#just because it’s not the way you envision them doesn’t make it a fucking personal violation TO YOU

[grooviestsadpapaya]

What is wrong with people? Literally why are we deciding to harass creators who are posting free content (for a fandom we are all a part of) on the internet? Anonymity can make some people just be absolute freaks istg. This is disgusting. I hope they get an itch on the bottom of their foot. Be kind.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Batboys with reader who has a silly collection of stickers and puts them over their faces, their suits or their weapons (most of them with silly encouraging phrases to cheer them up lol)

Dick

He bought you a set of stickers once and ever since it’s been his ultimate downfall but in the most humorous way possible.

Dick has a sense of humour, he didn’t mind a couple of stickers here and there, even going so far as to keep the cute cartoon mushroom stickers that you’ve left on his escrema sticks as your personal touch on his belongings.

He even once woke up to a face full of them and when he asked your reasoning as to why, you only shrugged your shoulders and said ‘I thought it’d be funny to see how many stickers I can put on your face without waking you up.’

Dick takes the whole thing in stride and in good faith and loves the fact that you went out of your way to cheer him up through your cute but inspirational stickers. It was almost as though you knew that he needed a little pick me up that day and did so tenfold by coating his hands in stickers that reminded him of your deep care for him and his mental health.

So nowadays Dick doesn’t mind waking up just to see his face covered in stickers and instead smiles and goes about his daily routine as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

Jason removed his red helmet from his hand and could only stare at the stickers that littered across the sides and back either a blank stare as Roy practically pissed himself with laughter.

‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, how did I not see this?’ Jason muttered under his breath, scratching at sticker of a cartoon Robin holding a stick in its beak.

‘Oh there’s nothing to be ashamed of in a little self expression Jason,’ Roy snickered, ‘but I didn’t peg you as the type to collect stickers and cute ones at that.’ He then points to a particular sticker on his helmet of a cat hanging from a branch followed by the saying; just hang in there.

‘piss off.’ Jason told him. He knew something was a miss but didn’t know what it was and now that he knew, everything was starting to make a bit more sense. For starters you didn’t kiss his helmet like you usually did before he left of patrol, almost as though you didn’t want to ruin something on his helmet that he didn’t see, at least not at that point in time.

He should’ve known because you’ve pulled this stint with his guns before in the past but what you didn’t know was that he kept a few that were now a little worn and faded. So while he appear a little peeved that you have took it upon yourself to decorate his helmet, he was a sentimental guy deep down who loved anything and everything you’ve given him and treasures it with his entire heart.

Jason’s a secret sap when it comes to you and knows that he’ll come to laugh at all this at a later date as he recalls all of it to you when he comes home, already envisioning your reaction when he’d inevitably calls you out on it, knowing that he could never stay mad at you for very long. He physically couldn’t and refuses to when all you were trying to do was lift his spirits.

You were too sweet for him but he wouldn’t want it any other way.

Damian

Wants you to take them off at first, how was he meant to be taken seriously if he was covered head to toe in stickers, ridiculous.

He thinks them childish unfortunately

However when you do stop putting your stickers across every one of his belongings for a brief stint, he begins to realise the true intended purpose behind them, and would begin to leave subtle hints that he wanted you to go back to coating everything he owned in stickers in his own way of apologising.

He’s stubborn but he cares for you and what you meant to him and if planting stickers on the sheath of his sword on the premise to uplift his spirits, then who was he to stop you from doing so. He wasn’t use to someone going out of their way to try and cheer him up and was more use to isolating himself from everyone in his room and just draw out his innermost feelings.

So you covering his face, suit and or weapons with stickers with cute and uplifting words was something he needed time to get use to, but once he does he tries to keep the stickers that had long served their purpose within the pages of his sketch pad as a keepsake of your thoughtfulness towards him.

This portion of his sketch pad is kept under a lot of secrecy on his part but you find it eventually because of course you do.

Damian wasn’t use to someone caring about him as much as you did and in a more unique way than littering the hilt of his sword in stickers made to make his day just that a little better. Damian, much like Jason, keeps a sticker or two on his weapons but in places where it would be harder for others to spot and would run his thumb over it whenever he felt that he needed your presence.

Tim doesn’t mind you putting stickers on his stuff, he’s pretty much unbothered by it and would just accept the fact that this was your way of saying that you’re thinking of him and his well-being. Tim knew you well enough to understand what you were trying to say through your stickers from the stickers you used consistently.

However due to his egregious sleep schedule lead to many instances where he would wake up to his face covered entirely in stickers, and at first he thought it was the lack of sleep that was making him see things but soon realised that his face was indeed covered in stickers, and would silently stare at you through the mirror as you tried hard not to laugh.

He threatens to plaster your face with stickers next time, he does follow up on his promise but that’s a story for another time.

To Tim it was almost as if you had just made up an entirely new way of communication through stickers, he’s even got them categorised based on their subliminal messages and what you were trying to tell him through them.

He appreciates the stickers and would even find himself smiling at them on the odd occasion and run his fingers over them gingerly as to not accidentally peel one of them off. He loved your unique way of cheering him up and would get a little sad when he sees that someone them were starting to fade or become worn, only to feel a warmth spread throughout his chest when he saw new stickers next to the places of the old ones.

Each and every sticker had it’s sentimental significance to him and if Tim were to ever find out that you didn’t have anymore stickers to spare, he would buy you more sets and act like he didn’t have any part in this despite the parcel having his name on it.

[goatyuuji]

JJK CHAPTER 261 AND MY THOUGHTS:

Soooooo this chapter was not for everyone lmao but if you ask me personally I am enjoying the direction in which the story is finally moving..261 has so many themes that just hit so hard bro, but I would be breaking them down into just 3 parts (because I would yap for another 3k words otherwise):

1. Breaking the cycle (remains unbroken):

Let’s start with the first person who tried to break the cycle: Toji. Toji, a man blessed with no cursed energy, born in a clan that probably abused him for that fact, tried to break the cycle of curse energy = strength mentality by killing Gojo even when he didn’t have to, he did not have to kill Gojo at all his mission was over, money was paid, he could have left he could have run but no he fights because he wants to prove to the world, to himself, and to the zenin clan that hated his very existence that “look a monkey like me with no cursed energy can take down the pinnacle of jujutsu look”…and we all know how it ends and the cycle continues with the zenin clan still being obsessed with the 10 shadows and Maki (and Mai) being treated like shit.

The second person who tried to break the cycle was: Geto. Geto realized after a failed mission, how little value a sorcerer’s life has in the eyes of a non-sorcerer even when those sorcerers dedicate their entire lives to saving them. He envisioned a world without curses where his fellow companions wouldn’t have to sacrifice their lives to save lives of people that don’t give two fucks about them. He realised how fucked up the jujutsu society really is, how fucked up the higher ups are and how they have no qualms about sending young sorcerers to their deaths. He also starts struggling with the ugliness of humanity and non-sorcerers and their ignorance. And so he tried to change that, he tried to make the world a better place for his friends and fellow sorcerers but he lost his ideals, his mortality and his humanity following the path he chose and in the end lost to a person who was soooo similar to him, who just wanted to save his friends too and prove to himself he deserved to live. And so the cycle continues with the higher ups using and abusing the young sorcerers, and the ones in power not giving a shit about what happens as long as they are comfortable (putting a kill order on Yuuji, making binding vow with Yuuta to kill Yuuji, suspending Hakari and Kirara, killing Yaga, etc).

The third person who tries to break the cycle is: Gojo. Gojo who saw his best friend leave him behind, not just physically but in terms of ideology, who saw his best friend become a monster in order to create a world where his friends and companions can live to their fullest and laugh from the bottom of their hearts, follow an idea so insane that even he couldn’t make sense of, he couldn’t catch up to him, couldn’t catch up to his ideas…so what does he do, he becomes a teacher. He guides young minds and fosters strong people that can overturn the way jjk society works and creates a group of people so strong that they can never be left behind, that will never feel what he felt. But all this crumbs when he comes back after his sealing, Gojo knows he still doesn’t possess the power to change the society the way he wants and if he is gone there is a vacuum in the jjk society that the higher ups can easily use to exploit…and so he kills them, kills them so that the Shibuya incident aftermath (read: Yuuji almost dying, Yaga being dead, Gojo getting framed as a traitor) can not be created again looping back to Geto’s departure and the way he killed an entire village (and for me personally it even loops back to when Gojo expressed his desire to kill the cult members clapping for Riko’s death).

2. Exploitation of the strongest:

Nanami, Higuruma, Junpei all of them are few examples that show themes of exploitation in jjk but there is this cycle of exploitation of the strongest that literally just…it’s too delicious okay:

Geto and Kenjaku - Every single Kenjaku victim deserves their own exploitation post but Geto was probably one of his best hosts since firstly, Geto was a special grade sorcerer and in Kenjaku’s own words “Special Grade rank signifies the ability to single-handedly overthrow nations, that obviously true for Gojo Satoru but Suguru Geto can also wield a Grotesque army through his cursed manipulation (ch. 203)”, and secondly his curse technique can literally allow him to claim any unclaimed curse which is just bonkers. But not only that, oh no no no the ultimate trump card that Kenjaku uses Geto for was to exploit Gojo emotionally. He made a six eyes user doubt his own technique and the funny part is: he was right. Gojo’s six eyes told him that it was Geto Suguru but his soul, HIS SOUL knew otherwise. And that emotional trump card was bigger than what any other host could provide.

Megumi and Sukuna- From the very start of his show, we have seen Sukuna obsess about Megumi and his curse technique. He has even admitted that Megumi, as he grows stronger, can literally defeat him and kill him. For more than 200 chapters we have seen Sukuna devise a plan to make Megumi as his vessel, so that he can get the 10 shadows/Mahoraga. He even exploits Megumi’s curse technique after the body possession to kill off Megumi’s sister and totally submerge his soul into the abyss.

Gojo and Yuuta- The chapter was so good that we looped back to the themes of exploiting the strongest but only this time not one, BUT TWO STRONGEST SORCERERS getting exploited at the same time. On one hand we have Gojo Satoru, who has always been seen as a weapon since the day he was born, been used as a tool by the higher ups, been used and seen as nothing but strength incarnate till the day he took his last breath and getting his body used as a tool again even after his death. He even got emotionally exploited by Kenjaku and his mind games during Shibuya. On the other hand we have Okkotsu Yuta, a kid who didn’t even know he comes from a great dynasty of Jujutsu sorcerers until he accidentally cursed his friend, who meets a guy that saved his life and helped him get back onto his feet almost a year ago…sees the loneliness and isolation that man subjects himself to and wants to help him in return too, he wants him to share the burden and not suffer alone but the man is dead now and there is no one to fill the space he left, no one that can be used as a weapon anymore, no one that can be the monster the sorcerers need to win this fight, so he steps up, he becomes the monster for the story, because he can not let it all go to waste now. Ah the tragedy of not seeing yourself as a human but just a means.

3. Love is the greatest curse of them all:

Yuuta’s story started with him cursing his friend, Rika, because he could not accept her death. He loved Rika, he could not let her go because he loved. He fought Geto Suguru, even tried to sacrifice himself in the end so that his friends could live because he loved and cherished his friends. Love, love, love…In this chapter we see him worry about Gojo because isn’t Gojo doing everything all by his own, even going as far as to stain his hands in blood so that when he is not needed (dead) the rest of the cast does not have to suffer, and so he fills in the shoes of his sensei, a man he respected and loved a lot, he sacrifices himself, his humanity and becomes almost a curse for his sensei because in the end, love is the greatest curse of them all.

[fiapartridge]

where you go, i will follow | m. celebrini x hughes!sister au ★🎸🎧⋆｡ °⋆

💌 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠/𝐚𝐮: macklin celebrini x hughes!sister au 💌 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: as mack prepares for the upcoming draft, his nerves begin to catch up to him... 💌 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): cursing, third person pov 💌 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: aaaaa mack's joining will in sj!! i'm so happy. if you don't remember, grace is in a band called "red summer" so if it gets talked about in this fic and the rest of the au, that's what it is lol. i envision red summer gettin big later in the au like the arctic monkeys type big LOL like coachella type big. but rn she's all about mack and his success and is content with her little garage band type fame

Coming behind Macklin, Grace wrapped her arms behind his torso, barely visible behind him as she peered to the side, looking at the two of them in the hotel mirror. 

Today was the draft; the day everyone was anticipating. But for Mack, it was the day he was absolutely dreading.

“What if I don’t get picked first?” he anxiously asked, watching her hands adjust his tie in the mirror.

“Then you go second, or third, or fourth. It doesn’t change the way anyone loves you,” Grace replied, halting her movements.

“Yeah, but…what if I go first and I end up disappointing everyone?” His tongue poked at his cheek as he turned around, facing her and slumping his back against the mirror, his hands holding her hips. 

She held onto his shoulders, planting a soft kiss on his nose as he closed his eyes on instinct. “If they get disappointed in someone after one season, then they’re stupid and didn’t deserve you in the first place.”

Leaning his head back, he let out a huff. “I just don’t want anyone thinking I was a bust. And everyone’s gonna ask what I’m gonna do after the draft. Am I gonna go back to school or go straight into the league? Like, fuck.”

She held his cheeks, his eyes meeting hers as she looked at him intently. “You’re thinking too much. This is supposed to be a good day for you! Let it be.”

“I know, but–”

“No buts. Jacky didn’t have the best rookie season, but look at him now. He’s one of the best people on the fuckin’ team,” she smiled sweetly. “And if anyone asks you what you’re doing after the draft, just tell them you’re still thinking about it—because you are. Nothing has to be definitive right now. You’re 18; you're figuring things out. It’s okay.”

Slowly, he grinned before picking Grace up, causing her to yelp as he threw her onto the bed. He rested his body on top of hers as he peppered kisses across her face, making her cheeks burn into a pink mess. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Probably have stress rashes,” she smirked. “And signs of early wrinkles.”

He laughed before burying his head in Grace’s neck, her arms wrapping around to hold him against her. “California’s far. We’ll be okay, right?” If Mack was scared of anything, he was scared of losing Grace the most. Maybe that’s why he was dreading the draft so much. He didn’t know where he would end up a year from now, and he didn’t know if she would still want him—and that scared him so fucking much. 

She placed her hands on his cheeks, holding his face up as she planted a quick, soft kiss on his lips. “I’m wherever you are,” she whispered. “Besides, Red Summer’s never been to California,” she grinned.

Chuckling, he held her tightly, surely messing up his suit and tie, but for right now, he didn’t care. All he cared about was Grace. “You’re everything. I love you,” he said. No hesitation, no regrets loitering his mind, nothing. He meant it with everything in him.

Macklin Celebrini loves Gracelynn Hughes. And he wished he could shout it from the rooftops and scream it at the top of his lungs. He’s always been hers.

She sputtered for a moment, not fully expecting him to tell her he loves her so easily, so effortlessly, so out of the blue. But it felt right. It felt like the perfect moment. It felt like she could say it too.

“I love you, and we’ll be okay. I’m always okay when I’m with you.”

[stationintern]

Hello my friends! I am late, but we won't mention it. April was a very busy month, but I managed to read way more than I've been able to the last few months, so I have a good selection for you. There's a couple rereads, a couple fics I put off reading for far too long, and a few that I found at the perfect time and devoured on sight.

Let's go!

Yours Truly by @skeptiquewrites for H/D Bodice Ripper Fest 2022 M, 14.8k

Every single one of Harry’s exes has gone on to marry the next person they date, and with the upcoming nuptials of numbers six and seven to each other, Harry’s feeling exhausted by it all. It doesn’t really matter if he lets people assume Draco Malfoy is his boyfriend for a moment of peace. In any case, Draco’s been away for five years and there’s no way he would find out, right?

I read this fic about a year ago, and I am so glad that I chose to revisit it this month. It is just so, so good. Endlessly hilarious, with a solid plot that is resolved neatly in 14 thousand words. I really love Harry here. His letters are so adorable. This aspect comes in later in this list as well, but I love when Draco is kind of a mysterious figure for a good chunk of a fic. The wondering, the anticipation. What kind of Draco will we meet this time? It's all very delicious.

Seeker's High by @corvuscrowned M, 40k

Harry Potter doesn’t expect to take up running years after the war ends; it just sort of happens. He also doesn’t expect that — as he fights tooth and nail to climb out of a post-war depression he didn’t realize he’d fallen into — he’ll end up running right into the arms of Draco Malfoy. A half angsty drama, half romcom of Harry working on himself, learning how to accept help from his friends, and falling in love with his childhood nemesis.

Another reread. This is one of those fics I've found myself periodically thinking about, mostly because it just feels so right. Harry's characterization in this is fascinating, and I really enjoyed watching his slow evolution as his relationships grow, both with running and with Draco. A unique premise that I really enjoyed and know I will revisit again.

Turn by Saras_Girl E, 306k

One good turn always deserves another. Apparently.

Okay, so, I'm not even gonna say anything. I put off reading this for way too long, and not knowing a single thing about this fic was probably the reason I devoured every chapter the way I did. Just know I was clawing at the walls.

Rookie Moves by peu_a_peu E, 75.3k

Aurors Potter and Malfoy crack the case.

Oh my fucking god. I have never in my life laughed out loud this many times while reading a fic. Truly, two dumb, horny assholes just trying to crack the case. But, behind all the side-splitting humor (and searingly hot sex) is a deep understanding of both characters that shines through and makes every moment hit so much harder. As in, they would fucking say that. Every single follow-up in the series is a banger, too. Thanks to @tackytigerfic for pointing those out to me!

Make This Leap by @oflights M, 118k

Harry owns a struggling restaurant which is running out of money, and his Head Chef has just handed in notice. He's at a bit of a loss as to what to do until Narcissa Malfoy presents an obvious solution: bring in Draco Malfoy as Chef and part owner. Harry does.

I relived four years of my life reading this fic. Both the good and the bad. Truly, a wonderful portrayal of the epic highs and lows of restaurant work. From personal drama to work-related catastrophes, this fic has it all. Like I said before, I love having to wait a bit to see Draco. I love hearing about him through the grapevine. I had so much fun reading this, and it was a treat to see these characters in an environment that I hadn't really envisioned them in before. Lovable (and punchable) side characters, a very stressed out Harry Potter, and a solid amount of health code infractions. Amazing.

See you at the end of May! xx, Moon.

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

Just Papa Solomons Things

Visiting Scotland with your dove

TH Masterlist

Even though you don’t want to

Alfie’s not a fan of Scotland. Not because of the people or the culture.

No, it’s because everything, right, is on a fucking mountain!

Or so he claims regardless of whether you’re walking to Old Town in Edinburgh via Princes Street, going up the gentle sloping pathway on Calton Hill, are trying to hike up to King Arthur’s Seat in Holyrood Park, or are walking down (I repeat, DOWN) the Royal Mile.

And that’s only in Edinburgh.

It honestly makes you wonder why he decided to tag along, especially since you’ve also planned to explore the rugged north. Then again, you know your grumpy partner well enough to be aware that part of the reason he’s with you is to offer protection.

Truth be told, Alfie gets bloody anxious when you’re on a trip by yourself. Enough so to disregard the issues he has with his leg. Your needs come before his. That’s “non-fucking-negotiable, mate”.

Fortunately, well, for him, the amount of solo trips has drastically reduced since you started dating. He still gives you plenty of space to do things on your own, but it makes him feel better knowing he’s nearby should anything happen.

And it’s nice because now you have him to drive you around so you don’t have to make use of public transport (depends on where you two are, though), watch your luggage when going to the restroom (again, if applicable), and hold your hand as winter casts the streets in dusk as early as four in the evening.

Another added bonus is that you get to stay in the most comfortable and sometimes downright fanciest hotels. Alfie might be frugal, having been raised that way, but he doesn’t want to do you short. Plus, having the finances, he doesn’t mind occasionally splurging a little bit if it concerns spending time together.

Now, Papa Solomons hates the cold and becomes snappy when the heating isn’t on in your coach in the train to Inverness.

“‘S bad for me sciatica. Also ain’t good for your health. They better get the heating here or I’ll make them. My cane should be plenty conviction.”

When one of the staff members walks by, Alfie beckons them over. However, before he can so much as open his mouth, you place your hand on his arm.

He glances over his shoulder, rolls his eyes with an irritated sigh as you shake your head, and clears his throat to politely inquire about the state of the heating in a strained voice. “You see, mate, my wonderful missus is gettin’ cold and we can’t ‘ave that, can we? If she starts getting the heavy shakes between let’s say now and ten minutes, I’ll personally come turn the fucking system on, right. Do you understand?”

With a stammered “y-yes, sir” and frantic nod, the attendant is off.

Three minutes later, you feel the coach warming up. Alfie leans back, eyes closed, his fingers entwined with yours. “Much better. Fucking trains. Don’t like ‘em.”

You kiss his cheek. “Thank you for not using your cane.”

“Mhm, doin’ it only for you.”

And he does. Alfie tries to reign himself in whenever he’s with you, afraid of showing you the always seething rage beneath his skin, the wrath inside looking for a way out. So, while he hasn’t discussed it yet with you and remains highly skeptical about how much good it’ll do, he’s thinking about anger management therapy or taking classes in it.

If only so he won’t turn into his father.

So he can love you properly.

So he can settle with you.

Albeit perhaps not in the place he’s envisioned.

It all happens on a day trip you booked for the two of you.

Perhaps it’s the way he sees how enamoured you are by the language, the way your eyes light up when hearing about local folklore, the strange familiarity he feels when the Norse history of Skye is mentioned while you’re at his side.

Maybe it’s the glamour of the faeries.

Whatever it is, it makes him want to stay on Skye with you.

He doesn’t mention it while you’re having lunch at Relish in Portree, but Alfie can’t stop envisioning having a little bakery in a town like this. He’d leave London and Margate behind, settle here, and live out whatever days remain for him in the peace and quiet of the island.

On the long drive back, he lets you snuggle up to him for warmth and to function as your pillow. He only wakes you up once when you stop in Broadford for refreshments, gently forcing you to get out of the van and accompany him to the Co-Op to get a semi-decent dinner and snacks.

It’s safe to say, for its rarely any different, Alfie pays for everything. “‘S what I’m supposed to do, innit? Good men take care of their wi- women.”

Despite his stoic expression and casual tone, meant to dismiss the slip of the tongue, the quick glance to check your reaction is telling. He knows he fucked up, played his cards too fast, too rashly.

You catch it, but decide to willfully ignore it. Instead, you take a sip of coffee. “Let’s go back to the bus.”

Nevertheless, once you’re back at the hotel, he goes nearly feral. It’s similar to what overtakes him every summer, but now it’s driven by the desire to claim your unbearable cuteness, completely under the spell of the magic that seems to surround you, lingering.

There’s a precarious balance when it comes to how vocal Alfie is in bed. Some days he’ll guide you to your orgasm without a single silence, each word pointed and full of purpose. Other days, the only thing he can do is growl and grunt, lost in the pleasure you grant him and vice versa, but also in the way his brain is finally off. No schemes, no secrets nor hidden motifs. Only the simple act of fucking.

Nonetheless, this is perhaps one of the few times you’ve heard him beg. Desperate and blunt, no polish to his utterances yet crystal clear diamonds compared to the muttering meant to confuse.

“Marry me, eh? Let’s, fuck, hm, yeah settle,” he murmurs in between kisses, which grow sloppier as his thrusts get more and more erratic. “Settle with me. Be Mrs Solomons. Want, hrm, need my wife. Only you. Want. Want you. Only you.” He pulls your hair so you’ll bare your neck to him. Lovingly he bites the skin, the sting and burning warmth heated by the words spilling from his lips. “Please, dove, please. Marry me.”

He doesn’t need a spoken answer, just the mere fantasy you say ‘yes’ and the way you look when he’s inside you, especially as you come undone because of him, is enough to send him over the edge with you.

As you’re basking in the afterglow, Alfie caresses your arm. His fingers slowly slide over your skin, lost in thought, wandering in the chaos reigning in his head until he’s found the words to start the conversation. Or, rather, to tell you what’s been on his mind since the afternoon, the wee bakery on Skye.

There are no words for the bleakness washing over him as you frown, taken completely unawares by his attitude. It’s unlike him to be this spontaneous, without a plan. “Alfie, don’t be rash. It doesn’t suit you. Come up with a business plan first. Is it viable? Would we manage to get by? It won’t be like London.”

“I know, but…” he groans, reluctant to admit he’s in the wrong, “you’re right, dove. Silly, ain’t ‘e, this old man and ‘is fantasies.”

“You’re not old.”

“Older than you. Old enough to be-“

You shut him up with a kiss. “No, none of this. I love you for who you are. I’m proud to be Papa’s little dove.”

“Would you one day be ‘is wife?”

You furrow your brow, wondering where this is coming from. That is, until you recall his pleading in his sex drunk stupour. “You meant that?”

He nods. “Mhm. Maybe not the proper way to ask, but I mean it. This, ‘ere, right, between us, I want it to be long term.” Voice lowered and steady blue eyes filling with the fight between panic, disbelief, and determination, he asks the question that makes him grow pale. “It is, innit?”

“It is, don’t worry.”

He cups your cheek and pulls you towards him to rest his forehead against yours. A tapered breath escapes him, shivery and frail. “Stay with me.”

You run your fingers through his beard, a burden falling off of your shoulders as you see him relax. Though you appreciate Alfie’s occasional openness, when he shows his struggles you can’t help but feel your own heart crack.

Then again, that’s Love.

For whatever our souls are made of, if we’re lucky, we find one that’s compatible. That’s the same.

“I won’t go anywhere without telling you.”

“Don’t go at all without me.”

You feel something wet warm your hand as you kiss his forehead. The sensation moves to your chest when Alfie rests his head on it. His arms wrapped around your waist in a fierce bear hug, you run your fingers through his hair, weaving them through his messy brown locks.

Alfie rarely if ever allows himself to show his vulnerabilities. Nevertheless, when he’s around you and alone like this, he does. And it still stuns him you stay at his side, that you haven’t run from, in his words, “tainted bein’, uglier than a golem”.

But how could you? How could you leave a man as doting and loving as him? Sure, Alfie’s gruff and a little rough-handed at times, even to you, but you know he tries not to be.

Sleet gently ticks against the window, filling the silence in the hotel room. As per usual on nights like this, you use it to calm the both of you down.

Until your skin is tear-stained.

Both your hearts cracked a little more.

And Alfie’s asleep.

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[jolapeno]

it happened (iii)

johnny ‘soap’ mactavish x f!reader 

summary: for weeks, one single thought has been creeping up on him—sneaking its way out into the daylight, prickling his skin and threading through his mind: he doesn’t know how to live without you. word count: 5.7k warnings: injured reader, but happy ending, promise. spice + smut. lovers to relationship.

part three of it happens | soap masterlist

8. 

He wishes the day ended differently. 

For weeks, one single thought has been creeping up on him—sneaking its way out into the daylight, prickling his skin and threading through his mind:

He doesn’t know how to live without you.

For a while, he envisions it’s been tucked away, festering in the back of his brain. Growing over time, slowly.

Likely somewhere between kissing you and stuffing your throat with his cock. Becoming more apparent in the small window when things turned from a quick fuck to something more gentle, something he wanted to prolong. 

There's a high chance it was when you stopped calling him Soap and called him Johnny. Not just when the two of you were alone, but out with others—shoulder close to his. 

But, truthfully, he’s been finding the thought more incessant when he’s lying next to you, sweat still clinging to his skin. The words sliding around his head, bouncing from one side to the other. Not wanting to move, to jolt it away, because your fingers are drawing a pattern on his stomach—something he’s come to like. Something he craves—just your touch. How it’s direct, purposeful, and wrapped in a personal touch. 

“I like you being around, even if I don’t show it." “I know you only keep m’around ‘cause ov’ my cock.” “I’d still keep you around even if your cock got chopped off by Ghost, Johnny. You’re a nice pillow.” “Cheers, hen.”

Now his cards are on the table—his feelings. All unwrapped in front of you, having thrown them at you like an angry present. The bow coming straight off, the paper disintegrating before the two of you. 

If he was thinking straight, he’d have delivered them better. Presented them in a kinder format. Instead, his heart had been in his throat, hammering and thumping as he wiped the tears from your cheek. The ones you’d refuse to say were spilled because of him. 

He didn’t blame you. He wasn’t sure if he’d have been willing either—but the adrenaline forced his hand. Made him run headfirst and care about it after. 

Just like he did on assignments, operations—missions. The same ones you glare at him for, not outwardly telling him what’s wrong, but it's clear from your face you're not impressed. 

You worry. And it’s why he worries. Because you rarely show any emotions when it comes to him, you are so hard to crack, so hard to see through. But, over time, you’ve allowed him in—and what he once recognised were unimpressed glances, he suddenly sees are secret distress. 

The two of you put the job first, the task. But as it approaches a year of that cabin and what transpired, the worry of losing you appears like a jack in the box. It shoots up, bouncing in front of him when you’re talking to him—when you’re letting him in. 

You could lose her. You’ll lose her. You’ll lose. 

It’s why sometimes he holds you a little closer, lets you groan against him as he keeps you pinned to him—sheets tangling around both of your legs. He savours it. Let the moment steep until the corners of your mouth rise less sarcastically, your breaths slowing, before you brush knuckles against his cheek. 

You want him to hold you, he can tell. You just won’t ask. Afraid, maybe. 

And so sometimes, he doesn’t give in to his wishes and instead respects yours. 

But, he should have taken his time today.

He would have done it, had he known how the day would end. He’d have taken his time. He wouldn’t have made it quick, rushed the time alone. He’d have spent longer touching you, making you keen against his hand and he wouldn’t have bottomed out in one quick thrust. 

His mouth would have spent time leaving marks on your skin, instead of setting a brutal pace that had the name Johnny kissing the air in bursts. Mostly, he’d have spent less time bruising his fingers into your hip bone—sinking his teeth into your shoulder—and more time staring into your eyes. 

“So fuckin’ pretty.” 

“You s–say that so often, it’s going to st–fuck–stop meaning something.” 

His hand had brushed over your collarbone, sliding up against your neck as your lips parted. “No, it won’t.”

He watched you smirk. Just lightly—just enough. Lips twitching around your impending pleasure that’s ready to wash over you. He liked you like this. Liked consuming you—claiming you. He also liked watching you squirm, writhing under him, the room dyed in the squelching noises coming from him fucking your cunt. 

The memories of the morning kept him entertained as they were dispatched. You sat far away, head turned, talking to Price. His eyes occasionally glanced your way, wondering if he should say something, anything. A ‘good luck’, a ‘look after yourself’. 

Now, he wishes he did. 

The whole thing went to shit the moment their boots hit the ground. Your radio messages fragmented, cracking—Ghost’s voice stern, trying to ascertain what it was you were saying. In and out. In and out. Those were the words Price had said. 

And you’d gone in, like planned. Alone while the others caused a distraction—you’re good. Quick. Talented. But, you’re also on the opposite side to where he was stationed—and you had failed to come out. 

In and out. In and out.

“LT—“

“Find her.” 

He nods, trying not to focus on the tone. The edge to Ghost’s voice and how it tinged with concern. He’d become softer, less Fort Knox and more regular prison walls since Graves—especially with you. Your dry sarcasm and focused energy likely made it easy for him. 

You made it easy for all of them to let you in. 

It’s all he thinks as he entered the building, sweeping the corridor, turning and turning, corner after corner. 

Then he sees you. 

Sees you break for reasons completely opposite to how he’d made you break this morning. 

He didn’t move to check the other body in the room. He knew they were dead, disposed of. No threat. He knew because of the way you were huddled into a corner, knowing you’d have done the job before you tended to yourself. 

You do that a lot. For as heroic as you say he is, you’re not that different. 

His hand clenches as the air is tinged with the horrid sounds of your breaths—all ragged, desperate—punching each one out into space. 

For a second, he just stares. Watching. Boots gelled to the floor unable to shift himself as he watched scarlet coat your fingers. His own worries building, anxiously swirling, rendering him fucking useless. He can’t lose you. Not now he has you. 

“J-Johnny.” 

He blinks, and then he moves. Your fractured voice yanked him from his frozen state, his heart attempting to break. 

He tries not to let it. 

It does all the same.

You broke right at the seams. 

Falling into the corner, panic setting in—bathing you, dousing you. Your breath is jagged, uneven—your thoughts jumbled, and your training all out the window.

You picture him, initially: Johnny. 

How crestfallen he’d look, how full of sorrow—likely even able to hear his heart descend to his feet. For that reason, you hope he’d leave you behind. Go on—not ruin the images of you he has by seeing you like this. 

Because if you look how you feel, you’re not a pretty sight, and this morning you'd been…

This morning was nice. Maybe too nice. Your hips rolled with his; your hand almost reached for his, wished to grasp it close, press it against your skin. 

Now, you wish you had. 

Wished you’d stolen a moment, had something to call back to as you tried to not bleed out across the dirt and dusty floor. 

All because of a knife.

One you’d not anticipated, one you hadn’t expected. 

Fool. You’re a fucking idiot. You can hear Ghost spit that you are; hear Price ask if you’d lost your mind. You guess you did—allowing yourself a moment to think of this morning. Of how full you’d felt; how empty you felt before. Now, you feel even less. 

Your hands shake, tremble. They clutch the slits of your skin together as your eyes flick up—hoping, praying, seeking. And then, there he is. The light from the world outside the room all haloed around his figure, making him look like an angel. You guess he is. 

He saved you, without knowing you needed to be saved. He was a rock, something to cling to when the sea battered you against the sand. He was… hope, in the dark and something entirely too good for you and—

It had been the very thing which infuriated you, to begin with. He was good—too good. They all did good things, but he did them without thought. They came naturally, being a hero—doing right for the cause. That and the fact he couldn’t meet your eye, couldn’t spit a response at you.

Now, all he did was talk, and you lapped up each word. 

“J-Johnny…”

His eyes fell, face dropping—shattering amongst the bullet casings and blood. 

Thick, horrid, throat-choking sobs dilute the rest of your words. Suffocating them as he slides to you on his knees, hands unsure where to go. The panic evident as you clutched it—held the weeping wound as best as you could. 

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. 

“Let me see, lemme see… steamin’ Jesu—Yer gonna be alright—We just need a medic—look at me.” 

You flicked them up, meeting blue—all-Johnny-fucking-blue—his hand, rough and all coated in your blood as he grasps your cheek. 

Flashes of memories. Ones where he’s lying next to you or hovering above you, ones where he’s caging you against the wall and when he’s pressed you down against the washer. All of them rush you, overwhelm you…

And you want more of them. 

Your lips curl, opening—all cracked and sore—as you try to get yourself to say that. To say you want more of him, more of them—

“I need t’move y’, ‘kay? I gotta move y’, hen. Then can fix y’. Keep y’with me.” 

His other hand slides under your legs, preparing, staring into your soul as he tries to soothe it. He does. He always does. 

Has done since that first night, splinters in your thighs as you grasp onto him. The quieter moments, where the two of you simply lay breathing, no other sounds, allowing it to ferment and develop. 

You don’t tell him that enough. That he matters to you. 

There’s a lot that you don’t tell him, truthfully.

Secretly keeping it buried inside, afraid to lose—afraid to have something and then not. You’d done it once, loved and lost. It hurt. It broke you. The shards of yourself barely back in place before you ended up here, with a new family—new people to care about. To fall for. 

But, for him, you fell all the same.

You’d do it again, too. Over and over. You’d jump, leap and fly. 

“Y’not leaving me, lass. Y’hear me.”

You smile lazily—and it hurts to try. Head sliding into the space near his neck, your hand desperately clutching at your own stomach. 

“Arm round m’neck, hen.” You pause, afraid to taint the back of his head and helmet with blood till he stares—waiting, both patient and impatiently till you do, your eyes watching as blue and black swirl in his eyes. “Good girl, such a good girl. This’ll hurt, I’m sorry…” 

Don’t let me go. Don’t let go. Don’t go.

It should hurt. It prickles, and nicks. But it doesn’t make you burn as it should. Instead, you’re so fucking cold. 

“—I’m so sorry, so sorry—”

So damn cold it hurts. 

Bone-chillingly, so. 

“—Hold on, lass. Y’hear me.”

You nuzzle, smelling him—salt, sulphur and sweat. Hoping to capture as much of it as you can, just in case… your eyes unable to stay open, hand unable to remain on his neck, on your stomach—

Especially as you jolt, bounce—

Black.

You’re under his skin. 

Like exploded ink swirling with his blood. He sees that now. How you’ve spread and seeped into him—stained all of the parts of him. How you’ve bled beautifully across his heart, forever ruined. You don’t heal him, but you make it easier to smile, to breathe. 

And it’s enough. More than he really thought he’d have in this line of work.

Which is why he needs you to wake up. Needs your eyes to coat his skin. Desperate to hear your voice, your laugh. 

Soap brushes his hand against your cheek. It’s natural, normal almost—thankful your skin feels warm, and soft, even with the nicks and growing bruises. 

“Yer scared me, hen.” 

He says it to no one. 

You’re not awake, not in a coma either. You’re somewhere in between, not lost, but not found. There’s no way you can hear him, but he speaks to you all the same. 

It’s why he lets his fingers do a slow stroke of your cheek, unable to hide how calming he’s finding it as his shoulders sink into their usual place and his jaw loosens its iron grip on itself.  

“Dunna think I can live without yer. As… terrifyin’ as that is to admit.”

He drops his hand from your cheek to clutch your hand. Contemplating whether to climb in beside you, now there’s no medic hovering—no one else here, busying themselves. 

“Glad y’not awake, y’d be fumin’ with me for getting all emotional.” 

He moves, and stands. Cautiously easing himself down beside you, trying not to move you, trying to crush you. His hand slides up to your jaw and cheek, clutching your skin as he listens to the soft patter of your heart—happy he hears it, proving you’re alive. 

At one stage—one horrid stage—he hadn’t been sure you would be. So pale, so lifeless, the wound on your stomach continuing to leak scarlet over the evac floor as he dug his elbows down into his knees. 

They perform miracles, the medics. 

He knows that. Puts all his faith in them. Knows there were plenty of times he’d been in their hands…

But he couldn’t lose you. 

His grip on your jaw almost tightens, except he doesn’t want to hurt you, doesn’t want to leave any more marks on you the world hadn’t tried to paint. 

His own lashes were heavy, a calmness spreading from being close to you—just like he’d been yesterday morning. Yesterday when things were different, your body beside him, under him, against him—

“Hi…” you croak, eyes still closed.

Pausing, he doesn’t dare move, afraid he’s hallucinating it all—you, your voice. 

“…D-Don’t stop. Feels nice.” 

And he sighs in relief. His heart leaps, both up and down, bouncing in joy as he fights, pulling you close. His lips twitch, teeth pinching the inside of his cheek. 

“Hey, lass.” 

“You miss?” 

He nods, even if your eyes are closed. “I missed, hen. Fuckin’ Jesus I missed.” 

9. 

He’s begun making a habit of kissing your scar. 

Even if your body is adorned with little stories, here and there. Some silver, some pink and some he knows and some he's never asked about. It's the larger one which demands his attention.

Before your newly acquired one, he loved kissing your shoulder. It made your chest heavy, almost bloat. He'd been all concerned with it, as if somehow he was to blame—but, now that's quickly forgotten. It’s no longer deemed as kiss-worthy as the one which runs along your stomach. 

Not that you care. 

You like running your fingers through his hair when he’s kissing along your hip bone. Your cunt fluttering around nothing, desperately craving his fingers, tongue or cock. 

But, you wait—patiently. Having truly been able to master what that even means when you had been banned from overexerting yourself. Taking the simple things for granted like his chest being between your thighs and you being able to run your nails along his scalp.

You'd been allowed to kiss him, to have him close. Johnny had allowed that. Given into that, even if at first he'd been reluctant. Not wanting to hurt you, not knowing, because you were too afraid to tell him, that by not it would hurt far worse than a knife.

Plus, there's nothing quite like Johnny kissing you like you’re the only air he ever needs. It makes your toes curl, your thighs desperate to wrap and cage him close, not wanting him to be away from you.

But, it's easier to just hold him close than tell him he’s all you need, too. 

Now, though, you can bask in the moment when he descends down your collarbone, kissing the skin under your breasts before sliding down to your naval, kissing the healed scar and its tingly nerves. Usually, you watch his eyes flick up at you, bathing you in blue that makes it feel like you’re swimming. Your breath hitching, knowing that look—how it’s accompanied by a slow, taunting descent as the tip of his tongue makes a path down to your cunt. 

“Don’t tease,” you whisper, pleadingly. 

But he will. 

He gets some sick satisfaction from making you wait, from torturing you. You don’t blame him. You enjoy doing it back. Slow torturous kisses up his shaft followed by slow swirls of your tongue over his dripping head. 

“Like takin’ my time wit’ yer, lass.”

He savours you now. Likely has done for some time.

You're unsure when it changed. When it went from chest pressed down on a washing machine, fucking into you like he’s running out of time to this. Now, it’s locked doors and holding you close, pressing your spine against the inside laundry door, slowly filling you as he holds you up, close, with nowhere to go. 

As if you want to be anywhere but with him. 

You blame the injury. He doesn’t treat you like you’re fragile, but he doesn’t fuck you like your robust. Not since you bled over him, since he paled in front of your eyes and you stole all his cockiness. 

Now, it’s like he needs to remind himself you’re alive—and he does so by making you mewl, moan and whimper. Both of your previous coping mechanisms for stress and hate have now developed into something else entirely. You know you’ve sunk to your knees for him, taking all of him down your throat—tears springing to your lashes—just to remind him he had someone. To root him, fill him with a reason to come back to you, to find you, to let you in. 

If it wasn’t for Price, you wouldn't have known it was reciprocated, that same yearning, same need to keep hold of him. 

Price told you that you broke him—snapped Johnny in two. 

“Like a kicked puppy, that one. Half-surprised he didn’t piss a ring around y’bed. Wouldn’t even get himself looked at. Practically wore the floor out, turnin’ on the spot.”  “No he wasn’t.” He assures you he was. “Heal up, alright? Need you back with us.” 

That had been over a month ago. 

Now he’s lying between your legs, very much whole. Treating you—rewarding you for not giving up during sparring. Even if you’d wanted to. Even if all your muscles burned in anger at him, especially when his body was close—a grey t-shirt clinging to his muscles from sweat, looking every bit carved and god-like even in clothing. 

You hated it. How fit he was. 

How weak you were. 

He saw it, must have done—you did a piss poor job at hiding it. And so he blackmailed you—tempted you with the only thing he knew he could give you, and him alone. 

“Think of it like this, Hen. Y’get me on my back. I’ll make y’ bein’ on yours worth it later.” “I’ve got fingers, MacTavish.” “Aye, you do. But, your tongue can’t get tha’ hard to reach spot now can’it?”  His hand on your waist, on the good side—staring into your eyes. And fuck, you wanted to kiss him. Wanted to run your tongue passed his teeth.  “And, I kno’ y’love my mouth, lass.” 

He keeps his word. 

Beginning his promise in the shower, water and body wash sliding down your skin as he pins you to the tiles. No touching, just there—all within reach. Letting your eyes follow the suds as they slide down his deep-V.

Then you were on your back, wet towel on his floor, cool air brushing over your still damp skin. 

“Seems counterproductive, showering me, to get me filthy again.” 

“Maybe,” he grins, kissing your neck, the tip of his tongue drawing circles. “But, I’ll never complain about gettin’ and keepin’ yer naked, hen. You’re fuckin’ beautiful.” 

He pulls you from the memory, the one which happened mere minutes ago, as he slides the flat of his tongue against your core. It makes you almost jolt—hiss, moan. His hand pins your good side to the bed. 

“Keep still, lass. Don’t want y’to exert yourself.”

“You cocky pri—“

He buries your words by prodding your cunt with his fingers, tongue swirling your bundle of nerves as you grasp the sheets for leverage.  

You swear he smirks. Can feel it against you as he circles his tongue over you, lapping, teasing, and tasting. Likely fuelled by your desperate whines, the ones he pulls from you over and over again.

He hums, and vibrates his mouth against you as he curls his fingers inside of you—hands clenching around his hair, doing your best to keep your back on the bed. 

He has you at his mercy. Dangling you over the edge, almost allowing you to tip over, coat his tongue and palm in your pleasure.

But, Johnny is an expert. He knows you, what has you whimpering and moaning—and how to keep you hanging. He’s studied what pressure to apply, how to twist his tongue against your clit, until you’re a quivering mess, barely clinging to reality as he pushes you close to ascending.

Your hips buck, but his grip on your hip is stronger.

“Yer taste heavenly.”

You’ll never grow used to his compliments.

The ones which fall from his mouth with ease. The ones which make you blush from your cheeks to your toes—something he must notice, even if he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“Want y’ forever.” 

Your heart rises, doubles and flutters. “I’m all yours, Johnny.” 

You only know he’s heard you from how he pauses, before he continues his assault—and this time he doesn’t dangle you. He lets you fall, right over the fucking edge.

It hits you so fast it takes your breath away, unsure how you had enough to spit his name out—never mind it falling from your lips over and over again.

Johnny pecks the air, merging with whines to make a sound that was sinful, so rich—you’re sure the room would ring off it for hours. Your eyes flicker, glancing down, seeing him lift up, grin adorning his face.

“Yer tired, hen?”

You snort, trying to hide how your legs are trembling. “No.”

“Good girl.”

His eyes a thunderstorm out over a sea—and a fucking sight to behold.

10.

You used to fuck him because you didn’t like him. 

Now, you fuck him because you love him and you’re not sure what to do with it. 

The feelings knotting, amassing into a chunk in your chest. Your lips say as much when they crash against his, pulling him closer by his belt loops. 

“Need to feel you, Johnny.”

You don’t beg. But you do ask, now. Less action, and more words. Your fingers peeled his t-shirt first, allowing your hands to run over his skin, feel each muscle, the thrum of his pulse. The rest fall from both of you, littering the floor as you cling to him, as you palm his want in your hand and he coats his fingers in your desperation. 

There’s a heaviness to each movement. It wraps its fingers around each touch, each noise. It pollutes it, what this could be—something nice, normal. 

Instead, it reminds you of what you could lose. That you could board and watch the base vanish into the distance, not sure if you’d see it again. See him again. 

You’d tried to not let feelings bloom. You’d tried to keep it as pleasure, as stress relief—but you’d liked waking up beside him—loved that he was the person beside you when you’d opened your eyes after surgery. 

While the clinical stench hit you first, then the pain, it was he who quickly followed. Even now, even as you’ve tried to rewrite that moment, you know in your heart you’d wished he had been the first thing you’d felt. Only him. No pain, no smell, not even a noise: just Johnny. 

He must know. He has a second sense for things—for bubbling thoughts and moments being twisted. Or, he has a sense for you, at least. You think it because he’s on his knees on the cold floor, hooking your thighs onto his forearms as he devours you—and fuck does he do it well.

He takes you to the edge, lets you dangle, almost lets it swallow you before he pulls his lips back, blowing cool air along your soaked cunt. 

“Gotta make y’come back f’more.” 

Johnny says it like he doesn’t know. 

Like the idea that you’re in love with him isn’t possible, unfathomable, rather than something which is very much reality. 

Because you are in love with him. It’s a fact. Something concrete. Just the same as you are full of him, once he pushes you back on the bed and buries his cock to the hilt in you. 

It’s filthy—obscene—all the noises you let loose. The ones willing to escape, purposefully peeled from the words that cling to your tongue: I love you. I love you so much. 

His cock hits that spot which makes your legs feel weightless, and you kiss him again, hungrily, needily. His hand fists your hair, each thrust perfectly hitting that spot that made a tear fall from your lash at how good it was—how good he was.

“Fuck, Johnny—fuck.”

It’s the only words you let escape—all you can do. So fearful of those three words touching the air, escaping. 

I love you. 

Your teeth clamp down on your bottom lip as he presses his forehead to yours. His hips meeting yours, another wave of pleasure building and building, all set to crash down and cover you. 

You took it all the same. You’d take everything he’d give you. Your hands grasping him closer, clutching onto him as your throat burns—you’re so full of him, in every sense of the word. You can’t imagine it never being him, not just here, between your thighs but everywhere else he is. 

In your bed. 

In your head.

In your heart. 

His hand knots in yours, fingers on either side of yours as he clamps himself, palm to palm—secretly clamping you. 

And it’s too much. 

It’s so real, so beautiful. You want to deserve it, deserve him—

“Fuck.”

He angles himself, dragging his cock through your walls harder, faster. 

“I kno’, lass. Yer fuckin’ somethin’ else y’are, hen. Heavenly. Fuckin’ goddess-like.” 

Then he plunges you in blue, and stares past your eyes and into your soul. Likely seeing the words, the ones he should have, should be given willingly and not held back by nervous hands. 

“Let go, hen. Let go f’me.” 

And you do. You'd do everything for him.

So, it snaps, the knot in your stomach. The one you'd been clinging to. Your body becomes both tight and loose all at once as you let go, and come around his cock. His name rips from your throat as pleasure, all white-light and flaming-touch, tears through you and consumes you. 

It’s like lightning and fireworks, and everything else when your resolve cracks—his hips still pistoning, chasing his own as your aftershocks continue, as you flutter back down to him.

But, it’s his hand in yours, the one still clamps you here with him that you focus on when you hear him moan your name. 

Your hand remains with his even as he slides himself out of you, his frame falling limply next to you—right onto his side of the bed. The place you always leave free, whether it’s your own bed or his. The place your head is already turned, waiting expectantly for him. So used to all of this now, this routine. 

“When do y’have to go?” 

Your mouth twitches, a longing in your eyes and the heaviness from earlier, settling onto your bones. “I’ll miss you.”

“Aye?”

Smirking, you roll your eyes. Trying to keep hold of the moment for as long as you can. To keep a mental picture of him like this, happy, not fearing and nervous. 

“You’ve prepared me well.”

“Aye. Well. Y’let me.”

You kiss him. 

Not like you’d usually do, but one which says more than you think you can articulate. The movement of your lips is able to write the words your heart is desperate to sing. You keep hold of his hand, quite liking his palm against yours. You enjoy how your thumb can stroke the healed and silver scar on his hand, all from something boring like DIY and not combat. 

You don’t want to stop, hating it when you do. 

Each item of your clothing returns back into place, fixing your hair, and haphazardly wiping anything from your face—pleasure-filled tears or sweat. 

When you leave him, you’re thankful he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t ask you to wait; doesn’t ask for another second. He knows, like you do, that operations wait for no one and those in the dark don’t wait for the sun to set. 

You do hear him call your name, more professional than he had moments ago. 

You turn, walking backwards staring at his head and how it peers around the doorway. “Y’come back in one piece.”

“For you?” you smirk, “I’ll consider it.”

11. 

Now, it's different. 

It began on a dusty floor, and it grew amongst the sand and sheets. 

Your head turns, staring up at him as he adjusts the strap on his vest. His brows pinched, strands of hair threatening to fall across his forehead—his hair so much longer across the entire space of his head. The same hair you ragged and ran your fingers through.

It’s nice to be beside him again. To be allowed to run with them as a squad—your smaller, less combative operations appeasing Price that you’re ready. 

You’re an important part of the team, y’hear me? We ain’t rushin’ it. 

Now, you were glad.

No ghostly pains, just ones from Simon’s stare at your commentary. No pangs or jolts, only when you hear Johnny recommend something dangerous, always involving himself. Even if you know he’ll come back. Even if he’s promised you he will. Your heart lurches each time you think of something nicking his skin, something embedding into his bones—something taking his eyes, smile and soul from you. 

“Yer good?” 

Smiling, you nod, “Aye.”

“Bugger aff wid ye’.”

You smirk, rolling your lips, sliding one hand between your top and vest, staring off at the others checking their gear as you hear him sigh. 

“Try n’ follow orders, lass,” he says in a low voice, “Don’t fancy gettin’ stuck in a dusty safehour wit’ yer. Can’t keep y’warm. Got a girlfriend, y’know.”

Sweeping your tongue across your bottom lip, you fight a grin. “That so? She must be a saint.”

“Aye, she’s somethin’ special, I’ll tell you.” 

“Has to be, to put up with you.”

He keeps his laugh low, but it lights you all the same. Kisses every inch of you, warming you from head to toe. Your skin is desperate to press against him, your muscles and bones calling for him. 

His fingers stretch, flex—ghosting between the gap which feels like miles. You can feel his head turning to look at you, likely watching you as you stare out at the sand—the two of you all kitted up, weighed down and raring to go.

And then he does it, lightly brushing his fingers against yours. It’s the most brazen he’s been—most the two of you have ever been. Even since the two of you became something real, something more than just a rumour and a lie. 

And it’s electrifying and grounding, making your lips twitch, eyes smiling the rest. 

You know he can tell, even from the side. He knows you too well by now, the same way you know him. The two of you have become so well versed in one another—knowing exactly what each muscle change in each face means.

“Didn’t have you down as unprofessional, MacTavish,” you whisper. Just loud enough for him to hear.

Your fingers hooking around his, holding his hand. Tightly. Meaningfully. 

“For you, I’m a lotta things, lass.”

“That so?” 

He smirks, tilting his head, as you raise your chin to look at him. “Good job I’m happy to be a lot of things for you too, then. Isn’t it?”

“Tha’ y’saying yer love me, lass?” 

You smile, staring ahead as you sigh. “No. You’ll know it when I say it. But, I do know you love me, MacTavish.”

“Aye. I do.” 

His fingers release yours, a breeze ghosting over the space they were. Your head is unable to turn, unable to stop your eyes from staring into his. 

“I’m not saying it now, got to give you something to come back to me for.” 

You watch it slowly, how it eclipses his entire face. It sparks his eyes, blasting you in a blue that should change the entire environment and not just you. Then, it lifts his cheeks, the corners of his lips, and then he grins—grins so wide he’s sure he could make you forget how to breathe. 

“Fair,” he says, raising his wrist, fingers moving along his wrist as you frown.

It takes a second—far too long for how intuitive you are. Your eyes catch sight of it, half-impressed he hasn’t lost it as he slides it from under his watch—that hairband. The one he stole. 

“But, yer should kno’. I’ll always come back t’you, hen, ‘cause I gotta give y’this back.” 

You nod, and your other hand—the one desperate to hold his—clutches the other strap of your vest, pressing your thighs together. The earlier moment now isn’t feeling enough, even if the bruises on your hip brushing against your trousers say otherwise. 

Turning your head, you look across at the others, them looking almost set, as you sigh. 

“I love,” you say in a whisper.

Not sure if the breeze stole it, whipped them and carried them away into some corner of the world. They were only two words, after all.

But, he presses his hand on the lower part of your spine—firm, and fingers spread. The two of you walking, hating that with each step you were close to feeling his hand fall from you until the next moment alone.

“I love, too.”

He says it with a dipped head, a soft look in his eye as he slides his hand along your back, around your hip before it’s gone—just left with blue, Johnny blue, the best fucking shade of all. 

it's completeeee. i know she was only three chapters, but i don't think I've been able to juggle my life to be this consistent with anything in a long time. so, i'm buzzing.

soap sunday will continue with a new mini-series. diff reader, etc. but thank you for making my sundays have purpose, and all being so kind about me, this and my work. i loves you.

[runespoor7]

i know you already made a post on it once but because i couldn't stop thinking about it: for the au meme, the au where wwx makes talismans for wn and wn uses them to dick down jc?

in the tags of that post I implied that everyone except WWX wanted WWX to stop making it about him, but that’s too close to the notes last AU hit (and the vibes on that one were not rancid enough), so here’s what I’m thinking would be more interesting instead:

WN is doing it on purpose. Not the first time, or the second, but after a while sneaking around to bully (sexually) WWX’s… selfish-as-hell former sect brother, without WWX knowing, becomes part and parcel of the appeal. There’s something very satisfying about it. WWX wouldn't want to make JC cry, WN is well aware, but WN can do it on his behalf and that’s good and what is deserved here. (There’s also a part of WN that likes doing something without WWX knowing. It's a relief, as well. But WN doesn't like dwelling on his bodily autonomy or lack thereof and he especially doesn't like thinking about it or WWX in negative ways, so)

2. In this timeline WWX doesn't have an out-and-out meltdown, because: WN softly says that he hopes Wei-gongzi will keep making it possible for WN to see JC.

And wow WWX is suddenly extremely here for that. Conflicted! But hum that is a thought that beard revisiting. WN can fuck JC because WWX makes it possible. Ego-wise this is extremely good for WWX and also libido-wise it does something for him.

WWX gives WN the necessary talismans, and WN tells WWX what WWX wants to know about having sex with JC. (No, of course JC doesn't know. No, of course LWJ doesn't know either.

3. I envision some steady escalation there. WWX starting to tell WN what he wants him to do to JC. WN trying to look at JC like what he imagines are WWX’s eyes. 

WN in particular is having his brain rearranged in real time - it’s so easy to glide into what WWX wants him to do, to simply lose himself into being WWX’s thing. And yet - WWX’s requests are never enough to last a night, WWX is never satisfied with WN recounting what WWX wanted - WWX is so hungry for the details that he didn't know to expect. Incredibly thrilling to do things on his own that have JC moaning and tell WWX about it and watch WWX’s eyes go dark. WN can be so good and WN is necessary and WN is both WWX’s thing and WWX’s stand-in and the person making JC beg and break.

WWX sliding a paperman on WN, so he can see - he needs to see. He comes very hard but at the same time it’s not enough - he’s not controlling WN, he doesn’t feel what WN feels…

4. Because WN can feel WWX start growing dissatisfied with the paperman (that didn’t take long at all) - I think he realizes WWX has started dabbling into how-to-project-his-conscience-into-a-fierce-corpse - he starts including more mentions of WWX into his dirty talk. The levels of destructive hatesex have gone somewhat down since he and JC started fucking (just as well, WN was levels of roughness WWX would not have condoned), and JC’s occasionally sneered a challenged on that topic when he wants a reaction, so WN gets his revenge by wielding mentions of WWX like a sexy weapon. 

It’s very effective for everyone involved, JC gets off on the implied degradation, WWX gets off on JC wanting him (and at the same feels horribly guilty for his JC-is-crying-because-of-me boner, what’s new), WN gets off on both being of use to WWX and sometimes one-upping the WWX he’s making up for JC (WWX doesn’t like that part much. WN ending scenes by making JC pant WN’s name when WN demands JC says who’s making him feel good does not feel good to WWX). (WWX and WN can have a little sexy rivalry as a spice.)

5. at this stage WWX is definitely not going to be happy sitting on the sidelines like a voyeur forever. possibly it has more than vibes of dubcon, because JC always needs a little convincing and at some point he’s probably going to be pissed at WN, but that’s not going to stop anyone, and sunk cost fallacy added to how weak he is for the idea of WWX wanting him, WWX picking him, is going to get JC pretty easily. LWJ still doesn't know the first thing about this and I'm sure it's all going to be fine.

[findingnemosworld]

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 - 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐰𝐢𝐧 𝐧𝐮́𝐧̃𝐞𝐳

• 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲: @writtenbykirs

( 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 )

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐬𝐦*𝐭.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐲𝐲𝐲!!!

Silence camps between them as they enter the hotel room, she placed her suitcase on the left side of the room whilst he placed his on the far right side, He turns to her with a rude look. " This wouldn’t have happened had you let me handle talking to the receptionist! "

" Talking? you were eye fucking her you damn horny creep " She groans, then added. " I swear you can’t go a day without wanting to bury your cock in some girl’s pussy "

" What can I say? the girls love me muñeca " He shrugs nonchalantly, a smug smile evident across his lips.

" No, no … you just think they do, they love the footballer who thinks he’s god’s gift to women when all he is, is a guy who just so happens to know how to roll a ball between his feet, nothing more, nothing less " She said.

" You know, instead of being so uptight — I can help you loosen up " He states with a smirk.

" Wouldn’t you like that? but you know what I’d rather cut off my right arm then have sex with you " She spat.

He chuckles, " That’s funny, you had no problem letting Trent flirt with you "

She rolls her eyes, " Oh here we go! " she murmured, it seemed like he had to comment on her close friendship with the football player, the pair hailed from the same area which allowed them to become closer.

" Don’t lie to me muñeca, you know damn well you’d rather have Trent here with you right now " He said, chuckling smugly. " I swear, it doesn’t take an idiot to see how it is with you two "

" And why are you so worked up about it huh? is your ego bruised because I’m not like every girl that falls down to her knees wanting to suck your dick " She laughs, " Just so you know … you won’t make it in life if you keep thinking like this "

He was about to respond when he noted how furious she seemed, so he opted not to — instead watching as she grabbed her change of clothing to go shower, " Don’t take up all the hot water "

She flipped him off before slamming the bathroom door behind her. He sighs softly, this wasn’t what he envisioned, not even in the slightest.

He didn’t necessarily hate her — if anything he liked her, he really liked her yet he couldn’t find it in him; it was so arduous to tell her as every time he was around her, he’d either end up behaving like a dumb teenager or worse, say the absolute wrong thing which resulted in her getting angry at him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening, she stepped out, dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, she shot him a glare then said. " There’s hot water if you’re going to shower "

He grabs his change of clothes then looks at her, " At least you didn’t yell at me " he chuckles.

She ignored his remark, busying herself with her laptop.

__

" Are you awake? "

Her brows knit in confusion, she turns to face him with a confused expression, the numbers 𝟒:𝟎𝟎𝐚𝐦 — glaring to cast a brief illumination in their hotel room, " What do you want? " she murmured, a ponderous sigh escapes her lips.

He rolls his eyes then whined, " I just want to talk amor, come on "

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his childish antics then responded with a sarcastic tone, " Oh lucky me! you, the mighty Darwin Núñez wants to talk to me "

" Why do you have to be so uptight? " He grunts.

" Maybe because you’re an insensitive, self centered prick " She retorted with an eye roll.

" I’m an insensitive prick, you’re the one who would brush me off every time I talk to you " He states, turning to face her. " You have no idea how difficult you are "

" I’m only an ‘uptight’ person because all you do is find new ways to annoy me, who broke the lights last week? you did … who spilt hot coffee all over my papers, you did … who thought it’d be a good idea to play a prank only for me to take four fucking weeks to remove the stench of paint from my office? you … it’s like you enjoyed seeing me suffer " She groans in frustration.

He sighs, " I … "

" You know what … " She interjects, sitting up. " I tried to understand you Darwin, I really did but every time it’s like you shut me out, I don’t get it … "

" I don’t … " He paused, " Yes I was a bit of a cocky prick "

" That’s an understatement " She chuckled dryly before adding. " Darwin, every time we talk or even try to, you either make a disgusting remark about my body, you act as if your god’s gift to women and you flirt with everything that has a pulse, the amount of female interns that came to me with tears because you string them on then leave them … "

A soft sigh escapes his lips, " I … I had no idea at all "

" Of course you didn’t all you do is think about yourself " She rolled her eyes.

" You know what, if you give me a chance … I can show you that I’m not as bad as you think I am " He whispers.

" As If, like I said I’d rather cut off my right arm then sleep with you Núñez " She said.

He sighs, " Fine then, you leave me no choice … " he tugs her in for a searing passionate kiss, his lips devouring hers entirely.

She’d tried to initially resist, only to end up melting in his embrace resulting in him smiling against her lips, he pulls back then whispers. " I told you … "

Before she can respond, he pins her down on the bed to press tantalizingly leisure kisses across the length of her shoulder, " Let me tell you muñeca, I’ve dreamt about this since the day I met you "

His words sent shivers down her spine, " What do you mean? " she whispers.

He lifts his head up, one hand grips her waist while the other rests on the side of her neck, he leans in to kiss her deeply then whisper softly, " I like you, I like you a lot … more than I can explain "

Her eyes widen, " Then why did you …? "

" I was an idiot muñeca, I was a complete idiot that couldn’t for the life of him tell you how he felt … " He chuckles shyly, " Please, tell me you feel the same way or at the very least you’re willing to let me make you happy amor "

She bites down on her lower lip, then tugs him in for a soft kiss that deepened immediately — his hands crawled underneath the shirt to caress her soft skin drawing out soft gasps from her lips, " Darwin " she whimpers.

He smiles then lifts his head up, " Sit up muñeca " he whispers.

She sits up then he followed suit, patting his lap for her to sit on — she giggled then settled on top of his lap, he pulls her in for a kiss before he tugged her shirt over her head, they exchange sweet kisses that grew heated as he gently tugged his boxers down to free his cock, her gaze flickers downwards and she subconsciously licks her lips.

" Sit up muñeca, want to feel you wrapped around my cock " He whispers.

She nods, pushing her panties to the side to allow him to tease her slick pussy with the tip of his cock before he pushed his the entire length of his cock inside of her — the pair releasing a unanimous gasp together, " Fuck " she whispers.

" Jesus muñeca, this is better than all the nights I ever imagined this " He murmurs softly, " Come on, bounce of my cock bebe "

She bites on her lower lip, settling in for a brief moment before she began to move up and down, their hips colliding with each thrust, the pair releasing soft breaths together, he tugs her in for a passionate kiss, " Keep moving bebe, I’m almost there "

" Me too " She moans, biting down on her lip as she threw her head back, " Oh fuck, I’m going to cum "

" Yeah, come on bebe … cum on my cock " He moans softly.

The knot in her lower abdomen explodes as they exchange one last kiss before he pulled her off of him, " Come here " he whispers as he sits on the edge of the bed, " Clean up the mess you made muñeca "

She smirks, shuffling close until she sat down on her knees, she wrapped her hand around the length of his cock while her lips wrapped around the tip of his cock, she leisurely took him inch by her inch while she used her tongue to lick the prominent veins, drawing out strangled moans from him, his hands threads through her hair as she hopped her head up down, using her lips and tongue to coat his cock with her saliva.

" Oh muñeca, you’re so good at this … keep going, keep going … just like that, oh fuck " He moans, " Oh! … keep going, keep going, oh fuck "

Her movements shifted into a rapid pace, as he continued to release ponderous moans and groans, " Fuck, just like that … I’m almost there, I’m almost there … OH FUCK! "

His cock twitched before releasing warm ropes of arousal down her throat, she lapped up every drop until the very last — she pulls back and before she can utter a single word, he tugs her back up to kiss her softly, " I think you know what that means "

" What? " She giggles.

" You’re mine now " He smiles.

[diagonal-queen]

nikolai x reader in the winter

okay so uh SUPER self indulgent post incoming

cw: nikolai is a bit of a bastard and he gets himself sick like the skrunkly little moron he is. food mentions. 

imagine its winter. obviously it’s cold outside and snowing and stuff, so you’re wanting to spend the day inside. if you’re anything like me you wrap yourself in blankets and wear fluffy pyjamas in winter. but that dick nikolai is silly n goofy. he would blast the aircon just to fuck with you and make you super cold (secretly, he thinks it’s cute that you’re annoyed with him and burrito-ing yourself in all the blankets and feels accomplished whenever he gets a cranky face from you). 

eventually once he’s done tormenting you he’ll sit down on the ground in between your legs and let you mess with his hair while you guys are watching TV. give him a couple tugs and massage his head a little bit. he may be a menace but that relaxes him a lot. 

if nikolai makes you hot chocolate it would be very tasty but he would certainly overdo it with the marshmallows. he dumps piles of them into both mugs and they get everywhere (if you nag him enough he will help you clean the marshmallow powder later). ‘this is nice, Kolya, but marshmallows are tumbling out of my mug. i cant drink it like this.’ - you, probably. he gives you a face and tuts to himself because you’re just so cute when you’re concerned about his little shenanigans. in many ways he is a little bit of a sadist. 

once you get through the hot chocolate and you’re all warm and toasty, nikolai may take a seat in the armchair beside a crackling fireplace and treat you to sitting on his lap, where you both stay unusually quiet in your state of tranquility. maybe you occasionally mutter silly things to each other to get a soft chuckle out of the other person. nikolai pats your thigh with one large hand, and slowly cards the other one through your hair. this happens until, eventually, you fall asleep in his arms. 

the next day nikolai wants to play in the snow, because who the fuck doesn’t?? (i do. i live in a place without snow). it might take a little bit of convincing for you though, because the idea of nikolai in a snowball fight is simply envisioning a war you absolutely can’t win. nonetheless, his pleas and his wrapping his arms around you from behind and whining ‘c’mon, dove. please? can we?’ eventually wear you down, and so you bundle yourselves in warm winter gear before heading out. nikolai has seen plenty of snow in his life but he always seems so captivated by it. it is very beautiful! 

there are two ways to snap him from this trance! the safe option is to pounce on him, knocking you both into the snow. yes, it might be cold, but you won’t be noticing that while you’re in nikolai’s arms and you and him laugh in unison. the deadly option is to throw a snowball at him. that’s a declaration of battle. you will not be spared, even if you are his s/o. 

he will tear your ass to shreds in a snowball fight. though, if you were to get a bit of ice in your eye, he would stop and check to see if your eye’s broken. if not, he doesn’t give you a second to recuperate. he’s right back at it. and of course, once you are on your knees (literally or metaphorically, either is fine for him) begging for his mercy, he may give it to you. 

nikolai would definitely be the one out of the both of you to catch a cold from the snow, because he does not know when to quit. you could tell him to come inside for hours, but he won’t reappear until he’s pale and very obviously got a cold. nikolai is fatigued and lethargic when he’s sick, and him being low-energy is a very sad sight. 

get this man some borscht soup and medicine. he will probably ask you to spoon feed him because he’s just soooo weak and achy and can’t do it himself! he’s a man child and i love him for it. that being said, he is extremely appreciative when you help take care of him. he does give you soft words of gratitude with rosy cheeks and maybe a little peck to your hand (can’t be kissing your lips cus you might get sick and he’d NEVER do that to you!) (he does it a few hours later having completely forgotten he’s sick in the first place)

i love winter already but i think i’d especially love to share it with nikolai

[clonerightsagenda]

Pick a favorite character for the ask thing

(Ask meme here)

Did you know in my years of doing this ask meme, no one has asked about my beloved Hera? Possibly bc I talk about her so much already. Jokes on everyone, we are doing it again

First impression

I have told this story many times, but I was white knuckling it through the whole podcast terrified that she would get her memories deleted. To be entirely fair that was a rejected season 3 concept.

Impression now

I love her! Favorite AI character of all time. Chronic pain solidarity.

Favorite moment

I have many favorite moments, but what's coming to mind now based on some of my other responses to this prompt is that Hera delivers the only "I love you" aimed at people who are physically present. Minkowski says it in a message to her husband, Eiffel says it in a recording to his daughter, but iirc Hera is the only one to say it live, and it's platonic and to the group, which I Just Think Is Neat. (Iconically aro podcast w359 strikes again.) Also the whole quote is "I love you guys, but you need to get it through your heads that what goes for you doesn't go for me" which really gets back to one of the show's points that love isn't enough. You can genuinely care for someone and want the best for them and still fuck up, still hurt them, still not fully understand what they're going through. But you still have to communicate and you still have to try.

Idea for a story

Currently working on a PGW fic where the crew swings by the Hermes on their way back to Earth to rescue that station's AI and Hera has to work through her feelings about facing someone who was in the same situation as she was but did not come out on top. Rn she is being unfair about it.

Hera’s equally on edge. “The collar program is still running, she might not have that much processing power. But be ready in case she tries something. She’d better not try anything.” “It’s not her fault, is it?” he asks, surprised by the viciousness in her tone. “I beat a collar program.” “Didn’t Dr. Maxwell help you a lot, though?” Hera doesn’t like talking about Dr. Maxwell. “I don’t care,” she says instead. “She shouldn’t have let Dr. Pryce make her hurt them. Just because she couldn’t stop Dr. Pryce from taking her crew away from her doesn’t mean she gets to take mine away from me.”

Unpopular opinion

You mean besides my post that got me vagueblogged about? Here's another one: I don't think Hera would want or enjoy a human/humanoid body. The one time she's limited to a single source of visual input, her response is "it's weird; I don't like it". She's proud of being able to see colors our skull-gelatin can't comprehend, even if she's sorry she can't share them with anyone. She enjoys being a AI mother program when she's on a functioning system like the Sol. Yes she envisions herself as present with the crew in parts of Memoria, and there's an implication she's given herself a humansona, but my interpretation of that was that she wants to be treated as one of them, and unfortunately most of the crew's approach to treating her as a person is trying to treat her like a human. She's not wrong to think they'd relate to her better if she looked like them. (Is that not the same principle the Listeners used?) Maxwell was able to meet with her on her level, but as much as the other crewmembers care about her, they don't understand Hera in the same way. Downloading her into an android body feels like an accommodation for their benefit rather than trying to find a way for her to thrive on her own terms. Smarthouse Hera forever.

(For the record when her VA was asked if Hera would like being human her response was 'she'd try it for a day to see what it's like but she wouldn't want to stay that way'. Seems reasonable to me.)

Favorite relationship

As most followers know I am very fond of her (non-romantic!!) friendship with Eiffel. They've got a lot in common! They fuck up with each other but then do better! They were both sent up there knowing they were disposable and then decide to care about each other on purpose. However most followers also know that in my last few relistens I've been thinking a lot about her overlaps with Lovelace - how they are both surveillance tools that entities use to try to hurt other people, and they both overcome that. Hera is extending non-human solidarity but she wants to be recognized as a non-human person and Lovelace would really prefer to be viewed as human, thanks. There's tension there.

Favorite headcanon

I've posted before that I think she retains some of Pryce and Eiffel's memories which has funny, sad, and interesting implications. Among these I think she kept override codes Pryce can use on AIs so she can fight that kind of thing off in the future, and something that will come up in that Hermes fic is her deciding whether she's willing to use those on someone else. Stay tuned.

[shostakobitchh]

Hello! On my millionth re-read of Aim and Ignite, and would love to know how you would have wrote/envisioned Snape’s reaction to the memory Lily left for Ariel and him. When Lily says that she “loves them both”, Ariel doesn’t linger too much on those words as she knew Lily loved her dearly, having read so in the letter/seen Lily’s love and sorrow for her in the Mirror etc. I can only imagine what Snape must have felt when he heard Lily say that she loved him, even though she couldn’t truly know that he was “on his way back”... I think it’s interesting that Snape doesn’t ever think about/reflect on that moment, is it just too painful? Is it locked away forever in his mind? I absolutely adore your story and would love to hear your thoughts!

so, I love this question for two reasons.

(1) this was the very first thing I wrote for aim & ignite - the story was actually meant to end on this moment - and it is my favorite thing i’ve written thus far.

(2) I kept a lot of what Snape felt here a mystery because you’re completely right! he has never reflected on the memory, has never really thought about it. I actually don’t think I’ve ever written him ever even having a passing thought about this moment and how it’s affected him - and there’s absolutely a reason for that!

Short answer: yes, Snape finds it almost unbearable that she loved him, and he cannot mentally handle that memory, so he keeps it under lockdown. Notice that he doesn’t say a single word after they emerge from the memory - Ariel even remarks that she can’t tell if the hand on her shoulder is to comfort her, or to keep himself upright. She sees him in a very, VERY vulnerable state. I believe he’s covering his face, too - my original intention was that he was trying not to cry, actually - I know, a rare one for Snape! But it’s open to interpretation honestly.

The one thing he took away and keeps at the forefront is that Lily asked Snape to care for Ariel. She asked him to do what he should have done from the beginning, and he does, which you see when he’s strolling through Little Whinging with Ariel after the events of Book 1. He’s actually trying.

Long answer (I just typed all this out a deleted it I’m going to kill myself)

At the time, Lily had no idea what she felt for Snape. It’s my own personal headcanon that Lily always loved him, in a way, had some sort of crush but didn’t understand it until the Mudblood incident. That’s why the inciting incident of Snape saving Lily during battle drives her crazy in the flashback in Chapter 11 (I think it’s Chapter 11, anyway).

Snape, in the meantime, has always loved her - never stopped, never will. The idea that he HAD Lily - he could have had her after that night in the inn - probably could have saved her life - is crushing him. And this is ON TOP of the prophecy (and The Other Thing, but we’re not there yet).

And, despite all of his mistakes - “you’re on your way back.” Lily still believes in him. He showed her enough that night that she knows, somehow, someway, he’ll come back and do the right thing. For Snape to know she had that much faith in him - at a time when he was still a loyal Death Eater - he just can’t handle it. He can’t forgive himself for fucking up so massively.

Snape knows he could have saved Lily, but even with what happened between them it changed nothing, so he doesn’t think his love was enough. Lily, however, loved him knowing he wouldn’t come back - not for a while, anyway - but she had to try something - anything - for Ariel.

I also think finally confronting that memory will directly tie into how Snape feels about Ariel. He’s admitted he cares about her - okay, great. What’s he going to do with that? Well, right now, he’s caring in his Snape-way, but he’s not exactly doing it well. And why is that?

Because he loves Ariel and doesn’t know it yet.

And once he admits he loves Ariel, he can begin to make his way back to Lily, and what she tried to give him in the Pensive.

[tennessoui]

Hey kit ! Your last fic was a treat, I love sugar baby Obi-wan being spoiled by Anakin !! He deserves it ! Thank you so much for sharing !

For the four words prompt, what about TIIT Obi-wan saying « you’re a menace » to Anakin 😁 ?

hey!! thank you, i'm glad you liked it!!!

this is set in the squick: a/b/o universe of terribly inconvenient, incredibly terrific, a few months after the end!!

(also,,,,,may be posting a 4th chapter/epilogue to that fic this week,,,,,,where obi-wan goes into surprise rut,,,so if you wanna reread to prep/remind yourself,,,,i had to)

(1.7k)

For one blissful, probably pheromone-addled moment, Obi-Wan had really honestly let himself believe that claiming and mating Anakin would somehow make him easier to wrangle. That perhaps the only thing that would have helped during his bratty and incorrigible senior padawan years was a mating bite and some sort of sexual reward system for good behavior.

He’d even tricked himself into feeling quite optimistic about the whole thing. He’d never particularly envisioned himself as a mated alpha, but he’d thought it could be agreeable, when the omega he was mated to was also the same person who turned out to be the love of his life.

He’d really honestly thought that mating the brat would make his life much easier, and not even because of any of the stereotypical alpha tricks and dynamics nonsense always purported by the galactic holos and media. He hadn’t thought he could scruff Anakin into obedience or that he’d ever want to use that commanding alpha tone on him to make him fall in line.

Obi-Wan isn’t that sort of alpha. 

Obi-Wan would rather die than ever become that sort of alpha. 

But they’d admitted their love to each other in the wake of Anakin’s heat, in the precious few moments before they’d bonded. 

Weren’t you supposed to want to make the person you loved’s life easier? As a general rule of thumb?

Apparently no one’s told Anakin this.

“You’re a menace,” Obi-Wan says, and his tone is supposed to be flat, unimpressed, but it comes out almost awed. 

Anakin preens from behind the bars of his jail cell. He goes back to looking surly a second later though, like it’s his resting demeanor.

“Two planetary incidents in one fucking day,” Obi-Wan continues, still trying to wrap his head around…this. He starts pacing, because pacing usually helps. “The Vun and the Jael peoples hate each other, Anakin. They’ve not agreed on anything for the past two thousand years, hence the entire civil war. And yet in the span of one day, you’ve managed to unite them behind one thing. Hatred for you.”

Anakin bears his teeth, air spiking with the scent of—of—sticky sap.

“Are you—sorry, are you aroused?”

“No!” Anakin scowls and shifts from his seat on the jail cell bed. His cheeks are flushed though, and he can’t maintain eye contact with him.

“You are,” Obi-Wan says slowly, the awe accidentally slinking its way back into his voice. “Do you know how many hours of my night I just spent negotiating for your release and our safe passage off Vu/Jaelo? Too many to fucking count, Anakin. I am furious with you.”

Anakin shifts again as if he can’t help it. “Yeah?”

“Force,” Obi-Wan rubs a hand over his beard with a shake of his head. “Both sides wanted to kill you, Anakin—the only reason they didn’t is because they couldn’t agree on how.”

“No,” Anakin says and Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow.

“Oh, I assure you they did. It took all of dinner to convince them not to—why are you aroused, Anakin? This is neither the time nor the place!”

He doesn’t mean to raise his voice, as Anakin never responds well to yelling, but he’s feeling his own instinctual response to Anakin’s arousal stirring in his stomach. His omega is wet and Obi-Wan just spent twenty odd hours defending him and protecting him aand the alpha inside his chest is clawing at the bars of its cage to take his reward. 

Obi-Wan automatically starts on a very reliable breathing exercise, but it just pulls more of Anakin’s scent into his lungs, which is so distracting that he doesn’t even realize he’s stopped regulating or counting his breaths all together and is just standing half a step away from his omega’s prison cell, mouth open and watering.

Had he really ever, actually thought that his life would get easier after mating Anakin?

What a fool he’d been.

“Not knowing how wasn’t the only thing that stopped them,” Anakin says, rising from his cot to press himself against the jail bars. “You did. You’d be a pretty shit alpha if you let your omega get killed over a little diplomatic misunderstanding.”

Obi-Wan feels his lips pull back into a snarl. “I should put you on your knees,” he hears himself say as if someone else were growling the words. How can Anakin affect him so much, so easily? Half the time they’re together now after their mating, he feels like he’s coming undone, like he’s two seconds away from being swallowed by his instincts to take. To possess.

 “You could,” Anakin agrees. “You’re my alpha. You could order me to do anything, and I would. You could tell me to kneel in that tone, and I’d drop for you. I wouldn’t be able to help it. My body would listen because it knows it’s yours.”

“I’d never,” Obi-Wan says, horrified by the very thought, and then doubly so when he’s hit by the idea that perhaps Anakin is expecting him to do so, has been waiting for it to happen, for Obi-Wan to snap and—and abuse him. He’s stepping forward to cradle Anakin’s cheek through the prison bars.

For the first time since they mated, Obi-Wan wonders if they should have. If he could ever be a good enough alpha for Anakin, when he’s never going to be able to stop being his master.

And being Anakin’s master historically has meant a lot of nagging and berating and attempts at controlling.

But as his alpha, the nagging and the berating and the attempts at control…Anakin must have worried Obi-Wan might actually control him, use the alpha command, force him into compliance.

Anakin presses his cheek against the palm of Obi-Wan’s hand, practically nuzzling him. “I know,” he murmurs. “Of course I know, Obi-Wan. You’re the best alpha in the entire galaxy.”

Something settles in Obi-Wan’s chest at this admission, and he watches as his thumb strokes along the edge of the scar over Anakin’s cheek. “Best omega,” he replies rather nonsensically as the omega in question is currently standing behind prison bars after causing a round of serious diplomatic incidents.

“Don’t lie,” Anakin admonishes with a smile. His cheeks crease with the force of it.

“My omega,” Obi-Wan corrects himself, and Anakin lets out a noise that can only be described as a purr. He goes through the motions of unlocking the cell and is rewarded with Anakin in his arms, cold nose rubbing over the mating bite on Obi-Wan’s neck.

“I knew,” Anakin mumbles several hours ater after he’s thoroughly scented all of Obi-Wan, and they’re laying on their sheets, basking in the afterglow of sex that has yet to lose its electric and heady magic.

Obi-Wan hums to show he’s listening, but most of his attention is focused on the arduous task of stroking his fingers through Anakin’s soft hair, from root to tip over and over again.

“But I had to make sure,” Anakin continues, and it must be important because his scent goes sharp with nerves and he props himself up on Obi-Wan’s chest. “So. Sorry. You know. About the last few months.”

Obi-Wan blinks, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to think past his sex haze to what Anakin is saying. “You had to make sure,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” Anakin’s hair has fallen down across his forehead. He bites his lip. “I knew you’d never really command me or, you know. Be like that. But—but I just needed to make sure.”

“Wait,” Obi-Wan says. “Sorry, just—are you saying that you—for the past few months you’ve been so awful and incorrigible on purpose? You were testing me to—what, see if I’d snap?”

Anakin shrugs with one shoulder, looking torn between stubborn and sheepish. “I’d never known you as an alpha, just as my master. I needed to see for sure that you’d—you’d be an alpha I could trust as much as I trust my master.”

“Healer Che gave me meds to help with the migraines you’ve been giving me,” Obi-Wan says flatly. “She didn’t even question why I’d need them. You’ve been a menace. You poured soup on the lap of the Queen from Balion. You stole every left footed boot I own and hid them around the ship. You told the cook that my favorite food was ushral paste and to use it in everything. I despise the taste of ushral. You know that.”

“Well,” Anakin sniffs. “Tastes can change.”

“I’ve spent ninety-seven days wanting to throttle you.”

“Well,” Anakin clears his throat. “I’ve spent the last ninety-seven days falling more and more in love with you. Because of how you’ve—because you’ve never—you never snapped. You never commanded me to stop. You just went all Master on me.”

“All Master on you.”

“Yeah, like. I’m very disappointed in your antics, padawan, if you want to behave like a child, I’m sure we can find a spare cot for you in the creche—”

“I never said that,” Obi-Wan protests, because even at his most annoyed with Anakin, he never even considered sending him away.

“You practically did,” Anakin shrugs with his other shoulder. “But I would have deserved it. I was being awful.”

“Agreed,” Obi-Wan says. “I think I understand though.” “Of course you do,” Anakin drops down to rest his head on his chest again.

Obi-Wan lets the quiet envelop them again, resuming his Force-given job of scratching at his omega’s scalp gently. “So you’ll stop then, right? No more tests?”

“No more tests,” Anakin says. “You’re a good alpha.”

“Excellent,” Obi-Wan replies. Then with a bit of a grin he can’t keep off his face if he tried, “and I can’t wait to see you attempt being a good omega.”

Anakin bites him. 

It’s only partially well-deserved.

[leidensygdom]

There is no wrong way to enjoy TTRPGs, as long as everyone at the table is having fun

I just saw a couple of people tagging some of my latest posts with concerns on how they are scared to DM TTRPGs because they can’t do battlemaps, so let me put a quick post together about this:

There is no wrong way to enjoy TTRPGs, as long as everyone at the table is having fun. Fun is the keyword here. Is everyone enjoying the game? Then you’re doing it right. Doesn’t matter how little or how much you want to have at your table. Doesn’t matter which system are you playing. As long as people are enjoying themselves, you’re doing it right.

This means a lot of things. Maybe your group loves playing by-the-book and never homebrews. That’s absolutely right. Or maybe your group has almost developed an entire system of their own after years of homebrewing. That’s also good- If everyone at the table like it and it is fair for everyone, you’re playing the game right!

Some people love super crunchy games filled with numbers and strategy and no RP. If everyone at the table enjoys that, then you’re doing it right. Maybe you like very deadly games and meatgrinders- If people at the table like that, it’s absolutely valid. Or maybe you just want to do RP and develop characters with none of the numbers. If that’s what your group wants, congrats! That’s also valid.

Some people love to painstakingly prepare every little detail and has 10 pages of notes for a session. It takes time, but it makes DMing easier for some. If it works for you, do it! Or maybe you like to go completely improv- If it suits your style and it works for the table, that’s also fantastic

Format-wise, you can play TTRPGs in many ways. Maybe you just want to go full theatre of mind- Absolutely valid. Maybe you don’t want to think about battlemaps but still need a way to make it work- I’ve seen people use emojis on discord to build a semblance of a battlemap. I’ve seen people use excel. People use google sheets. People use drawing software. If it works for your group, it’s good enough. Or maybe you play irl and want to go all in with painted minis and terrain, or the VTT equivalent of having fully animated maps full of spell effects and stuff. That’s also absolutely valid! Why wouldn’t it be?

There has been a lot of talking about the right TTRPGs to enjoy, and how to enjoy them, which has probably risen because of the OGL and people suddenly moving systems or finding new groups, or even people finding out animated spells are a thing. And of course, there’s some people willing to police how others have fun at their tables. Which- Let’s be entirely honest, if you see someone whine about “theatre of the mind sucks you’re just lazy” (or “you don’t need a fancy animated battlemap”, on the contrary) it’s better to just ignore the fuck out of them and move on. If it works for your table, go and enjoy exactly that. That’s what matters.

A lot of times people choose to play TTRPG one way or another to accommodate to their groups needs and their own, and trying to say what is “wrong” can easily fall into a weirdly ableist discourse. For example, I have a speech impediment: It’s gotten better over the years, but lengthy improv descriptions are a struggle. And so, I’d rather either prepare extensive descriptions in my notes, or draw a battlemap that puts my players into what I envision without a 5-minute narration that will burn my mental RAM. Someone with ADHD may need extensive notes to not go off the rails- Or maybe a dyslexic person can’t use notes too well and prefers to rely on improv. Aphantasia is a thing and some people can’t just imagine out of a text description, and they may prefer to see an animation instead of hearing someone describe it. The beauty of TTRPGs is that they’re wildly variable, and people have found endless ways to enjoy them- and adapt them to their needs.

So, for whoever needs to hear this, for whoever found some idiot on the internet telling you how to play your own home game: If your group is having fun the way you play the game, you’re doing it right. Don’t be scared to try out methods that work for you and your group, and adapt it to individual preferences, needs, and use whatever accommodations you need to make your life easier. Having fun is the objective, the way you get there is up to you.

[elithilanor]

My turn to submit a character ask! For upcoming disability pride month, how would they be with a blind/visually impaired elven partner? Rumil, Haldir, Glorfindel, and Arwen addition!

No pressure. Get to it whenever you can. I just thought I’d write it down before I forgot. :)

HAPPY DISABILITY PRIDE MONTH, Y'ALL! Remember to take your meds, drink water, and protect your (mental and physical) space and health with all the viciousness of a feral bobcat. 

I'd like to preface this by saying that I myself am not visually impaired/ blind myself, so please let me know if anything I've mentioned would be more harmful than helpful and I'll change accordingly.

Haldir 

-Very good about making sure there is a strong support network in place while he’s gone

-Re-writes any and all texts in the house so they're a size that is easy for his partner to read. Makes a habit of buying large-print and/or braille reading materials.

-Meticulously keeps the house clean and doesn’t rearrange anything without clearing it with you first so you can find everything.

-He's probably a little overprotective and has to learn where your capabilities are has to be somewhat reminded that you're capable of taking care of yourself. He has a bad tendency of hovering when you're outside of the talan, but as you spend more time together, he relaxes. Will always be looking ahead on paths for trip hazards.

Arwen 

- Reads out loud to you if you let her. Especially a fan of this if you're in her arms and she can run her fingers through your hair.

- Will often recite sultry love poetry in your ears in bed (does this anyway because she's a fucking menace and it gets you hot and bothered).

- Enlists others like her mother, Celebrían, and Erestor and Lindir to make the garden paths (and all of Imladris) more accessible in terms of trip hazards, gradients, and wideness. The only real exception to this is unfortunately the ways in and out of Imladris due to decades of sieges. They're working with the architects.

Glorfindel 

- He really likes being outside with you and his friends so he takes you on lots of walks and does the very courtly walking you around on his arm if you let him. He loves it. He also often can be seen with a parasol so you can always have relief from any heat in the summers. (I hc Imladris as kind of humid in the summer due to the rivers and he likes being able to help in one way at least.)

- Enlists Lindir or Erestor to spend time with you when he's gone and help you with anything you may need.

- Glorfindel is the most dog person I can envision in LotR/Silm so if you have a guide dog, he'll spend a lot of time training with them to be fully versed in all commands and requirements and is very careful and restrains himself when the dog is working. Glorfindel has golden retriever energy, I'm sorry.

Rúmil

-Is very communicative and telegraphs what he’s doing with very precise directions and instructions (in bed and out ;)

- He learned your boundaries and places where you needed assistance and stuck to them early on and doesn't deviate from that. He checks in on you a lot to see if you need help, but does his best to stay out of the way until it's vocalized.

- He has complete confidence in you and is rarely worried, but crowded events still kind of stress him out quite a bit and he always has to manage his emotions more in situations like that.

- Will describe his paintings and any outside landscapes in detail so you can experience it, as well.

Thanks for the ask! :)

[thelampisaflashlight]

What You’ve Had, What You Want

[Dew deals with some complicated emotions and hurts his ass. No, like, really, he falls on his tailbone.]

It’s hard to conceptualize the act of falling in love, to envision the process of becoming thoroughly smitten with someone beyond the desire to make them look at you and only you... not for a lack of trying.

Dew wonders if you’re supposed to try, to fall in love that is.

If it’s meant to feel like some great effort instead of simple and easy, “natural” as a friend had put it once, but nothing about the idea of loving someone felt natural to him.

It felt awkward, clunky, and the feeling hardly ever grew past infatuation.

He’d experienced one too many times what it’s like to confess and have feelings reciprocated, only to realize he had enjoyed the chase more than the relationship itself.

If people were going to speak of what was natural, then Dew thinks it’s in his nature to want to be desired, sought after, but never caught up in something as ridiculous as dating.

All told, he isn’t sure it’s not part of his nature, being born of demons from the Second and the Ninth, the desire to remain unclaimed in everyway, free to be whoever or whatever he wants to be, it’s probably coded into his very DNA, and his upbringing had not exactly nurtured a soft, romantic side in him...

Though, maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with either of those things, maybe he’s just a bit broken, thinking romance is pointless, that beyond the... uhh... physical benefits, there’s not much point in getting attached to a person beyond making friends... though his friends did mean the more to him than anything.

Not that he’d ever admit such a thing aloud.

He’s plenty good at showing his affection towards his friends, whom he considers like family to him, but once he has a partner...

It’s like he’s just going through the motions.

Dew can learn all the things the person likes, memorize all the little things that matter to them, but at the end of the day... it just feels taxing.

He has to wonder if there’s not a way to skip the whole dating phase and just settle into a “dating but not dating” set-up, one where it does feel natural, but beyond ruining a friendship with romantic feelings, he doesn’t think it’s possible.

At least he didn’t.

He’d call whatever this is an exception rather than a rule, a fluke, a hiccup in the system... but even still, Dew can’t bring himself to push the issue, not wanting to fuck things up and lose someone after finding out it’s just his capricious heart acting up again.

It’s frustrating, because he knows.

He knows it feels different from the times before, that whatever is happening now feels... safe.

Easy.

And he hates it.

He wants to rip whatever confession is lingering on his tongue out and grind it into the dirt.

He doesn’t want to hurt or lose this person over something as stupid as this.

Worst of all though?

He’s scared they don’t like him back.

Scared!

That’s not how it’s supposed to work, and he wants to tell his anxious mind, “Since when did you start being so damned self conscious?!”

But, instead, he settles for throwing rocks into the lake by the edge of the little forest by the abbey.

The speed at which he moves to pick up and throw the rocks along the shoreline is impressive, if not a bit silly, and a touch dangerous given how slippery they’ve become from the recent rainfall.

One harsh swing of his arm, combined with a lack of sure footing has him landing on his ass, smacking his tailbone against the stones below, and grunting out a noise somewhere between a groan and an indignant shout.

Great, a bruised ass to go along with his bruised ego.

Dew rolls onto his side and pushes himself up into a seated position, watching the morning fog roll off the lake, creating an ominous shroud around him, hiding his shame as he leans forward to rest his head on his knees.

For all his complicated feelings a moment ago, he’s cooled off immensely, emotionally and physically, in just one tumble onto the ground.

Now he just feels... tired, maybe? Tired and...

Oh, ooohhh... yeah, maybe he shouldn’t sit here for too long, because his ass actually does hurt.

“I’m a fucking idiot.” he grimaces.