin has suspicions that Reiner will change his mind.

When Reiner, Armin, Jean and Annie reach the harbor, the sun is almost setting and Reiner finally revives his dwindling courage to tell her how he truly feels about her and he would like to remain by her side if she'd allow it.

Kiyomi forewarns Reiner that if he is serious about her kin, then he would have to sacrifice his newly-found freedom from being a soldier and titan shifter to become prince consort to their new imperial monarch.

Reiner only says, "I am as good as dead without Mikasa and my freedom means nothing if I'm spending the rest of my life without her."

In the sunset of the New World built from ashes, the two young loves finally seize the courage to pledge their hearts to one another with a kiss; the first of the many in their life together, which is only beginning.

*Continues in Pt. II

------------

Thank you once again for the beautiful Ask! I truly enjoyed working on this ❤ Also, please don't ever feel that you need to apologize to another ESL speaker/writer for the language. We're always learning 💖 Take care! xoxo

[unstoppableforcce]

dark side

CHAPTER EIGHT: a slip

pairing: Javier Peña x reader

previous part | next part | masterlist

a/n: okay i had this queued to go up during my vacation but then it didn’t post (no surprise there lol) but it’s okay! bc i didn’t like it much anyways and this version is so much better now honestly (so tumblr saved me lol)

its still short bc I cut it in half so i can post this and simultaneously work on the next part !! maybe next part tomorrow night? I don’t want to get hopes up but maybe !! thanks for being so patient w me guys !!

It was a slip right?

The words repeated over and over again in his head and for minutes he just stood there with the phone in his hand, long after you had already ended the call, letting them repeat. They bounced around like an echo between his ears, hitting every inch of his head. It was the only thing he could focus on. 

But it was a slip, wasn’t it? A simple slip of the tongue. 

At least, that was what he tried to tell himself to steal even the tiniest bit of focus back. He had work to focus on, finding Christina to focus on... he had to hang up the phone and get on a plane. He had to focus on something other than you, and to do that, he had to tell himself that it was a slip and that it was meaningless. 

It was meaningless, like telling your waiter at a restaurant that they should enjoy their meal as well. Just a slip.

Meaningless.

And for the first few hours, that worked. It got him back on the plane, it got him thinking about getting Christina back and getting Jurado’s testimony. It got him back focusing on his work, prioritizing it over you like he was supposed to do. Work was supposed to come first, that was the whole basis for your relationship. 

This was just the first time it felt wrong... No, it was the first time he admitted it did. 

There were plenty of times that came before where his heart weighed heavy having to put you at arm’s distance to protect his work. That morning in the shower, as your hands cascaded with the hot water down his skin, your eyes just pleaded to help him, to alleviate the heavy stress... but he put work first. That night, after the Ambassador’s drink party, when he started asking you about work, putting his job before your’s and your loyalty, he put work first. The day he caught one of the god father’s and you paid the price, suffering in the shouting match delivered by Stechner while he kept his mouth shut about your arrangement, he put his work first. 

And it had felt wrong every time, but it was only very recently that he figured out why. 

It was because even though you ended whatever things were between the two of you before he left for Curaçao, he loved you. It was because now, even after fighting through the new pain of heartbreak inflicted by another, he loved you. 

It was because for the first time in his entire life, he loved someone and they said it back. For the first time, he wanted them to say it back. For the first time, there was no obligation, no sense of doing it because it was the right thing to do or because that was what was expected of you. For the first time, someone told them they loved him because they meant it, because you meant it. 

Even if it was just a meaningless slip. 

But who was he kidding? Putting work before his feelings for you, trying to pretend that it was just some meaningless slip... it just wouldn’t work. 

The problem was that he knew better. He knew you better.

Part of it was the creeping memories of his psychology degree from what felt like a whole lifetime ago, part of it was just the fact that he knew you too well. 

Slips weren’t meaningless and you were too careful for anything you did to be meaningless.

Slips came out when they were practiced phrases. Telling your waiter to enjoy their meal as well was a practiced phrase, maybe not meant for your waiter, but practiced on your tongue nonetheless. That’s why they came out, they were practiced.

And he heard almost all your phone calls.

You were practically living with him for a few weeks, he heard your phone calls even if he didn’t listen to them, and you never told anyone you loved them over the phone. So it couldn’t have been practiced in that way. The only way it could have been practiced was if you were thinking it, over and over again, the same way he was.

It didn’t matter that you were exhausted, that whatever was happening at work was weighing you down so far that you snapped and broke up with him... none of that mattered. Because a slip doesn’t put words in your mouth that you wouldn’t say naturally. 

It wasn’t meaningless. It couldn’t be, not with you. If it slipped from your lips, it was because you meant it. 

And he couldn’t get it out of his head, no matter how hard he tried or pretended he had. Work had to come first and all he could think about was you, the quick words playing over and over again in his head.

“Bye, love you”, “Bye, love you”, “Bye, love you”, “Bye, love you--

Fuck. He loved you and goddamn, maybe you loved him too.

And maybe none of it mattered because work had to come first. He had to find Christina, he had to focus.

As his plane slowed to a stop on the runway adjacent to the embassy, he quickly jumped up, grabbing his bag and moving to the door, ready to burst out the second they let him. He had his focus back for a minute and he needed to ride it as far as he could take it.

He just didn’t know that it would only take him a few steps onto the runway, finding you dressed in your street clothes, crossing over from the opposite direction with a file in your hand.

He froze on the spot, letting the gusts of wind that fought by dishevel his hair without second thought. You were all that he could see. 

He never saw you in your street clothes, or at least, he hadn’t since the first night he met you. It was just pant suits and sometimes nothing at all. But now, you were just wearing jeans and a tee shirt, your hair blowing in the same blustering wind that threatened to push him over as he stood caught, like a deer in the headlights.  

Immediately, his brain started up again, accelerated, like the beating of his heart. 

He loved you. You loved him. He loved you. You loved him—

He couldn’t do this right now. He had to focus. 

Shaking his head in a way that surely looked like he was trying to save his hair from the wind, he tried to shake the thoughts from his head. And by the looks of it, you were fighting a similar onslaught of thoughts. 

But by the time you crossed the runway to meet his frozen form, you had picked the line of focus you were going in on and it wasn’t the slip you had made over the phone. With your stern face and file in hand, it was clearly work that you had chosen as well.

“I found her.” You shouted slightly to counteract the loud wind that whipped around the two of you. 

It wasn’t as easy a fight for him to overcome now that you were in front of him though. As you passed the file to him, he couldn’t help but spend an extra half-second mesmerized by you and your ability to do your job. He had called you what? a few hours ago and you had already found her? Even if being a blonde white girl in Colombia was like wearing a tracker, it was still impressive work that you had done for him. 

Work you had done because he asked... No. He stopped himself quickly. This was about finding Christina, not the fact that you had done it for him. 

He flipped open the file, not hesitating on the fact that it was a CIA file but fighting the wind to keep the papers from flying away. “Where is she?”

“FARC has her in a jungle stronghold.” You explained, stepping up closer to him to point at the picture paper-clipped to the bottom of the file.

It was definitely her, filthy and restrained, newspaper in her hand and the barrel of a gun pressed up under her chin. This was his fault. All of it. Getting her involved and now you... he couldn’t shake this feeling that something was going to go terribly wrong. 

But he also couldn’t linger on just a feeling. This was his job, he had to get her back. 

“You’ve got coordinates?” He asked, glancing up from the file’s top edge to find your stare directed down to your feet. Immediately, his heart dropped a similar distance. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s... look, it’s complicated.” You huffed, settling your hands up onto your hips as you brought your eyes back up to meet his. “You’ll need an army to get her back, the Ambassador won’t give it to you and I can’t either...”

He flipped a page in the file almost subconsciously, glancing down from your hesitant frame to find an all too familiar name scribbled at the top in red pen and your handwriting.

The Castaño Brothers.

“They’re CIA sponsored communist killers, two of Stechner’s contacts but I can’t get you a meeting because—”

“Fuck.” He huffed, shutting the file as it all caught up to him.

The interruption caught you off guard though, your face twisting slightly as you asked back to him, “what?”

This was what he hated about being in Colombia nowadays. It was his history, it was the blood that coated his hands, ten layers deep. 

He couldn’t stop himself from wondering if you knew or not. He got your file the first day he was truly introduced to you, but did you get his? You had to, right? Your whole job was to spy on him, how were you supposed to do that if Stechner didn’t fill you in on exactly what he was? 

He wasn’t the hero the embassy hailed him to be. He was just a man who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty to bring down Escobar. 

Did you know? Did it matter if you did? 

The more he thought about it, the more he realized those two questions had very different answers. 

You had to have known. If it wasn’t in his file, you had to have heard from everyone else around the Embassy. Hell, Stechner probably went out of his way to fill you in on his dirty past the day he assigned you to him. 

And that first night? You had to have seen it in him when you agreed to take him home with you. 

The guilt in his eyes... the pain that he wore just beneath the surface... the weight that sat so heavily on his shoulders...It was everything he saw in you, everything that drew him to you in the first place. The familiarity of everything about you.

Did it matter if you did know?

Looking at you now, as the woman he loved, he wanted to say yes because he wanted to be a good man in your eyes, he wanted to be a man worthy of your love but if he was being honest with himself... it didn’t matter at all. 

He had seen the scars on your body. He had hear rumors around the embassy as to why your file was as redacted as it was. 

There was talk about explosions and spying and foreign governments and... and maybe none of it was true but he saw the same guilt in your eyes that he saw in his own when he looked in the mirror. He saw you trying to do good with every girl being trafficked that you tried to hunt down the same way he tried to do good by bringing down the godfather’s of Cali. He saw a familiar weight resting on your shoulders as he massaged the sore kinks from your muscles laying in bed at night. 

It didn’t matter what either of you had done, you were both in the same boat and he knew that from the first second he laid eyes on you. 

You had a dark side just like he did, and he didn’t care about yours so why would his matter to you?

“I know them.” He admitted carefully, looking up to meet your stare and gauge your reaction. And when you held it back with equally as careful, he felt just enough ease to continue. “I can get their help.”

When your head gave a quick but approving nod, he felt the smallest release of tension in his shoulders. He had your trust, he could relax in that respect. The rest of the tension held though, because now he had to walk head first into the dark past he swore to himself that he left behind as he came back to Colombia. 

And he had to bring you with him. 

“Where do we find them?”

—

“What do pretty girls like you eat? Hmm? The picada here is the shit, I can get you a plate.”

“Oh, I’m on a strict diet of lots of coffee and not taking shit from people.”

Any fear he had about bringing you along to meet with Don Berna had flown out the open windows of the restaurant the instant you sat down next to him at the table, taking up a space equal to him as you spread your legs and you leaned back.

Your quick wit, your smart mouth... he had to stop and wonder for a second why he had even been afraid in the first place. 

Narcos may not have been your game, but you weren’t new to the world of terrible yet powerful men. If anything, you had been dealing with them for longer than you had even been with the CIA. And you were good at it. 

Your smart mouth was enough to bring a hefty chuckle to Berna’s chest as he ate, enough to shake the table slightly and even more when he let his fist fall to the wood to grab the bottle in front of him. 

“I like her, Peña.” He minded as he washed down his food with a swig from the bottle, shifting his disgusting stare off of you and back to the suited DEA hero sitting next to you. “You should bring her every time.”

Every time? Like this was some weekly regular meeting? God, Javi forgot just how much he hated this. 

“Can you help us or not?” He quickly moved to refocus the conversation, leaning forward just enough to level his strict stare with the large man and settle his elbows on the table.

“Can I help you find your barbie doll? Easily.” Berna spoke with an nonchalant shrug as he reached for his drink again and downed a solid swig to wash out the barely chewed food that his mouth was stuffed with. But once the shrug fell and the food was swallowed, his head tilted much more playfully than either you or Javi could take comfort in. “Can you afford my price... maybe not so easy.”

You glanced to Javi in the same second he glanced to you, but the words fell from your lips first. “What’s the price?”

“A promise.”

The two of you didn’t need to verbally urge him to continue, your furrowed brows took care of that for you. Berna took another few bites, then another drink, then sat back with his napkin in hand and continued.

“One day, my name will pop up on the DEA’s to-do list, and all you have to promise me you’ll do, is give me a phone call.”

You scoffed at that, just loud enough to get the few guards who waited a few feet away to turn and look at the obvious show of disrespect. Thankfully, Berna just seemed amused by it, laughing into his meal. But Javi didn’t have the guts you had to back your brazenness, not as he began considering what that really meant. 

“A get out of jail free card?” He repeated back carefully in English as he drew his arms back to cross over his chest, leaving you leaned forward on the table. 

But again, Berna just shrugged, “Exactly.”

You glanced back to Javi, maybe in a look of commiseration or maybe to try and warn him against what you had to be sure he was going to do. Whatever look it was, he didn’t hold your stare long enough to decipher it. He didn’t have the luxury to let you get into his head right now. 

Because maybe you’d try to change his mind and he couldn’t afford that. 

He needed to get Christina back and you had made it clear on the runway that this was your only chance to get to FARC in the jungle and get her out safely. He knew you were too good at your job to not have found an easier way if one existed so that left this as his only option. Whatever Don Berna wanted, he was going to get and he knew it. 

That was why he looked so damn smug as he pestered with and easy, “Agent Peña?”

It was a promise to break the law, but what was his defense? Tell him ‘no, I know I did that for you in the past but not anymore’? It just wouldn’t work. Berna knew he was desperate because he was desperate. 

He liked to think that you’d do the same if you were in his shoes, he liked to think that you wouldn’t judge him for it. 

And as he looked back to meet the stare you passed him that he had carefully avoided, he found you already looking to the table in front of you, like you knew his answer before he had even come close to admitting it aloud. 

Either because you knew him that well or because that was what you would do and you couldn’t blame him for doing the same. 

“Fine. You have a deal.”

“Then lets go kill some communists.” Berna bellowed out loudly, earning a few chuckles from his men who stood around.

And you couldn’t help but laugh at that too. Not because killing communists was something you relished in, quite the opposite actually. 

You were surely laughing because of that day you spent in the jungle with him. The day you told him you didn’t come to Colombia for drugs or communism. 

Yet here you were. 

If he had the heart to laugh, maybe he would have mustered on as well at the irony of it all. Instead, he stood up with you and everything quickly got started. 

Before the two of you knew it, you were both dressed in green fatigues, loaded into the helicopter and headed off towards the jungle as you continued to fight off Berna’s comments.

“So, if you’re not DEA, what part of the gringo government can handle you?” He mocked playfully, practically licking his lips as he watched you lean forward to fix your feet in your boots.

“What makes you think anyone can handle me?” You easily retorted, growing a smirk on Javi’s face that he struggled to hide.

Berna was equally as amused, chuckling with each and every smart remark you mustered.

And it just kept going.

“Did he find you in a brothel? You know how he likes his brothels and hell, I know plenty of men who would pay for someone like you.”

Javi sent him a warning glare but you weren’t deterred.

“There isn’t enough money in the Narco world.”

“You’d be surprised, sweetheart.”

Eventually, you just rolled your eyes and switched off your headset and about a half hour later, the three of you ended up deep in the jungle, unloading night vision goggles for the Castano’s with ease.

You looked oddly comfortable in the green fatigues, strapping on a bullet proof vest, and loading your weapon.

He knew it was because underneath the sullen spy exterior you put on for work, and the sexy smirk you wore as you straddled him in his bedroom, you were a soldier. That’s what you had been before all of this.

And for the briefest of seconds, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like to meet you in that phase of your life.

Without Colombia weighing down on his shoulders, when he was still just a simple DEA agent back in the states, would he have stumbled into you in a bar while you were on leave? Would it have been the sense of a dark familiarity in your bones that drew him to you on one of his darkest nights, haunted by the phantom bloodied hand as he sipped his whiskey, or would it have been your buoyant smile and the sway of your hips?

Would you love him all the same? Would your unscarred bodies feel as right as they did now, slotted against each other as your lips danced over his?

Was he glad that he met you now, because it gave him the chance to know you at all, or did he want you without all of Colombia, without the war and the work and Stechner and your job and his...

Did he want you as a respite from the darkness that haunted him at night or did he want you for you?

The longer he stared at you across the table while you prepared for the incursion, the more he realized that it had started out as a simple reprieve from work and the stress that came with it but that wasn’t what it was anymore. Whether you broke up with him or not. He loved you. Not for your work, though your competency certainly was a turn on, but just for you.

And it was getting easier and easier to think about in his head, becoming more and more practiced. He loved you for you.

For your smile when you woke up and rolled over to kiss his forehead first thing before you got up every morning.

For the sanity he felt when he was wrapped in your arms, no matter what was going on outside.

For everything he was when he was with you that he wasn’t when he was without you. Soft, human, unburdened... a good man...

Colombia had nothing to do with it. It was just you and him. 

“Thank you.” He said pretty silently, trying to keep it just between the two of you as the sun began to set around you, casting shadows over your face while you assembled the M4 in front of you with ease.

His words stopped you though, your hands freezing as your stare switched back up to him. “For this?”

He nodded, “you don’t have to be out here for this, you don’t have to be putting your life on the line for me—“

“Javi, don’t...”

“I’m serious.” He fought as he positioned his gun in the back of his pants. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“You’re doing this for me—“

“Yeah, and if I thought for a second you wouldn’t do the same for me, maybe I’d hesitate but...” you sighed, shaking your head as your attention dropped back to your work, your hands still moving with practiced ease. “Just... you don’t have to thank me.”

Someone shouted something from across the small camp, signalling that everyone was ready to go and you quickly snapped the rest of the gun together and strapped it over your vested chest. But before you moved to head out into the jungle clearing and towards the helicopter, he caught your arm and pulled you towards him, as much as he could with the two of you wearing your bulky bullet proof vests. 

He lowered his voice as he brought his head closer to yours in spite of your protest, “thank you.”

And that was when you reached your hand back around his head and caught him completely off guard, bringing your lips to his for a brief kiss. A brief kiss that burned the same way your words had in his mind as the phone call from hours ago ended. With the simple touch of your lips to his, you were confirming everything you had when you ended the phone call, everything that had been occupying his thoughts the whole day.

“You don’t have to thank me.” You sighed one last time before turning away and following the soldiers and Castano brothers to the helicopter. And he heard the unspoken words that follow it. 

You didn’t want him to thank you because you loved him and you knew he loved you, you knew he’d do the same for you. 

He didn’t need to guess if it was a slip or not anymore, that didn’t matter.

He knew you loved him. And fuck, he really loved you.

Now, he had a war zone to head into and a woman to rescue. And with you by his side, things didn’t feel so dark anymore. 

tags: 

@the-feckless-wonder  @arrowswithwifi  @ms-dont-care @leo-moon @tiffdawg @readsalot73 @way-too-addicted-to-anime @keeper0fthestars @adikaofmandalore @opheliaelysia @magneticbucky @videogamesandpoorlifechoices​ @larakasser @littlevodika @mandoren @mistermiraclee @rogueonestan @kaetastic @littlemissthistle @maytheglitter(open)

[technomaestro]

Oh? Tell us about the characters on that list then

*slaps character sheet* this bad boy can fit so much of my own repressed trauma in it

This one could be fuckin *all* of them, but it's probably Kelarvia Arana, aka Kel. Poor dwarven fighter exile from Orzamar who turned to the Qun, was trained wrong as a spy, failed her family, failed the qun, failed her friends, and kept trying to do right. She was... not bright. She took a face full of acid breath for her troubles, got repeatedly stabbed by everyone around her, and still kept fucking trying. She was not in a great place by the end of that campaign.

Closeted Trans Person Gender Envy Character™

So, while I'm very much cis, I did toy around with the idea of genderfluidity and transness at one point. And the closest character to that would have been a major NPC that I had in my pokemon game, Claire deVire. She was a literal illusionist / Fairy Type mage, and honestly one of my favorite NPCs to use in the game. I played her as a confident and experienced trainer who had an air of mystery, was clever and flirtatious, and who had a very accomplished team including trans icon Sylveon. She is/was one of the main *villains* of the campaign, but that's besides the point. If I was a girl, she's who I'd want to be - but I'm pretty solid in my gender at this point.

sexy

That would be Lucas Maignard, the Silver Lion. Not just your average silver fox, but a nobleman who absolutely could rock it. Think Rollo from Vikings except salt and pepper hair. He was power hungry, a staunch revanchist of his family's ancestral title and he would go to every length it took to reclaim it, including trying to seduce the King's consort. He, notably, caused at least one if not more international incidents by insulting the soccer abilities of a neighboring kingdom.

He may have had the highest charisma of any character I've played.

idealized version of myself

Allow me to introduce you to Broderic Gullet, a 6'6 tall constantly drunken scotsman Barbarian with a hammer who was unkillable. Literally - he actually died at one point and came back to life because he was too damn stubborn to leave before his friends had gotten to safety, and some passing spirit possessed him and turned him into an abomination. He was jovial, friendly, could talk to his cat Mr. Pickles, and wonderfully buff enough he could hug all his friends at once. Plus he was a trained chef.

As Fruity And Extra As Possible

Oh this is easy. The Satyr Diplomat Cheldric delWolpertinger, a man who *honestly* should have read the recommended reading before being sent to deliver very important documents (these were actually talking frogs!). He was supposed to board a new train on the mountainous passage to Westport, but forgot his ticket. When the train left, he literally jumped (and I mean I cast "jump" and specifically was a Satyr for their Mirthful Leaps feature which adds 1d8 to my jump distance) onto the back of the train. Unfortunately, the murder of the conductor was a bit of an issue, but Cheldric and some other passengers put their heads together to solve the mystery.

furry

So, allow me to set the stage for Albie, Traitor to Crowkind. A Kenku that was as much benefit to the party as he was walking, curse triggering hazard, this absolute buffoon would do what he could to simultaneously help the party while also doing his best not to piss of Strahd too much. A lighting bolt cast into the middle of melee that hit everyone totally gives him plausible deniability for who survives.

I think my favorite memory though is when one of the other party members just opened his beak and he started reciting the Book of Strahd like Stitch plays that record in Lilo & Stitch

A good runner up here would also be Nilbo, a Kobold Druid who only became a druid because it let him wild shape into progressively bigger lizards and dinosaurs. No other animals, just scales.

I Saw One Of The Extra Fantasy Races That Aren’t In The Player’s Handbook And Almost Had A Stroke

Listen. Listen to me. I fucking love Warforged. I will *always* go to bat for magical robots. They're amazing and I've played so many, from psions to storm domain clerics to the most recent one, Hymn, a gender-neutral Celestial Pact Warlock Warforged who got his abilities because he was a socialist. No, I'm not joking - he was made for usage by the Church of the Sovereign Host, but when a wandering heretical priest came by wondering why the church didn't do more, Hymn started going out at night to perform direct action and mutual aid. Being not that smart, he accidentally wandered into a cult's base and released a captive celestial, who gifted him the power to help more.

a race + class that typically would not go together

I'm of a tossup here - the Halfling Artificer Posco Harfoot, who was a member of the Justicars and in order to even the playing field, built himself a goddamn magitek mech in order to go toe to toe with the other peacekeepers, or of Tiberius Vanderwhinn, an elven Path of the Zealot barbarian who was *extremely* keen on getting his libraries late fees sorted, and gods help you if you dared shout in his library.

sexy criminal

Very few things are sexier than a tiefling, and that would be Boreo Lieran, the Tiefling Bard. Boreo was a staunch contender for the "As fruity as possible" but this pansexual beast is much more in line here because the man seduced half the party prior to or during session 1. Having a prehensile tail and the ability to pick up the gnome lass in the party by it for him to tease probably helped.

Of course, such a man was hilariously illegal, because not only did he smuggle and steal like, 90% of his luxury goods that he used to pamper himself with, he would absolutely flaunt a total disregard for property rights and find himself making grand entrances into peoples homes and lives as part of his wayward caravan, leaving a trail of chaos in his wake.

himbo

One of the more recent characters I've played. Cadmus, Son of Abraxes! A "human" wizard on the plane of Theros, this man is the half-divine son of the literal personification of the pride of a polis that was wiped off the face of the world by the gods for their Hubris. So, an active devotee of the god of victory, and actively blaspheming the goddess of destiny at every turn (As he would put it, we hold the pen in our hands, she merely hoards the ink), his goal was to perform deeds good enough to earn a place as a constellation under the stars. He would only *ever* sleep outside at night, even in cities, because he wanted to rest with them as he knew one day he would for eternity.

[thefanficmonster]

Like Wind At Sea

Conrad x Fliss (The Dark Pictures Anthology: Man Of Medan)

Warnings: Swearing, !SPOILERS!

Genre: Fluff, A tiny bit of Angst

Summary: Conrad stays in French Polynesia after the events of the game, a force beyond his control forcing him to stay. A feeling he can’t explain keeping him tied to the place. It’s not the place per-se, more like a soul and mind that endured similar torment. Takes a while for him to admit it to himself though. Typical Conrad.

Requested by Anon (we both know who you are XD) Sorry to be getting to your request so late! You know I couldn’t wait to write this fic though! Thank you so much for being my first and only ConFliss request so far, means a lot to me! Please enjoy! Love, Vy ❤

He has just gotten off the phone with Julia. She calls him every other day to check if he’s still alive and functional - as functional as a mildly unstable alcoholic could be. Not that she’d ever outright say that’s why she’s calling him but he sees it, hears it loud and clear in the tone she uses - the same tone people use to talk a child away from a tantrum or calm them down once they’ve already started one. There’s also the subliminal ‘get your ass on a plane and fly back home’ during every phone call, but he pretends it’s so subtle he doesn’t catch it. Julia never points it out specifically, so he gets away with it.

His sister has every right to worry. It’s been approximately a month since they survived the horrors out on that ghost ship. ‘Survived’ in the most minimal sense of the word - half of their minds are still stuck there, healing the wounds that place left on them. Each person’s healing differently - Julia and Alex seek comfort in one another, the events having brought them closer than ever. Brad has thrown himself head-first in his studies, giving them all his focus and time so the memories can’t haunt him. Fliss has not been seen on land since then. She goes out at sea on her own or with tourist groups, never taking them for long trips or trips far from land - never in the direction of the ghost ship. And Conrad is stuck in a cycle that will kill him eventually. Minimal eating, overdrinking and oversleeping. He barely sees the light of day. He lives in a cheap, rundown motel, leaving his room only in the morning to make his way to the docks to ask about Fliss. He would never admit to himself that he is looking for her per-se. The way he sees it - he’s looking for closure. She’s the only person he feels he could discuss what happened with but he can’t explain why.

Just one conversation, and he’ll be on his way.

When he doesn’t find her - as expected - he goes back to the motel, passing by a liquor store on the way and obtaining his fix for the day. He knocks himself out until further notice. Said further notice is late into the afternoon/early evening when he finally stumbles into the small restaurant near the shore where he always takes a seat by the windows - his gaze always fixated on the docks. Always expecting to see her in the distance. He has a feeling he’ll recognize her no matter how far away she is. His eyes could always find her.

But he only needs them to find her this once, give him closure, and let him go on his way home to his sister and parents. He is so convinced she’ll free him from the invisible chains keeping him here, he has contemplated borrowing a boat to go search for her out on open water but managed to talk himself out of it every time.

“Give it up, son.“ One of the fishermen told him one day when he performed his usual routine of showing up at the docks to ask for her. He has been looking more and more homeless with each passing day, the fishermen and boat captains witnessing this ‘golden‘ boy crumbling under the pressure of the trauma.

“I can’t.“ He replied, eyes searching for the Duke, knowing damn well there was no way he could find it. He believed what he said - he still believes it - he feels trapped and has established that he will stay that way until she frees him.

“You can’t or you don’t want to?“ The fisherman’s question shook him up, sobering him up from the foggy state he has imprisoner himself in. That one question felt like a slap across the face and a punch to the gut simultaneously. 

He didn’t buy liquor on his way back that day.

Dropping the phone on the bed he hops in the shower, a sense of excitement keeping his heart beating faster this morning. His tone surprised Julia - he sounded so alive, lively, enthusiastic. Almost like the Conrad she knew prior to those horrors. Sure, every time he called he masked how he truly felt using his sarcasm, humor and Conrad-ness, but Julia saw right through it. Today, on the other hand, it was genuine. Not an act. Hopeful is how she’d describe him.

And he has what to be hopeful for.

Yesterday, one of the older captains actually had something useful to tell him: A female captain reported her return in the next two days. This sent Conrad’s heart racing and mind haywire. He was practically counting the hours, he barely even slept a wink last night. He thought his patience had thickened after a month of waiting but now that she is so soon to return he realizes his patience has only been worn thinner and thinner. The alcohol masked it well though. Now that he’s sober, however, he’s got all the impatient symptoms: bouncing leg, tapping foot, cracking knuckles, muttering to himself etc.

The captain didn’t know a time to tell him for her arrival. That didn’t pose a problem for Conrad though. He is prepared to sit out by the docks all day and that’s exactly what he’s gonna do. He’s been lacking sunlight too, so it’s a win-win situation for him.

He stopped for a quick breakfast in the restaurant - sat in his usual seat, his gaze ten times as focused and sharpened at the boats dancing on the tiny waves, making a plan to rush out of the restaurant the second he laid eyes on the Duke. After the first breakfast he has had in a month he went to sit with the captains and fishermen, all of which poked at him for more details either about his relation to Fliss or about what had happened. The whole town heard of it, some believed it, some didn’t, others questioned it. Conrad knows better than to tell them what happened, or what DIDN’T happen. He knows they’ll peg him for a nut-job with no further discussion.

That was all hours ago, he has lost track of time and despises the idea of checking his wristwatch to see how much of his life he has wasted on the docks. The sun’s setting, so that’s gotta be some indication.

With his mind travelling the oceans and seas in search of her, he’s rather startled to feel a hand on his shoulder. He turns to see the fisherman that tried to set him ‘straight’ a few weeks ago. “Let’s grab a bite to eat, son. Maybe a drink to go with it.” When Conrad shakes his head in the response, the man sighs, “You really can’t give her up, can you?”

“I don’t want to.“ The words automatically leave his lips, like a truth he’s been dying to speak out loud. A smile appears on his face at the sound of what he said. He knows it’s authentic, no matter how automatic it was.

The man chuckles and pats his shoulder. There is an abrupt but odd pause however, Conrad can see the astonishment in the his eyes as they travel to the sunset. “Maybe it’ll be worth it in the end, after all.” He points ahead, causing Conrad’s head to snap back in the direction it was originally facing. A boat, a familiar one, is approaching.

The man steps away right in time for Conrad to jump to his feet, his heart pounding like it did this morning. It’s not an illusion or a hallucination, he’s fucking done with those. It’s real and it’s her.

The time it takes for the boat to reach the docks is killing him, he has to restrain the urge to swim to her and give her a hug. No, that could earn him a slap to the face. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time - but he still wants that hug.

She on the other hand is baffled to say the least. She has grown wary of her own eyes and now she isn’t sure if she can trust them with what they’re seeing. Conrad. The man who was supposed to be long gone from her life is standing in front of her, a smug smile playing at his lips as if to convince her it’s really him. To say her heart dropped at the sight of him would be an understatement. It’s certainly a shock and a surprise but far from unpleasant. She only now realizes how much she’s missed having him around even if they haven’t known each other for long. She can say with 100% certainty that she has never met, nor will she ever meet a person like Conrad.

And not that she’d admit it, but he has a special place in her heart.

“Aren’t I glad to see you!“ He’s the first to speak up, as expected. To his surprise, she’s the one to initiate the hug though. A more than welcome surprise.

“I could easily say the same.“ She mumbles in the crook of his neck, fighting her instinct to hold onto him for a long time and forcing her arms to free him, “But what are you doing here?“ A very reasonable question on her part, one he doesn’t have an answer to. “And why do you look like you just left that boat after years spent on it?”

“Don’t even joke about that.“ He scolds her playfully, causing her to roll her eyes - playing the ‘unbothered‘ card, much like him.

“Answer my question. Both of them.“ She fixates his gaze on hers with a strict glare, not allowing him to look elsewhere. Which seems to have backfired cause he can’t utter a word. She shakes her head, “I guess a drink will unknot your tongue.“ She waves him over, hopping back into the Duke.

He follows without needing to be told twice, “No drinks, thank you. My liver already hates me enough.”

“Your eyebags do too.“ She points out, taking a seat.

He scoffs though he can’t correct her. Who knew oversleeping could cause eyebags too? He sits down opposite her, mind overheating in search of what to say. “So....about that night...”

“It was a nightmare.” Fliss cuts him off, “One I’d like to forget.“

Her words sound familiar to him. He almost laughs when he recalls saying the exact two sentences, word-for-word to Julia over the phone.

“But you can’t.“ He says firmly. “Drop the act, Fliss. I’ve seen it before. No, I’ve DONE it before. You’re not fooling the master of ‘I don’t give a fuck’. If I’m still troubled by it, you are too.“

Frustration is clawing at her, her thoughts contradicting each other. “You’re right, I can’t. But I don’t wanna talk about it either.”

“Ok then, what do you want to talk about?“ He’s not to keen on talking about it either, he was using that as a front. All along, closure is the last thing he’s needed. Company - her company - is the answer.

“What’s ahead. How we’ll let it go, you know? That cheesy shit like the sunshine after the storm.“ She motions to the Duke and the open water, “This is mine. What’s yours?“

He stops to think for a moment, but for some reason he feels obligated to deliver a reply quickly so he automatically blurts out: “First I plan on going back home. I’ve been planning to do that, but I wanted to see you, talk to you first.”

She feels a pang in her chest. Missing. She’s already missing him again at the very thought of him leaving. She tries to brush it off, call it ridiculous, but it refuses to leave her so she pushes onward, ignoring it to the best of her ability. “So you’re leaving soon?”

The logical thing to say here would be ‘Yes’, but he feels like the word has been removed from his vocabulary at the moment. He can’t say it. It’s not what he wants anymore. Or is it? “I mean, that was the original plan but...” he rubs the back of his neck nervously, “I’m not so sure anymore. I guess it depends...” He trails off, his voice dying down - a rare occurrence. He’s never had this happen to him around any woman ever. He’s a ladies man, and look at him now, timid you could call him.

“Depends on what?“ A feeling worse, more ridiculous than missing him - the hope of him sticking around takes firm hold of her. She knows she should know better, but hell, it’s not time for pride at the moment.

Their eyes meet. “If you’d like company or not.“

His response sends a wave of relief over her, stealing a smile that turns into a laugh from her. “I’d typically say no, but...”

“But my charm has finally knocked you out cold, huh?“ He smirks in his cocky, really-Conrad way.

“That comparison still makes no sense.“ She stands up looking at the sun’s last rays but at the moment it feels more like a sunrise - a new beginning - or it’s the true sunshine after the storm she’s been looking for. “Now, let’s discuss terms over dinner cause I’m starving.“

He chuckles, offering her his hand, which she gladly takes as they start walking down the dock back to the beach. “Terms? You really know how to take the fun out of it.”

She rolls her eyes, stopping to give him a brief kiss on the cheek before quickening her pace, dragging a star-struck Conrad behind her. “That shut you up.” She shoots him a smirk over her shoulder.

It really has shut him up. All he can do is grin at her in awe, mesmerized by how she flipped his life on its ass in such a short amount of time. A month of misery has been erased and turned to bliss in less than thirty minutes.

A phenomenon that he’d like to call - like wind at sea. He’s a sailboat, she’s the wind. She decides his path, he abides. And they’ll sail in harmony together, healing one another, and healing themselves in the process. Just the two of them: Mr. Golden Playboy and Miss No-Nonsense. 

If anyone has ever doubted the accuracy of the phrase ‘Opposites attract’, if this doesn’t kill any and all doubt, I don’t know what will.

@chairtiger

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Hii!! Can you please do prompt #33?

Well, because you asked so nicely, Anon, of course!

33. Everyone thinks I should stay away from you because you’re dangerous

Romance Novelish

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: T Word count: 5540

Summary:

MJ's European vacation is a romance. Peter's is more like an episode of Jackass.

Brad talks too much and, unfortunately, he talks even more after MJ pulls out one of the novels she packed and raises it in front of her nose to dissuade further conversation. Apparently, the fact that the book has a bare-chested man and swooning, beribboned lady on the cover comes across as an invitation for comments from her seatmate. MJ glares at Brad. She’s tired of his attention. She wants to spend the rest of the flight living vicariously through this fictional woman about to get some Georgian D. If Brad will ever let her fucking get past the first chapter.

“Because it’s good,” she finally snaps, turning to face him when he continues to question why anyone with any self-respect would read a romance novel. “It’s wish-fulfillment. It’s not degrading, it’s empowering to read about a woman finding exactly… exactly what she…”

MJ trails off, attention snagged by Peter in the corner of her eye, several rows back. He’s getting up from his seat.

“…what she wants,” she continues distractedly, watching Peter twist to wriggle out towards the aisle. Even through his sweater, look at those shoulders. “…and, uh, going after it.”

Peter straightens up and slams his head into the overhead compartment. Wincing, she blinks and refocuses on Brad’s unconvinced expression.

“Ok,” he argues (she rolls her eyes), “but a woman going after what she wants shouldn’t be some fantasy. You’re not the timid type. You’d go after the guy in real life.”

MJ gives a small longing sigh and darts a look at Peter’s back as he heads for the bathroom.

“You’d think so,” she mumbles, disappointed in herself.

“The right guy,” Brad informs her emphatically, “wouldn’t make you wonder if he was interested. He’d make it obvious that he was into you and then you could just respond.” He shifts towards her, tone seeming to urge a confession. “He wouldn’t leave any room for doubt or misunderstanding. He’d give plenty of hints.”

His hand just brushes her knee and she shifts in her seat, away from him, whipping her novel back up in front of her face.

“Too bad he can’t take one,” she says and proceeds to ignore Brad until he stops talking to her.

An hour later, Peter trips up the aisle of the plane and knocks into the arm she had balanced on her armrest, propping her cheek up. He grabs her shoulder to straighten her before she can bang her head into anything. Heart hammering from more than the collision, MJ looks up at him. She sticks her finger between the pages and offers a shy smile.

“Hey,” he says. “So…”

He’s obviously nervous; MJ hears Brad make an impatient noise beside her and turns her back more fully towards him to concentrate on Peter. Peter, who’s lifting an arm and smoothing the back of his hair like he might’ve messed it up dozing against his seat’s headrest. MJ’s mind is back in the world of her book for a minute. The swell of Peter’s biceps. Her gaze slides down his body like butter on a hot cob of corn. The way his jeans hug his thighs. She swallows.

He swings his upper body abruptly to look at something and his raised elbow clocks a man who’s getting his carryon down in the ear.

“Oh shit,” Peter gasps, immediately apologizing and trying to help.

After the situation’s resolved―accepted as an accident―and Peter’s returning the man’s luggage to the compartment for him, he spins back to MJ and seems to lose his nerve. He gives her a weak laugh and scurries away. MJ slumps back into her seat.

Wearily, she holds her book before her eyes. The protagonist is in the middle of what MJ expects to be a futile attempt to resist her feelings for the hunk.

“‘Everyone thinks I should stay away from you because you’re dangerous!’” she reads.

Her real-life love interest of choice isn’t exactly a historical bad boy of the is-that-a-dagger-concealed-in-your-breeches-or-are-you-just-happy-to-see-me variety, but dangerous? MJ sneaks a peek and witnesses Peter swipe a woman’s drink clear off her tray as he tries to maneuver his way to his middle seat. Yeah, you could say that being close to him is a hazard.

―

“MJ,” Betty asks in Venice, “are you sure? You could share with Ned and I.”

And she gets this gushy look on her face that would make MJ say no even if she’d been considering trying to squeeze into the two-seater gondola with the brand-new couple.

“Nah, I’ll be alright with Parker.”

She sounds more certain than she feels and Betty gives her a doubtful look.

“Are you sure? Peter? In a narrow little boat? On water?”

“Yep. What could go wrong?”

It’s a joke because every one of Betty’s words hints at the possible pitfalls. Still, MJ knows a chance for romance when she sees one. The two of them, thigh-to-thigh in a gondola, gliding down the canal with no one and nothing to interrupt them? Ideal. Being alone with him (minus one gondolier) long enough for a gondola ride might give her time to form the words to say… well, she’s not sure what yet. But she’ll form them! The sway of the water beneath them and the centuries-old architecture to either side will inspire her. Not to mention her crush’s proximity. He already said yes when she asked if he might want to go together. Of course, MJ phrased it like she just needed someone to split the cost (something this touristy does not come cheap), but hopefully he’ll see past her practicality and directly into her heart.

“You’re right,” Betty says. She smiles. “I’m sure everything will be just fi―”

The girls turn and jump in reaction to Ned grabbing the back of Peter’s hoodie right before he can tumble off the dock and into the canal. MJ and Betty exchange a look.

“Will you hold my backpack?”

“Mhmm.” Betty waits while MJ tucks her romance novel inside and zips the bag shut. “Good luck,” she offers.

“Thanks.”

Once they’re actually on the water, MJ feels better. The way the gondolier propels them smoothly down the canal is very relaxing. She turns her face up, grateful for the kiss of the sun after all those hours on the plane. It’s also easier to look up and squint than it is to look sideways and meet Peter’s eye. Every time she does, they glance quickly away from each other.

“Maybe we should take a picture,” Peter suggests out of nowhere. MJ looks at him.

“Definitely. To commemorate the trip.”

“Right.”

He gives her a quick flick of a smile, brown eyes so close when they’re facing each other like this. There are more freckles springing up across his nose the longer they’re out in the sun. MJ wants to find a way for them to stay out all afternoon.

“I can take it,” she offers. He nods eagerly and she opens the camera on her phone, raising her arm to get a good angle.

“Um, should I…?”

Peter shifts on the seat. His legs press more surely against hers and he cranes his head forward awkwardly.

“No,” MJ instructs. “Get closer.”

She only watches him on the phone screen, but her breaths grow shallow as she sees him stare at the side of her face, then move his face right next to hers.

“Closer,” she urges.

His arm comes around her, touching the seat on the far side of her before he cautiously decides to hold her waist.

“Closer.” It’s a whisper.

His cheek rests gently against hers and MJ holds her breath.

“Look at the camera,” he says softly, though when she turns her head just a little, he’s not. He’s looking at her.

A speedboat zips past causing sudden choppy waves and Peter reacts instantly. He leaps into a rigid, defensive posture and something goes flying out of his hand or from up his sleeve. MJ doesn’t have a chance to figure out what it was or ask him about it because Peter yanks his arm back. Simultaneously, the gondolier’s oar goes sailing over their heads and, like a person with a broken leg who has their crutch kicked out from under their armpit, the gondolier topples over the side of the boat.

“Oh my god!” she gasps, flinging herself forward to grab the edge of the gondola, trying to see into the murky, churning water.

MJ misses the moment Peter jumps, but she feels his sweatshirt land in her lap and hears the splash. She slides across the bench to check the water on the other side, where he must have dived in. What should she do? What can she do? There are people on land stopping to look. She stares back in a panic, floating alone in the gondola.

“Help!” she calls to them, but rather than trust any of them to react, she starts to text Mr. Harrington, phone shaking in her hand. Their teacher gave everyone his number for emergencies and she doesn’t know what it’ll do to the poor guy for her to use it, but there’s no other choice…

Until Peter and the gondolier break the surface. Now MJ’s yelling at them.

“Why did you do that? What the hell, Parker?”

Thankfully, he ignores her panic (she’ll be embarrassed about it later) and holds the side of the gondola still while water runs into his eyes and the gondolier flops back on board, muttering in curt Italian. Peter paddles around the boat to retrieve the oar, now cracked in half. The gondolier accepts it with a nod.

“Aren’t you getting in?” MJ demands when the vessel begins to move and Peter’s still treading water.

“We were almost back to where we started,” he points out. “I’ll just swim it.”

She turns away from him and puts her hand to her forehead, somewhere between relieved and fuming. Her other hand unconsciously grips the sweatshirt in her lap. Once they’ve docked, MJ angrily passes the sweatshirt off to Ned and takes her backpack back from Betty.

“What happened?” they’re asking her, and MJ’s opening her mouth to explain the entire thing, about how Peter Parker is not only dangerous but an idiot, truthfully crushed that this moment slipped away from the two of them, when she glances towards the dock. Instead of speaking, her mouth just drops open further.

It’s like goddamn slow-motion.

He plants his hands on the weathered wood and hauls himself out of the water, plaid shirt plastered to his body. All the air leaves MJ’s chest as Peter shakes his head then slicks his wet hair back. Jesus Christ, she could swear she sees every drop of water cascading down his face and over the curve of his jaw. Light glints off the surface of the canal behind him and he walks, looking directly at her. Without breaking eye contact, she snatches the sweatshirt from Ned’s hands.

“Um, here,” she says, offering it to a sopping-wet Peter. This is better than the books.

“Thanks, MJ. At least that’s dry.”

MJ gives him a pathetically awed smile at the self-deprecating humour and has trouble letting go of the hoodie for a second, sorta hoping he’ll tug the whole thing forward and she’ll end up pressed to his chest. Yes, the front of her clothes will get wet, and yes, he smells like the canal, but she can overlook those things. Haul me against you, she thinks intently. Show me what it feels like to be a woman ruled by nothing but her passions in the embrace of your strong arms.

“Dammit!” Peter yelps, one eye clamped shut when he pulls the sweatshirt away from his now-dry face. “I wiped my face with the zipper!”

She could die. She could honestly just fucking die here. After Ned and Betty find a different gondola to rent, Peter goes back to the hotel for dry clothes and she wanders alone. Not far, just enough to find a bench where she sits and retrieves her novel from her backpack. God, right when she thought she and Peter were getting somewhere, that speedboat! The oar somehow jerked from the gondolier’s hands! Reality is bullshit. MJ cups her chin in her hand and turns the page.

―

They’re on the bus to Prague and MJ’s grateful for the stretch of time where she’s not expected to explore or listen to guided tours that tell her buildings that are clearly haunted aren’t, and other questionable facts. Do they even know how many people have been murdered in Venice? Neither does she, but the city had a very murdery vibe that she loved and would’ve appreciated hearing more about. And they call this an educational school trip. Ha.

She’s using this time to read. Read and observe. She’s on her third romance novel now. She only packed five, but if she gets through them all before they fly home from Paris, she’ll just start the first one again. They really aren’t tedious. Especially when she has material right in front of her eyes to project the characters onto. Peter pokes his head around the side of his seat and his gaze meets hers. Everything inside her flutters as though ruffled by an internal breeze. He gives her a sideways little smile that shows his teeth. Ravish me, MJ thinks, ducking back behind her open book to hide the way her face is lighting up like a flare.

She should just go talk to him. It would be thoughtful, a nice gesture, since his best friend is totally consumed with cozying up to Betty where they’re sitting together. Not having Ned to constantly hang out with has gotta be rough on Peter. Instead of barricading the seat beside her with her feet to ward off Brad, MJ could sit next to him. Soothe his loneliness.

“Do it,” she mutters to herself. “Get up.”

Pulse surging, MJ sets her novel aside and grips the back of the seat in front of hers to pull herself to her feet. There’s no need to be nervous. She and Peter… they have chemistry. There’s something there, just waiting to be realized if she can be brave enough to make a move. She ignores Brad, who looks up excitedly when she passes his seat. Brad’s fine, but she’d like him better if he didn’t feel like that towards her. Not when she feels like this towards someone else.

Peter’s at the front of the bus as they zoom down winding roads that hug steep cliffs. The scenery’s all gorgeous, she’s sure. She just can’t take her eyes off him. Confidence, MJ thinks to herself, trying to channel the heroine in her current read. That woman has three different men metaphorically eating out of the palm of her hand. MJ could do that. MJ has that power. This is just one sixteen-year-old on whom she happens to have a very large crush. She holds her head high and strides forward.

And in some quick struggle with Flash, Peter knocks the other boy out cold.

MJ freezes as Peter jolts back in evident surprise at his own action. He really shouldn’t be able to get into that amount of trouble while they’re all stuck on this bus. It just isn’t probable. She turns and slinks back to her seat before he can notice that his latest attack of awkwardness (and the ensuing collateral damage) had an audience. Rather than sit there trying to figure out how Peter incapacitated Flash with such a swift, soundless hit, MJ half-reads and half-daydreams. Her fantasies are full of his body slanting over hers for a completely different reason than to check her vitals after an accidental punch in the face.

―

There’s a hush in the theatre, still a long time before the opera will begin. Sound feels low to MJ, as though it’s billowing along the floor like smoke, everything dampened and expectant. Peter wavers and stops in the aisle. They’re going to sit together. Or, they were.

“What is it?” she asks.

He huffs an uncertain laugh.

“Just don’t really feel like watching an opera, I guess.”

“I know what you mean,” she agrees. Opera is about passion―lust, betrayal, wild consequences from the actions that heightened emotions lead to. It’s a lot like her romance novels, so, actually, opera appeals to her, but she’s not so sure about her ability to sit quietly and watch all of those things unfold on the stage while Peter’s seated next to her, the sleeve of his jacket rubbing against her arm.

“You do?” He seems surprised to find she’s on his side. Maybe he was worried about disappointing her.

MJ nods and offers a quick smile.

“You wanna… get out of here?” Peter looks at her warily after floating the suggestion. Her smile broadens.

“Yes.”

“Ok.” He glances back towards the row packed with their classmates. “As long as nobody sees us leave, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Oh, Harrington won’t notice. I told him Brad has a phobia of any kind of representational work, so he’s pretty focused on trying to comfort him.”

“And Brad?”

“Brad has no idea what’s going on.”

If her smirk is a touch vengeful, Peter doesn’t have any words of judgement for her. They walk together to the exit. She’s smiling hard towards the floor and has the feeling he is too. When the door catches the back of Peter’s jacket and shuts on it, MJ holds it open to free him, shrugging off his thanks. What’s a minor wardrobe mishap here or there? Tear this dress off me, she thinks as they step out into the night. They’re just a couple of teenagers, unchaperoned in a foreign city after dark. She isn’t scared as she walks next to Peter. Nothing could feel safer. In the historical novels she likes, there’s often a charming French gentleman or a dashing Spanish rogue, but this boy from home suits her just fine, with the smile never totally leaving his lips and the level of his head slightly below hers. MJ shivers and allows Peter to help her into her jean jacket. Sure, it’s the air bringing goosebumps to her arms.

They hold hands out of necessity, trying not to be separated in the crowd. Though it’s warmer while they’re moving with this teaming river of festivalgoers, she’s glad to be wearing her jacket. Strangers graze it, but only Peter is permitted to touch her bare skin. Their fingers aren’t locked or anything and still his hand clamped around hers is enough to make her feel electrifyingly possessed. Look! she wants to tell these strangers. I’m with him! Being taken in a firm hold is not, for her, mutually exclusive from consensual physical contact. When it’s a yes, MJ prefers an unambiguous yes; when touch is granted, she isn’t averse to rough neediness. Of course, this is all based on theory, not personal experience, on the way heat crawls up her neck and behind her ears when she reads a passage where a heroine is hastened to a secret place by her lover before being pushed against the wall, arms pinned, as the man looses her front-fastening gown with his teeth.

With a quick sideways glance, she presses herself a little closer to Peter and feels his fingers flex around her hand in response. She longs for a love affair abroad. What’s apparently more realistic―because this is what happens―is that she and Peter are too shy to continue holding hands when they escape the throng. That it’s too loud to hear each other talking and the requirement of tipping their mouths towards each others’ ears to be heard goes from sensual to annoying disappointingly fast. After they decide to go back to the theatre and pretend to have exited just ahead of the rest of their class, MJ thinks Peter’s changed his mind. He comes lurching into her space. Is he going to kiss her?! No, he catches himself and shouts that somebody bumped into him. Then he apologizes. Dammit, there’s nothing more she would’ve wanted from this night than for Peter’s momentum to drive them stumbling into some tidy alley off the main thoroughfare! She could’ve threaded her fingers desperately into his hair while they kissed, let him feel her up a little. MJ communicates in gestures that it’s no problem and they’re both too jumpy to hold hands as they weave upstream through the people.

After this failure of courage on both their parts, she doesn’t expect Peter to show up at the door of her hotel room later that night. She’s lying on her stomach, reading, when she hears the knock.

The sound of the revelers is still there, but in the distance. The streets they tread are quiet and full of all the ambiance of cobblestones and yellow lamplight. They could almost be back in time. Run away with me, is MJ’s silly thought. She doesn’t really want the trouble that would cause―depleting their euros, the worry of their families, rebooking flights, probably killing Mr. Harrington with the stress of it all―just the idea of being alone with him, of buying the two of them more time. In her head, she bats at the idea of her and Peter, in love and on the run from anyone who’d try to stop them, like a child whacking at a piñata. No hope of splitting it open.

Still, she is alone with him and his profile’s never looked so nice as it does cut out against the velvety dark of Prague’s sky. Peter seems nervous, again. He gets that way with her. Would it reassure him if she hinted in the subtlest way possible that the only time the words ‘making love’ don’t cause her stomach to turn is when she applies them to her and him? Is she the only one set on fire by the possibilities of the darkness? MJ wants to see their shadows intertwine.

She guesses at what he needs for her to say, suppressing the flowing verbal pornography of what she wants to say. It’s obvious that he’s trying to reveal his secret identity. The gondola mishap, the instinctual way he navigated them through all those people earlier―there are multiple examples from this trip that she added to her accumulated observations of him back home to come to the conclusion that Peter is Spider-Man.

But her assertion surprises him. He hooks his shoe on a cobblestone and goes sprawling. MJ frowns down.

“Why didn’t you catch yourself?” she asks. It doesn’t come out sounding very sympathetic, but she’s scientific right now, studying him as his alter ego.

Peter shoves himself up from the ground and dusts his hands off on his jeans. MJ hopes his palms aren’t scraped up.

“I always seem to have a little trouble with my senses when I’m around you,” he says with a bashful smile.

At first, she’s insulted. Is he blaming her for his clumsiness? After all the time she’s devoted to constructing fantasies revolving around him in tight trousers, tall boots, and torn-open shirts! Then, she gets it.

“You do?”

“Definitely,” Peter admits. “Everything else sorta blurs out and I can only focus on where you are. Where your body is in relation to mine. Totally lose track of my surroundings.”

He says the last sentence while dropping his gaze to her lips, which she swiftly licks in preparation. MJ’s ready for her first kiss… which never comes because Peter’s phone goes off. He answers, since it’s his best friend calling, then informs her that Mr. Harrington’s looking for them and Ned can only stall and make up wild excuses for so long. There’s no time to do anything but race back to the hotel, the atmosphere that was so much like it is in her books diminishing with every step. As she trudges to her room, feeling restless and left hanging, Brad pops out of his. Says he was worried about her. That he would’ve been happy to go with her if she’d only let him know. Mentions how he wouldn’t have gotten lost the way Parker obviously did…

“What were you even doing with him?” Brad asks as she fiddles with her key card. “Trying to stop him from wandering into traffic?”

MJ whips her head around to glare at him.

“Trying to prove you right.”

She gets inside and closes the door on him so she won’t have to elaborate, remind him of what he told her on the plane. That she’s the kind of person who’d go after the guy. Well, she isn’t. She didn’t go after Peter. She blew it. In the morning, they’re flying to Paris, and then home two days later. There won’t be semi-private gondolas or chances to steal away from the rest of their group while they’re watching an opera. MJ really believed this would be the vacation where she transformed into the kind of person she’d want to read about in a book. She’d better stick to reading because she’s not even close.

―

Paris is in a heatwave. Some of her classmates appear to be disenchanted by the fact that they’re too hot and uncomfortable to strut down the boulevards like models on a catwalk as the pastel buildings of picture-perfect arrondissements rear around them. They’re feeling too limp to be chic, but MJ is thriving. She eats hearty sandwiches of crusty bread and layered meats and cheeses and ties her t-shirt up around her waist like a crop top when sweat rolls down her spine. She feels like a better-fed working-class woman of the 18th century. Give her a Louis XVI to drag from his bed in this epicenter of revolutions. In the story she imagines for herself now, her bosom doesn’t heave from the breathlessness of stolen moments with a paramour but from the exertion of storming the Place de la Concorde for justice and the disruption of a diseased social contract.

Group activities and being worn out by the sun by dinnertime prevent MJ from really talking to Peter. Also, he keeps giving her these looks, which she attributes to her stating that he’s Spider-Man and then the two of them never discussing it further. They can’t, in front of their friends and Mr. Harrington. She thinks maybe they will when the Louvre swallows them for a whole afternoon, but the shuffling feet of visitors make the words clog in her throat. Her new persona doesn’t follow her inside; central air extinguishes the fire of the woman she is in the streets. Instead, she studies the fold and flow of painted fabrics, yearning to drape herself across Peter’s body the way Da Vinci swathed Mary in blue.

MJ wakes up to oppressive humidity on the final morning. It feels cool enough in the hotel, but her skin grows damp in the fifteen minutes between toweling off from her shower and sitting down in the breakfast room. Mr. Harrington appears to be at the end of his rope partly because, as he notifies them, Mr. Dell’s apparently sleeping in until they have to leave for the airport. The rest of his stress is just from existing, MJ guesses. He’s too paralyzed by anxiety to even think about accompanying his students on an excursion. Fortunately, enough of them are interested in going up the Eiffel Tower―until now, they’ve only seen it from the ground―that Mr. Harrington permits them to leave in a pack. They nod awkwardly when he gives an intense directive for them to ‘protect each other out there’ as though they’re embarking on a journey across a minefield.

She’s kind of surprised at how quickly their group breaks apart. Some of her classmates, like Flash, clearly had no intention of doing anything but skipping off to freedom, but come on. Doesn’t anybody want to examine the Eiffel Tower for traces of mind-control technology? The only one MJ’s glad to see go is Brad, though he shoots her a look like, Aren’t you tempted to follow me? She is not. When Peter sticks to her side, promising to stay with her all the way to the very top (frazzled by his sudden closeness, she pedantically informs him that they don’t let people up that high), her heart seems to shudder and glisten like the lightshow that illuminates the Tower at night. Betty and Ned are coming too, but they’re lost in their own little world, swinging their clasped hands between them and stopping to make Peter take pictures of them in cute poses as they make their way to their destination.

On the way up the Eiffel Tower, MJ hardly breathes. It’s the heat, or it’s Peter there beside her, smiling whenever she catches his eye. Or it’s some kind of copycat impulse because he hardly seems to be breathing either, hands in his pockets and chewing his lip in her peripheral vision. Miraculously, on the platform, there’s air. She wouldn’t go so far as to call it a breeze, but it feels like air is moving around her instead of her pushing thickly through it as she has been the past two days. She feels exposed, as though at the prow of a ship. She pictures herself captured by pirates only to become their leader after seducing and bamboozling their captain, whose hands prove to be as callused as his words are callous when they have their way with each other in his shabby quarters.

Ned and Betty hurry along the walkway in search of the ideal backdrop for the series of selfies they’re about to take. While MJ’s watching them go, Peter grabs her hand. The action’s not like it was on the swarming streets of Prague; his hold is gentle, cradling her hand as though to cushion a jewel. Speaking of…

“I got this for you,” he says, drawing a chain from his pocket with his free hand. A chipped black pendant, glass by how it shines in the morning light, twists slowly before her eyes. “In Venice.”

“You got that for me?”

“Yeah. It got beaten up a little in my luggage. I’m s―”

“It’s perfect. I love it,” she assures him quickly. Tentatively, she lifts a hand to finger the smooth petals. “I can’t believe you got this for me.”

“I thought you’d like it. Black―”

“Dahlia,” MJ finishes for him. His hair’s curling in the humidity and she just wants to take his face between her hands and give him a kiss. They stare at each other a moment and she thinks, finally, maybe, will he? Will she?

“Here,” Peter offers. “I can put it on you, if you want.”

She smiles and nods, turning to present him with her back and gathering her hair up away from her neck. His hands come around in front and she tries to watch them without lowering her chin too much. Trying to be steady for him. Either it’s taking him a while to fasten the finnicky catch or he’s as appreciative of their nearness as she is because she can feel the warmth of his hands resting against the nape of her neck. Just wrap your arms around me, she thinks. Seize my hips as I swoon against your solid chest. Spider-Man should be a lover as well as a fighter. Eventually, his hands drop and she steels herself to face him.

Taking a deep breath, MJ says, “Tell me how it looks.”

She’s still turning as Peter takes a step back (presumably to assess the way she looks wearing the necklace), bumps into the guardrail, and overreacts so aggressively that he goes vaulting over it.

“PETER!” she screams, springing forward.

When she looks over the side, he’s hanging there with his fist closed around some kind of stretchy, sticky thread. His webs. Peter gives her a sheepish smile and she sighs in relief that the dork didn’t just plummet to his death.

“Looks great,” he says. MJ rolls her eyes.

“Just get up here so I can kiss you.”

He grins.

But other people on the platform are reacting, exclaiming, turning their cameras and phones towards the guy hanging by what probably looks like a rope from a distance. And maybe the two of them, Peter and MJ―a team, a unit, a couple―could’ve played it off that way if he didn’t decide to swing back and forth to gather momentum and then flip up to land beside her. There are gasps and other noises of surprise.

“What are you going to do?” she demands, trying to block him from view as well as she can.

He gives her a determined look.

“I know the first thing,” Peter says, then grips the back of her neck as he kisses her, suddenly suave, suddenly sure, and suddenly she’s the one who can’t trust her own damn legs, going wobbly beneath her as she presses back into the kiss. His mouth responds urgently and his stability counteracts her shakiness to keep her on her feet.

When he breaks the kiss, MJ tilts her head and immediately goes after another one. Hey, they’re in the City of Love. She’s gonna get her romance.

more clichéd tropes and prompts

[yet-another-fan-girl9]

Different Worlds (3)

Summary: You’re the youngest Winchester, a girl who needs to show her big brothers that she doesn’t need help. Then one day, on a totally normal vampire hunt that you had all under control, three meddling Avengers come barging in.

Warnings: language, violence, canon divergence, slow burn, me making stuff up

Word Count: 2011

A/N: This is basically how I’m going to update this series: like two a day and then a multiple month hiatus.

~*~

Chapter 3: Trouble On the Horizon

You sat in the booth, squished up to the wall because of a large, dark-haired supersoldier next to you. Across from you, the Falcon was happily eating his burger with Captain America next to him. You quickly sent a message to Sam and Dean telling them that you were fine and that you would meet them back at the bunker.

“Sooo…” you prompted the superheroes before you took a bite of your burger. 

“What happened back there?” the man next to you asked and turned his steel-blue eyes on to you.

You took your time before answering, chewing your food, swallowing, and then taking a sip of your drink. “That was Mr. Robert Walker.”

“Why’d he do those disappearing tricks?” the Falcon asked.

“‘Cause he’s dead.” The men raised their eyebrows simultaneously. “Robert Walker and his wife, Petra, died in like 1970 or something.”

“So he was a ghost?” Captain America clarified.

“Yep.” You popped the ‘p.’ “They, or their ghosts, were responsible for a couple of recent deaths ‘round here.”

“Why?”

“Spirits do things for different reasons.” You shrug. The three men were actually listening intently. “Some want revenge or just keep killing the way they killed people when they were alive.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“‘Course!” you snort. “‘S my job.”

“You’re a ghost hunter?”

“Sure.” You took a long sip of your drink.

“Why did you kill everyone at the bar? Pretty fucking sure they weren’t ghosts,” the Winter Soldier spat at you. His friends raised their eyebrows slightly in surprise at his tone.

“Yeah… that was a colony of vamps.”

“Vampires?” the Falcon asked with a smile and wide eyes.

“Yes, vampires!” You mimic his expression before dropping it quickly and resuming your so-called ‘resting bitch face.’ It was important to look intimidating in this line of work.

“Why did you have to cut off their heads?” Captain America sat back and crossed his arms.

“How else was I supposed to kill ‘em?”

“Did you have to kill them?”

Uhg. This is why. This is why the hunters stayed away from goodie two shoes, ass-kissing heroes. They always wanted to find a way to save people. Even if they were too far gone. Even if they were so blatantly monsters.

“Yes, I had to kill them. It’s. My. Job.”

“So there are ghosts and vampires,” the Falcon said to change the topic, “what else?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Your friendly mood had disappeared. Your back ached from where Mr. Walker threw you against the wall and you were tired. “I’m done here.”

“How’s your arm?” the blue-eyed man next to you asked, stopping your ‘escape attempt’ of climbing over the back of the seat.

“Whadya mean?”

“Last time, with the vampires, you injured your arm.”

Well, you didn’t expect this. Especially from the Winter Soldier. You could tell he wasn’t satisfied with your answers, or lack of them, but at the same time, he was actually asking about your injury.

“‘S all healed.�� You pulled down your shirt from the collar to show them. Cas had been useful and fixed you up. No ugly puncture wounds today.

“How?” You looked at the man for more explanation. “How did you heal so fast. It was only a week ago.”

“Mag-my friend is really good at patching people up.” There was a beat of silence. “Can I go home now?”

“We’ll take you home.”

“Thank you, Mister America.”

“Call me Steve.” You narrowed your eyes at the patriotic man. “My name is Steve Rogers. We know all about you, might as well tell you about us.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” you mumbled as the Falcon introduced himself as Sam. “My brother’s name is Sam.” They probably already knew that.

“We know.”

“I’m James Barnes,” the Winter Soldier less enthusiastically than his teammates who gave him a sharp look. “But my friends call me Bucky.”

You snorted. “Bucky? What kinda name’s ‘Bucky?’”

“It’s from his middle name, Buchanan,” Steve explained while Bucky glared at you.

“Well then, Bucky. You were going to take me home?”

You had the superheroes drop you off in St. Louis, Missouri. You had a motorcycle in a storage cell in the city. Your brothers didn’t need you bringing some superheroes to the front door. Who knew if they were going to continue to show up?

You loitered around the city for a while after they left, just in case they were still watching you. You’ve never gotten the opportunity to explore St. Louis before due to, you know, being wanted by the FBI. Today, you still kept your head low.

About an hour after the superheroes left you, you made your way to the storage compound with a Starbucks drink in your hand. You smiled when your black, retro motorcycle caught your eye. It had been a while since you last rode. You dusted off your helmet, because it would be a sad ending for a hunter to go out because of a simple road accident, before swinging your leg over the vehicle. Time to go home.

~*~

Bucky sat in the quinjet, this time with the rest of the team. A Hydra base they had just recently raided had shown signs of activity. Somehow, he couldn’t get his mind to focus on the current mission. Didn’t he not want to go on that little case a week ago? Now he couldn’t get (Y/N) off his mind.

No, she wasn’t stuck in his head because he thought she was pretty. Or very capable of taking care of herself. Even though she did look very nice with her shotgun. No. (Y/N) was only occupying his mind because there was a mystery surrounding her and Bucky had to get to the bottom of it.

Obviously by talking to (Y/N) more. That wasn’t a bad thing. Good thing Sam couldn’t read his thoughts.

Bucky peeked at Wanda sitting a few seats away. She had her earphones in, no doubt to block out everyone’s thoughts. She mentioned before that everyone was loud before missions but music helped.

He still had the niggling worry that (Y/N) and her brothers had something to do with Hydra. Or Hydra had something to do with them. Did Hydra know about ghosts and vampires? Bucky knew how many experiments they performed on people. He’s pretty sure that they tried to make vampires once. That didn’t end well with anyone.

The rough landing of the quinjet and Clint’s incessant apologies from the cockpit pulled Bucky out of his thoughts. They left the plane in sets of three: him, Steve, and Sam (of fucking course); Natasha, Clint, and Wanda; Tony, Rhodey, and Vision.

Tony’s team tackled the outside forces as Nat’s team took the north entrance. Bucky’s team made it into the south entrance with ease. They faced very little opposition as they made their way down the halls of the facility. Bucky hoped and assumed that it was because Hydra didn’t have the manpower.

“Guys, look at this,” Sam called down the hallway from a random room.

Steve and Bucky followed Sam into the room. It was dimly lit and empty save for a couple of cans of red paint in the corner and a large book on a stand in the middle of the floor. Sam had opened the book and was flipping through the yellowed pages.

“What’s this?” Bucky walked up to him and the book while Steve kept an eye out on the hallway.

“I dunno. Can’t read it.” When Sam flipped through, Bucky noticed strange symbols decorating the pages. “Woah,” Sam exclaimed when he landed on a certain page. “Didn’t know Hydra did this kinda stuff.”

The page displayed a large red pentagram along with instructions in what Bucky assumed was Latin. Even though he couldn’t read the words, the star spoke enough. A chill went down his spine and his mind instantly went to (Y/N). Was this part of her world?

“Let’s take it,” Bucky suggested. “Don’t want to leave it with them.”

“What’s all this?” Nat interrupted.

“What are you doing here?” Sam spun around quickly.

“The building’s clear. I was doing our job while you were having a book club.”

“Apparently Hydra’s into some weird shit.” Bucky motioned to the pentagram on display.

“Fuck,” Natasha mumbled as her eyes searched the pages. “Looks like Hydra was planning some Satanic ritual.” Her words echoed through the comms.

“You can read Latin?” Sam asked.

“Let’s just get out of here,” Bucky grumbled, grabbed the large book, and marched out of the room.

~*~

“We have a problem,” Cas announced, suddenly appearing and startling everyone in the previously quiet room.

“Hello to you too, Cas,” Dean smirked.

“Hi, Cas!” Jack beamed at one of his many father figures.

“What is it?” Sam rationally asked. You closed the book you weren’t really reading and took your feet off the table to sit up and look more attentive.

“Lucifer is trying to take heaven.”

“Again?” You fiddled with your new ring.

You had found it on the ground in one of the storage rooms in the bunker. Jack didn’t find anything malevolent on it, but he said that it could store energy and magic. At your request, he had filled it with healing magic. You really didn’t want to die. Again.

“Yes, again,” Cas answered. You paused for a second before remembering your question before losing your train of thought. 

“This isn’t really a problem anymore,” Dean pointed out. “Just a monthly chore.”

“Weekly, actually,” Cas corrected. “He would try to break out every Saturday, but he had ceased his attempts for the last five weeks.”

Lucifer was being held in Heaven, or you supposed he used to be held there considering he was now trying to gain control. The angels decided to lock him in Heaven because it was easier than trying to shove him back into the cage. It also kept him away from his demonic minions.

“He broke out and now is gathering forces to take Heaven?” Dean guessed.

“Sounds like my father,” said Jack under his breath and you gave him a small, sympathetic rub on the back.

“Yes,” continued Cas. “He’s already recruited some witches to find a book of spells. He’s looking for the Magicae Libro.”

“The… Magic Book?” you laughed. “Creative.”

“They didn’t need to be creative when it was the only one.”

“Right, sorry. So what is the Magicae Libro, other than a magic book?”

“It was the first spellbook. Written by some of the first witches, directly advised by Lucifer. Because of the power basically woven into the pages, the spells and rituals cast using the book are more powerful.”

“That’s a thing?” Sam ran his hand through his hair.

“We gotta get to it before the witches bring it to Lucifer, then,” Dean spoke over his brother.

“Any idea where we start?” Jack asked plainly.

“Maybe ask our own witch to get it for us,” you suggested. “Rowena’s always in it for the power and she would want the Magicae Libro for herself.”

“Rowena is unpredictable,” Cas argued.

“She’s gotten better, though.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Dean butted in. “She’d kill a bunch of people just out of spite.”

“We can let her take the book once Lucifer is under control once again.”

“We promised her powerful books before.” Cas wasn’t giving it to her.

“And the deals worked. We’re all still alive. The same deal can work again.”

“I am not giving the Magicae Libro to Rowena!”

“Then you and Jack go looking for it.”

“Jack is going nowhere,” Cas growled. “His father will be looking for him. We don’t want Lucifer to find the book and Jack in the same place.”

“Then we ask Rowena for help.”

“No.”

“I can do it,” Jack agreed.

“No!” All three men yelled at the boy.

“Jack or Rowena.” You held out your hands and moved them up and down like a scale. “Jack or Rowena. Pick one.”

“Fine.” Cas glared at the table. “Call Rowena.”

~*~

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