#god thinking about all this shit and saying/typing it ‘aloud’ just sort of makes me feel like

[sadieshavingsex]

I feel like maybe the reason for this blog is now null and void like I thought this was a blog for dealing with my sex trauma and all the ways it makes me relationally crazy but now that I realize I don’t have to have sex if I don’t want to and that’s fine and I am not abnormal for my wants and needs whatever they are which means that I can admit that my boundary is not having sex without being pathologized and feeling like there’s something wrong with me. Like. Jesus. Wow. Maybe this blog is about something else entirely idk

[speedierthanasubmarine]

Season 2

God, I’m vacillating between feeling ambivalent and downright antagonistic about this show rn

Before I begin, lemme explain two things about me and watching shows:

A) I don’t really care about the genre or type of a show; I enjoy any kind of show as long as it can commit to being itself. my issue is when there’s some sort of dissonance (or worse, gaslighting) between what the show thinks it is and what I’m being shown on screen: if something is a comedy then let it be a comedy. Have some serious scenes but keep the overall tone comedic or it’s not a comedy anymore. If you want me to take it seriously I will, but if you then don’t take it seriously and then try and twist it around that’s when I begin to get pissed off. (My biggest gripe with episode 3 of this season) Also please just be what you are. If you decide you want to be something else that’s fine, but then commit to it. If you say you are something and act like something else but then continue to reinforce that you are the initial thing you claimed to be it makes me want to clean out my ears with a chainsaw.

2) I can vibe and enjoy anything I watch as long as you don’t break my immersion. Ik this is a pretentious statement for commentators on YouTube to shout but hear me out; I will consume media as though it’s almost a documentary or an in person experience. I will pretty much accept anything the characters or setting gives me as long as the show can make me believe it is the characters and setting giving them to me. The issue begins when I stop wondering what’s going on with characters and their inner worlds and start wondering what’s going on with the production staff; IE instead of my brain going “Oh my God what is blitzo thinking, that was ridiculous” it goes “Oh my God what was Viv thinking that was ridiculous” this will occur when the plot stops feeling like an actual sequence of events and starts feeling like something my students tell me to justify why they didn’t do their homework

I understand these are more of me issues than Viv ones but this post will partially be explaining why this season didn’t work for me on a personal level and will be why I don’t think certain aspects worked on a critical, technical, and objective level. Sorry if I ramble

To start off with positives the voice work in this show is freakin stellar. I don’t know how or why but Stolas’s voice actor has stolen the season, the random cracks and squawks making him sound even more bird like than ever. Stella actually also has that quality and it’s really neat they also found a bird woman. Two of my favorite lines are when he screams for the divorce in E1 (that squawk sounded like an actual bird, are we sure this guy is not a bird?!) and when he exclaims “FUCK” when blitz bites him, my words cannot articulate all the emotions I can hear conveyed in that single word. Alex Brightman (shocker) also absolutely slays Fizz and his delivery kept a smile on my face throughout some of the most difficult times in the show. Additionally Stolas’s dad (AKA FRIGGING JAFAR) saying “stop your bitch crying” is my new favorite thing ever

The animation was just as vibrant and awesome as ever and I want to highlight episode 3’s fight sequence with Millie because it was crisp as a crisp and the 3D shot of Moxxie threatening his dad, I remember seeing that and whistling aloud, that was a fantastic sequence and the animation was by far the best part of the episode for me.

The songs this time just didn’t hit as hard as the first for me, but this is completely subjective. my favorite one this time around was Look at this; Alex Brightman made that song genuinely delightful and I lost it when he started just saying shit in Italian, that song is so funny

Ozzie and Fizz are very cute, I enjoyed bits of them. I also love how this is so not how I’m used to hearing either of their voices, it’s rather like watching the Rock and RDJ being in a loving relationship, it’s just so random and jarring I think it loops back around to working and I enjoy that.

Viv is a fantastic technical director with amazing ideas and concepts, my issues lie with her writing, execution, and lack of professionalism.

Ive seen a lot of people say that the relationships in this season frustrated them because there doesn’t seem to be any continuity from episode to episode and each one seems to return to the status quo by the end with no impact on the overall story, except I didn’t really have an issue with this. In season 1 there was no continuity! Moxxie went through the same character arc in 3 different episodes! There was a new antagonist introduced in almost each episode; Fizz, Verosica, CHERUB, Stryker, DHORKS, and Ozzie, and barring fizz none of them connected to each other, so I kinda assumed that there was just no continuity in this show and that it’s all just kinda go with the flow good old fashioned fun; in the same way Ever After High was a show where they just kept repeating the same stuff over and over but like who cares, it’s a fun show. This didn’t bother me at all. But then the show started contradicting itself… all of a sudden there was continuity. What? stuff was brought back from previous episodes, Moxxies dad, Stryker, Ozzie, events that transpired were referenced, but only certain ones, wtf?! Wait a minute… If there is continuity in the show, then my whole explanation is worthless! NEVER MIND (?!)

Whatever, that’s plot contrivances, and honestly more of a me issue, I’m not watching this show for the plot (even though yes I am but whatever) who the hell watches shows for plot, I can get past that, the vibes are still there, right? I can still enjoy the zany chill vibes? The comedic tone?! WRONG! I mean, some of them are still there, which imo made it worse,but then the show started to bring in very somber and serious moments, character building, then subsequent character assassination (honestly what tf was episode 5) and then out of nowhere some sort of backstory and themes while still maintaining that it’s an episodic comedy and ow, my neck hurts from all this whiplash. Dear Helluva Boss: Are you a comedy or not, are you episodic or not, are your characters real people or not? Pick a tone Show, make up your mind. To illustrate this I’m going to point to the (sigh) Dildos/“Im bisexual” scene in episode 3 and contrast it with the Angel’s dressing room scene in hazbin episode 4. Both scenes are in shows that are meant to be more lighthearted and comedic yet within them there is heavy subject matter being portrayed. but in the case of hazbin E4 it took its subject matter seriously, so in the scene with Val and Angel they played it completely straight and so subsequently it hit hard. To illustrate further, in S1 E6 moxxies tripping balls song (god I miss season 1) despite it being a more emotional scene than usual the entire show was committed to being played for laughs, no one is playing the scene seriously, including moxxie. Blitzes portion of the song is played completely straight by everyone involved, it being cartoonish isn’t comedic, it’s messy and hellish, the result makes it hit harder because both scenes are consistent with themselves which is the the key here. (I bring up this scene because some can point out that the Hazbin one had Amazon to help regulate whereas this is an indie project and therefore has more room for error, but in this hypothetical argument I follow up with this point I should have used initially. Will I go back and delete the Hazbin part of my argument? No.) The scene in E3S2 opts not to do that, with moxxie playing the scene completely seriously and everyone else around him acting like parodies. It was like he was in the wrong show. (I thought it felt weird and disjointed and I just hated that whole episode.) If it’s a joke, play it as a joke, and it could have been a funny joke! If it’s not a joke treat it with the same severity as Val and Angel in E4 of hazbin, because the subject you’re portraying is heavy. If she had picked a lane you could have had either a really strong scene as you had with Angel Dust or a very dark comedic scene as you had with the Imps trying to convince an old man to kill himself in season 1. The end product is the best of no worlds

womp womp

The whole season kinda suffers from this issue, which is what really brought it down for me. I guess this is subjective, but it feels like I have an objective point in here I’m not verbalizing well. If you want to help out, go for it in the comments.

Another thing that this season fell short on: PACING. The scene where Fizz signs to the little deaf kid (wait a minute why is this kid in hell WHAT DID YOU DO-) was adorable. I paused the show and texted my friend about how cute the scene was and the second I pressed play I am just SMASHED with the annoying troll guy and I got whiplash. My neck really hurts guys please stop doing that. This was the most egregious example of bad pacing, but the whole show suffers from it. Let your moments breathe, please, allow the audience to enjoy them, I promise we’re not going anywhere. And if someone wants to argue “they had no time, they had to get as much crammed in as possible” I’m going to point to the scene where Ozzie is in his dildo factory making dildos for 40 seconds. The scene did nothing and told us nothing, if you can have shit like that you can add 3 seconds for us to breathe after emotional scenes. The pacing is just generally shite throughout the season. A friend of mine pointed out that because this is a crowd funded indie project there’s no guarantee how many episodes Viv will have so in order to make the story work she has to cram as much as possible into each episode so she can have proper setup for her story. This argument doesn’t work on either side. If she doesn’t know how many episodes she’s going to have so she’s trying to cram as much as she can in as little time as possible than why don’t any of the episodes seem to be building any sort of connectivity or narrative? Why do new things keep being introduced on top of each other with no explanation or lasting effects? Why all the time meandering with stuff that means nothing if you’re pressed for time, every episode should be connected and concise. If this really were the case, every episode would be like E7S1, with not a moment spent on anything else. Maybe she thinks that’s what she’s doing, and she’s just doing it badly. If that’s the case then again, this is worthless and never mind. However If it is an episodic show with no plot… then why such a rush? Why the heavy content? Why the lack of comedy? Why the mini plots? why isn’t every episode just a chill time with filler arcs? Why all the world building and setups? Why the random stakes? On top of that, if it does have a plot, just not the one I was expecting or promised in season one, IE: the business and any of the related villains, then you’ve wasted my time and taken a shart on my shoes because that’s what you advertised! This show is about a boss! It’s in the title! You telling a story then switching to telling a worse story and then saying it doesn’t matter because you’re not telling any story regardless but then saying “stay tuned because the good story I was telling might matter soon in this new not story I’m currently bullshitting my way through” is JJ Abram’s storytelling IE fuckery. I don’t fuck around with fuckery. This is an objective criticism, this show fails as both a story and non story kind of show.

Additionally we have lost the plot in terms of a story engine here which tbh kinda frustrates me. I remember really liking the premise of the show; I cared about them building up a business, that was why i continued to watch it! But womp womp once again, there is no more of that in this show, barring one episode. Let that sink in. there was 1 episode in this whole ass season that actually was related to the effing premise and it wasn’t even very funny! Yes, the idea of them trying to find the murderer has potential but they didn’t execute it well. This is both subjective and objective, because objectively not giving the product you advertised is kinda shitty, and subjectively I don’t like what I received as a substitute.

My criticism is not boiling down to “She should have done it like this idea I had!” Because that’s not valid criticism, that’s just being butthurt that a creator didn’t read your mind when making her show. There are lots of people that are doing that, and that’s not how you critique media. “imagine how much stronger this could have been if my headcannon was cannon” is not a criticism, that’s a weak wishful statement, so please don’t take what I say as that. I’m giving actual constructive criticism, not “put me on your writing staff because I’m better at it than you” criticism. I think this was the point she was trying to make with the troll character in Episode 7. Shoddy execution, but a good point nonetheless.

In conclusion, I wrote this whole ass novel on this show because I loved it. I’m sad that season 2 turned out to be what it was. A friend of mine said I shouldn’t approach criticizing this show like an actual show because it’s not one, it’s an indie project, and I don’t think that’s fair. Every piece of art should be held to the same standard because everything had capacity to be great, whether made by a massive studio or an indie group. Every piece of art is a form of communication, and I think Viv has something to say, which is why I refuse to give her exemption. Her work deserves to be paid attention, and subsequently, her work deserves to be approached with the same amount of critical thinking and nuance that I apply to everything. She deserves to be taken seriously, which I did. I hope I got my point across well.

[lollytea]

Darius n willow dynamics hc please

Hunter stayes at darius s place quite often (post canon) so they have small talks while willow waits for Hunter to get ready etc

(obsessed w her as darius s equivalent in dana s art)

Ohhhhhhh I have SO MANY Darius and Willow dynamic headcanons

I think it's so funny to imagine Darius and Willow having a frenemy-type relationship. Partly because Darius is just Like That with all children cuz ew children and partly because Willow is literally never going to get over their first meeting and refuses to let Darius forget it either.

She frequently reminds him of just how terribly he handled that whole situation. She's mad about how many hours it took her to wash his stupid abomination goo out of her hair. She cannot BELIEVE a grown man seriously botched what should have been such a simple task to such fantastically idiotic proportions. All he had to do was employ some basic communication skills. HOW did he fuck this up so bad? Willow isn't even all that angry. She doesn't really hold grudges (anymore) but she's so just astounded by his audacity that she can never let it go.

Everytime she gets started on this Darius is like "Really? Really? We're still on this, are we? Haven't you ever considered finding something else to get riled up about? I hear they're raising the price of griffin eggs. Where's the rage for the failing economy?? Kids these days get abducted on an evil government airship once and its all they talk about for the rest of their lives."

Darius never admits to any mistakes on his part and insists he had the situation entirely under control. But if she weren't in such a hurry to abandon ship...Oh, this gets Willow hopping mad. Darius will dig his heels in further until they're having a full blown debate.

Whenever the conversation even begins to steer in this direction, Hunter desperately attempts to change the subject. If he doesn't, he knows this could go on for hours.

They're fond of each other, they really are. And they enjoy the passive aggressive quip battles. But they'd never admit it.

Darius absolutely uses the nickname "Little Princess" for Willow and he says it with a smile but god....GOD, so much bitchiness in his tone. Its wonderful.

"Darius." Willow will greet him in return, also smiling sweetly and her tone makes his name sound the way cursive looks. And he immediately knows she's calling him a bitch too.

Oh Willow loves to be a little shit and get under Darius's skin. She loves it so much. And Darius, in turn, likes to exaggerate what a pest she is.

Hunter will be staying at his place and Darius will answer the door to Willow.

"Uck. You again." He says, exasperated.

"Me again :)" Chirps Willow, delighted that she received such an On Brand Darius greeting. "I am Hunter's girlfriend after all :)"

"Yes, I'm well aware of that. You won't shut up about it."

"And I don't intend to :) Would you be a sweetie and fetch him for me? :)"

"Do I look like a butler to you?"

"No. You look like a maid :) I really like your frilly apron :)"

"Alright alright, give it a rest. I'll go get him."

"Thaaaaaank you, Daaaaaarius :)"

"You're a nuisance, little princess."

Darius loves to insist that Willow is a terrible influence on Hunter, though he doesn't actually believe a word of what he says. Darius puts a lot of value on spunk and rebelliousness and has never believed in that "kids should respect their elders" nonsense. No, kids should should always speak their mind. At least that's what he always did as a kid. Darius has never been all that impressed by manners and obedience.

Willow is wild. She's outspoken. She's got flair. She's tough. She's confident. Quite frankly, she reminds him a lot of himself. And he truly hopes her best traits will rub off on Hunter. He has no intention of ever saying it aloud (maybe some day. If he is talked into doing a wedding speech of some sort.) but he believes they're a perfect match. They bring out the best in each other.

Although that won't stop him from groaning loudly and being like "Must you do this now?" When Willow gives her boyfriend affection while Darius is standing right there. Come on!! Come on!!! He doesn't need to see this!!!

"Ohhhhh I'm sooo sorry," Willow says with a theatric pout, still cupping Hunter's face after smushing her lips to his cheek. "This is just what wicked girlfriends do. They kiss in public :( Can't be helped :(" Because she thinks getting called a terrible influence is the funniest shit ever.

Willow especially likes to roast Darius when Hunter is around because she loves making him laugh. And like. He will sincerely TRY to hold back giggles when she's joking at Darius's expense and Willow considers that a challenge. So the three of them will be having dinner together and Willow will be cracking jokes, Darius will be making the most ridiculously offended expressions and noises and Hunter will just be suffering. Just trying to hide his face in his hands, his whole frame buckling, desperately trying not to burst into hysterics.

Then Willow is like "What's the deal with your hair? It looks like a lava lamp." And Hunter completely fucking loses it.

Darius blinks. "What's a lava lamp?"

That only makes Hunter laugh harder.

"He'll suffocate because of you." He says dryly to Willow. "And then you'll be sorry."

But if Darius is being honest....he likes that she makes him laugh so hard. He might have been exaggerating his faces just to add to The Bit. He's pretty sure Willow had figured that out.

I'm recycling this as something we talked about on discord once. So, in the same vein that Willow won't let their first meeting go, Darius also has his own incident where Willow fucked up and he never lets her forget it.

At some point after she and Hunter started dating, she came down with the common mold. And you know how that is. She got super loopy and clingy. And when Hunter showed up at her place to check up on her (being warned by her dads to keep his distance) she was immediately "Hunterrrrrr!!! I love you!!! Kisses?? Can I have kisses??? I haven't seen you in a DAY and I MISSED YOU and I want to KISS YOU. I think if I don't get kisses I'll DIE!!!" And like. What was Hunter supposed to do? You think he has the willpower to say no to that? Really? Honestly?

Anyway it just so happened that Hunter was scheduled to stay at Darius's place that weekend. And so sick cranky moody disgusting germ bucket Hunter immediately became Darius's problem.

Obviously Willow showed up to see her lovely boyfriend and the moment she stepped into the house, Darius was like "YOU!!!!!!!!!!"

At least Willow had the decency to look ashamed. She actually gets really embarrassed when Darius reminds her of the time she wasn't in her right mind and got Hunter sick. So, of course, Darius brings it up constantly.

Darius hates sports. Always has, always will. Too barbaric, too much dirt, too much sweat. However, he now has no other option but to attend every match the Emerald Entrails plays. And he also has no option but to cheer the loudest out of everyone in the crowd.

("Out of everything in the world you could have seduced him with, did it have to be sports?"

"Yeah :) Have a nice day :)")

But the first game he attends is memorable. Because it's the first time in years he bumps into his old abomination teacher, Professor Hermonculous.

And of course Hermonculous is delighted to see Darius again. Why wouldn't he be? Not only was he the best in his track but he may have been one of the greatest students Hexside has ever known. He accomplished so much!! Invented so many new techniques in abomination magic!! He wrote a book!! He became a Head Witch!! (Back when things like Covens actually meant something. Some witches still saw them as status symbols.) In his old professor's eyes, Darius was everything he could have ever wanted in a student.

Darius, on the other hand, did not greet Hermonculous half as warmly. It was quite a short grape vine. A girl tells her boyfriend and her boyfriend tells his former co-worker/current weekend roommate.

Yes, Darius was a success. But he knew full well how Hermunculous treated students that disappointed him.

"Once the Emerald Entrails have annihilated the competition, I think there's something you and I should discuss." Said Darius icily. "Professor."

Willow is immediately on the defense when she shows up at school the next day and her former abomination teacher calls her into his office for a private conversation. But she is completely floored when she receives a completely unprompted formal apology from miserable old Hermonculous himself. She leaves the office in a daze.

However, once the bewilderment wears off, Willow begins connecting dots. She's no idiot.

"Darius." She whispers the next time she sees him, tugging at his forearm and beckoning him to come closer.

Assuming she has some confidential info to share, Darius crouches to Willow's height and is surprised when she presses her hands to his shoulder to keep her tippy toes balanced and pecks him on the cheek.

"You have a pretty big heart for a bitter old man." She says.

Darius squints at her witheringly. "Did you just call me old?"

Willow beams.

[butchviking]

besides the nazis I do also have a MUCH LESSER beef with the Norse-larping/identifying white people who really do give me the “thinks they suffer the same way indigenous people suffer from the Christian white hegemony” and “thinks this opts them out of being realllly settler colonists… if you think about it…. They have an indigenous white(tm) set of beliefs” that are super true and extra spiritual and in harmony and then they pretend they can even know that. When I’m sorry — I truly am sorry — some ancient people in Europe did experience conquest by (also pagan, then Christian, Rome) and shit and they can empathize with that… but it doesn’t mean that “really” “if we think about it” any rando modern white nonindigenous (eg not Samí) person anywhere has comparable heritage or trauma or persecution around it. You can just feel they want to claim that. Sometimes they do word for word.

And i swear it’s niche. It’s not even the main motive most people have. but it’s around. I classify it as more of a whites irritating me shit than a big issue but that doesn’t mean I don’t see it for what it is.

man people have forgotten what the acronym LARP means. norse larpers are very cool & fun in my experience ✌️ i love larp i love silly little outfits i love people being so passionate abt smthn they immerse themselves in a whole world of it i love that they always have smthn cool to teach. everyone stop misusing larp its gotten weird and confusing

this is so wild tho i think ive like. never come across this type of person. i guess it must be niche cause i don't even know if u mean like. europeans or americans or scandinavians or the english or what. i mean i guess ive come across plenty of pagans (& non-pagans tbh) of all sorts who bang on about how christians 'stole' this holiday or that holiday from 'the pagans' which comes from some basis of truth and the christians did fucked up shit to a lot of different cultures.. but i kind of roll my eyes at it bc it doesnt usually come from much actual knowledge or persecution & more just, like u say, wanting to claim an experience. so im with u as far as that. but u gotta be crazy to think being of viking descent would somehow mean u have no history of invading or settling places that didn't want u like... our word for them literally comes from the word specifically for those who would travel overseas to raid & settle there. like im from the uk so i can't imagine how that would work bc anyone here of viking descent (i Will be that guy nd say its technically in my past somewhere too lol ✌️ according to my grandmother & also according the the family surname. but thats really common where im from we got decent viking history) is obviously not indigenous (we dont like. have indigenous ppl here anymore really except perhaps the cornish) nd any white americans have settler/coloniser history much more recently anyway. ive never known any scandinavians who try n make out like their history is one of particular repression (i have not known very many scandinavians) but tbh like. yeah they were severely fucked over by the christians that did happen. as far as im aware most scandinavians are indigenous as i understand the word (their ancestors didnt move in any time recently & have pretty much always lived there) but aren't like. oppressed for that. & the christians did genuinely oppress ppl in their act of christianisation but that was... a long time ago so most ppl don't exactly have any claim to 'trauma' from it. but then, there probably are a lot of modern ásatrúar who are probably still somewhat religiously repressed in their home country which is definitely a bad thing & is clearly a hang-over from that time & from that christian mindset that everyone must be like them & worship the same god as them. but its very very different to struggles of ppl like the sámi.

sry for just kind of thinking aloud here but as i say i don't think ive come across the ppl ur talking abt, so much so that i dont know. who u are talking about. other than the generic annoying 'pagan' types but i havent rly known any actual heathens who do that. other than the nazis.

[punemy-spotted]

The Price You Pay

Pairing: Mob!Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: Non-con/Dub-con, mentions of murder, unclear timeline, blackmail, unprotected sex, fingering (F!receiving), smut, esoteric references to past abuse, manipulation, Dark!Fic

Words: 5.2k (holy fuck?)

Summary: You need his help. He names his price.

Notes: This is for @stargazingfangirl18 and her incredible 5K Soft!Dark Challenge and I can't believe I wrote over 5k words for a oneshot, making this the longest piece I've ever written. I took a blend of prompts: Mob!AU; “When I woke up this morning, I certainly didn’t think my day would end like this;” and “That’s a big favor you’re asking for, I think you need to make it worth my while.”

And this was intended to be a oneshot but now I can't stop thinking about it so thanks Siri, I think this is now a part of my WIPs too! Your work is amazing and I had a blast being able to take part in this!

As usual, my work is 18+ ONLY, Minors DO NOT INTERACT

You went to him first.

You went to him, handed them your business card and I want to speak to Steve Rogers.

Honestly they almost threw you out with an extra hole in your head but then the man of the hour walked right in.

So now you’re here. Now you’re here, sitting across a gorgeous dining table with a ten-course meal laid out and honestly you’re surprised they didn’t tie your wrists to the arms of the chair while you watch him eat and take in the look of those baby blue eyes scanning you over.

He even brought you non-alcoholic rosé, when you said you didn’t drink.

So.

So.

You wanted to talk to me?

Yeah, I do. Thought you’d just sit me in your office, have a consultation.

I like breaking bread with new friends. Have a nice dinner, get the wine flowing — of course, that’s not gonna loosen your tongue, but we’ll forgive it.

Oh. Cool, I like being forgiven.

He laughs at that one and the room, strumming with tension, snaps into amusement. So do you, cracking a half smile on dark red lips, before swallowing down the lump of anxiety threatening to break through and destroy everything. You need this. You need this and you can’t let anything — not your nervousness, not your morals, not him — stop you. You need this and it needs to be done and if this is what justice is in this fucking city then so be it.

Well, sweetness, you’ve got my attention. You want to talk business or pleasure?

That one makes you laugh, a little sharp and a little cruel, and the curling smirk on his face gets a little furrowed because he hears it too — pain.

It could be both, you say finally, picking up the glass of rosé-that-wasn’t, if your reputation is as real as they say it is.

He lifts a bite of cheesecake into his mouth and lets it melt on his tongue while he watches you, somewhere between impressed and incensed. You know the look — you saw it the last time he met you in court, but you weren’t there as allies then. Never thought you’d come to me, he admits finally, sounding halfway bemused at the idea, but you’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Counsel?

You wince, or maybe smirk, eyes on the man before you.

It’s a game, a dance, a ruse, and the woman you thought you were thirteen months ago when you put four of Steve Rogers’s best men in jail for fifteen years — fifteen years longer than any District Attorney had ever managed to do before you, and you were just the rookie they handed a shit case to — is leagues different from the woman you are now, seated prim and proper in the lion’s den.

You’re not innocent. That’s not been your game for years — this life doesn’t leave room for innocence, it tears at you, leaves you tired and broken and ill.

Your colleagues learned to fear him a long time ago, the man before you. Captain America, leading the city, the country, the world into a new era of high tech crime all under his thumb. It’s a pretty shiny shield, the one that sits behind him, but mirrors are black on the other side and his soul is dark as coal.

You’re not an angel yourself, and this deal with the Devil isn’t for anyone but you.

I need someone taken care of.

So you come to me? I thought you were a lady of morals, Counsel.

Certain kinds of morals.

You can see him smile, see the way he raises his glass, the glimmer of malice and amusement in his eyes. So tell me. What’s the name?

You give it.

He’s not in the city, your target, but he will be. A Judge, an activist, real tough-on-crime-sweet-on-justice type of shit. You don’t tell him the reasons why, because those are yours, but you tell him the name. You tell him he’s a problem, you tell him he’s dangerous, you tell him you’ll pay to have him taken care of, you tell him you don’t want to practice in front of that black, black robe.

And he smiles like the Devil he is, watches you with a grin and drinks his whiskey in one last shot before slamming it down, Real woman of the law, aren’t you?

You said that when we met the first time.

He’s a hunter, you can see it in his eyes. That lion’s mane might be tamed right now but it won’t be for long and you’re playing with wild animals. The eyes on you are ice and daggers, daring you to do the one thing everyone in the office has been begging you not to do.

(Drop the charges, Rookie, the case is just to get your face in front of the judge.)

You upped the charges.

(Rookie, you don’t know what you’re dealing with, there’s other cases.)

You subpoenaed his phone records.

(Rookie, don’t make me drag you off this case!)

You won.

You had no witnesses and a jury you had to drag in from god-knows-where after you proved, over and over again, that he’d paid off the cohort in the courtroom. Finding people with nothing to lose and a desire to do their civic duty wasn’t harder than you thought — it was exactly as impossible as you expected.

But you did it.

That’s what you do, isn’t it? Push and push and fight, claw your fingers at the ledge and pull yourself up, you pay for your crimes in your blood, sweat and tears you pay for the things you could have done then and didn’tdo.

You pay.

And sometimes, that payment bounces back.

And when it was all said and done, when the closing statements were delivered, when the Jury came back out and the Judge — hands shaking, mouth agape, eyes wide — read out the verdict no one expected, you… didn’t feel any better, did you? There was no justice for you in that room, just the searing glare of ice-blue eyes and the burning of your steel spine.

Real woman of the law, aren’t you?

First words he said to you, while the courtroom emptied out and you stood there, facing the man you’d just made an enemy of with your briefcase in your hand and your eyes aflame.

I did my job.

Did you? Is that what you think your job is?

My job is justice, unflinching and blind, Mr. Rogers. I don’t care how much power you have or how afraid you leave this city, I’m going to do my job.

You could always let justice turn a blind eye.

Yeah. I could, but that wouldn’t make this any fun, would it? Thank you for the win, Mr. Rogers — I’m sure I won’t get many more.

You leave him with a smile on his face and the scent of your perfume in his memories.

He leaves you with the pride of victory in your bones and a reminder that your strife could be worth it.

One day.

How do you plan to fill that pit, the one you tossed the corpses of your old self into? The one you let them claw up out of, to haunt you? Remind you?

You’re digging your own grave and you know it, but you won’t let Steven Grant Rogers be the first one to toss a handful of dirt over your corpse.

But now here you are.

In his dining room, enjoying dessert and some sort of after-meal coffee. In need of him…

This might almost have been a date, if not for the topic of conversation.

So. You want a Judge taken out. What if he’s already on my payroll?

Why would you keep a dead man in your pocket?

You like the sound of his laugh, and you don’t even have the excuse of wine to fall back on when it warms your core. Don’t admit it though, don’t say it aloud, don’t let him get an in. Be smart, cross your legs tighter, keep your eyes on the prize.

You’re so close to the finish line.

That’s a big favor you’re asking for, Counsel, I think you need to make it worth my while.

Worth your while?

I’m not a charity. And since you put the guy I usually use to handle these things behind bars for a few years—

You know I can get him out too.

That’s not payment, that’s putting things right.

You take a drink. Steady on, girl.

I’m leaving the DA’s office.

That stops him.

Oh that stops him good, and he looks fascinated. Interested. You’ve said something he can use as leverage and it’s not just about a job. That smirk on his face is smug and his eyes are darker and he has to know the impact that look has.

Can’t falter, don’t falter, don’t give in.

Am I allowed to ask why?

No.

You’ve done your research. You just don’t know why you’re thinking about it now. Steven Grant Rogers, “Captain America,” leader of a crime family that had too many names to stamp out, bolstered by a mad scientist, a military man through-and-through who turned New York into his own private base against whatever stood against his way.

Get in his good graces and you’re set for life. Get in his good graces and you’re safe, you’re protected, you’re good.

Get on his bad side and you only make that mistake once.

There are no second chances in this game, and here you are, asking for one.

So what? You leave the DA’s office, you leave yourself open to me — you think leaving New York is going to be the thing that stops me, Counsel?

No.

Then what?

Breathe. Steady.

I know you gave me that win on purpose — you could have taken out my last jury cohort. This isn’t about the four men… and you know I’ll get them out. This is something else, but I’m not here to ask about what or why.

He falters just briefly, like he’s surprised you knew, but the crack in his mask smooths itself over as soon as it forms and he’s back to watching you, nodding along in silence while you breathe and watch him and keep talking.

But even then. I got four of your guys in prison. And I know how your organization works — I subpoenaed the documents, remember? Your lawyers are good, but they’re not used to people asking the right questions. You want someone to seal up the cracks you need someone who actually knows what to look for.

You have more than his attention, you have his interest, and now he’s leaning in a little. Imperceptibly, but enough. Scanning over you from across the table, like he’s thinking how you managed to get so impertinent in the face of the likes of him but that’s the thing — when the only thing you have left to lose is your life, you’ll risk everything.

So what are you offering?

Breathe. Don’t. Stammer.

Myself.

The chair scrapes and suddenly there’s the clicking of guns, aimed and ready until his hand rises up and he stops them and he’s stalking towards you.

This is the lion’s den, sweetness.

The stakes are higher and you ought to be braver and he’s got your chin in his hand before you have a chance to react, dragging you to your feet. Do you know what you’re offering me, Counsel? Low and hissed and hungry, like those perfect teeth might be sinking into your throat in the next moment.

Oh, you have no idea.

You get me. On your payroll — you know. The offer you sent me a year ago.

You think it’s still open?

If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t have met with me.

The chuckle in your face makes your cheeks warm and you’re looking more flushed than you would like, the open shoulders of your dress suddenly feeling a lot more like a mistake the more you realize just what kind of meal he might make out of you tonight.

We might need to have a discussion about your workplace duties, Counsel.

You don’t notice the hand near your thigh until it’s too late, sliding up the soft fabric of your skirt until it’s squeezing your ass, until it’s jerking you towards him, until you’re pressed against his chest and the hand on your chin is now hooked around the back of your neck, thumb pushing your jaw until you’re forced to look at him. Won’t lie, when I woke up this morning, I certainly didn’t think my day would end like this, having your pretty little body in my arms,and you can look as indignant as you want but he’s got the upper hand and you only thought you were two steps ahead of him.

You think I haven’t thought about what it’d be like to put you in your place, Counsel? You’ve got a smart mouth — I wanna know what else it can do.

He doesn’t give you a chance to use that mouth to lash at him, lips sliding over yours, swallowing that indignant yelp with a punishing kiss. Nipping at the plushness of your lower lip until you open your mouth and yield to him with a sigh of reluctant surrender, let his tongue slide past that barrier for him to explore. He’s got his fingers wound through your hair, just a little too tight and whether the whimper in your chest is because of the pain or because of the want, he doesn’t care.

Knew you’d be sweet, Counsel… softly, when he pulls back to look at you, take a look at those love-swollen lips and your ruined lipstick, the pretty way you pant at him already, the heat burning your cheeks. Pay no attention to the slick warmth between your thighs, pay no attention to the way he makes you burn already, pay no attention to how your fingers have curled into the lapel of his coat to hold yourself steady, pay no attention to how you suddenly miss the pressure of his lips.

All that smart-talk and now you’re quiet, Counsel? F’I knew it just took a kiss to get you to shut up, I would’ve done that at trial, he’s purring in your ear, soft and sweet and you should push at his chest, so uncurl your fingers girl and push.

I didn’t say I was selling my body, there’s your harshness, and there he is, laughing at you again, the grip on your hair jerking your head back until you’re looking into those dagger-cold eyes again.

You don’t make the rules here, Counsel, I do, and you need me more than I need you. So if you want to make sure your Judge can’t start wreaking havoc on your career… you might want to get used to readjusting it for me. I promise I’ll make you feel nice, if you let me…

And if I don’t?

Then I take what I want and I don’t feel bad for not holding up my end of the bargain. Your choice, Counsel, you cum willingly and I’ll give you everything you want. Don’t, and it’ll hurt you more than it hurts me.

That’s not a threat, that’s a promise, and suddenly you’re more scared than you ever thought you’d be, wondering if you’ll need to sell another part of your soul to take him down after. How much of yourself will you put up as collateral to get justice for the wrongs you were never able to correct?

You’re afraid.

Oh sweetness, you’re afraid.

Here? Now?

No, Counsel, we’re gonna do this right, aren’t we? You wanna be in bed with me, I’ll take you to bed with me. Come on, say it. Say the word.

Say no. Say no, rail and fight, stamp your heels into the expensive leather of his shoes, jam your knee into the sensitive between his legs, scream and yell and tell him you will never let another man take advantage of you again to help you reach your goals. Do it. Do the thing you swore you would do the next time a man like him — men who think they can take anything from anyone, men who think they own the world and the women in it, men who think you aren’t strong enough to fight back — propositioned you just like this.

You’re selling your soul to get rid of a man just like this.

But that’s coiling heat in your core that wasn’t there the last time, was it? That’s want. That’s the realization that you like the way this predatory smile feels, that you like the way this one wants you. You’re not her, not scared and alone and helpless. You could fight back and run and maybe escape if you were lucky.

You could choose.

He’s let go of your hair to stroke your cheek with the backs of his fingers, soft and sweet, You gonna give me an answer, Counsel, or am I gonna have to take it?

Say something. Say no. Scream. Say no say no say no say— Yes.

It’s a whisper. A desperate, soft whisper. A helpless, lonely whisper. It’s enough.

He sweeps you around until you’re pressed with your back against his unyielding chest, feeling him flex with every movement, broad arm wrapped around your shoulders from the front. All of you are dismissed, and that’s when you remember there were others in the room with you. Others who just watched you concede to becoming Captain America’s newest plaything and the burn on your cheeks is more shame than lust. You pull at his arm briefly, futilely, earning a tighter hold for your efforts and a whispered don’t make me choke you, before you are half-walked, half-dragged out of the dining room.

The walk to his room is slow and agonizing as you’re pulled along, barely struggling but barely helping at the same time, tears sliding down your cheeks as you come to terms with what’s going to happen next — no one is going to save you tonight, no one’s going to interrupt and drag you out, this is your job and this is your place and here you are.

No one speaks. There’s no sound but the steady tap of your heels and his shoes on fine marble. Even your sobs are silent, even your breathing is muffled, until the stairs are traversed and the faintest click of a lock turning opens the door to the rest of your life.

You made a deal.

Time to pay.

Sit on the bed.

You move as if in a trance, and he watches your face, the hint of waterproof mascara failing to do its job, the smudged ruby red of your lipstick. Don’t give me that look, you knew what you were signing up for when you walked into this house, Counsel.

His hands are gentler than you’d expect, when he wipes away the streaks your tears leave down your pretty cheeks, coaxing you to look up at him, We’ll set ground rules later. Tonight? I wanna see if I can get that mouth of yours to beg for me.

It won’t, you snap without thinking, knifeblade sharp and cruel, ready for a fight again. He promised you that once, in a hiss you thought you’d misheard but no, you heard him just fine and now if he thinks he can quench your fire and have you pleading just because you sold your body for the prospect of revenge then he’s wrong.

Thing is, he laughs like that’s a challenge, and the hand holding your chin so gently is wrapped around your throat before you know it, silencing your voice with just the right application of pressure. I can do this all night, Counsel. Do you think you can last that long?

Fear. Anger. Indignation. You are fury made flesh and he is manipulating you with just the barest press of his palm and sliding over you, until you’re laid out there on soft sheets and he’s looming over you, splaying that big hand out and sliding it down your throat, over your chest, feeling the ruching of the fabric under his palm. You wrapped yourself up like a present for me, didn’t you sweetness?

The change in nickname isn’t lost on you but here you are, glaring up at him while he smiles so beatifically it leaves your blood boiling and your skin steadily warming. The rise and fall of your chest is hypnotic, every angry breath a swear you don’t utter, every inhale your protests dying in your throat. What can you say, what would you say, right now? There’s nothing that can change the way he looks at you, or the way his eyes flicker from ice to blue fire the more he takes stock of the pretty little thing he’s about to start sharing his bed with.

Fuck, you’re beautiful, that one shocks you, but not as much as the sudden rush of cold air when he tears the emerald green fabric of your dress down and reveals the soft swells of your breasts, nipples peaked from the sudden cold.

You don’t get much time to gasp, just something soft and strangled before he turns your voice to whimpers, wrapping lips around that pebbled tip and laving his tongue over sensitive flesh. Where are your words now, Counsel, while he threatens the softness of your chest with the scrape of his teeth, when he slides his hands over the round curve of your thighs and parts your legs so he can press himself between them, so he can press himselfagainst you? Where is the knife-dagger of your wit to protest each soft, suckling kiss to your skin, each press of his fingers like he could just squeeze his ownership of you into the plushness of your hips, into the sweet swell of your ass? What do you say to the dirty little thrust of his hips as he bucks with his own burning need, reminding you just how much this is for hispleasure as he will make it for yours.

You would, could, should push him off and instead what are you doing? Curling your fingers into the silk-smooth of his comforter, desperate to writhe out of your own skin away from the burning pressure between your thighs, the foreign, unfamiliar heat you suddenly feel like you might be craving.

Anyone ever touch you like this before me, Counsel?Warm breath splays across your skin when he questions you, eyes fixed on yours and he waits. Answer him, answer him, tell him he’s nothing, tell him you’ve had better, lie and destroy that ego, lie lie lie lie—

Nnnh—no.

He looks like you’ve just told him the best news of his life, eyes wide and blown with lust, Oh is that right? You’re saying no one’s ever touched you this good? Or just no one’s ever touched you at all?

You don’t have to answer. The furious blush on your cheeks? The way your eyes slide away from his? The way you writhe, trying to press your thighs together to relieve the pressure and finding the effort futile? If the man’s grin could get any wider, it would, right now. Oh sweetness, we’re going to have so much fun exploring your body together…

He pulls back just enough to take a look at you, already flushed and writhing and overwhelmed and if he could take a picture of this right now he would. He’ll save that for later though. Tonight? Tonight is just the two of you, and his hands are back to your skirt, pushing the tight fabric up over your round hips and revealing the lace of your panties… just before he rips them off, to the sound of your indignant yelp Steve!

You’re going to call me Captain, sweetness, we’re not close enough to use my name just yet.

No. No you’re not, and he’s not sure you’ll ever be — he rather likes the idea of hearing you whimper out his title when he gets you desperate and wanting.

He touches, slow and steady, watching you try to jerk away and tutting at you when you do, fingers at your delicate nerves like an assault on your pleasure. Bite your lip, bite back the moans, whine at him like he’s wounded you, You’re so wet, sweetness, you’re so desperate for me aren’t you, as he palms his cock to relieve the pressure on himself. You’re going to beg before he does and he’s patient, he’ll last the night.

St-stop it, it’s too— he shushes you ahtahtaht and rests his free hand on your mound, holding you down so his probing, inspecting fingers can take stock of the velveteen plushness of your delicate cunt. It’s too much, too much and you want to scream the moment he presses one finger into you, already overwhelmed, already so tightly wound the barest touches are unraveling you steadily.

You’re such a pretty thing, all desperate and needy, sweetness. You wanna cum already, don’t you? So busy, never gave anyone the chance to fuck that stuck-up bitch right out of you, did they? It’s almost pitying, isn’t it, the way he talks, hums at you while you’re reduced to a whining, whimpering mess so soon, so desperate for the release he’s on the edge of denying you, feeling you flexing around his finger and then the second leaping jolt of your body when another joins the inspection. Taking careful stock of the pretty cunt he owns now, and he’s careful to curl his fingers just right as he seeks the spot to hammer just to get you to scream.

You don’t, not yet, but that’s okay too, because he sees the way you take desperate hold of the sheets, the way your eyes roll backwards just slightly, the way you strain against his heavy hand to arch your back. Gotta tell you, sweetness, I imagined you under me a thousand and one ways but this one, right now? Tops the list. You ready to beg for me?

Do it. Do it and end your pleasurable torment. Do it and be released from the pressure, the coiling want. Surrender to him. Let him have you.

The white hot rush of your orgasm is not unexpected to him, his curling, cruel fingers having found the sweetness of your g-spot, but — you, too busy climbing the ranks to think of your own pleasure, too busy demanding your due from an unjust world explore your own warmth beyond that of a memory of a college hookup you would rather forget — you left breathless and wanton in the heat of the explosion he draws out of you, mewling something desperate and pleading against your own will and the song of it fills his ears like it’s all he’s ever wanted. There it is, and I thought we’d be here all night. A thumb flickers over the nerves at your entrance and you practically jump, something between a yelp and a moan escaping your lips.

First one’s just a treat, sweetness. Now on, you cum when I say you do, understand?

You nod.

Oh you nod, and you are lost, here and now. Sensitive and broken and there is so little of that steel spine here, writhing in his sheets and ohyou don’t know the things you do to him.

Think you can go again, sweetness? He’s purring, smug, twisting fingers stretching you slowly, muttering under his breath about how fucking tight you are around his fingers, how good you’re going to feel for him, and the smugness on his face is slowly fading into a dark consternation, brows furrowed like he’s somehow angry at you for being plush and delicate and fuckable.

You’re almost begging him to stop, and yet the pressure is building again, the twisting, coiling heat that leaves you breathless and mewling and he looks like he might be trying to immortalize this moment forever. Say it, sweetness. Say you need me. Beg me for my cock.

That’s it.

That’s what you need to, you need to beg, you need to give in. No more fighting, no more arguing no more —

Please…

Please what, sweetness, come on now. You got a way with words. The snarl is so barely contained.

Please, Captain, please just…

What do you need, sweetness? The fingers are relentless, the buzz in your nerves is overwhelming, you can barely even hear yourself talk, much less him.

Please just fuck me, Captain, I need your cock! It’s hurried and it’s crude and it’s desperate and it’s exactly what he wants as just another wall crumbles and you fall off your pedestal right into his arms.

He’s barely able to resist the buck of his hips, the need to be inside you, the knowledge that you are soft and velvet and you could be all over his senses just like this.

When did he free his cock? You don’t know, you just know it’s practically salvation when he sinks into you, when he fills you like you’ve been desperate for and Oh sweetness…pours from his lips just as you hiss out something like praise right back at him.

You’re so full and he’s so gentle, at first, like you’re made of crystal in his arms, like the slow shifting of his hips might have you shattering underneath him if he’s not careful. Cradling you, even, sliding your legs around his narrow hips as he leans in and takes a hungry kiss from your wanting, whimpering mouth.

Love this look on you, all wrapped around me, whispered low and slow into your ear, sweetness you have no idea how good you look…

Melt into those compliments, melt into him, because the way he’s holding you is divine and you can feel him so deep in you it’s making your head spin. When did your arms end up around him? When did you start clinging to him like an anchor, start winding your fingers through his hair, start leaving the marks of your nails on his back to the sound of his own needy groaning?

He noses your cheek and leaves a mark of ownership on your neck with hungry lips, knowing you’ll bruise a beautiful flower right over your pulsebeat and continuing the steady assault on your nerves, cunt-first.

Harder. Faster. More.

And oh, sweetness, you do shatter.

You shatter all around him, you shatter into something divine and rapturous, full of him and filled with him and he cums so deep inside you as you do, still fucking you through your joined climax, hips rutting and breath hitching and nearly furious at you for the way his vision whites out too, the way he feels like he can Never get enough and so he hisses that at you like an accusation while his thoughts reorient back to reality, back to smugness, back to the control you took from him while he tried to strip you of yours.

In the end, as he pulls away from you and sinks to the side of you, watching your sweet expression as you return to the reality of your new situation, he is satisfied… thoroughly.

Oh yeah, I think we can make this a working relationship, Counsel.

[idkthisisjustforfanfic]

Would Jason and the reader ever say fuck it and then go to an nba game?

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EXTRA - PART 7.5

Los Angeles was a place you loved to hate and hated to love. Nights out with friends typically turned into paparazzi laden events and quick getaways in cars with tinted windows.

Which is why you hesitated when Blake lifted her brows. “What? It’ll be fun!”

Of course she thought that. LA was her hometown, the place she’d grown accustomed to before she could walk or talk. Courtside seats at a Lakers game were probably as common for Blake as bagels were in New York.

“Having fun isn’t the issue,” you reminded her, water bottle in your hands as you stretched out by the pool.

“Okay,” she lifted her hand to block the sun. “Then what is?”

You pushed yourself up, black bikini almost dry from the afternoon dip in water. You’d both had the day off, she and Ryan were in town for work and what better way to nurse a hangover from Emmy’s weekend than a hike through the canyons followed by poolside regret. Why on earth did we think we could do three miles?

“A Lakers game?” You smiled a little. “That’s a very public venue.”

She eyed you for a second, not following. “You literally went to the Emmy’s with him.”

“I did not not go with him,” you corrected. “He was there, I was there.”

“Oh my god,” she leaned back on her lounger, reaching for her phone before bringing her eyes to yours. “You went to the afterparty with him.”

“Right--but you’re asking me to go on a double date with you guys.”

“I thought you were past all the secretive shit?”

You let out a sigh, stared at the polish painted on your toes when you spoke. “I just don’t want to make him do anything that he’s not comfortable with.”

She hummed aloud, nodded slowly when you eyed her through your sunglasses. “This is about the stuff with his kids.”

No, you made a face. Not really. I mean, sort of, maybe. You were allowed to be thrown off. First he’d said he wasn’t ready for you to meet his kids, then he said he wasn’t ready for a public appearance.

And sure, going to the Emmy’s and then going to the afterparty felt like a step in the right direction. But you didn’t want to push it.

“It’s about not wanting to get photographed on a date with him if he’s not okay with that.”

“So ask him,” Blake shrugged. “Text him.”

You let out a groan, rolled your eyes at your friend but opened your thread.

He’d left the house around 8am, a kiss to your cheek before he headed off to write. Now you stared at the screen and felt your heartbeat rise as you typed.

Y/N (1:02pm): Blake and Ryan want to know if we want to go to the Lakers game with them tonight. Maybe dinner before?

You pressed send, clicked it shut and then set it down. Blake reached over to pat you on the thigh in encouragement. A chime that had both of you sitting upright in anticipation.

Jason (1:03pm): Do you want to go?

“So cryptic,” you shook your head when you read it aloud.

“He’s just trying to read you. He’s basically asking if you’re okay with it.”

Silence for a second.

“Are you okay with it?” She asked.

Another sigh.

“It’s not that I don’t want people to know I’m dating him,” you said honestly. “It’s that I wish people could keep their dumb opinions to themselves.”

She let out a sharp laugh, a nod in agreement at your words that she paired with a sympathetic smile. “Don’t we all?”

“Yes but this is the most scandalous thing I’ve ever done.”

“Dating someone?”

“Dating someone old enough to be my father.”

“There are a lot of people who love you guys together. Me and Ryan being two of them.”

You smiled a little. “I know, but my family doesn’t really know and, I guess I have this fear that if the media gets all over us he’ll back out because dating me sucks.”

“How would you know that when you’ve never dated you?”

“Okay well that’s the consensus from most guys who’ve dated me.”

She sat up, cleared her throat like she meant business. “Listen, I know you value privacy and I know you want to be respectful of him and his personal life and you should be. You both deserve privacy and to have a life that isn’t completely under the microscope.”

“But?” You looked up at her, knowing it was coming.

“But,” she shrugged. “You also can’t never leave the house together because someone might see you. Fuck them. Fuck people who don’t like the fact that you’re dating someone older. Come to the god damned Lakers game and if it would make you feel better, Ryan and I can sit in the middle and you two don’t even have to interact.”

“Okay well that feels a little dramatic,” you rolled your eyes.

“Coming from you,” Blake teased.

So after a private room at Nobu and a black SUV to the arena, you were led down a hall with passes draped around your neck. Jason got drinks and sat on the other side of Ryan, a smile when he leaned down the row to hand yours over.

Ryan leaned closer to both of you and made a face. “People will definitely be suspicious if you guys smile at each other like that.”

Jason let out a laugh and readjusted in his seat, you sipped wine out of a plastic cup and made it through the first half of the game. A stellar performance, really: people definitely thought you liked basketball.

A buzzing on your phone pulled your eyes down to the screen.

Jason (8:57pm): Might ask Blake to switch with me.

Y/N L/N (8:57pm): Don’t quit on me now, Sudeikis.

Jason (8:58pm): Quit? Because I want to sit next to you?

Y/N L/N (8:58pm): If you sit next to me you won’t be able to keep your hands off of me.

Jason (8:58pm): True.

Jason (8:58pm): I’d probably even kiss you. What a crime.

Y/N L/N (8:59pm): You would never kiss me here with all of these people and photographers!!!

Jason (8:59pm): Yeah, but I would want to.

“Are you texting him?” Blake leaned over to read the messages. You hid the screen quickly, made a face at her when Jason leaned down, a smug look on his face when he asked: “who are you texting, Y/N?”

“Oh just switch with me,” Blake looked at him.

Jason looked at you, eyebrows raised when he held his hands up, I’m innocent. Four seconds and it was completely, Blake took her leather jacket and her wine and settled into the spot he’d just inhabited.

Jason, with a smile on his face, picked up his phone.

Jason (9:00pm): Much better.

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tag list: @golden-hoax @fineelineee @westcoastrry @missing-you-like-war @trulymadlykiki @caplikeme @baueoud @tiredbuthappy @whymyparentscheckmyphone @tedlassostan @tegan8314 @yourgoldengirls @loganrwebb @rubberduckingaro

[mrs-gucci]

A Different Kind of Urgent {Charlie Barber x Reader}

author’s notes: hellooooo! my penpal friend, a fellow adam driver rat, sent me a print of a charlie picture (that I’d seen a gajillion times before, mind you) and for some reason, I thirsted hard. so, naturally, I wrote a fic inspired by the picture. the reader in this story is a college professor, but it doesn’t really contribute to any ‘essential’ parts of the story (aka the smutty parts). it’s just her job lol

warnings: smut. some fluff. masturbation. semi-public smut. the sending of nudes (well, lingerie pics, to be specific). charlie’s dad outfits™️. cigarette smoking during sex. uhh tennis shoe kink??

(possible) tw’s: semi-public sex. semi-public masturbation. tobacco use (as is canon for Charlie’s character). implied age gap (everyone’s over 21, no more than 10 years).

You’re in the middle of class when Charlie texts you. Your phone buzzes and buzzes on your desk so much so that you have to stop your lecture for a few seconds, worried that something urgent has happened.

Well, something did happen, and it was pretty urgent, but not exactly in the way you’d expected.

-Charlie: I know you’re teaching class right now kid.- -Charlie: But I need you.- -Charlie: Right now.-

A shiver runs down your spine as you read his words on the screen.

-Y/N: I’ve got like 45 more minutes of lecture, baby, I can’t.-

He growls under his breath, cock straining in his tan khakis.

-Charlie: Fuck.- -Charlie: Can you send me a picture? Just need to see your pretty body, kid.-

-Y/N: Say please, Charlie.-

Charlie groans in sexual frustration, hips bucking up in his desk chair.

-Charlie: Jesus fucking christ, fucking brat. PLEASE! PLEASE send me a picture!-

You smirk, picking out one of the lingerie photos you’d taken when you were home alone one night. You’ve been waiting for the right time to whip them out and...well, this seems like the right time.

-Y/N: Attachment 1 image- -Y/N: Knock yourself out. Take a picture when you’re done, and I’ll be over as soon as class is finished.-

His shaky hands scramble to type in his phone passcode and click on your message, a strangled moan leaving his lips at the picture you chose. He’d never seen this one before, never seen this set of lingerie before.  He unbuckles his belt and almost tears the button clean off his khakis as he pulls his cock out, tip already red and drooling with precum. 

Before he starts anything, he quickly runs over to his office door, locking it to keep anyone from walking in. 

His navy cardigan suddenly feels almost suffocating and he sheds it without hesitation, unbuttoning his dress shirt and parting it, revealing his undershirt. 

Wait...you want a picture. Fuck.

An idea comes to him and he whimpers, equal parts aroused and nervous about giving it a try. God he hasn’t touched himself since the divorce proceedings, just needing to blow off some fucking steam, but you’ve reignited his sexual passion, overwhelmingly so, and seemingly even more than before. Maybe even more than ever, if he’s honest with himself.

He feels like a teenager again, both completely smitten with you while at the same time incredibly horny for you.

Charlie stands up on shaky legs and shoves all the paperwork off his desk, clearing a roomy spot right in the center. He bites his lip as he props his phone up on his desktop computer with the picture of you pulled up. Jerking off with just his hand wouldn’t be enough this time around, a small part of him just knew it. He needs to fuck you, fuck something.

He positions his hands around the edge of his desk, leaving his thumbs right at the top, putting them in a wonky sort of ‘o’ shape. He adjusts so that the sharp edge is pressing against his palm before experimentally thrusting his length forward into the hole he’s created with his thumbs, immediately groaning in pleasure. 

“O-Oh, kid.”

He whispers, picking up a slow thrusting rhythm, eyes squeezed shut as he imagines your pussy.

“Such a good little pussy, my good f-fucking girl.” A line of sweat has already begun forming on his forehead as he moves a bit quicker, growling wildly with each thrust. He’s embarrassingly close already. “God, j-jesus fucking christ, gonna make me cum so f-fast, kid. I’m already s-so close, damnit.”

His hips grow desperate, bucking erratically into his grip. The drag of his cock against the faux wood surface feels absolutely incredible, and he barely even hears the desk begin to groan and shift against the floor of his office, too consumed with his impending orgasm.

“Yeah, you ready? Y-You fuckin’ ready for my big fat--fuck!--load in this pretty little--shit!--k-kitty?”

Just hearing him say the word aloud, his nickname for your cunt, has him cumming within moments. His vision blacks out for a second as his hips rut forward, a seemingly continuous stream of warm white cum painting his desktop. 

“Ahhhhh, fuuuuuuuck.”

He has to bury his mouth into his shirt arm to hide the cries that come from him, eyebrows knitted at the center of his forehead. His breathing is heavy as he begins coming down from his high, eyes flitting open and looking down at the mess he’d made. 

His load had gone across the entire width of his desk, and his eyes widened for a moment as his brain somehow comprehended to grab his phone and take a picture of the spread. 

-Charlie: Attachment 1 image- -Charlie: Come straight to my office when you get to the theater.-

You take a quick peek at the message from Charlie as your students pull out their workbooks, jaw dropping when you open the picture full-screen. Holy shit, he really did need it.

-Y/N: You sure you still have enough to fill me up with when I get there?-

-Charlie: I always have enough for you, kid. Gonna have it leaking out of you when you leave.-

You chew your lip, thinking of a quick yet clever response.

-Y/N: Is that a promise?-

He groans under his breath, chuckling lightly with a small smile.

-Charlie: Absolutely. Can’t wait to see you, kid.-

-Y/N: I’m excited too. I’ll be there in 20.-

The twenty minutes it takes for you to finish class and walk over to Exit Ghost feels like some of the longest in Charlie’s life, knee bouncing impatiently and eyes glued to the door. He twirls the Marlboro package in his hand, the clock behind his desk tick-tick-ticking the seconds away. 

Finally, a soft knock comes and, just in case it isn’t you, he stuffs the carton into his pocket. “Come in.”

Your head pokes through the door and you smile at him as you walk in, shutting and locking the door behind you. You immediately notice his outfit, specifically his shoes, which are propped up on his desk. 

He knows that you like how he dresses, especially when he dresses very dad-like. And those sneakers he has, the white ones with the blue lines on them...god, they drive you absolutely crazy and you have no idea why.

Your bags are quickly shoved off your shoulder by the impatient director, pulling you into his body as his lips attack yours fiercely. He notices the way you’re eyeing his outfit, and it’s then that he realizes what shoes he has on, the pair that you like so much. Oh, he could use that.

His grip on the meat of your hips tightens increasingly as the kiss heats up, lips eventually moving down to your neck. 

“Well, hello to you too.”

You say, laughing softly.

“Mmmm,” He hums onto your skin, lips littering kisses and small nibbles everywhere they can reach. “I missed you, kiddo, feels like forever since we’ve had time for something like this.”

Charlie’s large body presses you up against the door, hands eager to rid you of your pants. He quickly yanks them down to your ankles, fingers finding your clothed folds.

“I’ve got a staff meeting at two, baby. We h-have to be kind of quick...sorry.” You breathe, hand wrapping in his hair, tugging at the silky raven locks.

A small and slightly disappointed sigh leaves his lips, but nothing more is said on the matter. His movements do become a bit more rushed, though, digits dipping beneath the fabric to shove up into your entrance. 

Your legs spread instinctively, knees shaking as he finger-fucks you, thick digits scissoring inside you to prepare for his girth. Meanwhile, you try to focus on getting his belt and pants undone, but it’s awfully hard when his fingers feel so damn good.

He pulls away suddenly, sucking the juices off his fingers as his hungry eyes roam your figure. The carton of cigarettes presses against his thigh and he smirks, pulling his digits out with a lewd pop.

Charlie suddenly pulls you off the door, putting himself in your spot instead. He smirks, fingers running under your chin, keeping your head tilted up at him.

“Will you go open the window for me please, beautiful?”

You nod, rushing over to push it open, then come back over to stand in front of him.

“Good girl. Thank you.”

His pointer finger twirls and points to the floor while the other hand grabs the pack and lighter from his pants pocket.

“Now, turn around and bend over right here, hold your ankles or feet, or whatever.”

As you position yourself accordingly, he leans back against the door, legs spread and sneaker-clad feet planted on either side of you, right within your line of vision. He’s almost fully hard again already as he moves to free his cock from its khaki confines, undoing his pants just enough to have it out. 

Again, his cardigan feels suffocatingly hot, so he quickly pulls it off and tosses it away. He rolls the sleeves up on his button-up, a sight that makes your insides clench.

He jams a cigarette between his teeth, jaw clenching when he looks up and realizes that you’re bent over for him, in just the way he asked. Your glistening pussy’s on full display as you wiggle your ass a bit, his cock bobbing and twitching with excitement. 

“Oh kid, you’re dripping.” Charlie whispers, almost to himself, hand kneading one of the globes of your ass.

You chuckle softly. “Hey, baby? As much as I love hearing and feeling you, my legs are getting kinda tired.”

Laughing, Charlie says a quick ‘sorry’ before holding and pulling your hips back, lining himself up with your soaked entrance. He pulls you back some more, impaling you on his cock, head falling back against the door as he does so. 

His hands shakily ignited the small flame on his lighter, bringing it up until the tip of the cigarette turned orange before flipping the cap back on and shoving it back in his pocket. He takes a long drag, groaning on the exhale. 

He keeps one hand on your hip while the other spreads out on your lower back, guiding you back and forth over his shaft slowly, gently.

“Thaaat’s it, just like this, kid.”

Your eyes roll into the back of your head, the impossibly deep angle created with this new position has it feeling like he’s reaching into your guts. Plus, with the natural up-curve of his cock, he’s brushing all the right spots inside you.

“C-Charlie…”

The familiar and comforting scent of Charlie’s cigarettes fills your nostrils, a haze of smoke surrounds your joined bodies. He continues to move you up and down on his length, buttocks clenching as his hips naturally rock forward, burying himself to the hilt each time you sink down.

“God...jesus christ...love this little pussy of yours, kid.” He breathes through his gritted teeth. “Taking me so nicely, always wrapped around me so goddamn tight.”

You quickly begin moving yourself up and down his stiff rod, bouncing as fast as you can manage. The sweet burn in your thighs only grows more prominent with each passing second, but you don’t care, too consumed in pleasure.

“Mmmmmyyyeah, baby, all for you.”

His hand comes down on your ass, giving it a firm smack before taking another quick drag, exhaling through his nose.

“That’s f-fucking right, all mine. You love being a little slut for this cock, huh? I know you do, you love when I bring you in my office and fuck your pretty cunt in the middle of the goddamn work day, can’t even wait until I get home, this f-filthy slut cunt needs to be split open and stuffed nice and full. Can’t go one fucking day without my cum fucked in you, always needs to be filled up and leaking, hm?”

Charlie was never able to do stuff like this or talk to Nicole like this. She was pretty vanilla when it came to sex, just like to be fucked quietly in bed. He called her a ‘slut’ once and she almost cried, lecturing him for half an hour afterwards on how disrespectful it was.

But now, he gets to explore everything he hasn’t gotten the chance to with you. You love it all, love the way he talks filth in your ear, calls you naughty names. You love getting fucked in all sorts of places, which at first made him a little nervous, cheeks and the tips of his ears bright red when you asked him to fuck you in your classroom or finger you under your dress on the subway. But, after almost a year and a half together, you can safely say that he’s a full-on exhibitionist deviant.

Your walls clamp down around him, eyes still squeezed shut as you feel his hips begin to thrust forward. Soon, he holds you almost completely still, moving his hips as fast as he can. His cigarette is almost ashes at this point, and he kicks himself for not thinking of a good disposal plan beforehand.

“Oh baby, oh baby...f-fuck!” You whine, hips squirming and gyrating as your impending orgasm grows closer. “Y-Yeah, I love it, love everything you do to me. Wanna take every s-single fucking drop of your cum, Charlie, want it inside me, want it dripping down my thighs.”

He almost loses his mind over your comments, drilling into you at an impossibly hard and fast rate, the lewd slapping squelching sound of your hips colliding overwhelmingly prominent in the space around you. 

“You’ll go back to work with so much cum shoved into you, make you sit through your stupid fucking meeting with my cum dripping out of you. B-Better hope no one notices, huh? Better hope your boss doesn’t find out what a good little cockslut you are, how much you love having a pussy-full of your boyfriends f-fucking cum.”

A few muted cries leave your lips as he pounds you harder, his own words spurring him on. He can feel your walls pulsing around him, a sure-fire sign that you’re about to cum. 

“C-Charlie! Charlie, I...I’m close.”

“K-Know you are, kid, I know you are. You’re doing so f-fucking well for me, Y/N, squeezing my big cock like a fuckin champ.” Charlie growls, quickly tossing his spent cigarette in a coffee mug on a nearby table. “And now you’re gonna rub your little clit and cum for me like I know you want to. C’mon, kid, wanna feel you come undone around me.”

You quickly begin rubbing your clit and, despite the odd angle, it brings you right up to the edge. You just need something, just a little something, to push you over the edge. Your eyes flutter open to look up at him, but then, you’re met with the sight of his sneakers.

“Goddamnit!” You’re cumming almost instantly, flooding his shaft with your release. “Yes! Oh god, yeah, c-cumming for you baby!”

His hips keep pumping, taking you right through your climax before abruptly coming to a halt when they’re buried as deep inside you as they can possibly be. His eyes go wide before squeezing shut, a guttural groan ripping through his chest as he pumps and shoves his thick creamy load into you.

“T-Take it, f-filthy whore!” He groans, rutting his hips the whole way through, making sure every drop is put inside you.

Once he’s finished, having ridden out his high to its fullest, he tucks himself back into his pants before helping you stand back up. He holds you close, looking down at you with a bright, genuine smile. 

“You’re amazing, incredible...just so perfect.” He kisses all over your face before landing on your lips.

Your cheeks heat up at his compliments, hands weaving through his hair as the kiss deepens. 

Suddenly, someone knocks on your office door, jiggling the doorknob.

“Charlie?”

His eyes fly open and he pulls away. Shit.

“Yeah, I’m h-here, just give me a minute!”

You quickly pull your pants up and jump under his desk to hide just as he opens the door, running a hand through his hair. 

He talks to the person on the other side of the door in a rushed voice, answering their multitude of questions before quickly shutting the door, sighing as you crawl out from under the desk. 

“At least we both got to cum, unlike last time.” You walk up and put your hands on his pecs, rubbing them over the fabric. “I gotta get going though, baby. I wanna grab lunch from the deli before my staff meeting.”

Charlie nods, dipping his head down to kiss you one last time, nuzzling his large nose against yours. 

“Come over tonight, though? Nicole’s in town and she’s got Henry, so we’ll have the house to ourselves. I feel like we haven’t spent any quality time together lately.”

Nodding, you smile. “I would love to come over. I’ll text you when I get home.”

“Great.” He smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll see you later, kid. Have a good meeting.”

You laugh as you grab your bag and head out, turning back to wave and flash him a soft smile.

“See you tonight.”

[poptod]

hey there ☺ do you think you can write a soulmate au with ahk where you hear each other's thoughts? and ahk thought he didn't have one all these years only to hear you while he's at the museum and then you try to find each other?

notes: wonderful idea. also i noticed my method of doing requests is do it almost immediately after i get it or wait four months before i get it done so sorry about that, but i hope you enjoy this!

WC: 1.5k +

There are many versions of yourself, all talking over one another in an attempt to control your mind for once. Sometimes it's hard to decipher if your actions are the result of someone in your head tugging you in a different direction. There is the person you believe yourself to be––what you imagine you come off to people as. There is also the person you truly are, and what people actually perceive you to be. So despite there being several voices, they are all reiterations of yourself in some way.

Except for one.

One of them speaks in a voice that is not your own, in a voice you've never heard anywhere but echoing in your skull. Since you despised asking questions as a child, it took you until you were twelve to realize that no, you weren't insane. It was someone who would love you, who had the potential to grow close to you simply by the strings of fate. Your soulmate. 

Someone who gave you nightmares for years.

'Get me out of here!' He would scream, sending your heart pounding while you tried to sleep as a child. 'Please, please, I need to see the stars,' he sobbed, 'I did nothing to deserve this!'

Once you grew old enough to deal with the screaming beyond what you thought was a schizophrenia disorder, nighttime brought a deep sadness to you. For some reason, your soulmate would never think during the day––which was incredibly odd––and during the night, the only time he was awake, he would scream and beg and cry until you could feel the hoarseness in your own throat. For your entire childhood, you stared up at your ceiling at night, eyes burning as you tried to calm the screaming.

It was all you could think about, as though the screams had muted your connection to him and strengthened his connection to you. Every now and then you would try to think, try to calm him down, but he never quite heard.

Then, one evening in winter, it stopped.

You were lying in bed, rolled onto your side as you once again listened to the man's yelling thoughts. But then he stopped, and both your hearts skipped a beat, followed by an incredibly clear thought: Thank the Gods, blessed Ra and Khonsu.

That evening you darted out of bed, jumping to your desk where you typed in with slamming, lightning-fast fingers, "khonsu." Ra you already knew––everyone knew Ra, and by connection Khonsu would probably also be a God. The only question you were left with was why you were hearing the thoughts of someone who worshipped Egyptian gods two thousand years after that civilization died.

As you continued your research, his thoughts continued.

They took my tablet?

Who are these people?

This man has no idea what he's doing, does he?

Why is he screaming at the Hun?

He's got my tablet.

About halfway into the night you gave up on your research, instead listening intently to the thoughts. With you entirely absorbed in your soulmates thoughts, you had little room to send your own words to him, which unbeknownst to you, would've reached him if you tried.

You weren't quite sure what to think of him for the following couple weeks. At first your assumption was that he was the insane one projecting his insane thoughts to you, but his quieter thoughts led you to believe there was something different in him. It is true what they say––geniuses are often tortured minds, and though you wouldn't classify your soulmate as a genius, he was clearly a knowledgeable philosopher of sorts.

He thought often of the human condition––the rise and fall of civilizations, the cruelty and the mercy of men that began the stories of bloodstained battlefields. Most of the time you just listened. Now that he wasn't screaming, his voice was soft and more of a comfort than you ever thought it would be.

Sometimes he got very sad. After a while you learned to not question the logic of his thoughts. Instead, you simply tried to understand what he meant, accepting him for where he was in his life.

I miss my brother.

I wonder what happened to my best friend.

I didn't think I would ever be this far from the Nile and the sun.

I abandoned my people, didn't I?

If only I could find where my sister was buried. Would that even make me feel better, though? What closure will I gain from seeing her tomb?

... if she even had one.

There's a melody going on in his head, right now. Something that could put you to sleep if you weren't currently working. It's nothing you've heard before, that you're certain of, and judging by the tone of it and your soulmate's previous thoughts, it sounds Egyptian.

Despite the museum being closed, most of the lights are still on. One of the night guards had a very strange insistence about it, but wouldn't tell you why. Oh well––questioning people is above your paygrade, since you aren't getting paid for this. It is volunteer work. Not that you mind; ever since realizing the voice in your head was Egyptian, you've gotten a palate for history. Currently, however, you're dealing less with history and more with files. The curator at this museum asked you to sort through the records of all the different exhibits that are here, or were once here at some point, which made a very large collection. Massive, actually––you're only sorting through A, and it's going to take you a couple weeks.

He's humming softly to himself. The tune carries into your work, and you allow yourself to enjoy his voice as you sort, going over every record to look for exhibits no longer displayed. For this you have a chart in your other hand––a log of all the exhibits currently public in the museum.

Although you're supposed to be concentrated on your sorting, you find yourself more entranced with the melody in your head, and the clearest thought that rings in your mind is, 'that is beautiful.'

The humming stops. Dead in its' tracks, about to reach its' peak, and it stops.

'My mother sang it to me,' he says, 'before I slept as a child.'

"Holy shit, are you talking to me?" You say out loud with bulging eyes before you can stop yourself. The moment you realize what you said, a bright blush coats your cheeks and you slap your hand over your mouth. But he doesn't seem to mind––actually, he laughs, and it's sweeter than summer sugar.

'You must be my heart,' he says in an astounded tone, and you can practically see his dream-filled eyes. You sit puzzled for a second before replying.

"Do you mean your soulmate?"

'Well... I suppose yes, that could be one of the names,' he says, and it only adds more onto the lists of questions you have for him.

"What is your name?" You ask first, hardly realizing you're still talking aloud to yourself.

'My name is Ahkmenrah," he tells you, and it takes less than a millisecond before the dots connect in your head. Instantly your eyes dart to the sheet in your hand, and near the top of the list, there it sits––Ahkmenrah.

'I know this must be confusing for you,' he continues, 'but I am from another time. While I lived then, I dreaded that I didn't have a heart, as I heard no voice. That fear has carried on into my next life, but now that you're here –'

"Oh I'm here alright," you say, unbelieving of both your circumstances and your unblinking acceptance at them. "I'm, like, two floors below you."

"WHAT?!"

A voice from above catches you, but as the same word rings in your mind, you realize with great glee that he instinctively yelled 'what' without thinking. You laugh, and the thought of your laughter reaches him.

Less than a minute later you can hear footsteps pounding down the stairs, landing at the closed door before the handle wrenches open. You quickly move to your feet, facing the man whose voice you know so well, who haunted your childhood and enchanted your adulthood. You can barely hide the grin that spreads across your face––whatever magic has brought you to this moment, you thank everything you can for it, your attention ensnared by the soft features of a 4,000 year old Pharaoh.

He pauses once he enters the archive, eyes finding yours immediately. His mouth hangs open slightly as he scans you, absorbs every feature on your body and face, and barely moves even to breathe for a good minute or two.

"I – I'm sorry, I j – I just realized I didn't ask your name," he says quietly, a small, ginger smile growing on his lips.

"(Y/N)," you say, but you don't quite know how your brain worked to make the word. You certainly didn't consciously choose to speak.

"I have waited thousands of years for you," he says, impossibly softer as he steps forward. He's really quite harmless, you realize––for all the fear you had of him as a child, he's nothing but a sweet-faced boy.

"Was it worth it?" You ask, and your voice cracks ever so slightly.

"My heart," he breathes out, affection lacing his name for you, "it was worth every second."

[rouiyan]

𝘖𝘏 𝘕𝘖 𝘏𝘌 𝘋𝘐𝘋𝘕'𝘵, (𝘖𝘏 𝘠𝘌𝘚 𝘏𝘌 𝘋𝘐𝘋) [ 𝘭.𝘫𝘯 ]

💌 delivered ⧐ an early valentine’s day special from miss ree to you~

synopsis – of all the fucking days in the year...

♡ lee jeno x (gender neutral) reader ♡ best friends to lovers (ft. hyuck)

♡ genre: fluff ♡ wc – 863 ♡ original request ♡ disclaimers : profanity, an apparent dislike of valentine’s day

disbelief claws at his disposition as donghyuck squints extra hard in the process of making a comment that's most likely something along the lines of, 'why the fuck is your text font so small?' though it actually only goes as far as, "why th—" before he's overcome with copious amounts of laughter. what had been incredulity in his initial reaction is now sure to have morphed into a sort of second-hand embarrassment. on the contrast, you have half the mind to take defense, "don't laugh at him! i'm sure he's just trying his best here," but alas, your own countenance is on the verge of splitting into a grin. 

while donghyuck laughs out the rest of his hysterics, you've reverted your attention back to your phone screen to gloss over the transpirings that had him short-breathed in the first place. in short, lee jeno is your best friend. lee jeno is good looking. lee jeno is sweet, thoughtful, endearing. lee jeno is your crush. and lee jeno is also terribly inept at conversing when it comes to his own crush: you.

truthfully, you had not meant to suggest anything with the message you'd sent a little under two hours ago. it's almost valentine's day, huh? very simple, an observation at most, indicative of absolutely nothing. and up until about an hour ago, you had not the slightest idea that the aforementioned boy liked you back. that is until donghyuck had to take an unforeseen bathroom break in the midst of playing that stupid game on his phone, the same game that he'd begged you to take over for lest you wish he lose. (you did but you must admit, you are too good of a friend). thus commencing the fourth round of a game you'd never played in your life with hyuck's earbuds unceremoniously shoved in your ears from his desperate rush to go potty.

perhaps you actually held an affinity for the game, you would have never found out because right as the door clicked shut in his absence, another voice sounded through the speakers. unbeknownst to you, apparently hyuck had been playing with jeno the whole while. to further, it seems that jeno had no clue that hyuck had been replaced, muttering on about taking a break himself to check his notifications. you sat quiet, benumbed and fixed into the couch, as your crush of four years began to ramble in exclamation, "holy shit! hyuck, y/n texted me an hour ago." 

on your end, rather than daring to speak aloud, your thoughts multiply from there on out: nothing much to tell from that, right? just a guy fretting about not returning his best friend's messag— "dude, valentine's day….do you think it's too cheesy to ask someone out on valentine's day?"

heart in your stomach you prayed to the gods above that he wouldn't be able to hear how heavy your (or hyuck's, as he assumes) breaths have come to be. the seconds take their liberties in lengthening themselves so that one feels like two and two feels like four and so on and so forth until twelve have passed in silence. much to your relief, that's when donghyuck decided to come on back. eyes wide, you shoved the earbuds back into ears, phone into his hands, and mouthed to him the words he understood to repeat, "what did you say?" and jeno, ever the compliant friend, relayed the same question that had you shaken to the core in the first place.

and donghyuck, ever the conniving wingman, had only this to reply, "what do you mean cheesy? that's the best idea you've ever come up with."

thirty minutes ago, while you'd since exploited your stamina capacity by pummeling the boy with any and all pillows within arms' length, you still boasted an exemplary ability to glare at him from across the room. if only you had the strength to strangle his phone out of his hands or swipe the smile off of his face because whatever "tips and tricks" he was sure to be schooling jeno on were to be the death of you.

as it turned out, they were not only the cause of your imminent death but also of hyuck's, seeing as how he has now resorted to the floor, the couch insufficient for his maniacal fit of laughter. to recap, recall, reel it all in, let's start with the fact that the only thing you'd said to jeno had been this: it's almost valentine's day, huh? and the only thing he'd replied with, almost two hours later, was this: yeah i'm free that day :)

smile bordering on a cringe, you type out an enthusiastic let's go on a date then! accompanied by a hefty sigh. should you be happy that you finally, finally get to put an end to an agonizing four-year-long and (apparently not) unrequited love? yes, in fact, under almost any other circumstance you'd be mesmerizingly thrilled to even ponder the possibility. but here you are, thumb on the send button, effectively sealing your fate forevermore.

(five years later and your fifth anniversary with lee jeno still falls on february 14th. fucking valentine's day.)

copyright © 2021 rouiyan all rights reserved

✧ end note — requested by the lovely🌙 anon. i’m very sorry if you do happen to think that valentine’s day is the best day to be asked out on. i, for one, do not but it’s all personal preference (and a fic starter i guess)...will i post some full special for actual valentine’s day? at this point in time, that is unclear because i do have a whole ass fellowship interview that morning but for now, i hope you enjoyed it and may the best of days be yours <3

[microsuedemouse]

finished the Chimera Ant arc of HxH tonight and have some thoughts I simply must put down somewhere. and here is as good as anywhere else

(not the point of this post, but: I land firmly on the side of ‘it’s a good arc.’ I understand that it’s divisive, and I even kinda get why, but… it’s a good arc.)

I was making jokes about Knuckle and Shoot being boyfriends right from the jump - like, before we even get to see Shoot onscreen. my sibling (who has watched the show before) was making some crack about Knuckle’s jacket and the weird fasteners - “how does he even put it on?” and I really didn’t even think about it before laughing back, “with Shoot’s tender assistance.” because, idk, they’re introduced as a unit. anyone who mentions them at that point mentions them both: Knuckle and Shoot.

there were more jokes along those lines, including when my sibling wondered aloud “how does Shoot even do his hair?” and I said “with Knuckle’s tender assistance.” it was just a fun bit I was doing!

but then like. once we actually got to the part of the arc where the group begins their attack on the palace, and there was the long fight (arguably fights, plural, but whatever) with Youpi - I just became increasingly convinced that Knuckle and Shoot are boyfriends. because like. oh my god. the way they care about each other. the way they talk to each other. and then when Knuckle has that whole internal monologue where he’s like wait, since when did I even like this guy so much? why am I so worried about an insult to his pride? we’re barely even friends!… holy shit. like, that’s a romance, right there, y’all.

and then. on top of how much I enjoy their dynamic. I absolutely love how Meleoron, like, imprints on them both. he worries so much about them through that battle, and later we see him sitting in Shoot’s hospital room. he’s become the Third Bro. he loves those guys.

all of this being the context for me to SAY.

I choose to believe that Meleoron goes on to become Knuckle and Shoot’s roommate and permanent third wheel. I’m picturing Knuckle and Shoot having a tender wide-eyed ‘bro…’ type moment in the living room and then focus shifts to Meleoron in the back of the room trying to slip quietly past them with a whole jug of orange juice in his hand. ‘hey,’ he says, giving a small wave. ‘I just needed a drink. go back to whatever you were doing. it’s cool.’ (he does not turn invisible when he tries to slip past them because he thinks that’s a rude thing to do to one’s roommates.)

but even more importantly. I’m imagining them recovering from their injuries and getting back to normal life. Knuckle and Shoot returning to training under Morel. Meleoron trying to integrate with society - going out and getting a job, meeting new people, stuff like that. and the first time he brings some pals back to the apartment to hang, he makes introductions like ‘hey, so these are my roommates, Knuckle and Shoot, they’re cool, they’re boyfriends’

and Knuckle and Shoot both being like. ‘we ARE?!’

and Meleoron having a 😰❓ sort of moment where he’s like… ‘oh my god, I thought you knew’

(and the friends are kinda like oh shit uh. should we leave, or-? bc we can do this another time-)

[asweetprologue]

Words: 2618, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: The Witcher

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion

Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

Additional Tags: Fluff, geralt has a fixation on jaskier's hands, Pining, Confessions, it's about the hands tm

Inspired directly by this post by @valdomarx​

“I didn’t even ask you to come this time, witcher. I don’t know why you’re acting so dour,” Jaskier pouted. He was standing in front of a small mirror that he’d propped up against the table, the only thing with a reflection in the small inn. His shirt was untucked over his tight pants, which were a startling peacock blue this time around. It was a fetching color, nearly matching the bard’s eyes, though Geralt would never voice such a thought aloud. He was fiddling with the ties at the front of the cream shirt, trying to decide on a complicated pattern of lacing that was well beyond Geralt’s understanding. The smell of wisteria and honeysuckle filled the room, overwhelming in its recent application. Jaskier rarely used scents beyond soaps while they were traveling, and Geralt preferred when he could more easily smell the distinct musk of the bard himself, rather than cloying perfumes. 

He grunted in response to Jaskier’s comment, leaning against the bedpost. The inn was nice, actually, even though it was small. The sheets smelled fresh, the mattress was free of holes, and there was even a full bath off of the main room. Jaskier had sunk more funds into their accommodations than usual, expecting a big payout from the ball he’d been hired to perform at for the next several nights. “I’m not being ‘dour’,” Geralt said, watching Jaskier tug his shirt closed. His fingers played over the laces, easily working them into a tight series of delicate knots. Geralt wasn’t lying, truthfully. He wasn’t so much dour as… distracted. His eyes followed Jaskier’s hands as they tucked in his shirt, revealing his slim hips. The bard tugged here and there on the fabric, his fingers fluttering about as he searched for just the right amount of artful dishevelment. 

Geralt noticed Jaskier’s hands. 

He wasn’t sure if this was a universal experience or not. Over the past few months, he’d overcome the initial shock of realizing he was interested in the bard. He’d known Jaskier for years - closer to decades - and it certainly was a notion that took some adjusting to. One day Geralt had just looked up and realized that the gangly limbed youth he’d met in Posada had turned into an extremely attractive man, a man Geralt very much wanted to put his hands on. The thought had been startling, and he’d spent full weeks telling himself that it was a fluke. And yet he was captivated by Jaskier’s broad shoulders, his strong thighs, his infuriatingly dexterous fingers. It was embarrassing really. 

But, he reasoned, he was in good company; literally half the Continent wanted to fuck Jaskier. Geralt was particularly unique in that regard. It was honestly more spectacular that he was a person who wanted to sleep with Jaskier who hadn’t. It was a bitter draught to swallow, but Geralt accepted it. Few people wanted a witcher in their bed for more than an hour, and he knew that it could never be a simple one time roll in the hay between himself and Jaskier. Geralt was already spending much of his time reminding himself that he was not and could not be infatuated with Jaskier, the famous bard, womanizer and, above all, his best friend. He was at least self aware enough to know that Jaskier’s rejection would be painful, and that losing him as a companion was unacceptable. 

Still, this left him with a predicament. While he assumed Jaskier had caught on to his developing feelings quickly enough, Geralt didn’t want to make the bard uncomfortable with his attentions. He tried not to let anything change between them. He didn’t reach out to pull Jaskier closer when they shared a bed at night, he didn’t give him the best cuts of meat during meals, he didn’t buy small, intricate rings or beautiful leather bound journals for him when they went to the market. He would think about it and then turn away, and keep things how they’d always been. Jaskier was bright and loud and annoying, and Geralt was quiet and snappish. If the bard had wanted anything more, he would have made it clear long before now. Geralt was doing a pretty good job of keeping things platonic, he thought. He probably would have been totally successful if Jaskier hadn’t chosen a lute, of all the cursed instruments, as his primary tool of the trade. 

The issue was that Geralt had something of a preoccupation with Jaskier’s hands, which may be a common experience but might be unique to Geralt himself, much to his dismay. They were just exceedingly nice to look at. They had long and elegant fingers with wide, reassuring palms that had spent hours cleaning, patching up and comforting the witcher. They were unscared except for a thin white line under his right ring finger, where Jaskier said he’d been punctured by a nail as a child. Though that wasn’t to say that they were totally unblemished. Years of playing had worn deep calluses onto the tips of his fingers, rougher skin that made Geralt shiver when they played over his scalp as they so often did. 

They were nice hands, but it wasn’t just that. They were expressive, an extension of whatever Jaskier felt at the moment. Geralt never knew what to do with his hands if he wasn’t in a fight, but Jaskier’s moved constantly. When he was angry they curled into fists and pointed fingers, elbows tights against his body as he raged at some perceived slight. When he was happy or excited, they darted about him in wide, sweeping gestures, an unspoken language that Geralt thought he might be able to read now without words. When he was tired they dragged, lingering on Geralt’s shoulders or pulling at the seams of his armor as he bullied the witcher into bed. Those moments were almost the worst, picking away at Geralt’s already frayed control, but he found it got to him the most when Jaskier was playing. 

To say that Jaskier transformed when he played was not quite accurate. It was closer to say that he became. Jaskier was always intense, bright and focused and vibrant, but when he picked up his lute and stepped onto a stage he was resplendent. When Geralt had first met him, he’d thought maybe Jaskier was a siren, or some kind of incubus, luring men in with his honeyed words and saccharine melodies. He’d quickly realized that no, Jaskier was as human as they came, but it didn’t stop others from acting like they’d been bewitched when he was around. Jaskier performing was Jaskier at both his least and most genuine, distilled into whatever the crowd needed him to be most at that moment. It was enthralling, to say the least, and Geralt wasn’t immune to the draw. 

At first watching the lute had been a defense mechanism, of a sort. Watching Jaskier himself was almost too intense, and Geralt felt exposed anytime their eyes met across a crowded room. So he’d taken to watching Jaskier’s hands, flying across the strings of the lute and dancing up the neck. Initially it had been only intriguing, and he’d found himself impressed by the bard’s skill. He was faster and more precise than any other player Geralt had come across, while remaining gentle in his ministrations. Jaskier touched the strings of his lute with such tenderness, as if he were caressing a lover.

One night while watching the bard, Geralt had though, Sometimes he touches me like that. And after that he was well and truly lost. 

“I’m just saying,” Jaskier said, bringing Geralt sharply back to the present, “while I would never begrudge your presence, I don’t think the response to Toss a Coin will be as enthusiastic if the titular witcher is off glowering in a corner.” He reached for his doublet, a green jacket picked out with yellow thread that looked like gold in the right light. It was beside Geralt on the bed, and he nearly flinched away from Jaskier’s grasping hands. He thanked every god above that he no longer had the ability to blush the same way a human did, knowing that he would be pink in the face after watching Jaskier lace up his shirt sleeves. The man was actively putting clothes on and Geralt was nearly sweating from it. 

“I’m not going to glower in a corner,” he grumbled. 

Jaskier gave him a look that displayed an insulting lack of faith in Geralt’s word. “Well,” he said, “at least you’re dressed appropriately.” He’d managed to wrestle Geralt into a black jacket and a pair of dress trousers, though Geralt had won the fight to keep his boots and his swords. It was better, Jaskier allowed, that the people be able to see the tools of the trade. The bard reached out to adjust the collar of Geralt’s shirt. The witcher forced himself to still as Jaskier’s knuckles grazed his Adam’s apple. His skin hummed where they’d made contact. 

Jaskier gave him a pat on the shoulder and turned away. “Well, we’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” he said, giving himself one last glance in the tiny mirror. With a grin, he turned to Geralt and said, “If you’re very good I’ll buy you one of those tarts from the market for breakfast tomorrow.”

The words if you’re good rolled over Geralt in a disconcerting way, curling up at the base of his spine and settling like they intended to live there. Shit. He made a slightly strangled sound of agreement that he hoped just sounded annoyed. 

As Jaskier reached for the door, Geralt noticed that the ties of Jaskier’s undershirt had gotten twisted around one of the buttons of his doublet. He must have accidentally pushed the clasp through a loop in the laces while he was doing them up. Geralt wouldn’t have noticed unless he was watching Jaskier’s hands, but it seemed like he was always watching Jaskier’s hands nowadays. Watching, anticipating, hoping for the next touch. Geralt reached out and snagged the bard’s wrist before he even really knew what he was doing.

“Um,” Jaskier said, eloquent as ever. Geralt turned his hand over - in for a penny, in for a crown - and started undoing the buttons on the doublet. Jaskier hummed in realization, seeing where the laces had twisted into a knot. Focusing on his task, Geralt bent his head slightly, pulling the thin string loose from its tangle. As he did so, pale, unmarked skin was revealed through the parted fabric, a spider web of delicate blue lines branching out before Jaskier’s warm palm. Geralt’s thumb brushed briefly over the veins, Jaskier’s skin as smooth and soft as fresh rose petals under his rough fingers. He was seized suddenly by an overpowering urge to put his mouth there, to breathe in the scent and find Jaskier hidden under all the oils and the smell of crisp linen. Without thinking too much of it, Geralt bent down and pressed his lips to Jaskier’s wrist, just below the swell of his thumb.

Jaskier gasped. 

It was like taking a mouthful of Thunderbolt - the world coming sharply into focus, his mind keenly aware of his surroundings. Geralt nearly jumped back, flinching away from the sound. Fuck. Why had he done that? He’d been helping with a fucking sleeve, it hadn’t required his mouth. Jaskier was going to be pissed. He was going to demand that Geralt stay here while he went to the banquet and then he would find someone to bed for the night and he wouldn't try to find Geralt in the morning, and Geralt would have to set back out on the Path alone all because he couldn’t control himself enough to lace up one sleeve - 

“Geralt?” Jaskier's voice cracked slightly. The witcher clenched his jaw, wincing. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. He couldn’t meet Jaskier’s gaze. “That was… inappropriate. Have fun at the ball.”

“You’re not coming?” Jaskier asked, sounding distressed now. His scent was still free of the sour stench of fear and anger, but Geralt could hear his heart beating faster. “Geralt, look at me. Just - Are you alright?” Hands came to rest on his shoulders, and Geralt was startled enough at the contact that he raised his eyes to meet Jaskier’s. 

The bard looked nervous, but there was something else in his face too. Something softer. Geralt swallowed heavily. “I shouldn’t have touched you like that,” he said. His face tingled with the phantom of a shameful flush. 

Jaskeir smoothed his hands gently down Geralt’s arms. A comfort the witcher certainly didn’t deserve. “I don’t mind,” Jaskier said, impossibly. He bit his lip, his tongue darting out to sooth the spot. Geralt couldn’t help but follow the motion even as Jaskier gave him a wry smile. “I wish you’d do it more, if I’m being entirely honest. After all these years, I assumed you weren’t interested.” He took a breath, as if he was about to launch into a very demanding ballad, or perhaps jump from a cliff. “But I very much am. Interested.” 

Geralt stared at him for a moment, allowing the words to sink in. Jaskier was looking at him with wide, expectant eyes. His infuriating fingers played anxiously over Geralt’s, not quite holding on. Unsure of what else he could reasonably do, Geralt kissed him. 

Jaskier’s hands flew away from his own, and Geralt had a singular crystalline moment of panic before he felt them threading through his hair. Jaskier twisted closer, throwing himself into the kiss with little of the finesse he was so renowned for. It was too hard and too fast, but Geralt drank it anyway, inviting Jaskier in with his tongue and trying to convince him to stay. His fingers tangled in the loose ties of the shirt sleeve, and he could feel Jaskier’s pulse against them. It was almost more intimate than the kiss itself. Jaskier’s heart beat quick and steady under his hand, a rapid tempo just for him. 

Finally Geralt pulled away, breathing hard as he pressed his forehead to the bard’s. “This is a fucking terrible idea,” he said. 

Jaskier jerked back a bit to glare at him. “How so? Counterpoint: I think it’s a singularly marvelous idea, actually.”

Geralt shifted slightly, uncomfortable. “I can’t… I don’t want to ruin this. You. What we have.”

“We could have more,” Jaskier said, uncharacteristically fragile. Geralt wanted so badly not to break him. “Anything. If you just want a fuck, that’s fine. We can do that. If you want more than that, I… That’s okay too. Or not. Whatever it is, whatever you want.” His fingers smoothed down the back of Geralt’s hair, just at the base of his skull. A caress, as soft as if he were playing his favorite instrument. Maybe he was. 

“I’m going to want you,” Geralt said, like a warning. “Longer than you want me.”

Jaskier looked indignant. It was one of Geralt’s favorite expressions, when it wasn’t directed at him. Maybe even then. “I doubt that very much,” Jaskier bit out. The fingers in Geralt’s hair tightened, and the witcher let out a shaky breath. “I have loved you for almost my entire adult life. I doubt I’m going to stop anytime soon.” Jaskier still looked nervous, but there was more anticipation in it than before. Something closer to hope. “So I’ll say it again: Whatever you want. What do you want, Geralt?”

“You,” Geralt said, leaning in again. He pressed the words against Jaskier’s lips. “Always you.”

“Then you have me,” Jaskier said, and he did. 

[pinnithin]

invited home

This started as a “haha funnie gman eat a pizza” fic and turned into a soft little story about family. 3406 words.

Remembering etiquette was, perhaps, the hardest part of this.

The “hardest part of this” changed pretty frequently — often associated with whatever he was dealing with at the time. The week that took Gordon’s hand and very nearly his life was several months behind him, but he still heard the echoes of the Resonance Cascade in little things as the days passed. He heard it in the low hum of the air conditioner in his window and the backfire of a tailpipe outside. He kept the lights on at night and heard the echoes in his sleep.

It would never really go away, he guessed.

The best he could do, dealing with the hardest part of whatever his day brought him, was to simply keep living. A clockwork routine grounded him. He did normal things like buy groceries and hike in the county foothills - sometimes alone, sometimes with Tommy. Black Mesa and all the horrors it held may have broken the two of them, but they were slowly putting the pieces of each other back together.

So it shouldn’t have surprised him when he invited him to dinner with his father, right?

They were... well, they were something. Gordon found it difficult to call Tommy his boyfriend when they’d crash landed straight from acquaintances to partners in Black Mesa. The guy was the only reason Gordon was still alive, and he felt that he’d be repaying that act of kindness for the rest of his days. That sort of unwarranted devotion wasn’t exactly grounds for a normal courtship.

But this is what people did. They bought groceries and went for walks and had dinner with family. Tommy was offering this ritual to Gordon in an attempt to ground him, just like he helped him establish his other routines. It was in his best interest to take it.

The one story adobe in Sandia Heights was far more nondescript than Gordon was expecting, fitted cozily into the neighborhood on a street named Desert Finch Lane. It was evening, and the setting sun washed the walls a soft pink. The front lawn was xeriscaped with a bed of gravel and some strategic placements of yucca and saguaro, and a straight stone path marched right up to the front door. Gordon checked his phone one more time before he exited his vehicle - this house seemed far too normal to belong to someone like Tommy’s father.

No, the address Tommy sent him matched the numbers on the mailbox. Briefly, he glanced over the rest of the conversation as he reached with a free hand to kill the ignition.

T: Only if you want to! I know the last time you spoke was kind of weird... G: its fine it was a weird day haha G: no yeah id love to though G: do i need to bring anything? T: :D T: I guess you can if you want? It’s not going to be fancy or anything - we’ll probably order takeout. T: We just like to get together every month or so to catch up and I wanted to bring you along this time! No pressure. G: oh is this like G: a family thing? T: Well, yeah. Is that okay? G: its great! just checking G: see you then

T: :) T: See you.

A smile touched his mouth. Tommy rarely asked Gordon for anything, so he knew this was important to him even if he downplayed it. Gordon wouldn’t say he was a fan of Tommy’s father, but if Tommy wanted him to smooth things over after the Black Mesa incident, well, he’d try. For him, he’d try.

He didn’t know if Tommy’s father drank, so he passed on the wine, deciding instead that one can never go wrong with garlic bread. His eyes fell to the loaf he’d picked up from Albertson’s on his way over, still warm and wrapped in a foil package in the passenger seat.  He’d done the meet-the-parents dance a few times before - a lifetime ago, it felt - but none of his partners had ever mattered this much to him, and none of their fathers had ever been gods.

Remembering etiquette, he reflected, was the hardest part of this.

He slid out of the car, taking the bread with him, and marched up to the front door. It was painted a bright turquoise with the word Bienvenidos scripted across the middle in white decal letters. This struck him as odd, because Tommy’s father didn’t seem the type to care about suburban design motifs, but he only hesitated a moment before raising a fist to rap his knuckles on the door.

Only a few seconds passed before the door swung open, and relief rolled over Gordon when he saw it was Tommy in the doorway. He was dressed in his usual button up, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he smiled like a sunrise. Gordon grinned back. He didn’t think the rush of affection that overtook him every time he laid eyes on the man would ever really fade. 

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Tommy answered, still smiling. “Come on in.”

He stepped back to allow Gordon entry, and his presence somewhat quelled Gordon’s trepidation as he crossed the threshold into Mr. Coolatta’s house. 

“I hope garlic bread is okay,” he said as Tommy shut the door behind him. His eyes caught the neat line of shoes in the entryway, and he began jimmying his sneakers off. “I wasn’t sure what we were having.”

“It’s perfect,” Tommy answered, turning from the door. He watched Gordon attempting to remove his shoes without the help of his hands with a hint of amusement. “Um, do you want me to take that?” he asked, indicating the bread.

“I’ve got it,” Gordon muttered distractedly, finally kicking off one shoe and then the other. “You didn’t grow up here, did you?”

Tommy watched the sneakers go flying down the hall, a laugh in his eyes, but he didn’t comment. “God, no,” he answered. “Dad downsized a couple years ago.” He paused, flicking a brief look around the room, before adding, “He decorated the place himself.”

Gordon followed Tommy’s gaze. It looked like a house, at a glance. There were throw pillows on the leather couch and an artificial plant rested tastefully on the coffee table. Picture frames and various ornaments adorned the mantle, functionally useless objects stuffed between photos of the Coolatta family through the years. His eyes caught a decorative globe, some pillar candles, and a geometric silver figurine before landing on a sunny portrait of a smiling child - Tommy, he guessed. A wall hanging of colorful overlapping rectangles covered the space next to the south window.

All at once, Gordon felt he was in a place that was trying very hard to be a house, without quite knowing what a house’s qualifying factors were. Aside from the photos, the only clue to the owner’s tastes was the record player against the far wall, crackling out music from a time period Gordon didn’t recognize. Something with a strange time signature and a dreamlike melody. It was possible the song was from an era that had not yet happened.

He looked back to Tommy and found him studying his face. “It’s nice,” he offered summarily.

Tommy laughed quietly through his nose. “I think he just went to the home decor section of Target and picked out some stuff he liked,” he said.

“Oh,” Gordon replied. “Y’know, now that you say it - yeah. Yeah, I can see that.” 

Tommy didn’t exactly look uncomfortable with Gordon’s presence in his father’s house, but he didn’t seem wholly relaxed either. The set of his shoulders betrayed him, as did his hands, which fidgeted at the seams of his pockets before extending to take the bread from him.

“Here, let me - we can put this in the kitchen,” he said, gesturing behind him. 

It was possible that etiquette slipped his mind as frequently as it did Gordon’s, and that made him feel a little better about the whole thing. He should have assumed as much - he and Tommy both used the skeleton of routine to prop themselves up, despite the fact that they found social rules tiresome at best. A necessary framework for people like them. Gordon allowed Tommy to take the package from his arms and followed him down the hall. 

The kitchen was a little more homey, if only for the healthy clutter of appliances on the counter. Two boxes from Dion’s Pizza sat on the island, and seeing them pulled an audible sigh of relief from Gordon.

Tommy noticed. “Yeah, we’re not - we don’t cook a lot around here,” he admitted, sliding the package of garlic bread next to the pizza.

“That makes me feel better about bringing over store bought bread,” Gordon chuckled. “Where’s uh,” he darted a glance around the room, as if the man in question would materialize if he mentioned him aloud. “Where’s your dad at, anyway?”

“Oh, he’s...” Tommy finished his sentence with a vague wave of his hand. “He’ll show up sooner or later.”

He didn’t seem concerned, as if his father disappearing to another time and place arbitrarily was something that happened a lot. It made sense - Tommy was self-sufficient to the point of being an outright loner - and Gordon guessed that Mr. Coolatta’s inhuman qualities probably didn’t lend to a very warm upbringing.

Tommy was watching him, observant as always. “He’s not really a bad person,” he said at length. “He just… he sees things differently.”

“Shit, man,” Gordon laughed and shook his head. “Sometimes I think you can read my mind.”

“Oh, I never told you?” Tommy responded, raising his eyebrows impishly. 

He didn’t seem to want to discuss his father any further, so Gordon laughed at Tommy’s joke and didn’t press it. They fell into a comfortable discussion, standing together in the kitchen and waiting on the third member of their little party. This part Gordon knew how to do - speaking with Tommy always felt like coming home, and while they were still learning things about each other, he never felt any pressure to behave in a way that wasn’t his whole, genuine self. He saw the slope of Tommy’s shoulders slowly relaxing while they talked, and felt himself mirroring him as the minutes ticked by.

Tommy’s father materialized in the time it took for Gordon to blink, one moment absent and the next present. Spooked, Gordon jumped slightly at his appearance, while Tommy uttered an unaffected and congenial, “hey, Dad.”

Mister Coolatta stood under the kitchen lights exactly how Gordon remembered him. His suit was as smooth and clean as his hair,  and he wondered if the man even thought about wearing anything else, much less owned a varied wardrobe. Tommy’s father was, in many ways, like Tommy himself. Tall and neat and watchful. Seeing them side by side, it was easier to envision them as family, and Gordon no longer wondered where Tommy picked up his carefully neutral expression from.

The man in the suit fixed his cool gaze on Gordon. “Mister Freeman,” he said. “It is, hm, good to see you again.”

Gordon extended a hand before he could lose his nerve. This was what people did. And while Tommy’s father may not necessarily be a person, that was no reason for Gordon to deny him the courtesy of a handshake.

“You too, sir,” he answered. “Happy to be here.”

Tommy’s father paused for a moment, studying Gordon’s outstretched hand with interest. “I trust the hand hasn’t been giving you trouble since your little incident?”

“Uh,” Gordon faltered only for a moment. “No. It’s been just fine.”

“Dad,” Tommy intoned quietly, passing a glance between his father and Gordon.

This spurred the man in the suit to recall etiquette, himself, and then Gordon was shaking hands with a god.

It was surprisingly normal, all things considered. His grip wasn’t quite as solid as Gordon expected, though that was less a testament to his grip strength than it was to his short-of-corporeal nature. His skin felt like something that was pretending to be skin, and it was the same temperature as the air around them. But he nodded and looked Gordon in the eye like any other man, so he guessed he’d had worse handshakes before in his life. 

Mr. Coolatta released him and angled his head to his son. “Forgive me for my lateness, I… had to take care of some things on the ah, ‘out-side,’ as it were.”

“It’s fine, Dad,”  Tommy answered, then added, “I picked up the pizza.”

His father’s eyes lit on the boxes, seemingly for the first time. “Dion’s,” he observed. “Excellent choice.”

After a short, awkward silence, Gordon blurted, “should we eat?” and Tommy sighed a grateful “yes,” before nudging his father toward the dining room.

As Gordon took a step to gather the pizzas into his arms, he felt Tommy skate his fingers delicately across the inside of his palm. 

“Thank you,” he murmured in his ear, quiet and just for him.

Gordon wasn’t sure what exactly Tommy was thanking him for, but he caught his hand before he could withdraw and gave a reassuring squeeze. He was warm and solid and alive, and it anchored him.

“We got this,” he told Tommy, smiling.

The dining room was another testament to Mr. Coolatta’s decorating tastes. Gordon was not quite successful in withholding a chuckle when he noticed a Live, Laugh, Love sign on the wall, and this earned him a gentle elbow in the ribs from his partner. Tommy was carrying a set of plates and silverware in one hand and some napkins in another.

When Gordon offered to help set the table, Tommy only shook his head mischievously, and the cutlery leapt from his hands on their own.

Right. He was dating a demigod. This was a detail Gordon often forgot about, if only for the fact that Tommy displayed his power in subtle, quiet ways that went unnoticed. Here, however, he had no such reservations.

This was a Tommy Gordon hadn’t gotten to see yet, and he caught himself staring as he set the table without even touching a plate. He handled himself with an ease he didn’t show out in public, manipulating space with a well-practiced comfort that indicated years of doing it this way. A Coolatta ritual, for Coolattas only. Gordon, an outsider, felt his nervousness slowly melt into gratitude at being invited to the table. He understood now - Tommy didn’t want Gordon here just to smooth things over with his father. He wanted to share his life with him, every jigsawed piece of it. 

Conversation was easier than anticipated. Tommy led the discussion at first, updating his father on his new job at the VLA in Socorro. Working with radios in the quiet desert, listening to the stars, seemed to suit him, and the fondness with which he recalled his nighttime shifts alone was genuine. Gordon tucked into his slice of 505 (pepperoni and green chile) and watched Mr. Coolatta’s facial expression as he absorbed the information.

The man sat perfectly still except to give acknowledging nods here and there, and his pizza remained untouched on his plate. At least, that was Gordon’s first assumption, until he realized the slice was gradually disappearing bite by bite every time he looked away. Mr. Coolatta’s face was impassive as always when Gordon gave him a questioning look, and when Tommy didn’t acknowledge the mystical pizza disappearance, he chose not to say anything about it.

“Mister Freeman,” the man in the suit said after a time, turning his swirling gaze on his guest. “It is my under-standing that you… have a new profession, as well?”

Gordon, figuring he’d picked up the “Mister Freeman” thing  from Tommy, didn’t bother to correct him. “Yeah, I’m teaching physics at NMT,” he answered.

He didn’t think he’d enjoy an academic environment all that much, choosing to teach as a backup while he pursued streaming in the meantime, but he was developing a fondness for it. His students were bright individuals, and some of them were just as weird as he was, which kept his days interesting.

Gordon wasn’t one to discuss his new job at length with anyone. It felt strange, after everything he lived through, to complain about something as trivial as grading papers or writing coursework. But Mr. Coolatta was among a handful of individuals who knew exactly what happened to him during his employment at Black Mesa, so he felt what he said next was entirely understood by everyone at the table.

“It’s a nice change of pace,” he added. “Things are better.”

“Yes,” Tommy’s father answered. “I have… heard the same from Tommy. It is, good to know that the two of you are, hm, recovering well.”

His tone was one step away from apologetic, and Gordon was sure he imagined it, but he was touched by the sentiment nonetheless. Tommy smiled softly down at his plate and didn’t say anything. They were recovering well, weren’t they? Finding a place for themselves. Learning how to be human again.

Gordon wasn’t sure, at first, if it would ever be possible. The Resonance Cascade was the worst thing that ever happened to him, but… Tommy was the best thing that ever happened to him. And even with all the complicated emotions that surrounded the Coolatta family, he was happy to be here. He was happy to see that small, private smile cross Tommy’s face. 

The evening concluded with Gordon and Mr. Coolatta getting into a discussion about whether a hotdog was actually a sandwich, with Tommy joining in as moderator and rewarding imaginary points as they each went over their arguments. They wiped out the pizzas handily between the three of them. When Gordon had to excuse himself to begin the drive back to Socorro, Mr. Coolatta initiated another handshake with him. It was only a little less weird the second time. 

“I’ll walk you out to your car,” Tommy offered.

The setting sun bled a soft orange onto the neighborhood as the two of them left the house. Tommy kept his hands in his pockets, just barely brushing shoulders with Gordon as they went.

“Thank you,” he said again.

“Yeah, thanks for inviting me,” Gordon responded. “It was nice.”

They pulled to a stop next to the station wagon. “Sorry Dad’s so…” Tommy trailed off and shrugged. “Like that,” he finished.

His eyes were down, studying the sidewalk as he scuffed the sole of his shoe on the concrete. His expression was drawn, but Gordon could see from the crinkle of his eyes that he was happy with how the night turned out. 

“Hey,” Gordon said.

Tommy’s eyes flicked up to meet his. His gaze was sharp and watchful, cutting Gordon in a way he found he liked.

“Don’t feel like you need to apologize for your dad,” Gordon said. “He’s cool. And I’m… Like, I’m glad you wanted me there. I had a good time,” he rambled further, “and it’s - I haven’t been to dinner with someone in a long time, and it was just - like it was really nice to just talk about stuff with family like that.”

Tommy’s mouth split into a smile, face flushing slightly as Gordon said the word ‘family.’ “Yeah,” he agreed. “It was nice. This is - we should do this again.”

The fact that there would be a next time sent a rush of emotion into Gordon’s chest. He loved Tommy, loved how trusting he was to invite him to such a private part of his life. Certainly this was difficult for him to do, but he allowed Gordon Freeman, of all people, to cross the threshold and see inside. He was close enough to be considered family. Sheer affection made him dizzy.

Tommy’s smile was infectious, causing Gordon to grin outright. “I’ll see you back home later?” he asked.

“Mm hm,” Tommy nodded. He leaned in, but stopped short when Gordon held up a hand in protest.

“Uh,” he intoned, pointing. “Your dad is totally watching us from the window.”

Tommy glanced over his shoulder and caught the dark visage of his father beyond the glass. He rolled his eyes, still smiling, and gestured with a hand. The curtains snapped shut at his command. “No, he isn’t,” he said.

They kissed on the curb, Gordon laughing softly into Tommy’s mouth. He was home already.

[nobody-knose--archive]

finally got around to listening to sketches 3d today and man! man! oh boy! liveblog under the cut!

-piano. exactly what i was expecting

-vibrato huh

-ayyy that's some. funky percussion

-this is like the fullerenes or something. a song about an Interesting Lady

-and there's that one grainy string synth/sample that andrew uses a lot & also appears in hawaii part ii

-more percussion. this is so cool

-i wasn't expecting this to be quite so minor key

-man if that was courtney on the flute there i think that'd be sick

-sing it andrew!

-i'm already having a more cheery time than i did with nat

-zubin???

-i will absolutely have to review that voice

-wait what the fuck is happening to her

-darling you good?

-anyway. classic andrew horowitz funky out-of-tune synths

-rattle rattle

-more out of tune piano. what song is this

-oh shit!!! this is the song my friends like

-tambourine <3

-you & me? sides of a coin? good & evil?

-so weird hearing all these lyrics i've seen in the song channel sung aloud for real

-andrew is doing some good singing here. he's good at carrying the melody on his own even though i've not heard much of that from him in the past save fate of the stars maybe

-he's always been good at that percussion

-all different types of percussion. tinny little gong like it's the whole world & you acoustic

-tambourine <3 <3

-so incredibly weird knowing what the lyrics are going to be without knowing what the song sounds like. i know how these words go in order but don't know how the melody carries them

-interesting thing about sketches so far. it's very strong & powerful but it doesn't block out the world like other new songs will. i'm not being taken somewhere else it's more like the whole rest of the world is being highlighted

-alright what's next?

-7/4 hummingbird????? or is this 6/4???

-no no no it's 5/4 and doing funky things with the onbeat i love this

-asking questions to a little creature is the best kind of pasttime and i mean that

-man andrew mixed this really well he's just. incredible at that

-he's making each song distnict while also giving sketches a clear theme

-a minor turn. i like that

-now what could this be?

-not lemons & pears yet?

-daisy fingers hell yes

-another song about a lady

-spoke mostly harmony oh you clever man

-thank you andrew for doing more with time signatures than tally hall ever did. first 5/4 and now 6/8

-the combination of very out of tune & rough percussions and incredibly beep bloopy synths is so cool

-conversations with a lady. this feels like a story of andrew visiting another world and being like "might as well write some songs about the fellows and stories round here"

-the whole album, i mean

-i am inspired by you, andrew

-this whole album is everything i could've hoped for and more

-the interesting thing about it is how few questions i find myself asking. i'm just looking at this stuff i have and being like wow! &, cool! not what i usually do with new albums

-divine inspiration bay be

-that's like. the opposite of an 80s fadeout

-oh that is absolutely the little sfx from the beginning of perfect at the end

-wait speaking of at the end

-no this is have a nice day interludinal

-is this a polyrhythm? there's a 4/4 type thing in the background and the foreground is. not on the onbeat i can say that much

-man i am going to have a nice day

-he's a good musician, able to make so much music out of a single interval

-lemons & pears!!!!

-toy orchestra my beloved that's the fuckin toy piano bay be wooooo

-but man oh boy does this sound absolutely different with only a one single guy singing

-ukulele in the bg? toy orchestra <3

-interesting being able to actually hear like. all of the lyrics for real

-some of the little riffs are gone and there are quite a many more

-hello?

-oh okay

-yeah i heard about the fucking gunshots that doesn't mean i was prepared for them

-the chorus sounds so nice i love this

-guest vocals?????????? whomst????????????

-who is this lady i'm so curious is she from the old toy orchestra? that'd be amazing

-breakdown time and it sounds so similar to the toy orchestra one. man

-at the end is. not the end of the album

-i think the thing that's getting me and not prompting as many questions is the fact that like. i hear these songs and hear tally hall songs. andrew's singing & i could hear this on a tally hall album with ease. it's strange

-i think the hi-hat and other little bits in this song, for example, reminds me of ross

-andrew's always tried hard at rock, and percussion is a massive part of that-wait he's scat singing i can finish that thought later i love this

-his songs are also very easy to sing along to without meaning to. first time hearing them and here i go

-anyway percussion is a massive part of rock, andy's always had an affinity for percussion, i think that's what's making me think of tally hall so much, or at least be. comfortably experiencing this in the same way i would a tally hall album

-i can't say the same of hawaii part ii

-if there's anywhere that lists the credits somewhere i'd like to see if ross worked on this at all but. i'm pretty sure he didn't

-where am i-oh shit a crowd

-nowhere else this is a song i think i know nothing about

-all that shit i was saying about rock percussion and now there's a whole entire drumkit going here

-alrighty

-that is not only andrew singing! again! who are you

-.....casey shea?????

-you sound like casey shea sir??????

-you are either casey shea or someone else who sounds like a beatle (affectionate, instead of derogatory)

-good guitar shit

-is that a third voice or does andrew just sound like that?

-madi diaz???

-i'm probably just guessing her because of the rendezvous but. there's gotta be someone more

-a whole lot of love going on here and i do appreciate it

-is it 80's fadeout time now? hell yeah

-oh yes the rainbow connection! a cover and the final song of the album (not counting the bonus tracks, which i will be listening to)

-i think i may have heard this before? or at least the minor rendition

-stylophone?

-humming. classic move

-theremin??

-music box is also cool. i swear i won't just be commentating on the instrumence alright

-what on earth is this sample in the background. steadily getting louder

-man andrew is a great singer. the consistent double vocals/heavy vibrato suits him well

-i will assume these are samples from like. the muppets movie

-does sketches (3d or otherwise) have a pdf like hwptii & nat? i sure hope so because i will enjoy looking at it

-vocalizing again let's a go

-more gong wahoo

-bonus track time <3

-tomorrow & today is a song i know pretty damn well i hope he's more legible now

-mostly the same as the 2011 version but it certainly is updated i can tell. more echo on these beginning lines

-piano is stronger. there may or may not be some added flairs. not a whole lot blatantly changed but i can say. i'll remove the 2011 version and replace it with this one for charlie

-there's a riff in my right ear that i don't remember and i like it

-this bit right here is more legible in general thank god it was incomprehensible originally

-the stomping percussion is Goin places

-and to end the whole song- you know yesterday fueled by a listen of nat i came up with an abundance of thoughts on writing styles in tally hall and especially how andrew's songs go places and what the journey's like and while that essay really won't fit into this liveblog i really enjoy how tomorrow & today has no destination in mind and it's a gradual trip but you never look back

-such strong g&e vibes

-misfortune bay be! time to replace the other misfortune charlie has with this

-sheet music???? jenny where did you find this? [referring to the image used in the video she uploaded i listened to] also this is still not the whole song i know the original misfortune wasn't but it feels strange to start this far into the song

-chords my beloved i could fucking play this song i'm so hyped about that

-toy orchestra solid soda real <3

-the one and only studio recording toy orchestra did. this is some of the best evidence for steve gallagher's voice we have

-also the audio is higher quality than the yt upload i think

-oh a casio organ not a real organ. okay i can't complain

-i like the sound of the piano at least. also this is horrendously gorey i like it

-andrew horowitz horror writer extraordinaire

-these sound like the sorts of drum synths my electric organ has

-i actually can't tell if that one's a guest vocal or andrew just being a very very good singer

-this sounds like some sort of recording you'd take of your kid's music school performance

-oh it's over

-fuck that was good

[chironshorseass]

melted ice cream sandwiches

Thanks, @silenabeth​, for subconsciously adding your presence into this jksdhoisfjs. This one’s for you. Sorry it’s angsty, but oh well.

In which Percy and Annabeth have an argument, Connor Still chops off Annabeth's braid with a sword, and then she and Percy have a talk. It doesn't nearly go as planned, but at least they ate some ice cream sandwiches.

Rated T for language.

Read on ao3

(The Hero's soul, cursed blade shall reap)

A baby is born

Crying out for attention

The memories fade

Like looking through a fogged mirror

Decision to decisions are made

And not bought

But I thought this wouldn't hurt a lot

I guess not

“I’m your friend, of course I care!”

“You shouldn’t be my friend! That way it wouldn’t hurt so much!” Annabeth says.

It had started off as a simple comment, nothing too serious. Something about Annabeth not wanting him to help with reports—but Percy’s beginning to realize that anything can explode into an argument.

“What are you talking about?” he demands. Luckily, they’re near the woods, so at least no demigod can hear them. Not like last time.

“Just—I’m tired of you going away! You can’t have it both ways, Percy. Either you’re not my friend and forget about all this shit, or you stay here and fight him.”

“Why can’t I have it both ways? Last time I checked, I’ve spent enough time at camp to train. And why are you suddenly all gloomy and shit about being friends with me? Do you just...want me to be Luke? Make you feel better? Do you even give a shit about what he did?”

Her face reddens. “Why would any of this be about Luke?”  

“Because that’s all we fight about! You seem to have it in yourself to see him as this amazing hero when he’s the entire opposite of that!” Percy knows that what he’s saying is slightly ridiculous, and that she’s right; this has nothing to do about Luke, but he doesn’t particularly care at the moment. “Because the last prophecy was about him! You ‘lost’ the bastard to Kronos and you want him back, is that it?”

“What? Yes, I want him back—but, no, I—”

“He’s hurt you so much, Annabeth. You seriously care for him? You seriously don’t want to be my friend because you—you hate that I hate him?”

“Yes, I care for him! You didn’t know him when I did—but you mean so much—”

“He wanted to kill you!” Percy grabs her by the shoulders so they’re face to face, so she understands exactly what he’s talking about. “He doesn’t fucking care! Why can’t you see that?”

“All I see,” Annabeth seethes, shoving him off, “is a scared little boy who wants everything to be black and white.”

“You’re one to talk, telling me that I have to either stay in New York or stay at camp. I’m trying to make that work—”

“Work how, exactly? So that everyone here takes on the weight of the war while you go off and act all ‘normal’? Here’s a quick disclaimer: you’re not normal, Percy!”

“Don’t you think I know that? I’m this close to probably dying, so forgive me for wanting to cool off a bit.”

They’re nose to nose now, and Percy can feel Annabeth breathing heavily, nostrils flared.

“Shut up,” she says.

“What?”

“Just, shut up!”  

She storms away before he can say anything else. The early singing of the birds doesn't sound so sweet anymore.

He can see her wipe at her face angrily as she runs to gods know where. He knows that she won’t let him see her cry.

:

He’s in the archery class, trying not to kill anyone, when he hears commotion by the arena.

“No! I’m fine!” a familiar voice keeps insisting—Annabeth.

She stomps past a very concerned-looking Connor. Her hair is pulled into two braids, as it was earlier in the morning. She’d been experimenting with different hairstyles—it probably had something to do with Silena’s influence—but now, Percy realizes that one of her braids is missing. It had been cut off, by the looks of it.

He lowers his bow, walking over to them. Something had happened, and it hadn’t been good.

“I’m so sorry, ‘Beth,” Connor says, this time truly sounding sorry. “I didn’t know that you wouldn’t block me—if there’s any way to repay you—“

She stops her fast-walking and turns towards him. “You’ve done enough.”

“Okay but I—”

“Hey!” Percy calls out as he approaches them. “What happened?” Annabeth suddenly starts walking again.

Connor stares at him sheepishly. “I sort of, um, cut her hair.”

Percy ignores him. “Annabeth? Come on! Don’t walk away—I’m asking you something!”

“And I don’t care to answer.”

“Can I help? In any way?”

“I don’t need your help, either.”

He sprints over to her anyway, grabbing one of her shoulders. “Come on, why—”

She shoulders him off.

Percy hears the steady footsteps of someone right behind them: Connor.

“Annabeth. Please,” he pants, running ahead and facing her. He walks backwards while she walks forward, a mule with a job in mind. “I’m so sorry. But where are we going?”

“‘We?’” she mutters, not looking at either of them. “None of your fucking business, assholes. Now leave me alone!"

Annabeth shoves them out of her path and runs. Runs before either of them can catch up. She’s always been faster than both of them.

What hits him there in the middle of a summer day, staggered with only a son of Hermes as a companion, is the pain he heard in her voice. And Percy has a feeling that it’s more than just her missing braid.

No, he is the cause of that pain—he’s the one to blame. And he feels like dying a little.

:

He sits by the canoe lake, the sun reaching further west because of the time. But even with the sun not directly above him, it still feels like laser beams down his neck.

Silena meets him there. Her camp shirt is tucked into her shorts in a stylish way that very few people can achieve, hair perfectly in place and without even a slight sheen of sweat on her face

Percy doesn’t know how she does it. It’s the middle of July, after all.

She sits down, pulling her legs into her chest and leaning in, watching him.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

She sighs, though it’s barely noticeable. “I came to talk to you. About Annabeth.”

He catches her gaze, but for the first time, Percy can’t tell what she’s thinking.

“She’s fine. If that’s what’s worrying you. Well, not exactly ‘fine,’ but—like, she’s not hurt. Physically.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Silena snorts and follows his eyes towards the swaying trees on the other side of the lake. They look so peaceful there, almost as if they’re dancing. Maybe they are. Maybe they don’t care about wars or drama.

Good for them.

“No,” she muses. “I guess she’s hurting, and not just because I had to cut so much of her pretty hair. Almost made me want to cry. She didn’t say much, but I can always tell when you two had a fight.”

“If you’re here to lecture me—”

“Oh, come on. I may be close to her, but I’m not the type to meddle. I just came here to tell you that you should talk to her.”

“Then you are meddling.”

She laughs. “Okay, maybe I am. And maybe I also talked to her about it. She’s not that mad at you. Mostly sad. It would do you both good if you actually worked things out.”

“Trust me, she hates me at the moment.”

“And trust me, she doesn’t. She wants you to go to her.”

They stare at each other, both gazes challenging, until one of them loses.

Percy breathes out a sigh of defeat. “Fine.”

Girls are so weird, he thinks.

But maybe he says that part aloud, because Silena rolls her eyes. “I heard that.”

“Of course you did.”

She winks at him. “Maybe you should give her an ice cream sandwich. You know, as a truce. I heard that the Hermes cabin stashed some from their last raid.”

“Um, I thought Annabeth wanted to talk to me. Why would we need a truce?”

“Oh, she certainly does. But ice cream never hurt anyone.”

“Fine. Whatever you say.”

“That’s the spirit,” she grins.

:

Percy finds her at the beach, in the part where grass is more common than sand. It’s dry and brittle, yellowed from scarce rain—but next to her it looks like golden thread.

Her hair is cut just above her shoulders, like a bob. He’d never seen her with short hair before, but he thinks that it makes her look older, in a way. Changes from that pretty girl he’d met nearly four years ago to a beautiful young woman. At least that’s what she’s making him feel.

Gods, she’s too good for me.

Percy takes a deep breath and clears his throat. Hopefully this can end well, because just by looking at her makes him nervous.

Annabeth had probably heard him coming, since she doesn’t startle at the sound.

That could be a good sign.

“Mind if I join you?”

She says nothing, but she also doesn’t protest when Percy sits down next to her.

“Uh…” He takes out the ice cream sandwiches that were in his pocket. “Do you, like, want any?”

She nearly smiles. Nearly. And she nods hesitantly, snatching one from his hand.

Good.

He doesn’t care that she still can’t meet his eyes. Or maybe he does care. And maybe he also cares that the space between them feels like the wind holding its breath, how her skin looks so warm, but instead of feeling it, he feels the grass tickling his legs.

“Um, it—you look pretty, that way…” he says, mainly to break the silence, but now he wants to slap himself. “Not that your hair wasn’t pretty before or anything. Well, not your hair, I mean—you were pretty before. Uh, not that you’re not pretty now—”

“It’s okay, Seaweed Brain. I get it. My haircut isn’t that bad.”

He can see her smiling from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t remember the last time she called him by his old nickname, least of all smile. Hopefully he isn’t blushing as much as he thinks.

“Silena helped. Before, it looked like half of my hair had been chopped with a sword—which it had, I guess. I’m still planning my revenge.”

“For Connor?”

Annabeth turns to Percy. “Yes. Connor… ” her gaze falters. She stares longingly out at the ocean, eyes blinking rapidly.

They don’t say much for a while, but rather listen to the song of the birds and the wind and the ocean. The grass between them flutter like butterflies, slight touches against their legs.

Annabeth rips the plastic off the ice cream sandwich and takes a big bite. He slips off the package of his own sandwich as well, but stops to notice how the vanilla melts under her fingers and how it oozes from her mouth and down to her chin. His own hands are covered in the soft feeling of the chocolate cookie, sticky and gross; his sandwich is almost melted in the harsh sunlight. He doesn’t wipe his hands away or feel like eating it anymore, and she doesn’t care to clean her chin up, either.

They’re both a mess.

The vanilla ice cream softens in his mouth, and an explosion of chocolate sweetness ensues after, but not before a big portion of the sandwich falls into his shorts and slips into the dry grass between his legs.

He hates ice cream sandwiches.

Why it was a good idea to share some in Long Island, during the warm days of summer, he has no idea. But the spray of salt that kiss their cheeks alongside the cacophonous roar of the waves make the situation not that horrible. At least in Percy’s opinion. Also Annabeth not mad at him anymore is a plus. Or perhaps she is. Their fight earlier in the day wasn’t exactly pretty.

She finishes her sandwich and licks some of the chocolate off her fingers.

“I just,” she says, taking a deep breath. “I’m tired. Of the same thing. Over and over. It’s not even Connor’s fault. Hell, this time it’s not your fault, either. I’m just...stupid.”

“Hey. Don’t ever say that. You are many things, Annabeth Chase, but stupid isn’t one of them.”

She must feel his heated gaze on her, because she meets his eyes. She quickly wipes away her tears.

“Maybe I wasn’t before. But now, I kind of am. I—I get carried away by you and how you’re never here, and I don’t even think about how close we are to the end, and then I can’t even fight well anymore—so Connor fucking Stoll cuts off one of my braids.

“And then I look weird and I can’t even cut my hair properly, so Silena helps and she looks at me like I’m...like I’m some poor creature! And I’m not! I just want things the way they were with my hair the way it was and with no wars and no prophecies and no shitty feelings and no...no traitors! I don’t care about quests, or glory—I can’t even fucking do that right because you almost died and Luke is now freaking possessed—and I...I want everything back the way it was!” she sobs into her hands, smearing her face with the remaining ice cream and chocolate.

Percy doesn’t know what to do. He wants to hug her, pull her close and tell her it’ll be alright. Kiss the top of her head and reassure her that they’ll make it out alive. But he doesn’t. Or at least, he doesn’t say any of those things.

But he does scoot closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and placing her head against the crook of his neck. He lets her weep until there are no tears left, lets her wrap her own arms around his neck. That way, they can hold each other properly.

“I’m sorry,” he says after her breathing has calmed down. Her short hair feels like silk against his hands.

“What are you sorry for? You’re the one that will...who will…” She hiccuped. “Gods, you don’t even know, and, and everything is supposed to be fine anyway!”

“What do I not know? You can tell me, ‘Beth. I’m your best friend.”

She shakes her head, mouth tightly closed, but soon her face contorts into another sob, and her hand comes up to her mouth to cover it. He holds her closer to his chest, not caring about how much ice cream has been smeared in the process.

“No, no,” she cries. “I—I can’t say. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

After a few minutes, her tears run warm and her breathing relaxes once again. The waves calm to the soothing sounds of water meeting shore. He obviously had a hand in that. But everything stops to a halt, and it comes down to Percy and Annabeth, holding each other. Just like in Siren Bay, only now things aren’t so simple. They know more than they should.

“If anyone should be sorry,” she whispers against his shirt, “it’s me.”

His hand tightens against her shoulders, but he doesn’t protest. It’s no use to try and contradict her right now.

Slowly, her arms loosen their hold on him and she sits down like she was before, but now she’s significantly closer to Percy, hips touching.

Annabeth breathes deeply, staring at her hands. They’re a mess of ice cream and grass; she wipes them away with her shirt. Then, she tries to do the same with her face.

“Here, I uh…brought some napkins.”  He fishes around in his pockets until they come up, offering some to her.

She grabs a handful. “Thanks.”

He looks at her while she works, until finally he says, “None of that is your fault.”

Her hands stop moving. She closes her eyes.

“But it is.” Percy almost doesn’t hear her. Almost lets the roaring winds drown her down, under the waves. A whisper amidst the sound of thunder.

Of course, he does hear.

“Why would all of this crap be your fault?”

“Because I couldn’t convince Luke to stay at camp. I had my chance, and I didn’t take it. Because I almost let you die.”

“First of all, you could never have changed Luke. I know you hate me saying it, but he’d already made his decision. And...well, I made my decision as well.”

“Like how you’ll make your decision to go to New York? During the summer?” Her voice isn’t accusing or angry, but desperate and soft.

“No, I won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah I do. I won’t visit New York in a while, if...that’s what you want.”

“Of course it’s what I fucking want!”

He silently cringes at that. Wrong thing to say.

She sniffles the last of her tears and glares at him, eyes red.

“You’ll leave me anyway, sooner or later. Everyone leaves, and—and you’re no exception, Perseus Jackson. You hear me? You are not the exception!” As she says every word, she rips out the grass stems around her; they make popping sounds as the roots come off the ground. Her lips tremble and her eyes shine with fresh tears, but she doesn’t stop.

“Fuck, I don’t care if you go out to that wonderful city of yours with your pretty girlfriend to forget about your problems. That’s great—I wish I could do that. But your problems are very much real, and the people here are counting on you. Has it ever crossed your mind that they miss you? That I miss you? Why is staying here for a bit longer so bad?”

Something in Annabeth’s tone makes Percy feel like he’s stepping on a floor filled with broken glass.

“I—”

“No,” she shakes her head. “I’m sorry. It’s—you’re not the problem. I don’t want to argue anymore. I just want to...spend more time with you.” She takes a rattling breath and looks at him directly in the eye once again. Her face is a wet sheen of tears, despite wiping them off with a napkin earlier. “All I meant to say is that we don't…” her train of thought stops; she stares at her hands. “We don’t have forever. And maybe you don’t think that you’ll leave me, but you don’t know that.”

“No one has forever. Unless you’re a god.”

She laughs bitterly. “That’s my point. If we don’t have forever, then why won’t you stay here? With us? Spend what little we have together.”

“Okay.”

She glances at him, stunned. “Okay? Just like that?”

“Yeah, why not? We’re at a summer camp. I’m supposed to enjoy things. Not leave. I’m...sorry about that.”

“No, I,” she sighs, “I get why you’ve been leaving. But, yeah, it would be nice if you could stay.”

“That’s what I’m planning to do,” he gins, content that for the first time in a while, he’s made Annabeth happy.

“Thanks for the ice cream sandwich, by the way.” She smiles, and some could say that it’s a weak attempt to seem grateful or content, but Percy knows that it’s genuine.

“Yeah. No problem.”

:

That night, Percy lets Sally know that he won’t be coming home in a while. For now, he is home. And Annabeth is his best friend, and so is Grover. And he can count on Beckendorf and Travis and Connor. They’re part of who he is, he realizes. And camp feels like belonging and the warmth of a thousand fires and a thousand starry nights.

But the missions and war preparations begin again.

And they both end up fighting. Nothing Percy says to Annabeth is right. Being without her hurts, but staying hurts even more.

He leaves the next morning.

Maybe after the summer is over, they can confront the feelings they have. Maybe they can fix whatever is broken between them when the war ends, and if they’re ready, be more than just friends. Maybe he’ll never have the courage to tell her that. Or maybe he’ll die. Maybe Kronos will win.

As Percy trudges up Half-Blood Hill, he feels someone watching him. He turns around, and there she is, her arms crossed and golden hair loose; it still hasn’t grown enough for her to put it in a ponytail. He can’t make out the look on Annabeth’s face, but he waves at her awkwardly all the same.

She doesn’t wave back.

When he sees Peleus’ smoke coming from Thalia’s tree, he looks back again. But she’s gone.

He hates ice cream sandwiches, but he hates his life more.

[hermannsthumb]

Idk if you doing requests or not rn buut, feriowind has been posting a bunch of vampire!Hermann and I needs some modern vampire Hermann and professor Newt...

uwu ily

SO I feel like I should open by saying a WIP fic with this concept by @coloredpencilroses exists and I Love it, so read High Stakes for something much better than this lol (and leave a nice comment). HAPPY OCTOBER!!!! warning for very mildly implied sexy stuff. EDIT: and of COURSE I forgot to tag @theloccent for my extremely belated fill for the “Vampire” square on my bingo card :/

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

Newt has always been an extremely persistent type. He considers it, naturally, one his greatest strengths—no theory goes untested, no question goes unanswered, no experiment goes…well, unexperimented. You don’t get more PhDs than you can count on one hand if you’re not persistent. You don’t get a date with the hot new engineering professor down the hall if you’re not persistent, either, but Newt is finding this venture is taking a little more effort than usual. That’s fine, though. He likes challenges.

Dr. Gottlieb was hired by the university at the start of the semester, after the head of the engineering department—who’s nearing her seventies—finally decided she’d had enough and announced her retirement somewhat last minute. He is, frankly, unlike anyone Newt’s ever seen before, a weird combination of cheekbones, wide lips, and a turn-of-the-century old-fashioned air that carries over into everything from his wardrobe to the stiff way he carries himself. He wouldn’t look out of place in a black and white photograph, Newt thinks. Or maybe even the illustrations of a Dickens novel. That’s not why Newt’s into him, though—well, not the only reason why.

In the entire month and a half Gottlieb’s been here, he hasn’t spoken a single word to anyone his contract doesn’t require him to; when he is forced into conversation, he scowls and snaps and mumbles his way through before making a polite excuse as to why he needs to leave the room right now, immediately. No one knows anything about him other than the bare minimum—that his name is Dr. Gottlieb, he lectures in engineering, and he exists. Shit, Newt doesn’t even know his first name. The little plaque outside his office just says Gottlieb.

The mystery just makes Gottlieb all the more alluring to Newt.

Anyway, his continued failures in winning Gottlieb over aren’t a result of a lack of trying. On Gottlieb’s first day, Newt stopped by his office to introduce himself. He didn’t bother knocking. Maybe that was his first mistake. “I’m Newt,” he said. “My office is a few doors down from you. You’re the new department head?”

Gottlieb looked stricken, but he nodded. “Yes,” he said. He didn’t say anything else.

“Cool,” Newt said. “Anyway, I’m technically in the bio department, but I teach a few interdisciplinary courses with engineering, so I requested they stick me over here to get a bigger office.” He cracked a grin. “I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“Hm,” Gottlieb said.

Newt tried again the next day.

“Your office is so dark,” he said, conversationally, because it was—lights all off, books stacked up everywhere, maroon drapes drawn tightly in front of the single small window. Dark and stuffy. “Feel free to stop by my office whenever you want a break from it. I have a corner one, so I have two windows.”

“I requested this office,” Gottlieb said, not looking up the article he was marking up.

Newt became desperate by his third attempt and did something that’s left him burning with shame even now, weeks later, and that would probably warrant the immediate transfers of sleep-deprived engineering majors out of all his courses if word ever got out it was him: he deliberately broke the department coffee machine. “Man, I can’t believe that thing is busted again,” he declared to Gottlieb. “Good thing I have a Keurig in my office.” Newt had gone out and purchased a Keurig immediately before destroying the coffee pot. “Seriously, come by whenever you need caffeine.”

Gottlieb blinked at him, long and slow, and Newt had the strangest sense that he knew exactly what happened to the coffee pot. “I never drink… coffee,” Gottlieb finally said.

For all Newt’s troubles, the list of things he knows about Gottlieb has expanded by two pitiful points: that his accent is English and posh, and his voice is low and sexy. Helpful.

It’s a chilly day in late October when Newt finally decides to enlist the aid of his interdisciplinary undergrads. Some of them—he learned after poking around their registration records—have a seminar with Gottlieb, and they seem his best bet at learning anything. A spouse—a first name—Newt would take Gottlieb’s favorite color, even. “So,” he starts class, unwinding his scarf off his neck, “that Dr. Gottlieb sure is weird, huh?”

In Newt’s firsthand experience, undergrads love to gossip about their professors, and his certainly don’t disappoint. Gottlieb’s classes are all held in the basement of the engineering building. All run well into the evening, after the sun’s set—most not finished until nine—and Gottlieb hustles out of the lecture hall the moment he can. He walks with a cane and a slight limp. He always dresses like that. He’s never mentioned any sort of family, and wears no wedding ring. He’s scary good at math. No one knows his first name.

“You’ve been an invaluable help,” Newt tells them all seriously.

He mulls the new information over in his office later as he grades some tests. So Gottlieb is a bit of shy, reclusive, genius. No surprise there. Well, his apparent hatred of sunlight is kind of weird (if unsurprising, given how pale he is) but maybe he just has sensitive eyes or something. Who is Newt to judge? At least he knows how to improve his next plan of attack—he just has to ask the guy to come over and sit in a dark room in silence with him. That’s probably Gottlieb’s dream date, actually.

There’s a knock on Newt’s office door. Newt looks up and drops his pen: it’s Gottlieb.

“Uh. Hey, dude!” he squeaks, unsure of how to proceed in this entirely unfamiliar territory. Gottlieb, willingly interacting with him? Willingly leaving his office? “Is there…can I help you with something? Did you want that coffee after all?”

“Most definitely not,” Gottlieb says coolly. He’s standing far enough back from the door that not a single sliver of lamp light from Newt’s office hits him, instead shrouded by the shadows of the dark engineering department. Newt didn’t realize how late it had gotten. “My students informed me that you were interrogating them about me.”

It’s not a question. Newt is struck by a wave of nervousness that he doesn’t quite understand—maybe it’s the sour expression Gottlieb is giving him, something in those dark brown eyes that are piercing through Newt. He feels, foolishly and briefly, like cowering under his desk. He swallows. “Yes,” he says, and adds, stammering, “I mean—I wasn’t interrogating them. I was just asking a few questions.”

“Why?” Gottlieb says.

“Uh,” Newt says. “I guess I was…curious, about you?”

He works up the guts to look Gottlieb in the eyes; he sees Gottlieb’s eyebrows jump the tiniest fraction of an inch. “You’re attracted to me,” Gottlieb says, another non-question, though Newt hears a flicker of surprise.

“Yeah,” Newt admits.

“I see,” Gottlieb says. Then, to Newt’s surprise, he suddenly smiles. “I’d like if you invited me over for dinner, Dr. Geiszler.”

“Dinner,” Newt says. He feels strangely dizzy; but, shaking himself, he quickly gets over it. “I mean, dinner! Yes! Shit! When?”

“Tonight, I should think,” Hermann says.

Tonight is Friday, which means they don’t have work tomorrow. By the time they make it off campus it’ll be almost ten—way later than people eat dinner—and besides, Newt already had a sandwich at around seven. Is dinner a euphemism? Is Gottlieb propositioning him? God, why didn’t he wash his sheets with the laundry this week? “Tonight,” Newt says. He stands up abruptly and grabs his leather jacket with trembling fingers. Why is he trembling? Nerves, he guesses. He’s about to hook up with total hottie Dr. Gottlieb, he’s allowed to be nervous. “Fuck yes. Let’s go now.”

Gottlieb is not impressed with the messy state of Newt’s apartment, and even less impressed with the state of Newt’s refrigerator and freezer. “Dinosaur chicken nuggets and canned Lime-A-Ritas,” he says with a sniff. “Hm. You ought to be getting more vitamins, Dr. Geiszler. I’m certain you’re deficient in something.”

“You sound like my dad,” Newt snorts. He throws his car keys on the counter and shrugs off his jacket. “There’s some leftover Chinese on the second shelf if you want it—just some lo mein. Or I could put a frozen pizza in the oven. Or I guess we could order something too?”

Gottlieb shuts the fridge door delicately. “How kind of you to offer,” he says. He doesn’t sound like he means it. Newt is suddenly struck by how bizarre a sight he is in the midst of Newt’s chaotic kitchen: buttoned up to the throat with his stupid shirt and blazer, prodding at the fraying lime lizard-shaped rug by the sink with the end of his ornately-handled cane. Out of time and out of place. 

“It’s Newt,” Newt says. “Please don’t call me Dr. Geiszler, it makes me feel ancient.”

“Hm,” Gottlieb says.

“And what,” Newt says, deciding to test his luck a little, “uh—what should I call you?”

Gottlieb considers him. “Hermann,” he says.

The name rings a bell in the back of Newt’s head. He swears he’s heard it somewhere before—an article, maybe. A book. Has he stumbled across Dr. Gottlieb’s research before without even realizing it? He’s on the verge of asking what publications Gottlieb’s been featured in when Gottlieb suddenly snags hold of his hand; then, raising it to his mouth, he kisses it. His lips are as cold as his skin. “Would you like to show me to your quarters, Newton?” he murmurs.

Newt shivers; he nods.

“Hermann Gottlieb,” Newt says aloud later, while Hermann redresses himself. “Now I know where I’ve heard that name before.”

“Yes?” Hermann says. He’s lacing up one of his Oxfords.

“I worked with his research in one of my dissertations,” Newt says. “Another Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, I mean. He was a brilliant mathematician from—God, 1830-something. German. His work was groundbreaking for the time, or shit, for our time, too.” He remembers seeing a portrait of that Hermann Gottlieb in one of his sources; the whole of the similarities between him and Newt’s Hermann Gottlieb (the dark eyes, the mouth, the cheekbones) are a little too much to be entirely coincidental. “You must be related to him, right? Like, he’s your great-great-great—”

“Yes,” Hermann cuts him off quickly. He turns to Newt and smiles. “A distant ancestor, certainly. I believe you are the first in some time to have made that connection.”

“Always thought he was cool,” Newt yawns. “Man, I’m tired.” The romp with Hermann had been fun, if not unexpectedly exhausting, and a little…out of the ordinary. The dude apparently has some sort of weird biting kink that left Newt’s neck stinging a little bit, but it’s cool, Newt doesn’t mind. It was like boning a vampire or something. Kinda hot. “Do you need me to show you to the door, or can I just stay here? I’m serious about spending the night though. I really don’t mind.”

Hermann fiddles with the laces of his other shoe, then, slowly, draws the whole thing back off. “If it’s not an imposition,” he says, and smiles again, shyly. “Though, I warn you—I’m a bit of a late sleeper.”

“Good, so I am,” Newt says. “Could you toss me the sweatshirt hanging on that chair? You can grab one for yourself too, if you’re cold, I’ve got another hanging in the closet. No, not--yeah, that door.”

They dip under the covers and get cozy, Newt taking on the task of big spoon, because Hermann is a cold sonofabitch and could use a little insulation. The last thought on his mind before he drifts off to a comfortable sleep is how strange it is he can’t feel Hermann’s heartbeat—though, he realizes, it’s probably just muffled by their clothing.

[beeblackburn]

The First Law for the fandom ask! 😁

The first character I ever fell in love with: In hindsight, Logen Ninefingers, given how much he eviscerates his character trope so completely even then, but in the immediate, at the time, sense? The moment Sand dan Glokta first complained about the steps, my heart was gripped and it took awhile.

A character that I used to love/like, but now do not: On a personal level, too many to count, everyone’s either such a piece of shit or were written sympathetically enough before Abercrombie knocked the pedestal off them in this series. That being said, Sand dan Glokta. I still really like him, partly thanks to The Trouble with Peace and one hell of a choice scene, but after what he did near the end of Last Argument of Kings, and revising the series, I can’t help, but realize what I liked about him was the potential that he’d grow a heart and stop doing awful things, and him doubling down at the end was disappointing, if not surprising.

A ship that I used to love/like, but now do not: Jezal/Ardee. It was cute when I first read it, and I generally think Jezal had enough strength of character to try to do right by her, if the kingmaking business hadn’t been a thing, but I think it’s super telling that, upon being king, he thought about making her his mistress instead of realizing that wouldn’t have placated Ardee and she’d be bitter about the broken promise. In the end, they never fully knew each other, Jezal never knew the full extent of Ardee’s past, and what attracted them to each other was the dream of something better rather than anything substantial. I pity them, but they absolutely wouldn’t have worked out like Glokta/Ardee ended up doing.

My ultimate favorite character™: Logen “The Bloody-Nine” Ninefingers. But Black Calder and Crown Prince Orso are really close behind and they could easily climb overhead Logen with The Wisdom of Crowds. I’m expecting it with Crown Prince Orso, depending on how his character goes.

Prettiest character: Probably Crown Prince Orso? I know Leo dan Brock, Jappo mon Rogont Murcatto, and Stour Nightfall (though Jappo and Stour’s more my type) are objectively more handsome, but I like a little pudge in my handsome boys and Orso’s got that while having a prettier personality.

My most hated character: Collem West, easily, but I think Malacus Quai could've been better, character-wise.

My OTP: Everyone/Therapy. Seriously, Shy/Temple. Abercrombie can write some really sweet couples for such a self-professed cynic, given Calder/Seff, Bethod/Ursi, and Shenkt/Vitari.

My NOTP: Bayaz/Power. Seriously, Shev/Carcolf. Shev, please stop going after someone you know is toxic. Walk away and close that door forever. You deserve so much better, you gay babe.

Favorite episode: Red Country or The Heroes. 

Red Country has such a somber tone of bittersweet past and longing for redemption that I just ate up and broke my heart against. Lamb, Temple, Cosca, Shivers, Shy and the Felllowship, so many people want to do better from their pasts like in his past books but this time, maybe, just maybe, Abercrombie lets some of them win against their inner demons. It’s such a haunting book, men with the ghosts of their pasts hanging around them and the inevitability of changing times creeping onto them as they trek the Near and Far Country.

The Heroes is basically a typical cookie-cutter war story except it’s Abercrombie writing it. The entire Northern subplot of The First Law distilled into a narratively and thematically tight book, with some tremendously strong supporting characters, some of my favorite POVs (PRINCE CALDER! FINREE DAN BROCK! BREMER DAN GORST!) and carrying some of my favorite scenes of the entire series! It’s such a treat and I’ve loved each and all of my five rereads. This book puts all other war stories to shame for not even coming close.

Saddest death: Count Foscar (Monza relating him to the boy Benna was, laughing in the wheat, breaks me every time). Antaup (how dare you take a chapter to establish how heartbreaking a cock-blocker’s death would be, Abercrombie!), Tul Duru Thunderhead and Scale Ironhand. Oh, those hurt. Those hurt so much. And, despite how much of a shithead he was, Nicomo Cosca’s death hit me surprisingly hard. Sad and pathetic and broken.

Favorite season: Tricky. Because The Great Leveller and The Age of Madness have my favorite books in the entire series and the former’s got The Heroes and Red Country... but it’s also got Best Served Cold, which was I admittedly colder (heh) on. I’ll take the bullet that it’s a me problem and it’s still a fundamentally well-written book. The latter’s got A Little Hatred, which was a far better The Blade Itself in some ways, and, especially The Trouble with Peace, which was a roller-goddamn-coaster of a book with absolutely some of my favorite material by far. I’d say The Great Leveller for now, but I’m holding my breath on The Age of Madness usurping The Great Leveller in the end, given The Wisdom of Crowds sounds like it’s getting into all the revolutionary and freaky stuff I love about the trilogy, a relentless inferno for society and the soul.

Least favorite season: Look, I love every book in the Circle of the World, but The First Law was the result of Abercrombie stretching his legs for the first time, writing-wise, and it shows. Logen’s wife and children never fully breathe as a necessary part of him and his early magic shows growing pains in Abercrombie’s writing, West’s material isn’t as incisive a character deconstruction as it could’ve been (dude should’ve been more insidiously a piece of shit in his mind to subvert his “good commoner” trope), Dogman’s only gets by himself particularly interesting at the leg end of Last Argument of Kings, and Craw does his character better I’d say, Cathil and Ferro were underwritten (though I think Ferro’s got interesting stuff in her POV), and everything to do with Terez. Just. That. Ugh. The writing bones are solid and the main trio, Logen, Glokta, and Jezal, are all wonderful POVs, but I think it’s safe to say The First Law is Abercrombie’s freshmen writing, compared to his more affecting material in The Great Leveller and The Age of Madness.

Character that everyone else in the fandom loves, but i hate: ... Shivers? I do love him in The Heroes, Red Country, and The Age of Madness, but it always drives me a little crazy how much Shivers’ worsening moral decline is linked to Monza fucking Rogont and not him instead, making him out to be an entitled hyper-jealous asshole, and I ended up being disgusted by him. Add in the fact that he knew what he was getting into when he took a violent job and kept going, despite at least two targets, and kept caving into Monza’s higher payments, Shivers was always a piece of shit in his own right. He fell, he wasn’t pushed by Monza. I like enough of Shivers’ Best Served Cold material, but I just like his later material far more, even if I respect his earlier journey.

That being said, if he sacrifices himself for Rikke’s life in The Wisdom of Crowds, I’m going to rescind all this, because that’s the sort of perfect grace note to the anti-Logen and paaaaaaaaaaaaain. So let’s just go with Threetrees because, by god, he’s a relative snooze compared to the other “straight edges” of the series.

My ‘you’re piece of trash, but you’re still a fave’ fave: This could define almost anyone in this series, frankly. I guess Logen or Gorst? I really love their material, but they both definitely belong in a landfill.

My ‘beautiful cinnamon roll who deserves better than this’ fave: Can it be anyone but Crown Prince Orso? Dude’s the only one in this world who thinks “there’s a moral question” to rulership aloud to another and isn’t homophobic, racist, or sexist (looking at you, Leo). Even Calder’s got murdering Forley and Reachey in his dark deeds and Temple’s spent years helping Cosca, which... shudders.

My ‘this ship is wrong, nasty, and makes me want to cleanse my soul, but i still love it’ ship: Monza/Shivers. It’s got some good material and I really hope they can make peace in The Wisdom of Crowds, but also *waves hands* everything else about them, honestly. God, they really did both suck to each other.

Also, Leo/Stour. It’s so wrong, yet so right. I don’t even know if it’d be hate-fucking if they got together at this point, but these two morrions deserve each other.

My ‘they’re kind of cute, and i lowkey ship them, but i’m not too invested’ ship: Jurand/Glaward, Rikke/Orso, and Cas/Vick? They’re pretty cute and could easily give each other some happiness, I feel.