#not getting into the skin tone thing because it's not my lane.

[matcha3mochi]

fast lane

gojo satoru x reader x geto suguru

🪼⋆｡𖦹°🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The racetrack was buzzing with excitement, the roar of engines deafening as the crowd cheered for their favorite racers. Among the contenders, two stood out: Suguru Geto, known for his smooth, calculated style, and Satoru Gojo, the reckless daredevil who raced as if the rules didn’t apply to him. Both were legends in their own right, but for you, they were more than just racers—they were your best friends, and lately, something more.

You had been part of their team for years now, working as an engineer and mechanic. The three of you were inseparable, with a history that stretched back to when Geto and Gojo were still rookies. The camaraderie between them had always been competitive, and that competitive edge often spilled over into your dynamic with them. Flirtations, teasing remarks, and the occasional glimmer of something unspoken had always danced between you, Geto, and Gojo. And now, it felt like things were on the verge of tipping over.

Standing in the pit, you watched them prepare for their next race. Gojo’s white and blue car gleamed under the sun, while Geto’s black and purple machine had an almost intimidating aura about it. Both were polar opposites in style, just like their drivers.

“You look nervous,” a familiar voice said from behind you.

You turned to find Gojo sauntering up, his racing suit half-zipped down to reveal a white undershirt clinging to his toned chest. His trademark grin was plastered on his face, hidden slightly behind his racing helmet that dangled from his fingers. The white hair falling messily around his head didn’t help your already weak composure.

“Why would I be nervous?” you shot back, trying to keep your cool as you fiddled with the tool in your hand. Gojo always had a way of getting under your skin—playful, cocky, but also so damn irresistible.

“You’re always nervous before our races,” Gojo teased, stepping closer until he was invading your personal space. His icy blue eyes flickered with amusement as he tilted his head. “Or is it because you’re worried I’ll leave Geto in the dust again?”

“Please,” Geto’s voice cut in smoothly from behind, his tone calm but edged with a bit of playful sarcasm. “You’ve been eating my dust since last season, Gojo.”

Geto approached, his dark hair neatly tied back, though a few strands had escaped, framing his face in a way that made him look effortlessly handsome. He was the opposite of Gojo in every way—quiet, reserved, and dangerously focused. The two of them, standing so close, with you caught in the middle, felt like being between fire and ice.

You let out a sigh, feeling the familiar tug of their banter. “You two never stop, do you?”

Geto gave you one of his rare, subtle smiles. “Can’t help it. I know how much you enjoy watching me win.”

Gojo leaned in closer to your other side, his breath brushing your ear. “Or maybe you just like seeing me push the limits,” he whispered, his voice low and teasing. “It’s more fun when there’s a bit of danger involved, isn’t it?”

Your heart stuttered at the attention. You had long since accepted the fact that you were caught between two forces of nature, each pulling you in different directions. And while the rivalry between them was playful on the surface, there had always been an undercurrent of something deeper, especially when it came to you.

“Well,” you said, trying to shake off the sudden heat crawling up your neck. “I just hope both of you make it to the finish line in one piece.”

Gojo laughed, standing up straight and running a hand through his hair. “Oh, I’ll finish alright. And when I do, maybe we can celebrate, just the three of us.”

Geto raised an eyebrow, the smallest of smirks tugging at his lips. “Only if you can keep up, Gojo. Wouldn’t want you to be too tired after losing again.”

You rolled your eyes at their bickering. “Alright, enough. Both of you need to focus on the race. Save the trash talk for afterward.”

Gojo winked at you before walking back to his car. “You’ve got it, boss. But I’ll be expecting a kiss for good luck before I start.”

Your mouth fell open in disbelief, but before you could retort, Geto leaned in close, his voice low and smooth. “You should give me one too,” he murmured, his lips dangerously close to your ear. “You know I race better when you’re thinking of me.”

Your breath hitched, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice. He was always quieter, more restrained, but moments like this? Moments where he turned his full attention on you felt like the world around you was narrowing to just the two of you.

You cleared your throat, trying to maintain your composure. “I’m not giving anyone anything until one of you wins.”

“Then we’ll both win,” Gojo called out, sliding into his car with a grin that could light up the entire track.

Geto’s smirk deepened as he straightened up, his dark eyes locking with yours before he finally turned to walk away. “You’d better keep your word.”

As the race began, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. Engines roared to life, and the crowd erupted into cheers. You took your position at the pit, your heart racing as the cars sped off into the distance.

From the sidelines, you could feel the tension and excitement in the air. Gojo took the lead almost immediately, his car weaving through the competition with an exhilarating ease. You watched as he pushed his limits, taking risky turns that had you gasping in anticipation. He loved the thrill of the race, and you could see the joy written all over his face.

Meanwhile, Geto was playing the long game, maintaining his position a few cars behind. His eyes were sharp and focused, assessing every move of his competitors. It was mesmerizing to watch him strategize, calculating when to push forward and when to hold back.

You felt your heart pounding in your chest, the thrill of their rivalry igniting something deep within you. This wasn’t just another race. It felt personal. The way both of them had looked at you before they started, the challenge in their eyes—it was as if this race had become about more than just who would cross the finish line first. It was about who would win... you. Each time Gojo took a daring risk, you felt yourself hold your breath, and every time Geto executed a perfect turn, you couldn’t help but cheer internally for him.

As they approached the final lap, the tension reached a fever pitch. Gojo and Geto were neck and neck, both pushing their cars to the limit. Gojo took a sharp turn, the tires screeching as he maneuvered dangerously close to the edge, while Geto followed, expertly handling his own car as he slipped into position beside him.

You could hardly breathe as they sped down the final stretch, engines roaring and tires squealing. The finish line was in sight, and the crowd was on their feet, screaming for their favorites. You stood at the edge of the pit, heart racing, feeling the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

As they crossed the finish line, the world seemed to hold its breath. In an instant, both cars shot past the checkered flag, and it was impossible to tell who had won. The crowd erupted into cheers and gasps, and you found yourself rushing toward the pit. The officials were already debating the results, but it didn’t matter. For you, the race had been a tie from the start.

Both drivers pulled into the pit, their cars screeching to a halt. Gojo was the first to step out, pulling off his helmet and shaking his hair loose. He looked exhilarated, eyes bright as he jogged over to you.

“Told you I’d win,” he said with a cocky grin, but before you could reply, Geto stepped out of his car, calm as ever.

“Technically, it’s a tie,” Geto pointed out, but there was no irritation in his voice. In fact, there was something almost satisfied in his expression, as if he knew that neither of them could truly lose today.

You crossed your arms, trying to look stern, but the smile on your face gave you away. “You guys are impossible, you know that?”

Gojo stepped closer, his grin widening. “So, about that celebration…?”

Geto’s gaze darkened with a quiet intensity, and he stepped forward as well. “You made a promise, didn’t you?”

Caught between them again, you felt the familiar pull—the heat of their rivalry and the way they both looked at you, like you were the real prize they had been fighting for all along.

Maybe you were.

“Well,” you said with a teasing smile, “I guess I owe you both.”

Gojo chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as Geto stood close on your other side, his hand brushing yours. “I think we can work something out.”

And in that moment, with both of them beside you, it felt like maybe, just maybe, they both had won.

[whatever-you-can-give-me]

i'm sure you've talked about this kinda thing before but what do you think about people saying, like, "stampede wolfwood characterization is bad and doesn't even feel like wolfwood"?

this feels like bait to get me to say something inflammatory, because my opinion on people dismissing stampede wolfwood out of hand is definitely something i've posted before, but i fucking love to talk about my opinions, so. [cracks knuckles]

basically. 1. he's a different version of the character in a different set of circumstances, of course he's going to be different. and 2. the thing most people imagine in their heads as wolfwood... is not the wolfwood that appears in any canon, lol.

i don't think that's even a notable observation. a lot of the trigun fandom is the "the vash and wolfwood collectively hallucinated out of a blend of all three canons, It's Free Real Estate" fandom now. it's a tale as old as time. fandom as we currently know it was built on slash and cherrypicking from canon.

i'm not going to be the fun police about it, or act like my way of engaging with trigun (keeping the individual canons separate and distinct in my head, analyzing small details, thinking really hard about the characters and the circumstances of creation) is the 'correct' or the only way to have fun in a fandom. like, i think i am engaging more with the canon, but some people just aren't interested in the actual specific details of canon as more than a jumping off point, and while i don't get it, i support making your own fun. go wild.

but, man, there sure is something. interesting. about how the platonic ideal of wolfwood that's been developed by the Vashwood Fandom completely diverges from wolfwood's actual personality in canon (it's happened to vash too, but that's an entirely different can of worms) and then people get irritated at the actual canons for wolfwood not being the guy in their head. stampede especially, because stampede wolfwood is a traumatized disaster, and that doesn't really work for the most common flavor of vashwood, where vash is the one who needs reassurance and comfort.

i just.... yall, wolfwood is so fucking awkward. he's always been awkward and messy and unsure of himself outside of the two specific situations he can manage (combat and dealing with children). stampede didn't invent the fact that he has no idea what he's doing and doesn't really know how to act around other adults because he's spent most of his life a deeply repressed assassin. i really have no idea where the idea of him as suave and romantic and self-assured came from...

anyway. i'm not going to tell anyone they shouldn't have the fun they're having. it's fandom. god knows there are more important things to worry about. but i have been noticing some patterns, is all.

tl;dr: anyone is welcome to dislike stampede wolfwood if they want, but wolfwood has always been most of the things i see people criticize about stampede wolfwood's characterization. stampede wolfwood is just harder to fit into the box fandom built for him.

[gretavanlace]

Feels Like Gold

Jake Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, unprotected sex, language, dirty talk, breeding kink, Jake drives a car (the most dangerous situation of all), extremely mild degradation, etc

Okay, in honor of our collective jakedown, I rooted around in my unreleased work and then did a little revamping. This one is for you, @piratejakesgf thank you for your request ❤️ *loosely edited, fair warning

And kisses to @jake-kiszkas-smirk and her brilliant mind for titling this when I was at a loss 💋 xoxo

“Fuck, these are so uncomfortable!” you hiss with exasperation, tugging at the itchy nylon hell encasing your legs.

“Told you not to wear them.” Jake reminds you, flipping on his turn signal before switching lanes, though the freeway is dark and nearly deserted.

“You know how my family is.” you remind him right back, annoyed with his flippant attitude. “If I’d shown up to that wedding in a dress with bare legs I’d have been labeled the whore of the family tree. My branch weighed down with bad choices; exposed skin and a degenerate rockstar on my arm.”

“I mean, to their credit, I actually am a degenerate so they’re just calling ‘em like they see ‘em.” His eyes are locked on the road, but a tiny smirk tells you he’s pleased with his cleverness. “Plus, your aunt tried to fuck me, so you aren’t the only whore in the family.”

An abrupt laugh trills out of you. “Right. Which aunt?”

“Does it matter?” he shrugs. “She told me she slept with Joe Perry and it left her with a taste for guitarists…I told her Perry could suck my dick because I could stomp his riffs any day, but that only turned her on even more.”

“And then what happened?” you giggle, falling into his little pretend world.

“Well,” he sighs wearily, “Promise you won’t be angry with me?”

You’re solemn and stoic, as if this is very serious business, “Scouts honor.”

“Then, I excused myself and wound up fucking your uncle in the bathroom, instead.” he squints at an upcoming exit sign to be sure you’re headed in the right direction, and then settles back into a more relaxed state, wrist guiding the steering wheel casually.

“Was he any good?” you ask, mock sincerity laced through your tone.

“I’ve had better.” He shrugs.

“You’re so stupid.” you shake your head with a doting roll of your eyes, and reach under your dress to roll the torturous hose down and off.

He watches out of the corner of his eye, stealing glances as safely as he can while driving.

“Jesus, they were thigh highs all this time?” he sounds a little like he’s considering jerking the car over onto the shoulder of the highway to drag you into the backseat.

“All this time.” the garment in question lands in his lap.

“Lemme see.” he orders quietly before you have a chance to remove the second.

Up the hem of your dress travels until he can get a good look at the black lace resting at the top of your thigh. “Fuck, pretty girl.”

“You like that?” you tease in a silken voice.

He nods, tightening his grip on the wheel.

You push a little further with, “Are you hard?”

“I’m gonna kick you out of this car and make you walk home.” he lies, reaching out to snap the elastic lace against your skin. “Take this one off, too…it’s doing unspeakable things to me. Especially since you’re only wearing the one. You look sloppy - like I just rocked your shit in the back of a tour bus.”

“Jacob Thomas..” you gasp lightly, as though scandalized “Someone seems a little worked up.”

“I might be, if only I didn’t have such a firm grasp on the power of will, my darling.”

He’s being untruthful, but he does it so elegantly - in that soft, slightly British lilt of his, you decide to grant him a very gracious pass and drop the second into his lap.

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Kiszka.” You wiggle your polished toes, enjoying the freedom. “My baby cousin, the one you let dance on your feet? She asked me if you were a pirate.”

This tugs an honest laugh out of his chest…a gorgeous sound that colors your cheeks pink. “You told her yes, I expect?”

You hum in confirmation, “I did. And I told her that you have a special sword with strings on it and it makes beautiful, dark music that people come from far away lands to hear. Just like the sirens in Peter Pan.”

His face visibly softens in the flickers of light shed by the street lamps whipping by. “You always did know how to paint a lovely picture, pretty girl.”

The low purr of the engine lulls your head against the window, but just as your eyes begin to grow heavy, he pulls you back to him with a quiet, “Hey,”

Turning your head against the seat, you study his profile, charting the map of your favorite face, “Yeah?”

”Whose baby was that you were holding? The tiny, tiny one,”

It seems such an odd thing for him to ponder, and you have to mentally sift through the reception a bit, you held a great many babies tonight…it seemed like every cousin and second cousin in attendance was weighed down by a diaper bag stuffed full of diapers and pacifiers.

”The one with the little headband bow-thingy.” He clarifies. “She was so small.”

“My cousin’s. He and his wife’s third in almost as many years. She’s only like a month old and smelled like heaven.” You draw in a breath and wish her silken tufts of hair were still pressed to your cheek, “Why?”

”I don’t know,” you know him well enough to know that’s a damn lie. “I just- I don’t know…do you ever think about it?”

Caught off guard, you opt for a little joke, “Does Jakey have baby fever?”

He smiles, and there is a touch of shyness that lives there, “Shut up. Do you think about it?”

“Do I think about having babies? Well, I-“

He interrupts quickly to set you straight, “Do you think about having babies with me?”

Oh.

Where is he heading with this? Will a bit of honesty scare him? Will it scare you?

Deciding to take the plunge, this is simply a conversation after all, and a subject that he broached to boot, you choose truth. “Yes, I’ve thought about babies with you. Although that whole twin thing is fucking terrifying.”

Again, you joke. Again, he doesn’t take the bait. “Identical twins aren’t hereditary. We’re just an accidental fuck up. When you think about it, what do you think?”

”A lot of things.”

Smoothly, he guides the car onto the off-ramp that leads to home. “Very informative, darling. A veritable treasure trove of information.”

He hasn’t tipped his hand and you aren’t about to let him off so easily. “”Do you think about it?”

”Honestly, not before. I mean, I think about how you’ll look in your wedding dress and if you’ll wear your hair swept up the way I like, and I suppose that’s sort of the same thing. Or headed in the same direction, anyway. But watching you hold that baby tonight…”

Your chest suddenly feels a little tight. You’re touched by his admission.

And how endearing that he wonders how you’ll wear your hair. You reach out and stroke the back of your hand along the cut of his jaw, “When the day comes, I’ll wear it up for you.”

~

Later, he’s draped across the bed watching you glide about the room in your bra and panties. Earrings unfastened and placed gently on your jewelry tray, necklace hung carefully, hair let loose and shaken out at long last.

Hands folded behind his head, he speaks up, breaking the spell you have unknowingly cast over him, “You said ‘a lot of things’. Elaborate.”

You turn, eyes drifting over the king lounging about upon the bed you share, in nothing but the dress pants he hasn’t yet bothered to shed. “What?”

He cocks his chin, summoning your attention further ”Babies. You said you think about a lot of things.”

He looks so fucking sinfully delicious…a sickeningly sweet cake sent from the bewitching trenches of hell to rot your teeth. “The normal things. Baby things.”

The heavy wooden frame creeks quietly as he pulls himself into a sitting position to study your expression, “Liar.”

”Oh, I’m sorry,” you dance around the accusation, “I just happen to be looking at a disgustingly attractive little shit waiting for me to climb into bed beside him. Forgive me for looking flustered.”

”Don’t be coy, darling,” he tsks, clicking his tongue against his perfect teeth. “I can see it written all over your pretty face. You’ve got a secret.”

He’s moving towards the edge of the bed now, drawing you in closer with his devilish stare. “Tell me.”

”I don’t have a secret.” Whose voice is that? Surely it’s much too quiet and meek to be your own.

”Tell the truth.” He hums, a knowing twinkle flashing in his gaze. “What do you think about?”

Your eyes refuse to meet his own as your stomach knots, warm and vibrating. “I guess…sometimes I - sometimes I think about the trying part of it all.”

He’s watching you closely, you can feel it like warm fingers dancing across your blushing skin. “So you think about fucking?”

He almost sounds disappointed. He had expected more judging by your hesitancy to share.

”Well,” your fingers are plucking at the comforter now, rooting out a loose thread to spin around your finger, “Yes, but it’s kind of more than that. I think about you… inside me.”

At last, you peek up at him. He looks curious, as if he can’t quite figure you out. “Why are you being such a little mouse about this?” His palms are cupping your face now, calluses soothing you like a song. “I’m inside you all the time, and I think about it all the time, too.”

Shaking your head gently, you find your footing…at least a smidge, “Not like that. I think about you inside me. The way you would have to be if we were trying.”

Your birth control rendered condoms unnecessary ages ago, yet he has always pulled out - ever cautious and responsible. Confusion is still painted across his features…until it isn’t.

“Oh,” a lascivious grin appears and you long to curl your tongue over his lips, “you fucking filthy little thing.”

In a blink, you’re dragged onto the bed and into his arms, tossed down with your back against the sheets. his body heated and flush against yours.

Mouth suckling and nipping at your throat, he rasps into your skin, “Is that what does it for you? Pretty girl wants my cum?”

Your body’s reaction is visceral, primal, and almost embarrassing. You’re arching away from the mattress, desperate to be even closer than you already are.

“Answer me.” He huffs, sinking a bite into your jaw.

”Yes…” your hands are in his hair, thighs around his waist, “I want it.”

”Say it.” He’s rocking against you now, hard and straining against your panties. “Say what it is that you want. What you think about.”

”I think about you fucking me,” once again, whose shaking voice is that? “I think about the way you sound when you finish, and the way your cock throbs and twitches in your hand, and how it might feel inside me.”

”Keep going.” He orders, soft and wavering in your ear.

”I think about how warm your cum would feel inside of me, and maybe I wouldn’t be able to keep it all in. Maybe it might tickle a little when it leaked out.”

”Fuck, baby…” his hands are everywhere, yanking your breasts from the cups of your bra, winding your panties down your thighs, fingers sinking into your soaking, clenching cunt with a groan that sounds pained.

He seeks out your favorite spot and tucks up into it, wrenching a wanton moan from your lungs “You want me to fill this little pussy up? Keep you dripping wet with me all day long? Fuck baby after baby into you?”

”Jake…” you’re clawing at his bare shoulders, fucking yourself hopelessly against his hand. “More.”

He slips a third finger inside you, “Is that why you get a little whiny when I pull out? My girl wants me to do it inside?”

”More,” you urge through gritted teeth, eyes locked in on his face and the lust so evident in the set of his features.

”You want four?”

”Please, Jake…” tears are threatening at your lash line, “more, more, more,”

“You’re having some trouble listening tonight, aren’t you?” he sounds diabolical, and turned on beyond belief. “I asked you a question.”

His thighs prise your legs open wider as he squeezes his pinky into your warmth to join the rest of his drenched fingers, “Do you want my cum inside you? You want me to give it to you? Keep it all safe and warm for me?”

With a mournful wail you’re reduced to a million little pieces beneath him. Rocking frantically into his touch…the heel of his hand grinding quick circles into your clit as his fingers fuck you through it. He’s covered in you, it rolls down his wrist and beads against his stomach like early morning dew, anointing him as you thrash and writhe like a beautiful, fluttering leaf in an autumn wind.

When the hazy fog clears, allowing your sight, it’s his face - stunning and beaming - you find, “Hey, pretty girl.”

Now that you’re coming down, your diffidence returns and you close your eyes in a pathetic attempt to hide.

He’s having none of it, “No, no, darling…you stay with me. Right here, baby. You look so pretty with my cock inside you, imagine how fucking beautiful you’re gonna be when I fuck you full.”

“Please, jake…” it’s pathetic really, and maybe you should care about that, but you don’t. “I need it, I need it so bad.”

“Yeah?” The gravel in his tone makes you shiver with frantic desire. “Pretty girl just wants to bounce on my cock all day? Just using me to get what she wants?”

Rather than answer, you elect to begin wrangling the button on his pants.

“Someone’s eager.” He teases softly, lifting up on one elbow, easing your struggle. “You want it that bad? Are you gonna let me cum wherever I want? Gonna let me put a baby inside you?”

“Fucking do it!” Frustrated and sparking with electric desperation, you give up and tug on his waistband feverishly until he takes over, popping the button with ease and kicking them off.

His cock is fisted in his hand now, with your eyes fiercely focused on it. Hard and beautiful and yours. “You want that inside you?” He whispers, watching you stare. “You want me to fuck you? You want me to fucking breed that pretty pussy? Make you a mama?”

You should be ashamed of yourself, you well and truly should be…but fuck if you don’t want more, “Keep talking while you fuck me,” you breathe, somewhere between imploring and begging, “Dirtier, come on…”

His cock slips inside. Just the cashmere tip teasing at you, “Dirtier?” He nudges in a little deeper, just enough to make you whine, “well what should I say, pretty girl? Should I tell you that you’re my beautiful little cum slut and if I’d known it sooner I’d have been stuffing you full all this time?” Deeper still he glides, “Or that I want to cum inside you and then fall asleep with my fingers buried in your cunt to keep it where it belongs?” He’s fucking you harder, faster…the pillowy head of his cock kissing your cervix in a divine dance between pleasure and pain. “Or should I tell you about how I think about licking it up? Kissing you with my cum on my tongue because I know you’d suck it off like the greedy little baby you are.”

“I-“ a pitiful whimper escapes you, but his fingers are suddenly grasping your chin, grounding you enough to collect your scattered thoughts. “I’m gonna cum, tell me where you’re going to cum. Tell me where you’re going to put it. Please, I want it,”

Hips rolling into a succulent grind against your swollen clit now, he begins “I’m gonna fuck you until you’ve got every last drop, pretty girl. It’s all yours, are you gonna take it for me like a good girl? Are you going to be a good little mama and take it all?”

His name is all you can manage as you shatter. It’s primeval and animalistic, sounds that would make you want to crumple in on yourself if anyone heard them besides your Jacob.

“You’re so fucking tight and wet..” his perfect cock is pounding you through it as he inches closer and closer, “are you ready for me to make a mess of this little beauty right here? Hmm? Ready for me to fuck this cunt all full and dirty? You want it?”

“Jake…” you trail off, eyes fighting to stay open and locked in on his face while you shake against him, twisting and clenching around his perfect cock, “you’re so fucking hard.”

He nods furiously, burying his face in the crook of your neck to lick your pounding pulse “That’s all you, baby. You make me that hard.”

Your hips begin rocking up to meet him even faster, hungry to please. “Good girl, you keep fucking that cock. Are you gonna take what you want? Gonna make me cum? Gonna help me fill this pretty little cunt?”

In response, your nails dig into his skin, raking your mark, claiming him. You’re almost there again, though you can’t imagine how. “I’m so fucking close,” you’re sighing and shaking the words into the room, offering confession.

“Again?” He’s mocking you so sweetly, teasing dirty words into your ear like lullabies, “Already? Is my pretty girl gonna cum on this cock? Squeeze and suck the cum right out of me to steal it away? You want it that badly?”

You let go, with a trembling breath of his name, and feel his body tense against the feverish grip of your orgasm.

”That’s it, baby,” his words are but a sigh skittering across your cheek, “That’s it. Feels so good. Feels like gold. My pretty, pretty girl…”

He fucks you faster even as you melt into a puddle within his arms. “Gonna cum for you,” he promises, “I’m gonna cum so hard for you. Who’s going to take it? Who’s gonna take every fucking drop?”

”I am,” have you even made a sound? You can’t be sure, you’re so lost.

”Yes, you are…” his forehead, slick with exertion and need, nods against your own. “You’re going to take it just like you take this cock. My good fucking girl…pretty pink baby doll just begging for me to wreck her.”

Without warning, he collapses into your arms, moaning and crying out, shuddering as he releases inside you. Warm and perfect, everything you’ve ever imagined and so much more.

His fingers sink into your muscles, clutching and pulling you closer still, “Baby…” he sounds raspy and pained, “Baby, baby, baby, fuck..fuck…”

And when at last, he calms, it is with his cheek pressed to your chest, clocking the wild metronome that is your heart with your hands sweeping through his hair.

Soon, you’ll both crawl out of bed, maybe into the shower…perhaps into the warmth of a bath, but for now it is simply you, and Jake, and this tranquil bliss.

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @lvnterninthenight @paintmyhouse @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @thewritingbeforesunrise @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @calumspretty @sad1lynn @demolitionndann @gvfpal @starcatcher-jake @gretavangroupie

[sweetestcaptainhughes]

What are you trying to say? - Trevor Zegras

Word Count - 3600

Author's Note - I 100 percent projected my own dysleixia hardcore into this. This was 100 percent written for the dyslexic girlies and learning disability girlies only. Also not me accidentally maybe becoming a Trevor girlie after writing this oh no. This one is by far my favorite segment.

Warnings - light angst but like it ends happy shocking for this page, who am I becoming???

Summary - In the talking stage with Trevor Zegras you're not sure how his joking personality will respond to your struggles that you have with being an adult with dyslexia, especially since it doesn't affect you how media expects it to.

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This isn’t something new to you, you’ve struggled your entire life with the fact that you're dyslexic. It’s a lot more complicated than people may recognize. Many people assume that it only comes up when you're trying to read something like a textbook or an article, and that when you’re finished with school it won’t really affect your daily life anymore but that’s far from the truth. In truth, being an adult with dyslexia affects you in little ways daily. From having difficulty knowing your left and right when given verbal directions, your spelling being terrible when texting others, mispronouncing certain words and being easily embarrassed when it gets pointed out, or worse sometimes the word is literally on the tip of your tongue you can even physically see in your brain but your mouth can’t form the proper sounds, how certain fonts you struggle to read vs others, or that black ink on white paper is the bane of your existence.  Although all of these are “little” things, it does impact the way you communicate with others. It does feel extremely frustrating sometimes feeling like people think that you're using your dyslexia as an “excuse” when in reality your brain is wired completely differently because of it. 

Since you first met Trevor and started talking to him, you had that fear you always do in the pit of your stomach, will he pick on you the first time that he truly can’t understand a text or the first time he hears you mispronounce a word despite years of speech therapy where you tried to but still you can’t pronounce correctly. Although, part of you knew that your fear was extremely irrational, part of you couldn’t shake the feeling that was until proven otherwise the jokester in Trevor would make a joke about something you truly couldn’t control. 

That is until today, when it happened it’s one of those rare days when you were driving and Trevor was in the passenger seat. His car was in the shop, and he needed a ride back from the arena to his apartment. Originally he was going to take an Uber but since you both already had plans after the morning skate you insisted on picking him up. 

“It’s easiest if you take this right up here to get back to my place.” He directs you without looking up from his phone,you tell him okay, turn on your left turn signal and get in the left lane. Trevor finally looks up from his phone while you're waiting at the red light for it to turn green to see you're in the wrong lane. 

“Sweetie?” asking in a questioning tone

“Hmmm” 

“This is the left lane. I told you to take a right.” Trevor says in a concerning tone as to how you were five traffic lanes away from where you needed to be. 

“sorry I thought you said ‘left’. I can make a u-turn?” Deciding in the moment you didn’t want to admit that you heard him correctly but processed the direction wrong, you offered as the traffic light finally turned green. 

“It’s alright we can just take the long way. Don’t worry about a u-turn.”  Not seeming to care at all that it will add an extra 10 minutes to the drive due to the mistake. 

As you continued driving you ended up making another wrong turn, Trevor put his left hand on your thigh and subconsiously rubbed small circles into skin to comfort your growing anxiety, he could feel this odd tension that was built up in the car. “Can you point please?” your voice barely over a whisper as you felt extremely embarrassed all of a sudden and started feeling overwhelmed all of a sudden. 

“Yeah Y/N/N I can do that, we could also switch places. I can drive you the rest of the way if you need it if you're feeling anxious all of a sudden.” Trevor was being really sweet, trying to fix the problem at hand thinking it was just some anxious thoughts and not your brain processing audible information incorrectly. 

“No, pointing is good.” Forcing yourself to look straight ahead because you don’t want to accidentally catch his eyes as he looks at you with a worried look. He squeezes your thigh in a comforting way and drops the topic. The rest of the ride felt quick as he pointed and said the direction you needed to go until you reached his apartment. Finding a parking spot in the garage you parked your car, as soon as you felt your foot on the brake, and your right hand pulled the gear in park, you leaned back automatically and sighed grateful you were done driving. Trevor still had his hand on your thigh, he turned his neck so that his head was also resting on the headrest. 

Trevor patiently waited until you opened your eyes, turning to him with a soft smile. “You ready?” you ask him, as you start to unbuckle your seatbelt. As you grab your purse from the back, your hand on the door handle. His hand that was on your thigh is gone and immediately pulls you by the wrist back into your seat. As he takes his other hand and gently places it on your cheek forcing you to look at him. 

“Can we talk about it?” His voice was steady, calm, confident but soft, almost as if he was scared of your reaction. 

Smiling a little wider now, in a split second you try to decide what you want to do. Do you want to tell a boy who you’ve only been casually talking to and hanging out with a handful of times - one of them being this current moment - about being dyslexic. Although it’s not that big of a deal in retrospect, it’s something that you can never take back once you said the words. Even though it’s something so simple and common no one ever looks at you the same again. Were you ready to tell Trevor, and see his face change permanently or did you want to live in ignorant bliss for a little longer. 

“I’m fine, it’s just when I drive somewhere new I like listening to the GPS and not a person telling me directions, it helps me focus better is all.” sheepishly you admit. 

Ignorant Bliss. That’s the choice you made. 

“Okay well next time, can you tell me that so I don’t have to watch you stress yourself out please?” His hand that was on your wrist, going down to your hand playing with your hand. Taking your hand that he was playing with, fully grasping his you squeeze his hand as a silent yes, and nod your head. He leans over the middle console and quickly peaks your lips as if it was a last minute impulse and he meant the cheek. “Thank you, let's go inside.” 

—-------------------------------

Living in ignorant bliss was great for a few weeks, until you started to actually like Trevor. Talking to a guy for a few months and it not going anywhere vs meeting someone and potentially seeing at least an exclusive relationship with them were two very different things. Knowing that you saw a relationship with him in the future meant it was only a matter of time before he found out that your dyslexic which again isn’t that big of a deal, but the fact that you also lied to him a few weeks ago. Not telling him is one thing, but lying when he asked why you were struggling to drive that day is a completely different act. 

Trying to put off the inevitable you tried to push the thought to the back of your mind. Somehow convincing yourself that if you didn’t think about it, then the problem would disappear he would never find out. I mean when you didn’t know how to spell a word while texting, you just spoke it into your phone. As far as grammar no one really had perfect grammar when texting including Trevor to be perfectly honest he probably didn’t even notice half the time. Plenty of people kept all their devices in dark mode for plenty of reasons, he had no reason to ask, although you did it because it helped your eyes stay focused on the words in front of you, not for the aesthetic. 

Even so, with all of these excuses as to why he wouldn’t notice you failed to remember that certain words you truly can’t pronounce the correct way no matter how hard you try. It all came crashing down tonight when you were at Trevor’s apartment cooking dinner for the both of you. Dinner was almost done at this point, when Trevor came behind you just now re-entering the kitchen after taking an expected call from his little sister. Trevor wrapped his arms around your waist, his head resting on top of your shoulder. 

“Everything okay?” you ask your curiosity getting the best of you, even though you know it’s none of your business. 

“Yeah she’s fine.” Pressing a kiss into where your jawline and neck meet. “smells good.” He compliments your cooking as he teases you one more time with a small nip with his teeth where he just kissed you, before pulling away and resting his head on your shoulder. 

Answering shyly, you let out a “thank you.”

“Anything I can help with?” asking genuinely although you're not sure if it’s to be kind or if it’s because he’s hungry but either way you’ll take it. As he slowly unwraps himself from you, getting ready to help you in any way you need. 

Without looking up from the chicken that you're grilling on the stove, trying to concentrate on the task at hand you answer him. “Yeah actually can you grab out the mellk from the fridge for the mashed potatoes.” Not even thinking twice about what you just said until you heard a chuckle coming from across the kitchen. 

“What babe?” standing in front of a now open fridge, he could have sworn you tried to say milk but botched the word so badly, it couldn’t have possibly been.

“the mellk” finally noticing what you asked for, knowing this is one of the words people can’t help but point out how you butcher it. 

“What are you trying to say?” he asked, truly confused now that he heard it twice. 

“M - il - k “ you repeat slowing down your mouth trying to force yourself to pronounce it properly but also not speak too slowly. Hoping that it's noticeable as you force your tongue to the roof of your mouth to make the “il” sound.  

A small chuckle leaves Trevor’s lips but it wasn’t a malicious way, it was as if he chuckled because he found it adorable. “Here's the milk baby.” walking back over to you and placing it on the empty counter space next to the bowl of steaming hot cooked potatoes. Taking the chicken off the hot burner you moved to the island to where the potatoes were. 

“Sorry” you mumble as he stands beside you, his hip resting on the side of the island. 

“For what?” His eyebrows frowned, his eyes focused the side of your face the only thing he could see. Focusing on the task at hand, you used the potato masher and mashed the potatoes. Opening the milk and adding a little along with some butter that you set out earlier. 

Feeling the rise of some anxiety in your stomach, hoping that you could procrastinate just a little longer on admitting that you didn’t tell him the whole truth. Deciding if now was the time or if you were gonna dig yourself in a bigger hole by wrapping yourself in a thicker web of tiny white lies. 

Finally turning your head to the side to face him and taking a deep breath. 

For good measure making one more deep breath before you barely utter the words, your nerves getting the better of you. “I lied.” 

Trevor’s face immediately changed from confusion and concern. In an instant it became shocking and almost hurt, that the girl he thought was actually going somewhere a month in, is admitting to lying to him. Not when he told her in the beginning that lying wasn’t something he tolerated after his ex lied to him for months and manipulated him. Not when he just told his little sister not even ten minutes ago on the phone that tonight he was gonna ask you to be his official girlfriend. “What are you talking about?” his voice cracking before he could even get the word out, quickly clearing his throat to cover up his own insecurities about the possible tension that could slowly be felt brewing in his kitchen. 

“Remember a few weeks, when I was driving you to your apartment from the stad-” 

“What the FUCK does that have to do with lying to me? When did you lie to me Y/N” Not only has Trevor never once raised his voice at you in a not joking way, but he’s never cursed at you, and his tone made you close your eyes and flinch at the impact. Immediately, seeing you flinch he sighed his hand going to lightly crease her arm closest to him. “When did you lie?” asking at a much softer tone than moments before. 

“I’m trying to explain.” Trevor could have sworn he felt his chest hurt when he heard you struggling to speak, as if you were trying to get yourself not to cry. “Please let me explain.” 

“Okay” he softly let out, as he squeezed your arm not sure if he was trying to comfort you or himself as he felt the possibility of you slipping through his fingers. 

“A few weeks ago when I drove you home.” finally turning her body fully turning to face him. “I lied, When you asked me what happened. I told you I need the GPS because I get overwhelmed.” Pausing to make sure that Trevor was following along, he nodded along, “I lied, sort of,” your voice picking up in speed with each word you uttered out  “I mean I do get overwhelmed while driving but it’s not because of that it’s not that I” 

“Baby please take a breath you're scaring me” His other arm is going to cup your cheek, even though he was mad before as he heard you fixated on driving him home a few weeks ago. He knew it couldn’t have possibly been any of the terrible ideas that popped into his head, at least Trevor hoped not.

 “I sometimes get my left and right confused.” Looking up trying to gauge his reaction, watching as one of his eyebrows go down, as if to say ‘that’s all.’ 

“Okay. So that was the lie? Everyone gets confused sometimes and makes mistakes baby it’s okay” His famous smile slowly takes over his face. 

“That’s the thing is it isn’t sometimes, it’s kind of a lot when I’m driving when someone is giving me directions without pointing, and there are other things too. I mean they're small but they still affect me almost daily and I just.” 

Deciding to take a breath because if you don’t you will be more likely to trip up your words or stutter. “I’m dyslexic and it’s not really how they describe the movies.” 

His smile dropped a little and you swear it felt as if your heart felt as if it had just dropped a hundred flights down the Empire State building. “Dyslexic. Like you mix up letters when reading?”

“Yeah but it’s more than that.”

“Okay. But why didn’t you tell me when it happened? Why did you say it’s because you get overwhelmed.” 

“Because I do get overwhelmed when I make dumb mistakes like that. Plus, everytime I tell someone they never look at me the same. A lot of times they are shocked, and they also sometimes judge me because how does it not affect me the way the media portrays it? Why do I mispronounce words, why can’t I tell my left and right when someone gives me a direction, why I can’t read maps to save my fucking life but yet if I don’t have my GPS running I’m bound to a wrong turn, why does sometimes my mind decide I either can’t come up with a word at all or I can physically see it but I can’t say it and I can’t spell it because I’m such a bad speller.” 

“Shhh” not trying to cut you off but also trying to get you to breathe. “So you didn’t tell me cause you were scared I would look at you differently? Or judge you when something you can’t control comes out at random times of the day? That’s why you told me to point instead of just saying it because you didn’t wanna tell me in fear?” Not sure his tone is showing remorse for you thinking that at all or hurting that you ever would think of him in that way. 

“Yeah.” you embarrassingly admit.

Trevor spent the rest of the night listening to you and how your brain was different due to your own personal experience with being a dyslexic. The next morning you found him reading an article about the effects of different lighting and how dark mode was the best for dyslexics and certain fonts were better than others. It made you chuckle as you told him you knew and that’s why your phone was permanently in dark mode.  That day, he changed all the settings on his tv’s in his entire apartment for dark mode, even all of his own personal devices. Finding it adorable that he went on a tangent when he found out certain apps don’t support dark mode and how he said it was discriminating. Finding it harder and harder for yourself to hide your soft smile as you watched him continue his rant, your heart swelling at how passionate he sounded. 

“I really like you, you know.” you admitted when he finally stopped complaining about how Mirosoft finally started supporting dark mode it was still ‘white paper’ on black ink so they really missed the whole point. 

“Oh yeah.” as he grabs you, pulling you towards him on the couch, tangling your legs with his. 

“Yup” popping the p for emphasis.

“I really like you too. Actually I was gonna ask you.. Wanna make this official and let me call you mine.” The blush was obvious on your face, immediately turning a light red shade, nodding your head he pulled you into a soft kiss. 

—---------------------------------------------

A few weeks later you were out to dinner with a few close friends and Trevor. Currently trying to tell a story about one of your new coworkers and how you didn’t like him but mid sentence you froze. Trevor had yet to see you freeze because the word you planned to say completely escaped you. Of course this wasn’t new to your friends as they saw the familiar signs, the way in which you paused, your lips pursed in a questioning way, your hand coming up and shaking knowing it was on the tip of your tongue and you just couldn’t think of it or couldn’t pronounce it. 

What your friends weren’t used to was seeing Trevor respond to it. His response to you struggling made all of them share a glance in approval of his small action. He took your shaking hand and slipped it into his own. Immediately your small flustered expression on your face turns to him. Your friends couldn’t hear what you were saying between yourselves if you were even talking at all, but they could see the care in Trevors eyes and how your frustration seemed to melt away.

“Hi” he whispers only for you to hear after a couple seconds pass. 

A smile breaks out on your face. “Hi” 

“What are you trying to say?” repeating the same sentence that he asked you weeks ago when you asked him to get the milk out the fridge. 

“I can’t think of it.” a sigh leaving your lips. 

“Describe it.” His forehead resting on yours as you look into his eyes. 

“You know, like a red flag.” 

“Like in dating? So a slang term?” 

“I think.” Pausing for a few seconds for your brian to catch up. “But I know it’s not called a red flag, but it’s like it, I think, like when someone does something and immediately you're like ew.” 

“An ick?” he softly suggests. Immediately your mouth forms into an o-shape in shock, making his mouth twitch into the slightest smile. Kissing his check quickly and whispering a quick ‘thanks’ and turning back to your friends. 

“Okay so like this new dude thinks he can come in and just boss all me and my other co-workers around. That’s not even the worst part like not only is he lowkey sexist, he literally only wears highwaters, immediate ick…” Trevor sat there half listening to your story with a huge smile on his face, hand on your thigh drawing patterns subconsciously as he sipped on his drink. He loves listening to you talk, how you get lost in telling stories and he’s happy he was able to help you instead of you pushing it to the side like you did all those months ago. 

That’s how it is from that night on, anytime you text him and he can’t understand it, or you can’t think of a word, or butcher the pronunciation; he will simply turn to you and ask “What are you trying to say?” 

[ladykailitha]

The Caged Bird Still Sings Part 4

Just a heads up tomorrow is the start of my posting hiatus. I will still do WIP Wednesdays and will be posting headcanons and stuff like that during that time. I will begin posting again on Sunday Sept. 1st. I haven't decided which story will get each slot, or if I just post based on vibes. Most likely vibes if I'm honest.

In this we get the first of Eddie's presents to Steve, Eddie refutes the stupid Steve charges, and Steve remembers something important that he forgot.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

~

Steve was living it up in the pool. His parents had an outdoor heated pool, but it was more for leisure than laps because of it’s weird oblong shape. But this? It had an outdoor pool, but the indoor pool was Olympic sized. Like proper with the lane lines painted on the bottom and everything.

So he practiced his backstroke and butterfly. And by the time he got out his muscles were deliciously sore and his skin was wrinkly. He showered and then padded over to the sauna to relax his ache muscles.

As he was the only one there, he set the temperature to slightly hotter than warm but not scorching. He wanted to rest his muscles not sweat out every toxin in his body. Once he was feeling good enough, he got dressed and walked back to his hotel.

He looked at the swimsuit in his hand and realized he wouldn’t have do laundry here if he didn’t want to. Wow. His mom always made him do his laundry even though they had a maid who would wash his parents’.

Steve looked at his watch and decided it was time for some dinner. He threw the swimsuit into the laundry basket and went to go blow dry his hair. He pulled out his but then noticed the one already on the counter. His eyes flicked between the two and there was no doubt that the one the hotel provided was way better than his.

He put his back in his bag and turned on the hotel’s hair dryer. It never overheated or would start to smell half way through the process. He ran a little gel through his hair and spritzed his hair three times with the hair spray.

He admired himself in mirror a moment. He was good looking. He knew that. But he never in his wildest dreams thought he had the looks to pull a rockstar. Like that was crazy levels of confidence. But looking in the mirror just now, maybe he could see what Eddie saw.

Steve walked up the table that had his wallet and picked it up. He pulled out his fake ID, the one that got him this cushy hotel room. He wouldn’t be able to use it for god knows how long, but he wanted to keep it. As a memento of sorts. God. He was already feeling melancholic about the whole thing and it had only been five hours.

That was when he spotted it. On the bed was a big white box. He frowned and walked up to it slowly. He wasn’t worried about people getting in. This was a hotel. It was probably put there by housekeeping or even the concierge. He knew better than to keep anything in his room that might interest a snoop.

He just wondered who gave it to him. He picked up the card and read it.

-To my little Canary

A parting gift from me.

Promise me you’ll wear it and think of me often

-Your Eddie

Steve lifted the lid of the box and inside was the most beautiful silk pajamas he had ever seen. It was a short-sleeved button up that stopped just an inch or so below the waistband of the matching shorts. The shorts themselves weren’t very long, not quite booty shorts level, but close. Both in a soft, light yellow color. Perfect for summer time.

He ran over to the phone and quickly dialed Eddie’s cellphone.

“Hello?” the warm, dulcet tones answered.

“Eddie?” Steve asked, even he knew it was. He was just so excited.

“My little Canary,” Eddie purred. “I take it you got your present.”

“I did,” Steve said, twirling the cord around his finger. “They’re beautiful. I can’t wait to wear them tonight.”

“Good,” Eddie said, a smile evident in his tone. “I hope I go the size right. Did you do anything fun today?”

Steve told him all about his day swimming and the sauna. He even told him about the hair dryer because he was just that excited about it all.

“That sounds great, little Canary,” Eddie said, his fondness oozing through in his tone. “I’m sending someone by with a card that I will load money on so that you can get things like gas for your car and other things for your personal hygiene, as I assume you’ll want to buy that stuff yourself.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Steve found himself saying, almost against his will. “Could have gotten by with the hotel toiletries.”

Eddie chuckled. “Probably, but I wanted to give you the option of a choice.”

Steve blushed deeply, glad that Eddie couldn’t see him in that moment.

“Look, little Canary,” Eddie purred, “we just got to our location and I have to go, but I’ll call you after the show and tell you all about it.”

Steve bit his lip. “Yeah, I’ll talk then.”

He hung up after they said their goodbyes with a sigh. He flopped on the bed and looked up at the ceiling.

Fucking hell. What was he even doing with his life?

His stomach growled. Well, for starters, he guessed he was going to dinner.

~

When Steve finished his meal, which was even better than breakfast...He never had a steak melt in his mouth like that before. It was so soft and buttery and the potatoes tasted of rosemary and garlic, the carrots were covered in a glaze that tasted of honey and something darker.

He shook his head.

Anyway.

When he finished his dinner he went back up to the room. He resolved that he would need to do more than just swimming to keep the delicious food off his waistline. He was going to have to check out the gym here.

Steve looked at the time and decided it was too early for bed, but he got into the new pajamas anyway. The shorts were pulled on first and fuck. Steve felt sinful just wearing the damn things. They cupped him in all the right places but when he moved or sat down they didn’t ride up or pinch. He seriously thought about not putting on the shirt at all. But the desire to see the full effect won out.

He pulled it on and buttoned it up. And just like the shorts, the top was form fitting but comfortable. The V in the neck from where the highest button went (it didn’t button all the way up) just showed a peek of his chest hair.

He admired himself in the mirror for several minutes before he forced himself to go back out to the suite.

Steve grabbed the remote and started flipping the channels. He was used to cable as his mother needed her HSN and his father needed the soccer score. Not because he was interested in the game, but because he’d bet on foreign games.

But either his parents only had basic cable or there were a bunch of new channels added recently. And he was willing bet it was the former.

He found a late night baseball game from a Japanese league and started watching that. He couldn’t understand the announcers and he didn’t know the players’ names, but it was still baseball, regardless the language.

Before he knew it the game was over and it was late at night, finally time for bed. He got all snuggled into bed when the phone rang.

“‘Ello?” he muttered sleepily.

“Oh, darlin’,” the warm tones caressed his ear, “did I wake you?”

Steve hummed in the negative. “Just getting ready to sleep. Tell me all about selling out Indy.”

Eddie huffed out a laugh. “I’d ask you how you knew Corroded Coffin sold out tonight, but you spent all of last night surrounded by my fans. Even the stupidest person on the planet would have had to pick something up.”

“Mhmm,” Steve murmured. “That’s me, stupidest person on the planet.”

There was silence on the line for a moment or two. “Who says you’re dumb, baby?”

“My parents,” he said softly, “my first girlfriend before I realized I was gay, my ex-boyfriend, you know the one my parents kicked me out for? And um...the kids I babysat for are all like super geniuses, so they get frustrated with me a lot.”

“Oh my little Canary,” Eddie cooed. “You’re not dumb. School smarts isn’t everything. I’m living proof of that.”

“That’s true,” Steve said, a little less sad. “I’m talking to a bona fide rockstar.”

“Hell yeah you are,” Eddie agreed. “But let me tell you about my night and see if I can’t lull you to sleep with the sound of my voice.”

“I’d really like that.”

So that’s what Eddie did, he talked and talked until he could hear the soft little snuffling of snores from his Canary.

“Good night, sweetheart.”

~

When Steve woke up the next morning, the phone was still dangling off the cradle from where it fallen the night before when he fell asleep listening to Eddie.

Eddie had a great talking voice. Dude should do books on tape or voice acting or something. Maybe he’d tell him the next time he called.

He stretched and yawned. He woke up just as well rested today as he had yesterday. Which meant that as good as the sex was, and it was amazing, it wasn’t as big a factor in his night’s sleep as he thought.

He got up and went to go grab a shower. He hadn’t had a chance to use it yet, as he had used the swimming pool’s showers yesterday. He ordered breakfast and then hopped into the shower, telling them to just come in and leave it next the sofa.

He dried off with one of the most luxurious towels.

Steve stopped for a moment. He really needed to stop comparing the hotel to the life he led before being kicked out. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t even in the same state let alone ball park. His life here would always be miles away from the life he left behind.

New cage, same as the old cage really except real gold instead of merely gilded. Better food, furniture, amenities. Same limitations. Can’t drink, but he could smoke.

So he went out on the balcony to do just that. He brought his food out with him and just smoked, watching the busy crowd below him.

Oh shit!

He scrambled back inside the hotel room and fumbled around for his wallet. He pulled out a little laminated card and dialed the one on the top.

“Henderson residence, Claudia speaking,” the warm motherly voice answered.

“Mrs. Henderson,” Steve whined, almost in tears at the sound of her voice.

“Steve?” she asked gently. “Oh I was wondering when you were going to call. Dustin has been worried sick. He went to Family Video yesterday to return “Ghostbusters” and the snooty girl at the counter said you’d been fired for sodomy!”

He winced a little at the harsh word she used. “I–I’m gay, Mrs. Henderson,” he whimpered into the phone. This was it, she was going to turn him away too. Forbid Dustin from seeing him, then it would get around to the all the other parents and he wouldn’t be able to be around Holly or Will. And–

“Ah...” she said, just as gentle and warm as before. “Can you help it? Can you choose who you love?”

“No, ma’am,” he whispered, hanging his head between his shoulders.

“Then why would I care?” Claudia huffed in annoyance. “The first thing a mother should learn is to love your child no matter what, no matter who. Now, if Dusty gives you a hard time, you let me know. You hear?”

Steve felt a swell of pride in his chest, she might have not had been his real mother, but he should have known better than to bet against Claudia Henderson.

“Here, let me go get him,” she said softly. “Would you like me to explain it to him first?”

A lump formed in his throat as he choked down tears. He forgot he wasn’t isolated. He wasn’t cut off completely from people.

“Yeah,” he said, his lip quivering. “If you would.”

“Of course, sweetie,” Claudia said warmly. “I’ll be right back.”

Steve didn’t have long to wait. Soon there was the sound of Dustin practically screaming in his ear.

“Hey, bud,” he said when he could finally get a word in.

There was a sniffle. “Why didn’t you call me and Ma? We would have taken you in.”

Steve’s heart swelled again, this time in utter love for this butthead. “Because my dad would have seen to it that she lost her job at the library and with your dad having just passed, I couldn’t do that to you, to either of you, okay?”

There was another sniffle. “Okay...”

“Here,” Steve said, “I can’t tell you where I am right now, because no doubt my dad is trying to run me out of town, but I can give you a phone number to call. I might not always be there, but you can leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

“I guess that’s acceptable,” Dustin huffed. “Can I tell everyone you’re okay?”

Everyone meant his kids. Max, Elle, Will, Mike, Lucas, and Erica. And well, Holly, too. But she was too young to really understand what was going on. Technically Erica should be in that same category but she was too smart to be left out. Steve didn’t even bother trying most days.

“Yeah, bud,” he murmured. “You can tell people I’m safe. Just keep the number to yourself for now. I don’t want my dad knowing where I am.”

“Roger that!” Dustin said.

They talked for a few moments longer before Claudia took the phone back.

“I’m going to call the PTA calling tree,” she said, “and get the word out that you’ll be unavailable to babysit for the foreseeable future.”

Steve hummed. “I think that’s the part that upsets me the most about all this shit.”

“I know, sweetie,” Claudia assured him. “But we’ll figure it out.”

And he was absolutely certain if anyone could, it was Claudia Henderson.

He let out a sigh of relief for the first time since he was kicked out.

~

Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

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[fiapartridge]

💌 with the sweetest boy himself, the bu boy, macklin

i loved writing this, i love him, & yes, he is the sweetest boy ugh

and i haven't seen a single mack fic on here like 👀 why we sleeping on mack?? anyways, this is fluffy to the maxxxx

Stepping into his dorm, you took off your beanie as he worked to unzip the zipper of your large puffer. You grinned, placing a soft kiss on his lips as he smiled in return.

You loved days like this: grabbing coffee from the cafe downtown, shaking off snow and laughing at how ridiculous the two of you looked, comparing yourselves to dogs after a bath, and coming back to his dorm as he removed your articles of clothing without you ever asking because that was just the boy he was. He was your perfect boy.

You moved to sit atop his bed, opening his laptop, and scrolling through Netflix to find a movie to watch before you had to head back to your own dorm and brave the cold sheets of snow outside. He shrugged off his winter coat as you eyed his new shirt that you hadn’t seen him put on this morning before leaving to grab coffee.

“Mack?” you asked as he laid in the spot next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into the comfortable curve of his body.

He hummed in response, paying more attention to the movie on the screen rather than the curious yet amused tone in your voice. 

“When did you get that shirt?” you laughed as he looked down at his top as if he had forgotten he even put it on in the first place. The shirt in question? A white tee with the words “I love my girlfriend,” except the ‘love’ was replaced with a big red heart. And the back? A picture of you two on the ice during family skate at BU, smiling brightly at the cameraman (thank you, Lane Hutson).

“Oh,” he huffed out a laugh, a tinge of pink settling on his cheeks. “Case got it for me for Christmas.”

“And I’m just now hearing about this?” You rolled onto your stomach, your chin resting on his chest.

Even after a year of dating, you still made Macklin nervous. You kept him on his toes, never knowing how you'd react or if he scared you away or if he would lose you by doing one thing over another. He was very subconscious in that way. If he lost you, he wouldn’t know what he’d do. You were his whole entire life, and while many say it’s unhealthy to rely on a person that much, Macklin didn’t care. He was head over heels for the girl sitting beside him, and maybe that’s why he wore the shirt, to show people that you were his, that he was very much in love, and that he was very much taken.

“I-” he nervously stammered.

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’m messing with you, Celly.” You shrugged. “I think it’s hot.”

He rolled his eyes. “There is no way you think this is hot.”

Moving closer, you watched as his eyes wavered down to your lips and quickly back to your gaze. A small smirk danced on your lips as you mirrored his movements, glancing back and forth between his eyes and his lips. “I don’t know. Telling everyone you love me with a picture of us on your back? It kinda makes me feel special, you know?”

“Any other ways I can make you feel special?” he smirked.

You gasped, smacking him in the shoulder as he let out an amused chuckle. “You are so gross, Mack!”

“I didn’t even say anything!” he replied, drawing you closer to his body until you were resting on top of him.

“You implied it.”

“Mhm,” he chuckled. He gazed at you intently, admiring his girl as you looked away, feeling exposed. His hand lightly held your chin, moving your head to look back at him. “You’re the prettiest girl ever.” he whispered, holding your waist as your hands steadied yourself on his chest. He ran his thumb up and down the exposed skin on your hip.

“I hate you,” you said softly, trying to hide the light shade of blush that was increasingly spreading across your cheeks.

“Embrace it, baby,” he remarked, dragging one of his hands up your back and leaning your body down to his chest, your arms falling to either side of his head as he closed the small distance between the two of you, brushing his lips against yours before fully capturing them in a tender kiss.

Your bodies pressed together as if you were trying to melt into each other, lost in the intoxicating sensation of being so close, so connected. Your breaths were mingled, hot and ragged as you somehow pulled him closer, kissing him with so much desperation you were unsure where this fervent fire came from.

Maybe it really was the shirt.

Your lips parted reluctantly, and with a soft, breathless laugh, you traced the contours of his skin, marveling at the way his features felt as if they were made for you and only you to enjoy. They were made for you to kiss and to admire, to love. With a soft sigh, you leaned down, resting your head on his chest as his arms encircled your small frame, holding you close as if he never wanted to let go. 

“I should wear this shirt more often, huh?”

“Oh, shut up.”

[maldaptivedreamer]

A NEW SIDE

You discover a new side to Tyler.

content: Errors and mistakes, not entirely accurate to alien universe, maybe ooc, guns (idk anything about them), military (idk anything about it), and fighting (only ever fought my brother)

wc: ~2.6

a/n: This may be the only thing I write for Tyler. With that being said, there are theories about Tyler having been in the military or Weyand-Yutani security. That theory inspired me to write this story so… petitioning for more fics about Tyler in military or something.

The room is stark and sterile, lacking any trace of warmth or life. The blinding white walls seem to amplify the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights, creating an almost unbearable brightness. The lack of color or character only adds to the feeling of emptiness and isolation.

Outside, the dreary browns and dark oranges of Jackson’s star and its’ crumbling buildings are a stark contrast to this clinical environment. The air here is heavy with the scent of cleaning chemicals, masking any natural scents that might have existed before. It's suffocating, as if all living organisms have been wiped clean from this space.

The weight of the gun in your hands is a constant reminder of your purpose here. The cold metal seems to bite into your skin, grounding you in this sterile reality.

Despite the assistance of modern technology, there's a certain satisfaction in manually aiming at a target. You anchor the gun to your shoulder, feeling the weight and balance of it as you line up your sights with the distant bullseye. With steady focus, you release a few rounds, feeling the satisfying kickback of the powerful weapon.

The recoil of the gun jolts through your body, causing it to dig into your shoulder. As you release a breath and lower the gun, you hear the gruff voice of the old general calling out for everyone to return their firearms and check them in. After that, he instructs everyone to meet in Room A-5 for sparring with their assigned partners.

Letting out a sigh, you glance to your side and spot your partner, Tyler.

He fits the cliché description of tall, dark, and handsome perfectly. Standing at least six feet tall, his broad shoulders and lean muscles are evident even beneath the layers of Weyland-Yutani uniform.

Your eyes linger on Tyler for a moment, taking in his imposing figure as he stands a few lanes from you. His gaze is focused and alert, scanning the area with practiced precision.

As if sensing your attention, Tyler's eyes flick to meet yours. He nods slightly, acknowledging your presence before returning his gaze to scan the others as they move to check in their firearms.

Rolling your shoulder to ease the ache from the recoil, you follow the others and can sense Tyler falling into step behind you.

His deep accented voice breaks through the sound of shuffling feet and hushed conversations, "You're a good shot."

You scoff lightly and raise an eyebrow at him in amusement, “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself. But I s’pose that doesn’t mean much when aiming is automatic.”

Tyler chuckles softly at your response.

A comfortable silence falls between you as you both continue progressing in line.

As the silence stretches on, Tyler finally breaks it with a playful tone. "Looking at each of their targets, seems like they paired together the best of the class."

The comment catches you off guard. Tyler is not known for being talkative, to you at least, instead preferring to stay professional and quiet. Any attempts at humor or conversation from you are usually met with a few polite chuckles.

Biting your lip, you steal a glance at him and quietly reply, "Ah yes, because we are the best of the best. The rest of ‘em don’t stand a chance."

Tyler's lips quirk up in a rare smile at your response. "Modest."

You shrug, a mischievous glint in your eye. "Just stating facts. Though I suppose we'll see who's really the best once we get to sparring."

"Is that a challenge?" Tyler asks, his voice low and teasing.

You quickly shoot back, "Only if you're up for it."

He chuckles, the sound deep and rich. "Oh, I'm always up for a challenge."

As you reach the front of the line, you hand over your firearm to be checked in. Tyler does the same, his movements efficient and practiced. Tyler's fingers brush against yours for a brief moment, sending a jolt of electricity through your arm. You quickly pull your hand away, hoping he didn't notice your reaction.

The two of you make your way towards Room A-5, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.

Carefully unzipping your bulky coat, you remove it and your shoes before stepping onto the mat. Tyler does the same, his movements smooth and practiced.

Both of you settle into fighting stances, playfully swiping at each other as you warm up on the mat. A sense of friendly competition fills the air between you.

Circling each other with fluid movements, Tyler lets out a playful click of his tongue before speaking with teasing undertones, “Y’know, heard someone say the general’s got a hard-on for you."

You can't help but scoff in amusement, firing back with a smile, "Really? Well, I've always been a sucker for mean old men. Guess that explains why he feels the need to torture me so often… What about you? Anyone caught your eye?"

A grin creeps into his voice as he answers, "I don't know, I've had my eye on that sandwich in the lunchroom."

Your stomach rumbles at the mention of food, and you can't help but let out a quiet groan. Absentmindedly shuffling your feet, you comment, "I am starving. Maybe I'll have to actually fight you for that sandwich."

Tyler's low chuckle crackles through your earpiece. "I'd like to see you try."

Rolling your eyes with a smirk, you speak, "Don't underestimate me. I'm scrappy when I'm hungry."

"Is that so?" There's a hint of challenge in his voice now. "Maybe we should test that. Or I could be persuaded to share."

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued by this playful side of Tyler you've never seen. "Oh? And what exactly would that persuasion entail?"

Your eyes lock with Tyler's, a charged moment of tension hanging between you. His gaze is intense, a mix of challenge and something else you can't quite place. He’s about to respond when the general's gruff voice cuts through the air.

"Alright, lovebirds. Less talking, more sparring."

You feel heat rise to your cheeks at the general's words, but quickly push the embarrassment aside. Refocusing on Tyler, you see a flicker of amusement in his eyes. Grinning, he raises his eyebrows and silently mouths the word jealous.

Releasing a giggle, you watch as his expression turns serious.

Without warning, Tyler lunges forward, aiming a swift jab at your stomach. You dodge just in time, pivoting on your heel to avoid the blow. Your training kicks in as you counter with a quick strike of your own, which Tyler easily deflects.

The two of you fall into a fierce rhythm, trading powerful hits back and forth. The sound of fists connecting with flesh echoes off the bare walls, creating a cacophony of grunts and thuds.

Drawing back with raised arms, you gasp for air as sweat rolls down your face. Tyler takes this opportunity to catch his own breath, but he recovers much quicker than you do. He advances towards you, his movements fluid and calculated.

In one swift motion, he lunges at you and twists your body around. With your back pressed against his chest, he wraps an arm tightly around your neck while attempting to wrap the other around your head. You struggle against him, trying to break free from his hold.

You throw your head back, stunning him, and swing your legs up. Using every ounce of strength in your body, you plant them firmly into the ground and shove him over your shoulder. His body slams into the ground with a loud thud that reverberates through the room.

Everyone turns to watch as Tyler groans on the ground, clearly winded from the impact. You wince at the sight, feeling slightly guilty for using such force. With a hint of amusement in your voice, you apologize to Tyler, "Sorry, didn't mean to hit you that hard."

Your intense training session comes to a brief pause as Tyler struggles. He forces himself to sit up, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. You extend a hand to help him up, and he gratefully accepts it. You both groan with effort as he gets to his feet.

As he wipes a finger across his lip, you notice a few drops of blood staining his skin. His face contorts in pain, and you speak in a hushed voice, “You okay?”

Tyler nods, grimacing as he licks his split lip. His voice is strained as he responds with a small groan, “Remind me to never get in the way of your food.”

You release a light laugh before taking your positions on opposite sides of the mat once again. With renewed energy, you resume sparring with each other.

The spar continues without any more incidents until the general calls for a break and dismisses everyone.

As you make your way to the cafeteria, you sneak a few glances at Tyler, silently admiring him. His muscular frame radiates heat, and a thin sheen of sweat glistens on his tanned skin.

The cafeteria is just as uninviting as the rest of the facility. The stark white walls and fluorescent lights mimicking the rest of the sterile facility. The smell of strong disinfectant lingers in the air, mixing with the low hum of chatter from other trainees. You grab your trays and fall into line behind Tyler, feeling the warmth of his body next to yours as you shuffle forward.

"So," Tyler says, his voice pitched low so only you can hear, "about that sandwich..."

You pause briefly to meet his gaze, noticing how his brown eyes seem to dance with mischief. Smirking, you reply in an equally hushed tone. "If you think that those puppy eyes of yours are gonna work, you’re wrong."

A low, rumbling chuckle escapes his lips. You can't help but shiver as he clicks his tongue and speaks in a sarcastic tone. "Damn. Figured you could throw me a bone after kicking my ass."

As you approach the front of the line, your eyes catch sight of the last sandwich sitting on the counter.

With a groan, you roll your head back and curse under your breath. From the corner of your eye, you can see Tyler's brown eyes twinkling with amusement.

Silently, you grab the sandwich and wait for him to join you, balancing the tray in your hands.

Tyler motions towards an empty table tucked away in the corner, a playful smile tugging at his lips. You nod and follow him through the bustling crowd.

As you take your seats, you lean in close to him with a playful scowl adorning your face. Raising one finger for emphasis, you speak sternly. "Once. I'm only going to do this once. So don't expect any more favors from me. I don't like sharing… Being an only child, I never had to."

Squinting playfully at him as he grins back at you, you add, “Also… I stand by what I said. Those puppy eyes of yours… useless.”

Tyler's eyes light up with amusement as you slide half the sandwich across the table to him. "I'll take it," he says, his voice warm with gratitude.

As he takes a bite, his lips curve into a small smile. "And for the record," he continues, "I wasn't trying to use puppy eyes. That's just my face."

You snort, taking a bite of your half. "Sure, it is. I bet that face gets you out of a lot of trouble."

He shrugs casually, but there's a hint of playfulness in his gesture. "Maybe. But it clearly doesn't work on you." His tone is very obviously sarcastic.

Taking another mouthful, you give him a small glare. You roll your eyes, but can't help the smile tugging at your lips. "Don't let it go to your head. This is a one-time deal, remember?"

"Of course," he nods solemnly, but there's a glint in his eye that suggests he doesn't believe you for a second. "I'll treasure this moment forever."

You snort, taking a bite of your half. The sandwich isn't anything special - standard cafeteria fare - but after the intense sparring session, it tastes like heaven. You both eat in companionable silence for a few moments, the buzz of conversation from the other tables washing over you.

He breaks the silence after swallowing a mouthful. "Only child, huh? That explains a lot," he teases.

Humming past a mouthful, you ignore his teasing and curiously ask, “What about you? You give off the vibe of protective brother. In a healthy and very not weird, incesty, misogynistic way… If that makes sense.”

Letting out a confused and shocked laugh, he runs a hand through his hair and nods. His voice is soft, “Yeah, got ‘a kid sister. Her name’s Kay.”

As he talks about her, you can see the fondness and love in his expression. A small grin forms on his face at the thought of her. Tilting your head, you speak past a cheekful of food, “What’s she like? What’s having a sister like?”

Tyler's eyes soften as he thinks about his sister. "Kay's... she's something else. She’s kind. Smarter than me, stubborn as hell. Accidently finding trouble, and somehow fumbling her way out of it." He chuckles, shaking his head fondly. "Having a sister is... it's complicated. One minute you're fighting, the next you're schemin' together. We always watch out for each other, whether we’re fightin' or not."

You nod as he finishes. Part of you can't help but feel envious of the bond they share. It's clear that having a sister has been a source of joy and strength for him. "Sounds nice," you muse. "Though I can't imagine sharing my stuff all the time."

"Oh, sharing isn't optional," Tyler laughs. "It's more like... strategic borrowing without permission."

You raise an eyebrow. "You mean stealing?"

"I prefer 'liberating,'" he grins.

Giggling, you lightly tap his foot under the table with your own, “I’m so fucking glad I didn’t have to deal with that. That sounds annoying.”

He shrugs and takes a final bite of his sandwich, finishing it off quickly. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he rubs his hands together. Without saying a word, he points silently to it, and you realize you don’t have much time left. Time isn’t exactly something that Weyland-Yutani is generous with.

Standing up quickly, you shove the rest of your sandwich into your mouth in a rush. Ignoring his surprised and slightly amused expression, you brush crumbs off of your clothes.

As you both stand to leave, Tyler's eyes linger on you for a moment. There's a softness in his gaze that wasn't there before, a warmth that makes your heart skip a beat.

"Thanks for the sandwich," he says, his voice low. "And for not completely destroying me during sparring."

You grin, playfully bumping his shoulder with yours. "Don't get used to it. Next time, kiddie gloves are off."

He chuckles, the sound sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. "I look forward to it."

As you walk back to the training area, a sense of unease settles in your stomach. There's a subtle shift between you and Tyler - the usual professional distance has dissolved into something more personal. The easy banter and shared meal have created a new dynamic, one that both excites and unnerves you.

Despite the physically demanding drills and exercises, your mind feels light and carefree. The glances and looks exchanged between you and Tyler throughout the day make your heart race with anticipation.

When you lay down in your bed, exhaustion finally catching up to you, your mind buzzes with thoughts of him. The fluttering sensation in your gut is a mix of nervousness and excitement.

[senorabond]

Rumor Has It: Chapter 5 Peña x f!reader x Pike

Pairings: Javier Peña x f!reader; Marcus Pike x f!reader; future Peña x f!reader x Pike

Chapter 5 Summary: Peña has done more than you expected by making you the Customs Agent in Charge, and you’re already starting to feel the pressure. While preparing to give your first official brief, you reach out once again to Marcus for reassurance. The call leads you down memory lane to the last conversation you had with Marcus face to face.

Rating: 18+ (Minors DNI), Explicit sexual content, additional warnings may be added for future chapters

Chapter Warnings: no use of y/n, previous relationship (Marcus x f!Reader), drinking (pity party of 1 - your wine is ready), flashback, semi-public/workplace sex (evidence locker after hours), unprotected p-in-v (stay safe, folks), probably talking about cum way too much?, Dom/sub dynamic, soft Dom!Marcus, praise kink, you are such a good girl, cockwarming, aftercare, denying all the feels, ohh the yearning

Reader/Character notes: Reader is fem!afab; No mention of Reader’s body size, shape, composition, or skin color.

Words: 4.6k

Author’s Note: This chapter contains the final installment of the Last Night in D.C. Flashback, as I’ve dubbed it in my head. It was certainly a challenge, and I’m oddly proud that I actually made myself cry a little while writing it! I plan on posting the entire D.C. flashback while I’m working on the next chapter if you’d like to read it in its entirety. I’m excited at where we are in the story, because the events in this chapter will make a lot more room for Javi to work his magic.

All the smooches and hugs to @kilamonster who puts the B, E, T, and A (*giggity*) in BEAUTIFUL - thank you, lovey! 

Masterlist || Previous Chapter

Texas Present

A copy of the assignment paperwork shows up on your desk the next morning. Next to your name states your role in the case: CBP Agent in Charge. 

Peña did more than make good on his word to keep you involved. You’d told him you didn’t want to be just another liaison or consultant, but you weren’t expecting this. It doesn’t feel right, truth be told. You wanted this level of involvement in a case, but only by earning it on your own merit – not because your connection at the FBI panned out. 

Your conversation with Marcus the previous day still lingers in your mind as you try to get some work done. It was good to hear his voice again so soon. Great, actually. You admit that you missed the sound of his smile when he spoke and his reassuring tones. He actually listened to what you said and remembered things you told him. Marcus was going to make somebody very lucky one day, and they had better deserve him. 

Marcus had been gracious when you fessed up and told him that Peña wanted you to use your connection to the art squad to help with the case. 

“I know how bureaucracy really works,” he’d said. He was surprised to hear that Peña had already tried calling, and you offered to ask Peña who he’d spoken to in their office. 

You stare blankly at the paperwork in your hand. You’re officially attached to the case now, but it’s still squarely in the DEA’s jurisdiction for now, which means the ball is in Peña’s court. The man is always so busy, you could be waiting a week if you don’t put yourself in his path. Smoothing your skirt, you decide to walk by Peña’s office to see if he’s free to talk. 

The butterflies in your stomach wilt a bit when you see the door closed. The blinds on his office windows are parted, and through the slats you observe Peña leaning back in his leather office chair, holding the phone receiver against his shoulder. Held at that angle, his neck is elongated and you notice the tight cords of tendon and muscle flex as he speaks. 

You pause a moment, wondering if you should pass by and continue to the breakroom for coffee, or head back to your desk. Before you can decide, Peña spots you and sits up in his chair. He beckons you forward, and you approach his door. The butterflies return as you turn the knob and walk in just as he’s hanging up his phone.

“I see you got your copy of the detail agreement.” He nods at your hand, where you’re grasping the paperwork.

“Yeah, I did.” You take a breath. “Thanks for that.”

“You earned it.”

Choosing to ignore his platitude, you direct the conversation to figuring out your first tasks. 

“When do I start?” You notice the chair in front of his desk is still empty from your last visit, so you sit without being invited. As you cross your legs, the sheer material of your stockings makes your legs glide together smoothly. 

“Right away, if you can. We’ll have our first team briefing Monday morning.” Javier adjusts his tie and clears his throat. A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as you catch his eyes taking in your movements while you smooth the fabric and tug the hem of your skirt down to a demure length. Javi must be a leg guy.

“I want you to present your strategy to the team,” he adds, eyes cutting up to meet yours and catching you off guard.

“My ‘strategy?’” It takes you a moment to register what Javier means. “You mean my idea that we talked about at the bar the other night? I wouldn’t exactly call that a strategy.” 

“You’ll need to flesh it out a bit more, of course. Prepare for questions.” Javier props his elbows on his desk and leans over, his voice softens slightly. “Can you do that for me?”

His question – the sincerity in his tone, the earnestness in his face – makes you want his approval, makes you want to please him. Nodding, you say, “Of course. I’ll get started right away.” 

He smiles appreciatively. “I’m looking forward to it.” You stand up to go, and he adds distractedly, “That’s why I made you the Customs AIC.”

“What?” You look back at him, stopping in the doorway.

“Your strategy. It’s what’s going to make this case successful.” You’re intrigued by this shift in Javi. He’s different: more open and forthcoming, generous with his time, giving you a peek at a softer side of him you couldn’t have known existed.

“I was doubtful at first,” he concedes. One of his large hands smooths his mustache and he smiles wryly. “But somebody reminded me that I don’t know shit about art.”

You flush a bit, remembering how forceful you’d been with him at the bar. That kind of assertiveness was new to you, but the case you worked with Marcus had helped you build up your professional confidence. 

Drawing yourself up a bit taller, you smile back at him. “Well, that person sounds very smart. I’m glad you listened to them.” 

Javi smirks and relaxes back into his chair, bridging his fingers together contemplatively. As you turn to leave, you hear him say, “Me too.”

~~~

Now that you know the reason Peña made you the Customs Agent in Charge of the case was because of your idea and not just your connection to the FBI, you feel an even stronger drive to excel. You know you tend to be unrealistically hard on yourself, but you justify this impulsive need to not just succeed, but to exceed all expectations, with the fact that a positive result in this case could get you the promotion you’d been gunning for back in D.C. 

Marcus was always good at grounding you when you went a little too far and started spiraling. He understood that the standards were different for female agents. He witnessed the endless patriarchal bullshit you and the other female agents had to put up with on a daily basis, and did his best to be an ally from within the institutional boys’ club of federal law enforcement. 

Marcus had a knack for knowing when to say something to pull you out of a spiral, and when you needed to push yourself through it. He was never condescending nor patronizing, but his natural empathy made you feel seen, heard, and valid.

Making a solid first impression with the rest of the agents on the case will be paramount to getting everyone on board with the strategy. Thankfully Peña is on your side, but you don’t want the others to go along with it just because he tells them to. You want to instill them all individually with confidence in your idea.

You’ve already been at this most of the day. For comfort, you decided to move from the small dinette table in your kitchen to your bed, where an open bottle of red wine now sits on your nightstand. 

You’ve gotten stuck trying to poke holes in your strategy, identify the risks and vulnerabilities to prepare for any hard-hitting questions. It’s hard to see things from an outside perspective. Sighing, you reach over and pick up the glass of wine sitting next to your phone. You could really use a partner right now to help prepare this briefing. 

Your eyes go back to your phone, and you consider calling Marcus. It’s a Saturday, and he might have plans, or could just be enjoying some quiet time outside of work. You decide to send him a text first, just in case. 

After agonizing for several minutes over what to say, you decide to send a simple: Can you talk?

Blowing out your cheeks with a big exhale, you turn back to your presentation. A few minutes later your phone dings and you rush to grab it.

Sure, let me get somewhere quiet. 

You let out a groan and feel bad that you’re obviously pulling him away from something, but you’re feeling pretty desperate. Resolved to make it a quick conversation, you’re poring over your notes and then jump when your phone rings. 

You answer immediately, imbuing an apologetic tone to your voice, “Marcus, hey, I’m so sorry–”

“It’s Javier.” 

You blink, too stunned to respond. Glancing at your phone’s screen, you see the call had not actually come from Marcus as you’d assumed.

“Who’s Marcus?” His tone had turned teasing and you hear the clink of ice in a glass. “You standing some poor guy up?” 

You recover enough to stammer, “Uh, no. No, he’s just a friend.” You don’t know why you felt the need to give Javi an explanation. 

“Mm, okay.” He exhales slowly, and you think he must be smoking a cigarette with his whiskey. “Whatever you say, cariño.” His voice is a soft purr from deep in his chest. 

You’re suddenly very aware that you’ve never spoken with Javi on the phone outside of work, and it feels strange – not in a bad way, he has a nice voice. But you do feel off kilter, and a touch of vulnerability makes you stomach flip. 

“So…” You pause, not sure what to say without sounding rude. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if there was anything I could do for you, actually.”

Wrapping your sweater more tightly across your chest, you wonder if your nipples are pebbling from a chill in the room or the idea of Javi helping you with something. You really need to get laid; you can’t focus on this case this tightly wound.

“Like what?” You take another sip of wine and wonder what the whiskey in Javi’s glass tastes like, and if the tobacco you smelled on him the other night in the bar is what he’s smoking now. 

“The briefing on Monday – that’s a lot for one person to manage, especially one who doesn’t have any resources assigned yet.” 

Resources. That means an actual team, with actual funding. You take a deep breath to steady yourself. That drive to impress and succeed can make you do stupid things, like take on way too much for one person, and set yourself up for failure. You’re starting to feel that sense of overwhelm that happens when you feel like you’ve taken on too much but force yourself to rein it in. 

Needing help is not a weakness. Asking for help is a strength. Accepting help when offered, especially from somebody like Javi, is the right thing to do.

Swallowing your pride, you say, “Yeah, that’s actually what I’m working on right now. It is a lot. What kind of help did you have in mind?” 

Ice clinks in his glass again and you can almost picture him licking the cool, golden drops from his mustache.

“How about I meet you tomorrow to go over what you’ve got so far, and we can go from there?” 

“Meet me – you mean at the office?” 

“Or your place, wherever you’d be most comfortable.” His tone is purely professional, it doesn’t sound like he’s feeding you a line. But the idea of Javier Peña being inside your apartment fills you with something akin to panic.

“The office is good,” you rush to answer. 

Javi’s chuckle is low and breathy. “Whatever you want, cariño.”

You agree on a time to meet the next day and hang up, just in time for your phone to start ringing again a moment later. Downing the rest of your wine glass, you answer with a choked, “Hello?”

“Hey, sorry, it took me forever to find a quiet spot to call – you okay?” Marcus is raising his voice slightly to hear himself over the music and conversation in the background.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine – sorry to bother you right now, I can tell you’re busy.” Setting the empty wine glass down next to the bottle, you begin to feel flushed and flap your sweater to cool off.

“It’s okay, just a work thing for, uh… for my girlfriend.” 

Your bed disappears from beneath you as your stomach drops. The dregs of the wine burn a trail down your throat. 

“Oh,” you manage.

“She’s a lawyer, just won a big case.” He continues. There’s an edge to his voice you can’t place, which makes you uncomfortable. You used to know his voice better.

“That’s awesome!” There’s a little too much enthusiasm in your response, and you try to dial it back a bit. “That’s so great. Good for her. I should let you get back to her, then.”

“Well, uh. What did you want to talk about?” Oh. Right. You’d asked if he could talk. 

“Oh, god, it’s stupid, I’m really sorry. I’m briefing my strategy at the kickoff on Monday…” 

“That’s great!” Marcus’ voice is filled with genuine warmth and excitement and you can’t help but smile.

“Yeah, except I’m shitting myself over here,” you try to chuckle. “I know these DEA guys are going to grill me and I want to have an answer to every question.” 

“You’re going to blow them away, I know it.” His words make you smile a bit. Marcus has always had unwavering confidence in you.

“Thanks, Marcus.” You try and fail to mask the tinge of defeat in your voice as you pour another large glass of wine. It’s your pity party, and you’ll drink if you want to. 

“Listen, how about I–” He’s cut off by a woman calling his name in the distance. That must be the successful lawyer girlfriend. She probably looks like Heidi Klum.

“I better let you go, I’ve already taken up enough of your time.” The words rush from your mouth. “Thanks again for calling – oh, and congrats to your girlfriend.” 

“Oh, okay. Well, if you need anything…”

“For sure.” Your false air of confidence is transparent. “Thanks, Marcus. Goodnight.” You hang up a little too quickly and take a hefty gulp of wine. 

Marcus has a girlfriend. Of course he has a girlfriend, he’s a total 10. If you’d just been able to get your head out of your ass back in D.C. – no, you won’t let yourself go down that road; not tonight. You’ve got way too much to do before you meet with Javi.

Work is a welcome distraction now, and you find yourself laser focused. By the time the glass of wine is done, your mind is too tired and fuzzy to be productive. You decide to pack it in for the night and get started again bright and early so you’ll have something halfway decent to bring to the office. 

You brush your teeth, down a full glass of water, and climb into bed with your wine-soaked brain swimming with thoughts of the two phone calls you experienced this evening. Javi’s call may have been totally unexpected, and you are resolved not to read too much into it, but Marcus’ led your mind back down memory lane to your last face-to-face conversation. You fall asleep thinking of how things might have been a bit different if you’d only been brave enough to stay.

~~~

Washington, D.C. 6 Months Ago

“Good girl,” he rasps. “My good fucking girl.” He kisses your forehead and temple, then presses his lips in a trail down to the crook in your neck where he rests and catches his breath. 

“Thank you, Sir,” you whisper breathlessly. 

“I should be the one thanking you,” Marcus says softly into your hair. “You did so well for me.” As you begin to regain the strength in your legs, he runs a hand across your cheek and cups it, kissing you gently. His other hand trails featherlight touches across your breasts, then tweaks a nipple making you gasp. 

“Do you still want my cum?” This makes you clench around him with a moan, and he smiles. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

Slowly, he pulls out of you with a small groan, making sure you’re steady enough on your feet before letting go of your waist. 

He removes his shirt entirely and reaches for the chair nearby where his coat and tie are draped across the back. Laying his shirt on the seat, he sits and opens his arms, beckoning you. Walking forward, you step between his parted knees, looking hungrily at his shiny, slick-coated cock. 

You want him in your mouth. You want to clean your cum from his cock and feel his hardness slide against your tongue until it hits the back of your throat. Saliva is already pooling in your mouth at the thought. But you know you have to ask permission first. 

“Sir, can I please suck your cock?” Marcus lets out a hungry groan and you lick your lips when his cock twitches in response. You start to go down on your knees when Marcus stops you. 

“Sweetheart, I would love to feel your mouth, especially now. But I can’t let you kneel on this hard floor. My good girl doesn’t deserve that.” He takes your face in his hands and kisses you sweetly.

“Besides,” he cradles your cheeks until you meet his eyes, “I want you riding my cock so I can watch your face when I finally fill you with my cum.” Smiling, you straddle his lap obediently, eager to have him back inside you, however you can have him. 

Marcus holds his cock to line it up at your entrance once again. Audible sighs pass both your lips as you begin to lower yourself down onto him. Marcus hisses between his teeth from the heightened sensitivity of being so hard, still so close to his own finish. 

“God, yes,” Marcus whispers when he’s fully sheathed inside you. “This isn’t going to take long, baby.” 

An electric sort of thrill fills you at how close Marcus is, his orgasm now in your hands. Rocking your hips experimentally, you search to find the best way to move together on the chair. Hands on his shoulders to steady your movements, you begin moving up and down on his cock, your arousal making the glide easy. 

“That’s it. That’s my good girl.” Marcus urges you on with unceasing praise, kisses your breasts and clavicle and moans against your neck. Leaning back, he looks up at you. “Fuck, sweetheart, you look incredible riding me. You’ve got this, keep going. Good girl.” 

Emboldened, you find your rhythm, and delight in the words and noises coming from Marcus’ mouth. Tilting your hips one way on the upstroke, and rolling them on the way back down, Marcus’ breath comes out in pants and grunts each time you bottom out on his dick. You watch Marcus watching you, head tilted back to look up at your face, eyes bright and shining. “Beautiful,” he whispers, as though to himself. “So beautiful, so good… So fucking perfect.”

He grabs your ass, a cheek in each hand, to support your rise and fall. Furrowing his brow, he thrusts his hips up to meet yours. He’s getting close, trying to reach that peak. On the next downstroke you press yourself to him, grinding your hips into his pelvis and he lets out a guttural noise. 

Marcus pulls you down into a passionate kiss and you moan into each other’s mouths as he ruts up again. The chair begins to creak beneath your combined weight and vigor, but you’re both too far gone to take any notice. This combination of depth and pressure is getting you perilously close to your own climax, but you desperately want him to finish with you this time.

“Please. Sir,” you gasp. “Please, I need it.”

“I’m gonna give you my cum, baby. So close. Don’t stop.” Marcus has an arm wrapped around your waist to hold you in place as he fucks up into you, his grip nearly bruising on your hip. Running his other hand up to cup the side of your face, fingers twining into your hair. “Look at me, sweetheart. I want to see that pretty face. Fuck–” he grunts, so close. “Eyes on me… Good girl.”

Gazes locked, mouths agape, you and Marcus inch closer to that razor’s edge together. The building pressure is almost too much and you struggle to keep your eyes open against its blinding power. You need him to fill your already soaked cunt. 

“Marcus, oh fuck, I’m gonna cum – Marcus-” 

A strangled cry that sounds like your name tumbles from Marcus’ mouth as he erupts, the swell and jerk of his cock being the final push you need. He’s holding you so tightly, crushing his mouth against yours as you ride out your pleasure together. Each spasm pulls your bodies together, like waves crashing over rocks, drowned out only by your blended moans. 

Panting to catch your breath, Marcus sprinkles feather-light kisses along your brow, beaded with sweat from exertion. As you slowly come down, you begin to shiver a bit – probably from both the adrenaline and the cool, dry air of the room. Marcus rubs his hands against your arms and back and pulls you close for warmth. 

“Good girl, I’ve got you.” He reaches behind him to pull his suit jacket off the back of the chair and drapes it over your shoulders. Perhaps it’s the intensity of the physical sensations, the comedown from such a high, or something else, but tears start to prick at the backs of your eyes. 

You’ve never experienced this amount of passion and sensuality with any other person in your life. Marcus is more than just a sex partner, he’s your lover. He’s also a friend, and a rare one at that. 

Aftercare is so important to Marcus, he never lets you rush or skip it. He sits there patiently as you recover and ride out the aftershocks, huddled against him with his cock still inside you. Marcus strokes your back and kisses your temple, whispering things too quietly to hear over the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. Breathing in tandem, you feel both your heart rates begin to co-regulate and beat together.

Eventually, and only when you feel ready, you begin to get up off his lap. 

“Good girl, nice and easy.” Marcus is a sight to behold, sitting there. His lap is soaked, his chest and neck damp with sweat, hair delightfully mussed. 

Marcus hands you your panties and you slip them on before his cum, infused with your own, can leak too much and make a bigger mess. 

Slowly, naturally, the electricity in the air begins to diffuse and a comfortable quiet takes its place. The two of you redress and straighten the evidence room, finding plenty of opportunities to smile, touch, and help each other. You even share a couple of laughs at the wet spot on Marcus’ shirt. 

“At least it’ll be under your jacket,” you offer, trying to smooth out the deep wrinkles in your skirt a bit more.

“Yeah, I’ll just have to figure out a way to explain it to my dry cleaner.” Marcus grins, revealing his dimple.

Marcus insists on walking you to your car and carrying the box of stuff you’d packed. He laughs at the sheer amount of office supplies you’d thrown in before leaving for the parking garage.

“I’m loving the silent protest, but do you really need three staplers?” 

“The patriarchy has a lot of paperwork,” you shrug innocently and press the unlock button on your key fob. 

Marcus secures your loot in the backseat and turns to face you before you get in and drive away. His shoulders have noticeably slumped and there’s a sad half-smile on his face. You step into his open arms and he envelopes you in a warm embrace, kissing the top of your head. The prickles have come back to your eyes and you burrow into his shoulder and neck even deeper, trying to memorize his scent.

He mumbles something, but you can’t hear him, just feel the rumble in his chest. You pull back without unlocking your arms from his torso, “What did you say?”

“I said ‘I’m going to miss you,’” Marcus repeats, tucking an errant lock of hair behind your ear. His face goes blurry and you quickly blink back the tears threatening to form. 

“I’m going to miss you too, Marcus.” 

He leans down to kiss you, but you shy away and look around nervously out of habit. Marcus grabs your face and plants his lips on yours, kissing you with determination. You sink into him with a sigh, and he deepens the kiss, caressing your tongue with his own. The kiss builds until you both have to break away for breath. 

You get a naughty idea and bite your lip, glancing around. “Hang on, I want to give you something. Keep an eye out.” Hidden from view by your open car door and Marcus’ tall form, you discreetly pull your panties off from under your skirt and tuck them into the pocket of his suit jacket. 

“A memento,” you say with a wink and he kisses you again.

“It’ll keep me warm on cold nights,” he teases, with a cheeky lift of his brow. 

 The somber mood returns, and the two of you stand there quietly again, neither of you ready to say goodbye just yet. 

Finally, Marcus takes a big breath and speaks. “I…” he falters, and has to clear his throat. “I don’t know if I’m going to get another chance to say this, and I’m going to regret it forever if I let you leave without saying anything.” 

His words come out quickly, but his voice is thick with emotion. 

“You shouldn’t go. I mean, I don’t want you to go. You won’t talk about why you’re leaving, but I get it – I do, even if you think I don’t.” You have to look away, and swipe harshly at the tears beginning to spill over. 

Marcus gently cups your face and thumbs away one tear, kisses another off your cheek. Your throat constricts, and you can’t find the words you’d say to stop him if you could. He keeps speaking, every word breaking your heart a little bit more. 

“I really think that there's something special here, with us, and I–” His voice breaks, and you see emotion swimming in his eyes. You cover his hand with yours, and turn your face into his palm, placing a kiss there. 

Tears are falling freely from your eyes now, and there’s a deep, aching part of you that needs to hear what he has to say, even if it kills you. 

“I care about you. Very much.” He meets your eyes as he says this. “I don’t expect you to feel the same–” 

Rising up on your toes, you quickly seal his lips with a bruising kiss. You and Marcus cling to each other in a crushing embrace. 

“Please,” you say against his lips, kissing him again. “Please, don’t–,” another kiss. A sob breaks loose from your throat. “I can’t–”

“I know,” Marcus whispers, ghosting his lips across your cheek, temple, forehead.

“I have to go.”

“I know,” he presses his forehead to yours. “I know.”

Pulling back, you can’t tell if the wetness shining on Marcus’ cheeks is from your tears, or his own. His arms remain locked around you, holding you to him.

“I have to go,” you repeat in a hushed tone. Marcus nods and presses his lips to your forehead one last time. 

“Goodbye, Marcus.” Without looking at his face again, you turn away, breaking free of his warmth.

You manage to get in your car and drive a full block before you finally break down.

Next Chapter || SeñoraBond's Masterlist

Additional Author’s Note: I am so thrilled at all the folks who have liked this story and that I get to thot thotfully with you fine folks. Thank you so much to those who have commented, reblogged, and recc’d my fic! I don’t think this has gotten enough traction to warrant a taglist, but I’m more than happy to tag anybody going forward as I post subsequent chapters! Just send me a DM. 

As always, I would love-love-love to know what you think. I really want to become a better writer, so any and all feedback is welcome! Thank you for reading! 💜

[rebelwrites]

Nine: Unfortunate Kind

Charles Leclerc x Nova Teller (OC)

Till The Wheels Fall Off Masterlist

Small town meets the fast lane. What happens when two souls meet? Will it end in happiness or will they both crash and burn?

As always reblogs and feedback is highly appreciated ❤️ if you want tagging in future parts let me know ❤️

I had no idea how much time had passed, my sobs had finally subsided but I still didn’t want to go back inside to face everyone.

Right now I needed to be alone.

My head was still resting against my knees when I heard someone come outside, joining me on the floor. Automatically I shifted my position so I was sitting up with my head resting on Jax’s shoulder. He was the only one who had the balls to come out to me when I was in this state.

“Tig has taken Pops to his place, Bobby is gonna take Elenor back home and wait up until I get there,” Jax said softly, resting his hand on my knee, “I will go check on Pops later. After you came out here he started going off at Charles, thinking he was Clay. The poor boy didn’t know what to do when Pops was trying to punch him.”

“Oh god!” I sighed heavily. Tonight was going so well until Pops started to freak out, I knew he couldn’t control it but it still broke my heart.

“He was asking about you, ya know,” Jax hummed, wrapping his arm around my shoulders pulling me closer to him.

“Who?”

“The Pope!” Jax half laughed trying to lighten the mood a little, “who do you think, Squirt? He was actually really worried, he wanted to come out and check on you but I told him unless he wanted his balls chopped off it wasn’t going to be a good idea!”

“I’m not that bad,” I huffed.

“Nova, I have been on the receiving end of your temper, the evidence of my face is still embedded in the truck,” Jax said with a slight playful tone in his voice, “I knew if he came out and you did snap at him you wouldn’t forgive yourself.” He had a point, I knew Jax could take my wrath, he knew to take what I said with a pinch of salt.

My head was spinning, I currently felt like the weight of the world was crushing me into the ground.

“How the fuck am I going to face Charles now?” I whimpered, trying to keep the tears at bay, I had only just managed to stop crying and if I started again I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop again, “things were starting to go so well.”

“You are a Teller, walk in there with your head held high,” Jax whispered, pressing a kiss against the top of my head, “but maybe wash your face first because right now you look like a panda that has been caught in a rainstorm, it isn’t your best look.”

Taking a few deep breaths, I finally pushed myself to my feet. The moment we were both standing, Jax pulled me into a tight hug, “till the wheels fall off Squirt,” he whispered, pressing another kiss to the top of my head.

Another fifteen minutes had passed, Jax had unlocked the back door that led into the kitchen allowing me an easy way to head up to the apartment above the bar to sort myself out.

The first thing I saw when I entered the room was my appearance, my hair was sticking up from tugging at my roots and my make up was smeared across my cheeks. I was glad Jax had managed to convince Charles not to come out to me.

There was no way I wanted him to see me like this.

My fingers instantly fumbled with the buttons on my shirt, soon enough I had slipped it off my shoulders letting it fall onto the floor, not bothering to pick it up.

I needed comfort right now, not glam.

Opening the closest I checked to see what options I had available. It didn’t take me long to find one of Jax’s SAMCRO hoodies, pulling it off the hanger I tugged it over my body. I needed to show my face down stairs so I quickly put my hair into a messy bun before tackling my face.

When I was satisfied I had removed all the makeup from my skin I took one final look in the mirror. I had gone from looking like someone who had all the confidence in the world to someone who had been broken into pieces.

Soon enough I was walking back into the bar, Jax instantly passed me a bottle of beer, which I took with an extremely weak smile. Most people had left for the evening leaving the usual guys from the MC, Charles and Pierre. Bringing the bottle to my lips I looked over to where Charles and Pierre were sitting, locking eyes with Charles, panic instantly flooded my body.

We had spent all night flirting with each other and now I had no idea how I was going to make him understand just how helpless I felt right now. All I did know was that I couldn't ignore the massive elephant in the room, shifting my gaze away from him, the sight of my guitar sitting in its stand on the stage caught my eye. My legs automatically started moving towards the instrument, grabbing the guitar I made my way to the edge of the platform, allowing my body to drop down until I was sitting on the edge, guitar resting against my thighs as my fingers started to play. I didn’t have the words to explain what Pops’ dementia was doing to me so I did the next best thing, I expressed myself through song.

“It was a good time, just a bad decision. We were all wrapped up with the best intentions, you were out of my league and I was runnin' out of time to string together words that were gonna make you mine,” my voice wasn’t as strong as earlier, my throat was scratchy from all the crying so I wasn’t hitting all the notes but that wasn’t the point.

The point was getting my feelings across.

The bar fell silent as I sang, each word that escaped my lips was filled with pain.

Blinking back tears I refused to look at anyone, I needed to get through this. My mind was racing as I sang. I needed to get the message through to Charles especially if we were going to continue flirting, putting our trust in each other by taking that leap of faith, seeing what this was going to become.

“Ain't it funny how it all works out? Ain't it funny how it all works out? Ain't it funny how every now and then the unfortunate kind get lucky sometimes? Thirty-nine years you've been puttin' up with me,” I could already feel my voice starting to crack from all the emotions that were running through my body. The first time I heard this song was after Pops’ first bad outburst, I still remember how I broke down in the middle of the kitchen, burning dinner in the process. “Your folks said we'd never see our first anniversary! Do you remember that first week, when you burnt that pecan pie and I ate the whole damn thing? I couldn't stand to see you cry”

The first few verses of the song were easy to get through but I knew the part that would cause me to lose any resolve I had left was coming up. Letting my eyes flutter closed, I focused on the feeling of the guitar strings underneath my fingers.

Someone came to join me on the edge of the stage.

I still refused to open my eyes to see who it was, although in reality, I knew who it was from how my body started to heat up just from his presence. The feeling of Charles sitting behind me, moving so his legs were either side of my body acted like a protective bubble that was going to keep me safe, one where it didn’t matter if I completely broke down.

I found myself automatically shuffling backwards into him so I could get closer, resting my head against his shoulder, I continued to play and sing. My heart skipped a beat when he wrapped his arms around my waist pulling me closer, even though our bodies were pressed together to the point where a piece of paper wouldn’t fit between us right now.

There was something about Charles that made me feel safe, he definitely had a calming aura surrounding him, it was something my heart quickly found comfort in. Being wrapped up in his arms gave me the strength to continue singing, even though the next verse would be the one where I knew I would break down.

From across the room I could see the tears that were clouding Jax’s blue eyes. This song also affected him as well, normally he wasn’t one to cry, instead he got his emotions out by punching things so seeing my other brother holding back to tears made the knot in my stomach tighten. No one was talking but for once I was grateful that their eyes weren’t on me. The mood in the room had completely changed, the only sound that could be heard was me and my guitar.

“Ain't it funny how it all works out? Ain't it funny how it all works out? Ain't it funny how every now and then the unfortunate kind get lucky sometimes? Then you got sick and things just weren't the same. There were days I'd come to visit you didn't even know my name, then I watched you fade away, while I was holdin' tight to you. Until the nurses pulled me back and said ‘There's nothin' you can do’.”

Somehow I managed to get through the verse, even though I couldn’t finish the song. I was choking on my words and once again tears were streaming down my cheeks.

I felt like giving up, I had lost all hope.

Memories of Pops filled my head, everything from growing up to more recent days. He had been my idol since I was a child, he was always there when I needed him. Knowing that one day he was going to slip away, not remembering his own children or grandchild absolutely killed me.

Feeling the guitar being gently prised from my grasp, I focused on trying to control my breathing but nothing was working. Charles pulled away from me causing my heart to cry from the sudden lack of his touch. He swiftly took me by the hand, pulling me onto my feet, guiding me from the stage to a small booth to the right, keeping me away from everyone else in the room.

My entire body was still shaking from my sobs but what surprised me the most was when Charles sat down he automatically pulled me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around me, letting me seek comfort in his chest.

I found myself gripping at the material of his hoodie that he put back on at some point during the evening. He gently rocked me not saying a word, but him just being here spoke volumes. He hadn’t run for the hills, instead he was letting me get all my emotions out in the safety of his arms.

At some point my hoodie had ridden up, the feeling of him brushing his fingers against my skin causing me to feel grounded. I had no idea how long we had been wrapped up in each other. Charles just let me cry it out until my sobs had turned into sniffles, not saying anything and not judging me.

All I knew is I never wanted to leave.

I had no idea how much time had passed, I refused to look up, scared if I did then my world would come crumbling down again. I did notice that the general chatter of the room had significantly quietened off signally that most people had left for the evening.

“Squirt,” Jax said in a soft tone, resting his hand on my knee. The sound of his voice made me open my eyes, looking up at him, “I need to lock up.”

“What time is it?” I whimpered, refusing to leave the safety blanket that was Charles.

“Nearly midnight,” he whispered.

“I can’t go home,” I finally admitted, the house was going to be too painful for me to deal with, the constant reminders of Pops’ health would be staring me in the face. Over the last month we had started placing sticky notes on things, mainly the kitchen cupboards, fridge and doors. Both Jax and I thought it would be helpful to Pops, letting him keep some independence but it also meant it was only going to be a matter of time before we needed to sit down with Elenor and explain everything to her.

“Crash here,” Jax hummed, with a sad smile on his face, “I don’t want you to be alone though, not like this,” he said with a concerned look. I knew what he was worried about, the last time I broke down like this I found comfort in a bottle of whiskey and he found me passed out behind the bar.

“I can stay with her, man,” Charles said without any hesitation, the gesture caused my heart to flutter.

“You sure?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if it was a problem,” Charles half laughed, as Jax took my hand bringing me to his feet, allowing Charles to stand up himself.

“I appreciate it,” Jax nodded, pulling me into his arms, squeezing me tight before pressing a kiss against the top of my head as Charles walked across the room saying his goodbyes to Pierre, “make sure you get some sleep, Squirt.”

Soon enough it was just me and Charles in the bar, this was the first time we had been truly alone and I just wished it was under better circumstances.

Guiding him up to the small apartment, I froze the moment I entered the room.

There was only one single bed.

“I don’t mind sharing but if you prefer I can crash on the floor,” Charles hummed, as if he could read my mind.

“Nah, you take the bed,” I whispered, standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor fiddling with the sleeves of my hoodie, “I’m more than likely not gonna get much sleep tonight anyway.”

A soft smile appeared on his face as he took my hand in his, his thumb brushing across my skin. “C'est absurde, je ne vais pas te chasser de ton propre lit. Nonsense, I'm not going to kick you out of your own bed,” he whispered, moving his hand to my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. The softness of his touch caused my skin to erupt in goosebumps.

Running my hand over my face I let out a heavy sigh, there was no way I was going to let him sleep on the floor, “we can share,” I said quietly, feeling my cheeks flush, once again I was extremely vulnerable. I couldn’t tell if it was due to sharing a bed with someone other than Elenor or whether it was from how Charles had shown me a side of him that was never captured on the cameras.

I could feel myself falling fast and hard for the man standing in front of me.

Opening the small closet I found myself fumbling with the items hanging trying to find something for both of us to sleep in. Soon enough I found a spare pair of my pajamas and a pair of Jax’s shorts for Charles. Passing Charles the garment, I quickly disappeared into the tiny bathroom to give myself some privacy to change.

Taking a look at the pajamas I was gripping I could have screamed, of course the only ones I had on hand were the ones that Chibs had gotten me for secret santa as a joke. The top had ‘do not disturb, dreaming of Leclerc’ in bold red letters across the chest and the shorts had cartoon red F1 cars all over them.

There was no way I could wear the top, I wasn’t ready to have that conversation tonight, tossing the garment into the wash basket I went back to the closet trying to find another top, mentally I thanked Jax for having a clear out of his clothes last month, meaning I quickly found one of his tops to wear before disappearing back into the bathroom.

Once I was changed I took a deep breath before exiting the bathroom. The sight of Charles topless standing in the middle of the room was enough to make me weak at the knees, if I hadn’t been leaning against the door frame I would have been a pile of mush on the floor.

“Come here you,” he whispered, taking a step closer to me, his hand quickly finding mine linking our fingers together, pulling me into his bare chest. The close contact caused my heart to race, I prayed he didn’t feel the speed it was beating, showing him the effect he was having on me, “let’s get you to bed,” he said softly, pressing a tender kiss against my forehead.

@withmyteeth @chibsytelford @stillbreathin @danzer8705 @keyweegirlie @celestialams @dragon-of-winterfell @ohthemisssery @a-distantdreamer @sgkophie @angywritesstuff @enchantedbytomandhenry @scribbuluswrites @dangerouspursepeachbear @buendiabebeta @ferrarifwendvale @theplobnrgone @charlesleclercje @queenslife @panicforspec @justme2042 @liv67 @derpinathebrave @clcspeonies @pleasantducktimetravel @raaaaabzzz @mehrmonga @sbgal @fangirl-lb @pitconfirmbutton @oslokij @tall-tanned-tattoo @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @pumpkin-spice-hate @talicat713 @band--psycho @little-diable @i-love-scott-mccall @fourthwallhateclub @theysayitscrazy @rosieposie0624 @choochoo284 @meteora-fc @beeroses @darklydeliciousdesires @the-jer-bear @extraneousred @youflickedtooharddamnit @babypink224221

[android-anthology-hub]

A Robot and a Girl - Part 1

I've been working a lot on polishing things up for this series, including doing a full rewrite of all three chapters of the first story in this series.

So let's start things off with a bang.

You'll also be able to read this over on Fiction Press, Ao3, and Tapas.

Edit: Unfortunately, because Tumblr has somehow become even more broken, posts with certain images can't register in their tags! And Tumblr removed the ability to have line breaks without having to code them in HTML by hand a long time ago. So, unfortunately, the Tumblr version of all of these stories are going to be without those linebreaks! Which sucks! THANKS STAFF!

The stylus shifted about in D'Anna's grip as she trailed along the pages of her notebook. Her knuckles stood out against her dark skin, gold-alloy joints smoothly shifting with every curve and line. She followed along the edges of the coat in her memory. The image lay over the page before her eyes, like a digital ghost.

It had been difficult to get it out of the tower security systems. Tanu had tried to piece it together as best they could. Lines of loose code bled into the image of the man, roughing up the edges of his coat. 

But still, she sketched them in. A little flourish of her own. She kept her focus on the notebook in her hands-

The light panels overhead flickered, and the trams rumbled down the center of the corridor. The door beside her opened and shut as people moved past along the side of the transport lane.

-and the security door across the way.

Every flash and tone of the signal light ran ahead of the next wave of sound as it crashed through the corridors like a current. Passengers rode past on the transport lanes. Cargo runners raced somewhere over their heads. And people gathered at the lane crossings. The rumble of the trams faded down the corridor, the crossing gates opened, and the crowd rushed away. The signal flashed again as another wave gathered-

D'Anna glanced back and forth from her sketch to the crowd. 

-the cargo runners racing by-

There he was. Stepping right into the crowd as the lights changed-

-and the crossing gates opened. D'Anna watched as the man approached the door across the corridor. Circuits silently whirred to life in her eyes, tracking the man as he unlocked the door - scratching down the code as he punched it in - and slipped inside.

It looked like the info she'd gotten from Tanu was right on the mark-

She brushed her thumb over a name she'd written on the same page, Rosi.

She'd made a promise, and she planned to keep it…

She tucked everything away, the gates sliding shut behind her as she crossed to the other side.

-now she just had to stay on him.

D’Anna’s breath turned to fog in the cold air of the hall as she trailed her mark.

The man tugged his coat tighter against the cold, the steam of his breath glowing in the cold lighting of the panels overhead. Dark green spread across his shoulders, a stark contrast to the pale gray that wrapped his arms and waist. It wasn’t too uncommon to see on an engineer’s coat… But she could see a white synth-silk scarf poking out over his collar.

That kind of fabric wasn’t cheap. Hardly something she’d see on an engineer this far down in the city. He was owned, whether he admitted it or not. That scarf was as much a collar as a comfort, paid for by his patron. But who paid him didn’t matter-

Another door slid open with a click, the engineer more focused on pulling his data card from the lock and tucking it away than on the hall. D’Anna followed close behind him as he stepped through.

Too close. Dammit, she was too close!

The door failed to close when it should have, the engineer’s heel grinding to a halt on the concrete floor.

She had to be quick. Think of something…

D’Anna tucked her hands away in her pockets as he turned, quickly speaking up, “I’m sorry, sir. I would have announced myself sooner, but my employer prefers discretion.”

-what mattered was the job.

With a cautious frown, he looked her up and down, nervously adjusting his scarf.

If he knew she was lying, he didn’t show it. He was too twitchy for her liking…

He kept glancing at her wrap-tunic, eyeing the synth-silk with a thoughtful tug of his scarf.

Sometimes it paid to keep a few of her old things.

His voice was low and ragged, “What sort of work, ma’am?”

He waved a hand over a sensor by the door, shop tables lining the wall next to him lighting up all at once. The light was just as cold as the hall, old metal arches casting shadows along the curved ceiling of the narrow shop. A pair of mech tables formed an island in the center of the room, their mechanical arms and cables neatly folded away.

It seemed innocent enough, a mechanics shop like any other. And yet, it felt wrong. It was too clean and put together, almost like a showroom. What was it hiding?

He chuckled as he looked back at her, waving to the selection of parts that sat neatly on his table, “We can work with whatever you might need: Mechanical, Cybernetic, even Mechatronic.”

Every piece had its place like he was proud of his work. He probably was. But it wasn’t good enough. Come on. If he could just show her where he could be keeping them…

“A mech,” she said, earning a pause from the man as he looked at her more carefully. “It’s my employer’s understanding that you’re in supply.”

The engineer frowned in thought as he picked an eye from the table, the gold-alloy iris shining under the light as he turned back to her. She stared at the eye as he rolled it in his hands, thankful for her tinted glasses.

“Well, that depends,” he started, slowly turning his back. He tossed the eye behind him, inquiring over his shoulder, “What model?”

D’Anna caught it on reflex, her joints glinting in the shop lights. She did her best to ignore the gleam in his eye and the self-satisfied smile on his face. He was getting a little too curious…

“An RC-N unit,” she said, keeping her voice gentle as she set the eye back in its place on the table.

“Workhorse,” he mused. “Now why is an expensive android like you coming here? And all for a mech that’s easy to order anywhere?”

“As I said, my employer prefers discretion,” D’Anna said with a frown. “And a workhorse isn’t the only model they’re looking to get, even if you’d have to reset their cores.”

She was pushing him, but if he took the bait…

He hummed thoughtfully, striding over to the far end of the wall as he spoke, “Very well, miss…?”

“AT-S-039,” D’Anna lied, earning a chuckle from the man.

“Tower staff, hmm?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see why your employer would wanna keep things quiet,” he said, eyeing her over his shoulder as he rummaged for his tools. “Folks up in the towers have reputations to uphold.”

“Yes, they do,” D’Anna said, her eyes scanning around the shop as she approached a tool chest embedded into the opposite wall.

“Well-” the engineer said as he came up behind her, core resetter in hand, thumb waiting on the trigger. “-you’re in luck, ma’am. I came into an RC-N unit recently.”

She heard the tell-tale click and crackle of electricity, spinning around in time to block the prongs of the resetter with her hand. Lightning arced from the three metal prongs, surging up through her arm, and into her shoulder as it threw her back. She slammed into the drawers behind her, shoulder screaming from the impact. She clutched at her arm, limp and numb from the jolt. Her hand was smoking…

“Took the shock to your arm and not your body. You’re pretty quick,” he hummed, giving the resetter another crackling click as he loomed over her. “Now, why are you here?”

She groaned as she tried to flex her fingers, “Looking for someone…”

D’Anna cried out as she slammed her arm into the drawers, shocking some sensation back into the limb.

The engineer just shook his head with a ragged chuckle, “No one else here but us. Not that it matters.”

Sparks arced across the triple prongs as he lunged for her.

One good jolt, and she’d be out like a light. She’d have to be quick.

She jabbed him in the arm - alloyed knuckles slamming into muscle - and sent the tool clattering to the floor. She surged up from her place on the ground. Her burned hand ached as another punch to the button of his chin sent him stumbling back into the mech table, head rattling.

“You…!” he sputtered, leaning against the table as his head spun.

She closed the gap in a single lunge, stepping like a boxer as she hooked an arm under his ribs. With her whole weight, she yanked him up and drove him back down onto the floor. She hauled him up by shirt and scarf, her joints whirring as she held him tight. He grabbed her wrist as he tried to stand, his feet scrambling against the floor. But she wouldn’t budge.

“You’ve got a storage space somewhere, don’t you, sir. Somewhere out of sight,” she kept her voice a soft-spoken threat, knocking his footing with a firm shake that ripped his collar.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the engineer snapped, looking back at the tool chest embedded in the wall.

“It’s behind there, isn’t it, sir?”

She shook a yes from him before she threw him onto the floor again. She grabbed his collar and dragged him back over to the worktable, harshly propping him against its leg.

She yanked off his scarf, the man groaning as she tied his hands to the table, “W-Wait. Wait!”

“Don’t worry sir,” she dismissed him with a shake of her head. “I’m sure you’ll get yourself out in an hour-”

-maybe three, if she was being honest. But now-

D’Anna sighed and rose to her feet, her eyes scanning over the walls and floor as she approached the tool chest.

-she had a door to find.

She frowned at the wall as she looked it over, muttering under her breath, “Now, how do you open…?”

She could see the way the tool chest moved, her eyes picking up the grooves it left behind.

But she couldn’t find the lock…

She closed her eyes as she ran her hands along the sides of the chest, focusing on the contacts in her palms. As her hand trailed halfway down, she felt it, a gentle signal pinging against her palm.

“Data lock,” she hummed, feeling out the interface. She looked back at the man, still struggling against his scarf as she spoke, “Your card’s the key, isn’t it, sir.”

It wasn’t a question.

His data card wasn’t hard to find. No one’s was really…

She paused as she pulled it from his pocket, a softer green than his coat. But it was the emblem etched into the plastic circuits that caught her eye. A white oval with two flattened sides, three diamonds cut out along its center. 

She knew it well.

“Mr. Archer,” she said with a frown, curling her hands into a fist. “Now why is he funding a chop shop?”

“Wouldn’t know,” the engineer coughed, trying to get the wind back in his lungs.

“Yeah, you do,” she said, rolling her eyes as she walked away.

“Who are you?” he asked, staring at her as she looked back.

“I don’t really know myself, sir…”

She could feel the circuits firing as she tapped the card, the tool chest sliding out along the wall.

The room beyond was lined with storage stalls, five of them full. The back of the room was some kind of loading bay, the sounds of the transport lanes just beyond its rolling door. Each mech was held firmly in place with straps, their heads hanging low, without power.

D’Anna clenched her fists as she walked down the line, the lights flickering on overhead.

Just how long had he been running like this?

“Most of these are archer mechs, combat models,” she muttered to herself, frowning in thought.

She stopped at the last stall before the loading dock, running a hand over the scorched metal of the mech’s chest plate. 

They were an RC-N model, exactly who she was looking for… 

The engineer had pulled out their power cell, leaving it on a small table built into the stall. With a grunt, she pulled open their chest plate and slotted it back inside. Its circuits flickered to life as she twisted the cell into place. She could hear their systems warming up as she closed them back up.

“Rosi?” she asked, stepping back as their eyes came online, pulsing as they regarded her.

“You–” their voice box crackled. “You…know my name?”

She gave them a small smile as she undid the straps, “Somebody missed you a lot when you disappeared. Sweet lady asked me to find you.”

As the last strap came off they stepped free of the stall, arms turning and clicking in sturdy shoulder joints.

Rosi tested and flexed their hands after being bound so long, tilting their head inquisitively as they spoke, “You know Cole?”

“I’m gonna get you back to her,” D’Anna said, meeting their eyes as they studied her.

They clenched their hands at their sides, looking around at the other stalls.

“What about them? What will happen to them?” they asked, watching as she studied the other models.

“I’ve got a friend that can take them in-” she ran a hand along the chest of one of the archer mechs, their body brand new. “-I won’t leave them behind.”

“Do you mean that,” Rosi asked, towering over her as they stood at her side.

She took their hand in hers and squeezed until her nerves ached, the servos in her knuckles whining.

“I give you my word, Rosi. They’ll be safe,” she said softly.

Rosi stared at her for a long time, longer than most would be comfortable with.

It was a look that asked too many questions. A look that held thought behind it. It reminded her that even a machine like them, a workhorse, was alive.

“You surprise me,” was all Rosi said.

D’Anna gripped the hem of her coat, thumb trailing along the once white synth-silk, long since dyed red.

She looked back at them with a smile, irises glinting as she spoke, “That’s a good thing, Rosi, thank you…” she rubbed her hands together with a small chuckle, “Now, let’s get the rest of ‘em online, shall we?”

The Gardens were always warm, humidity dripping from the solar shaft’s machinery. Greenery grew along the walls, vibrant in the sunlight that spilled in from above.

The air rushed past D’Anna as the corridors of the city opened up into the Gardens’ wide open spaces, sunlight glinting off her glasses. She shaded her eyes as she let her circuits adjust to the natural light.

“So it’s morning already?” she muttered to herself, knocking her glasses up as she kneaded at her brow.

She would never get used to seeing so much growth outside the Towers. Vines and branches wound their way around metal and concrete, cleaning the air for the rest of the city. But that wasn’t all it did.

She could see people tending gardens mounted on the walls, picking fruits and leaves that thrived in the sunlight. Flowers bloomed in planters along the path she was walking, an absolute riot of color. She could see traders setting out their wares, gardeners gathering their harvest, and engineers readying their equipment.

“Looks like a smuggler drop’s coming,” D’Anna hummed, glancing up at Rosi beside her.

Rosi gave a sage nod, then tilted their head in confusion as they spoke, “Smuggler drop?”

She nodded towards the massive airshaft that dominated the space, climbing towards open sky.

“You’ll see,” she said. “We should hurry, we don’t want to get in the way, trust me.”

They looked back to their fellow mechs, the other four giving Rosi a questioning look. And Rosi just splayed their hands in a small, helpless, gesture.

D’Anna frowned in thought as she looked around, circuits whirring as her eyes scanned around the space. She let out a soft sigh as she found what she was looking for, a yellow diamond marked on the nearby wall. She laid a hand over the marker, the paint still pretty new, and turned till she found the next.

This wasn’t where the path was last time she was here… She’d have to ask about that later.

She waved for Rosi and the others to follow, tucking her hands away as her eyes traced from one diamond to the next. The gardens continued to hum with activity. The tension building to an event she knew all too well. She continued to follow the trail, her eyes scanning about

Her eyes scanned about, racing along the trail until she found a familiar sight. Hidden in the branches and vines was an alcove, a small door marked with that same golden yellow beckoning her. She could hear the rumbling overhead, the electric hum of engines.

Bell tones rang out all around the shaft as several aerial craft started their descent. Their atmo-drivers whipped the wind into a frenzy as they hovered. Men and women barked orders, machines creaked and groaned, landing pads sliding out from where they’d been hidden amongst the green.

A young woman’s voice crackled out all around the Gardens, “Starting the clock, ninety minutes.”

The crews clicked on their watches, small screens flickering to life. And all counted down-

-90-

The moment a craft landed, the smuggler crews went to work, opening panels and pulling their contraband from their hiding places.

-87-

Others opened their cargo bays as they descended, barkers leaning out to announce their wares.

-81-

Mechanics raced out to meet them, trading work for whatever they had to offer.

-counting down the small window till sector security took notice.

D’Anna flashed a small smile as she watched everyone go to work, bringing goods to trade and sell.

Before she came here, she had never seen anything quite like it. She’d hated the chaos back then, but now she could see the beauty in it. The people here were full of life, brimming with ideas. Now, she could hardly imagine any other sight that brought a smile to her face quite like this.

She turned to Rosi and the others, one hand still in her coat pocket while the other tapped against the door.

“That-” she said with a nod to the organized chaos around them. “-is a smuggler drop.”

Himari was probably hard at work already.

[npcemi]

The long road of how starting a fight with superman over clone parenting eventually lead to Danny Phantom become God Part 4: The final warning

https://archiveofourown.org/works/47818321/chapters/121415806

A month had passed since the clone support group's last meeting and this meeting was going even better than Dani had expected. They discussed so many things and then the group expressed trying to find and reach out to other clones. However, all the momentum stopped when Conner spoke up. "I... I have to be honest with all of you. Despite Danielle's dad talking to Superman, things didn't get better. If anything, they've gotten worse."

Linda, Jarro, and Danielle exchanged concerned glances, their brows furrowed in disbelief. Linda was the first to break the silence, her voice filled with concern. "What happened?”

Conner took a deep breath, his voice laced with frustration. "Superman told me that I shouldn't be dragging others into our personal business. He made it clear that he sees my actions as a threat to his reputation, and he even threatened me, warning me to stay away from him and his affairs."

Danielle's eyes narrowed, her fists clenching involuntarily. She had hoped that the man would get some sense. That he would learn his lesson and be better to her new friend. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one, judging by how the room’s temperature began dropping dramatically.

“Dad!”

Everyone stood silently as Danny dropped his invisibility. They all looked to see her father, he couldn’t have looked older than fourteen. They were all surprised, he had just been a kid when he died. Danielle told them, but it never really hit home until they looked at the man.

However, by looking at him they also knew he wasn’t just a kid. He exuded power. His bright glowing green eyes with endlessly black pupils. The way his salt and pepper hair floated and fluttered in a nonexistent breeze. His very presence unleashed a pressure that made it hard to breathe.

“I’ll take care of it,” Danny said his tone was flat and serious. It was nothing of the fun-loving nature that Danielle had spoken about.

“Dad, can I use the mirror?”

“Just use the Mortal filter,” Danny said before exiting through a portal.

“Mirror?” Conner asked.

“So we can watch Dad kick the crap out of Superman!” Dani grinned.

“Mortal filter?” Linda asked.

“Dad’s true spirit form, even in base, can be difficult to look at for those not accustomed to the supernatural.”

There was a collective “oh.” as Dani set up her 85-inch spectral mirror. Her dad really loved to spoil her.

At the daily planet Clark Kent, Lois Lane, Jimmy Olsen, Kara Danvers, Catherine Grant, and the rest of the staff were having their morning meeting when a voice sounded from Clark’s direction. They all looked to see a white-haired kid with green eyes.

“Hi, Clark!” Danny said with a grin with too many teeth to be human. He was resting his hand on Clark’s chest.

“You!” Clark said, recognizing the boy from the watchtower.

“Bye Clark!” Danny said with a cheery tone that belaid his anger. Danny gave the man a push sending him out the window falling from the building and leaving a crater in the street below.

Everyone stood in shock, Danny recognized the look on Kara's face, the tensing of her muscles.

“Do not interfere Kara Zor-El.” Danny threw kryptonite-based bolas at her at a faster-than-light speed. She was tied up tight and because they were laced with his ectoplasm they would only come off when he willed it.

They saw him disappear and reappear on the street walking towards Clark. Clark looked up to see Danny. Clark felt his clothes come off revealing his Superman outfit. He saw a bright ring encompass Danny’s form. What he saw hurt his eyes.

That thing, yes, there was no way it could be human, its body elongated. Danny’s legs no longer existed. He became like a lamia, He no longer was on the ground, the boy floated. His skin became a representation of the night sky, he sprouted hundreds of black and white wings covered in eyes. The shadows he cast had mouths with hundreds of rows of teeth that consumed anything that happened to fall in them. His hair was a pure white that floated above his head like a crown. His eyes glowed bright green with endlessly black pupils. Each finger had a ring on it. Each gem represented the Sun, Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto. There was a volleyball-sized hole in Danny’s chest. Floating freely in that hole was a translucent black crystal with stars on the inside. The crystal was encased in a clear layer of ice. The crystal was surrounded by a spinning silver ornate metal crown that emanated blue fire.

“I warned you, the realms warned you Kal-El to treat the mirror born with respect, to treat your mirror-born son with respect. Now the realms will have their retribution.” Danny’s voice was layered with that feminine voice from earlier.

The Man of Steel was a man of action. He took the initiative and fired his laser eyes. They were blocked by an ecto shield. When that didn’t work he used his ice breath. Danny let loose a small whistle. It only lasted less than a second but the sonic force stopped Superman’s ice breath causing a wave of destruction causing the road to crack and nearby windows to shatter.

Danny appeared in front of Superman, uppercutting him in the gut and sending him flying into the sky. The man of steel didn’t even have a moment to reorient himself in the air. Danny appeared behind him and backhanded the man sending him crashing back to earth.

Superman decided to try his laser eyes again and put in every ounce of power he could and this time Danny didn’t block with a shield. Instead, Danny reached out his hand, and at the center of it was a black dot no bigger than a tip of a 36-Gauge needle. The dot sucked in the lasers, all of the debris in the air, its gravitational pull meant that anything loose was also sucked into it. Cars, light posts, and benches started to creak and croak as they were drawn toward the dot. Once Superman relented, Danny dismissed the black hole he created.

Danny generated a red ball of light in his hand and Superman fell to the ground instantly. As Danny floated over to him.

“I want you to start treating Conner better, You see this?” Danny gestured to the red orb.

“I can create these at will, I am the King of the infinite realms, Ancient of Space, The King of the endless. Creating a Red Giant is child's play. I’ve used not even a fraction of my power.” Danny’s layered voice echoed so loud it could be heard for miles.

A burst of magical energy caused Danny to jump back. The justice league and the Justice League dark appeared to surround Danny and Superman.

“King Phantom, please don’t kill Superman. Constantine told me you have every right to do so, but I ask as a favor please don’t.” Batman said.

“I wasn’t going to kill him. That isn’t necessary. In Fact, I was giving him a gift.” Danny laughed as he dismissed the Red Giant in his hand and began collecting red energy at the tip of his finger into a little ball.

“The gift of having time to reflect and to spend with Conner so he can see Conner as his own person. The mirror born are truly special. They’re a gift, I hate to see something so precious squandered because he wants to be a bigoted obstinate dick” Danny said as the red ball formed a beam that shot through Superman's shoulder.

“Kal-El take this warning to heart. It is the last one you will receive.” Danny said before he faded away. The members looked around to try and find him. The only thing they found was that all of the damage from the fight was gone as if the fight never occurred in the first place.

AN: Sorry totally forgot to post this one here, Finally the first big fight between Danny and superman, 

[ratmannn]

Curious about your wizard oc(s)! Is there anywhere I could read about them? If not, I'd be so eager to get an infodump of some kind!

Thank you so much for opening Pandora's box

I have a full cast of them because I have uh

An addiction to oc making

So I'm gonna put it under read more!

:readmore:

A lot of my W101 ocs incorporate headcanons I still have to write my big infodump for but I'll do my best to summarize here before I start and elaborate as I go. The jist of it is I think that where a wizard spends the most of their formative time in the Spiral influences their appearance in ways that can be very obvious or pretty subtle, and if they originate from the Spiral it can complicate things further. For this reason, none of my OCs are supposed to really be "The Young Wizard" and are instead just accompaniments to other people's YWs during story quests.

And now I will do my explanations in order of level I have them at!

Zachary Wyrmtail (Lvl 76)

Zachary is my thaumaturge and the first character I made when I remade my account

Zachary is originally from Earth, but was kinda yoinked to the spiral so young that he doesn't remember it at all. He was raised in Marleybone, hence why he has dog ears and a tail (he also has a very good sense of smell)

Growing up in Marleybone was about as stifling as you can imagine, especially because he presented heavy magical talent from a young age that his folks had him repress for the sake of their reputation. At this early point in his wizardry career/study he was very reserved and shy, especially since there was a lot of cognitive dissonance from the tone of his childhood. Post-Elsa Arc though, he's a very upbeat and outwardly cheerful guy, while still doing his best to maintain the appearance of an upstanding gentleman. Being and icy boy though, he of course has a self sacrificing streak. Tank and all that. He used to want to be a police officer in Marleybone, but then he worked with (or for) the police in Marleybone and now just makes his living as a private investigation across worlds. The guy helped kill Malistaire the first time around, he's got good reviews.

Joshua Inkweaver (Lvl 56)

Joshua is my conjurer and is actually a pretty recent addition but we love him

Joshua was born and raised in Wizard City, living on Cyclops Lane his whole life before school started. It's not very visible in the first image but he actually has freckles on his face that are lighter than his skin. I call this stardusting and its a result of living in Wizard City for so long. He basically just has hlitter freckles. On the surface, Joshua is a mostly academically minded guy. His favored fashion is mostly in blue and black and he works as an archival assistant at the Wizard City Library, but being a conjurer, he obviously has a bardic streak. He's an aspiring fiction author and dreams of one day writing a work so prolific that there come to be myth spells based on it. He's got a sorta Gordon Ramsay streak of verbally eviscerating people who insist they know better than him only to prove they don't, but is very sweet and patient with everyone younger than him asking for help, even if just asking him for help is a test of courage for his juniors. He and his family go to the Then-Faire whenever it runs and he usually volunteers for the equivalent of Vegetable Justice where a guy heckles you while you pay to throw tomatoes at him. You can also tell hes gay as a fruitbasket because he spends a lot of time maintaining blue hair that no one ever sees because he wears a hood.

Eurydice Dragonglade (Lvl 23)

Eurydice is my resident Pyromancer by birth, Theurgist by choice

Eurydice is actually from Dragonspyre but was raised in Mooshu after being adopted out of her homeworld for obvious reasons. Most humans growing up in Mooshu gain the features of whatever farm animal people they're raised around, but the draconid in her instead turned her into more of a lung dragon. She had a very average upbringing really, but a strain of draconic blood in her gives her a really nasty hot-headedn streak, and considering she can literally breathe fire, this fact scares her really badly. She is the most severe bundle of nerves in the Spiral, apologizing for every percieved inconvenience regardless of fault. She's usually very overly gentle with everything and is really fond of gardening and training pets, either of her own or of other people. I may be called cringe for this next bit but she's coded very culturally Japanese and usually tacks -san only people's names because she just feels rude and icky if she doesn't.

Shannon Shadowheart (Lvl 17)

My beloved necromancer... She was my first character on my old account and I recently remade her for nostalgia reasons.

(Ignore the second one being a sketch, I'm running out of art I've done of them)

Shannon was also raised in Wizard City but her heritage lies in Dragonspyre and she's named after her grandmother, who lost her life fighting in the draconic siege of the world. She has a very cool and cold outward persona to cover for the fact that she is an irreparable failgirl. The CEO of fake idgafers. Her black cat in universe is her favorite thing ever and he's like 14 years old, has one tooth, and is occasionally dead but still walking. Old Chompers is literally only alive through necromancy but that's okay because he's a sweetheart. Places with a lot of death give Shannon a headache because her sensitivity to spirits is strong enough that they start trying to communicate all at once. She puts a lot of effort into her appearance and is bad at hiding when she's flattered by any compliments she gets. She's intimidating in the "mall goth that looks so cool" way but is a huge loser and heavily abiding to new people as long as they behave, being very fond of people who will chatter at her and accept an occasional "mhm" or "cool" from her.

Vincent Seabound (Lvl 12)

My resident diviner who makes it very obvious I'm used to playing Ice. I didn't clarify the queerness for a lot of the above chars but it's very important to me that it's known Vincent is a butch transgirl, he uses he/him and has very masc presentation but his actual gender is flat up and down girl.

Vincent is my resident mad scientist but he's very high intelligence low wisdom. He's also terrible with people and will occasionally just accidentally say the most insulting shit to your face. If you point this out though, he apologizes and asks for details on what made it insulting, so he can make notes about it and avoid the blunder in the future. He doesn't particularly care for people, but manners build trust and trust means people to help him test his various gadgets and doohickeys. He's also adopted to Wizard City, but he's not sure from where. He appears human at first glance, but around the beginning of his schooling, he started having his mermaid arc. The tail he gets is based on the Black Dragonfish. He's a very funny little gal I think and I like him as a character but I'm. So bad at Storm. It's not even funny.

Sasha Draketouch (Lvl 9)

I'm gonna be honest I don't have any art of him that I'm satisfied with. He's my pyromancer and he's very new so I haven't gotten very far with him beyond him being an absolute little shit. Cocky, annoying on purpose, mocking, the whole nine yards. I hate him, he's my wonderful son. I haven't played him much because he's a character I stream on discord for my friends who can't pay for memberships but still want to be insane about W101 with me

[gretavanlace]

Softer, Softest

Josh Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: sexual content, language, slight angst, penetration, cockwarming, etc

Okay, the quickest of blurbs (under 1k) because I have neglected my josh lane lovelies so, so terribly. I received a request for bad day/comfort josh but now I can’t find the ask. Did I answer it and forget? Perhaps. Who knows? Anyway, this is just a fast fix, but I promise a full length josh fic is right around the corner ❤️

Josh is lounging across the living room couch, battered paperback in hand, when you push open the front door with a clattering of keys and the thunk of your bag hitting the floor.

”Stay there.” You implore, when he moves to stand in greeting. Just the sight of his face, so beautiful and bright-white love, has tears threatening in your eyes.

He notices right away, and his own eyes turn wide with concern, “What is it, dove? What happened?”

”Nothing.” You shake your head adamantly as you kick off your heels, leaving them where they don’t belong in a way you normally never would, “Nothing I want to talk about, anyway. I just had a shitty day, and I missed you.”

”C’mere, baby…” his voice is soothing, lulling you like a melody as he pats his thigh, “Come sit.”

Hiking your pencil skirt up enough to straddle his lap, you settle in against him with a sigh of content. He is warm, and he is home.

His palm strokes up and down your back, wrinkling the silk of your shirt under its weight, “I’m sorry you had a bad day. How can I help? Are you hungry? I could make you something. Or draw a bath with those salts you like, read to you?”

You shake your head against his shoulder with a heavy sigh, “No. This. I want this.”

”Alright,” you can hear the soft smile in his tone, he is pleased to be what you want in your moment of struggle, no matter how small.

Fingers crawling upward, he squeezes at the clip tucked into your hair and releases it, then scratches lightly at your scalp to give you a shiver.

”That feels nice.” You murmur, nuzzling into his neck until he is all you can smell.

”Here,” he whispers, gently nudging your shoulders, “sit up a little.”

You do as he says and study his lovely face as he concentrates on working the buttons of your shirt before pushing it off of you. Next pop the clasps of your bra, and the bliss of being free of it sends another delicate shiver undulating up your spine.

“There we go, dove.” He pets at your hair again and then pulls you back in, blunt nails lazily tracing your back until you feel like glittering liquid in his embrace.

”Thank you, Josh.” Your lips brush against his soft skin as you speak, “I’m sorry.”

”What are you sorry for?” He asks, matching your quiet as his hands continue to coddle you.

”For being a baby.”

”You are a baby,” he reminds you, words filled right up with love. “You’re my baby.”

Suddenly, your heart feels too big for your chest. How did you ever get so lucky? Do you even deserve him? Certainly not…no one does. “I love you. I love you so much. I just want to disappear inside you and live there forever.”

He laughs at this, that tiny giggle that melts you right down to your toes every time it peeks out, “Isn’t it usually the other way around? Me disappearing inside you?”

You giggle to match him, “Classy, Joshua.”

”I am but a caveman,” his fingers swirl circles into the dimples of your lower back, “a disgusting specimen of the lesser species.”

Another laugh flits off your tongue. You know he is trying to cheer you up, and as always…it’s working. “You are no such thing. You’re so good to me.”

A comfortable silence creeps in, but your mind is working overtime. His comment, me disappearing inside you, playing on an endless loop until you can’t stand it any longer.

”Hey,” your voice is meek, timid and unsure, as you toy nervously with the mala beads looped around his neck.

”Hmm?” He pecks a tender kiss into your hair.

”Am I really your baby?” Why do you feel so shy about this? Normally you’re adventurous and even more outgoing than he is, which is really saying something. But right now you feel…inexplicably bashful.

“Of course you’re my baby,” his lips are pressing kisses against your head again as he audibly breathes in the scent of your hair.

“Can you…” you twist those cool, smooth beads around in your fist idly, “I want…”

”You want what, dove?” He soothes your nerves with that loving lilt laced through his tone, “Tell me. I’ll make it happen. I’ll give it to you.”

”I want to be closer to you,” your words breathe into his ear just before your teeth sink gently into his silken lobe.

He knows. He somehow always knows.

“Lift up, baby bird.” His voice, rasping with subdued lust and stark devotion, needles at your heart until your head swims.

You rise up on your knees and watch on as he tugs your skirt up even higher and then pulls at the waistband of his pants.

You lovingly tease him about these khakis and their elastic waist. You call them his ‘dad pants’ just to watch him become uncharacteristically crass and grab his crotch with a ‘I’ve got your daddy right here, dove’. But right now? Right now you’re more than grateful for the lack of buttons and zippers for him to contend with.

With your gaze fixed on his gorgeous cock, he sweeps your panties to the side and eases you down onto it. Hissing as the heat of your cunt envelopes him.

”Is that better, baby?” He asks shakily, once you’re seated in his lap, filled up tight and snug with him.

“Much.”

You relax fully in his arms and it tugs at his heart-strings, making him even more completely fucking gone for you. He would set this whole world on fire if you felt even a little bit chilly.

A haunting, calming song begins to hum out of him, the vibration of it purring from his chest and straight into your heart.

”You sound so pretty,” you praise, cheek pressed just beneath his throat until the weight of the world seems to lift away and disappear.

”And you feel so pretty, dove.” He’s lightly scratching your back again, coddling you into a haze. “Softer than satin absolutely everywhere. Inside and out. Soft here,” the back of his hand brushes down your arm, “softer here,” his thumb kisses your lips, “softest here.” His hips lift ever so lightly.

Without waiting for a response, he begins humming to you again…guiding you gingerly into sleep while he rests, safely nestled inside you.

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @sammiboo162 @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @lvnterninthenight @paintmyhouse @tripthelightfandomtastic @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @thewritingbeforesunrise @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @calumspretty @sad1lynn @demolitionndann @gvfpal @starcatcher-jake @gretavangroupie @hugorobinson @jaketlove @josh-iamyour-mama @alwaysonthemend

[gauze-valley]

Whumperless Whump Event Day 1

Prompt: Emergency first aid, self done stitches

Finished my first post for @whumperless-whump-event's first prompt a liiittle late but I did it! This snippet is a precursor to. The only other thing I've written on this blog, which you can find here and here (in order!)

If u like the whole "caretaker has to care for themselves and suck it up so they can be there for people" trope, this might be for you!!

my stuff for this event probably won't be too polished, sorry about that! I'm just here to actually get myself to write :')

CW: Graphic description of self-suturing a wound, needles, graphic description of pain, laceration

[~1 and a half pages, 3rd person POV, OC/non-fandom]

If nothing else, at least the wound is only leaking. The stasis spell has held up surprisingly well, but the mirage-like waves in the magic aura around the wound tell Ira that he's made the right call in deciding it needs to be properly dealt with now, if the pain hadn't said as much already.

But he's exhausted. His limbs ache and there's a weight pulling on his body. He hasn't been off of his feet since early in the morning. A small reckless part of him says to recast the spell and lay down for a bit- what's the harm? He'll be closing this thing himself, and surely he could do it better with a little rest.

That'd be stupid, though. The overuse of healing magic is a risk for most already, let alone someone like Ira, whose mixed essentia halfway wants to reject every bit of holy magic that enters his body. He'll already be feeling the effects of this tomorrow, he's sure, and a second cast could put him entirely out of commission.

It's with a slow reluctance that he goes about cleaning the wound, sterilizing the area and wiping away the topmost layer of blood so he can actually see the edges More begins to seep out in response, but it's slow- the spell is still holding, and it's far more long than it is deep, so it seems safe to close. Unfortunately, the pain suppression is beginning to wear off, but that's all the more reason to get this over with.

Staring into the bathroom mirror, he tries to steel himself, conjure the motivation. He's done things like this before, in fact, he's done much worse procedures on himself than stitching a simple laceration, but his head is pounding and he just wants today to be over. Not that tomorrow will be any better. He's still needed- he won't be resting unless this gets much, much worse, and he intends not to let that happen.

Pushing the needle through the skin is easy. His hands are steady despite how worn and heavy they feel. They always are. Gritting his teeth through the pain, trying not to let the feeling of thread dragging through the punctures disrupt his focus, is much harder. Every sharp tug makes his skin crawl with disgust.

Ira resists the urge to rush it, because he's smarter than that and it's difficult enough to keep it neat considering the awkwardness of having to look down or look in the mirror for guidance, but fucking hell, every time this process is prolonged by having to clear away the blood again, he wants to scream.

Finally, he ties off the sutures, giving a relieved sigh that he immediately regrets as a dull pain shoots through his entire side. He carefully cleans the remaining blood once again and properly dresses the wound before throwing on a loose T-shirt. Now all he needs to do is clean up here before Six and Joy get back.

A ringing from the other room interrupts his thoughts. His phone. Muttering curses to himself, he walks over to snatch it off the bed and answers.

"Yes?"

"Chaplain Stepford, um, I'm sorry to bother you, but Chaplain Hart is busy and so is everyone else and-" Ira pinches the bridge of his nose. Of course, it's Clea. Can the acolytes not go an hour without his supervision?

"Is it urgent?" He interrupts, his tone short and exasperated.

"Not… exactly right now, but it could be. I think Lane's making a bad call about something and he won't listen to me."

"About what exactly? Spit it out." God, he knows he should be receptive to his students coming to him for help, but just once it'd be so nice if literally anyone else could deal with it.

"He wants to completely seal a wound, because he thinks-"

That's all he needs to hear. Lane should know better, but of course he doesn't. Of course he'd not only overestimate his own skill but completely disregard all warnings about only using drastic magic when it's completely necessary. "No. No, absolutely not. Tell him that if he does that without my approval, I'm releasing him from my mentorship."

"I already tried telling him that that'd probably happen. He said I'm just upset because we have different ideas. Can you come talk to him?"

"I'll be there in less than ten. Make it very clear to him that his ass is expelled from the program if I get there and that wound is mended shut. He's far from skilled enough to attempt that, I don't care how much he's read about it. If he insists on being a moron before I can get there, find another chaplain immediately."

"Okay, thank you-" Ira hangs up before Clea can finish. Really, he should probably thank her for bringing this to his attention, but all he can think about right now is how much worse the pain is getting, and how long it'll be before he can collapse into bed, and the utterly overwhelming thought of being on his feet all day again tomorrow, but this time with a fresh wound.

Forcing himself to struggle back into his robes feels like a monumental task. He doesn't even bother to take off his casual clothes first, he just wants to get this over with quickly and without bending his side, as much as he can avoid it.

He pops a couple of over-the-counter painkillers before he leaves, hoping that'll be enough for now.

[glittervame]

We are pleased to inform you....

Guys, it's a WIP but, I came up with it like 30 minutes ago on a whim, how do we feel about a series on this? Good Idea or bad Idea? Also sorry for the spelling this was rushed

Also can someone tell me how to make those pretty little page breakers?

It started when they found her playing with snakes, they had gone to her friend's house for a dinner party and had more left in the garden to play like every other parent when they had 1 two two-man glasses of wine and didn’t want to deal with their child.

“The doctor said she would be fine,” your mom said to your dad all nonchalantly, as she was quickly downing another glass 

“She’s playing with snakes now,” he seethes, “She’s turning out just like him”

“Everything's going to be fine, your grandfathers got no influence over us” She grins, “Drink up, it’s going to be a long 18 years”

He takes a beer and takes a quick sip, “let’s hope you’re right”

Then it was your 5th birthday and all your friends were over, your parents had gone all out, balloons, a giant cake, and a tone of presents.

You had come to notice that if you spoke a certain way you could have anything you wanted, you could shift your voice in a certain way and boom it was in your hand.

When your friends were talking but you wanted something done you simply just said, “The clock is ticking faster my friends we have much to get done”

Weren't you just a little adorable monster?

Your parents had thought it was cute when you had your friends over for the first time, then they noticed they were more like a possie or followers than actual friends. They started to notice that they were at your beck ‘n call, that’s what started to make them wary and start to pay more attention. 

Notice when your skin started becoming paler even though you would spend time playing outside with the other kids, and when your eyes started shifting to a light icy blue every once in a while.

That’s when they decided to ship you off to a fancy boarding school for elementary schoolers.

The teachers grew to like you and would give you more privileges than the other kids. Because naturally, you were a great student, you had straight A’s and since they offered to learn different languages you took up a natural knack for learning German, it just came naturally to you what can I say?

Fun fact I'm taking Latian right now

Once your letters start coming home about life there your parents are splendid, they think they’ve done the best thing for you, you have good friends and excelling in your classes, a parent couldn’t be any prouder. That is until you mention a riddle in one of your letters, Scheiße am Dampfen.

Immediately they pulled you out, you were already 11 by then so it didn’t really matter, it was your last year there and it was time to go to Hogwarts anyway. 

You had received your letter in the garden, it was placed in your usual seat addressed to you.

Ms. Y/n

The garden behind your house

XXXX-XXXX lane

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You will find a list of needs and your ticket to platform 9 ¾ included in the envelope. We hope to have you join us.

Yours sincerely

Minerva Migonigal

Deputy Headmistress

Safe to say your parents we not pleased when they found you with that letter smiling up at them.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked:  What role does humor play in your life? How do you look at comedy and its role in culture? Do you think comedy today is more or less funny as woke culture has its itchy trigger finger at the ready to cancel anyone that mocks it? Is it harder for edgy comedians like Dave Chappelle to remain relevant in today’s toxic society? 

Your questions are quite wide and so I hope I can hone in on some of the issues you raised.

I don’t think I’m different from anyone in general in not only loving comedy but also having humour in one’s life. I’ve watched my fair share of comedian stand up sets at comedy clubs and shows (Eddie Izzard, Andy Parsons, Ross Noble, Jack Dee, Stewart Lee, Frankie Boyle and so on).

I try to start my day by watching or reading something funny like an online clip or an article, essay or chapter (think Clive James or Anthony Lane or P.G. Wodehouse) - just to set the tone for the rest of the day. Because let’s face it, one look on the home page of any news media from the BBC or the Economist makes for depressing shitty reading.

Put another way, I’m like the girl who gets up one fine morning and wears a brand new white pair of shoes at school. You just know those white shoes are going to get battered around. They’ll get all kinds muddy shoe prints stomped on it and likely chewing gum and dog poo under it. But least you started the day clean. That’s how I feel about humour in my daily life.

I’m fortunate that I have a close circle of friends who make me laugh and that is precious. We text and send each other stuff throughout the working day. It’s light relief for a stressful day at work.

I try not watch comedy on a plane on my lap top. I think the air stewardess in my business class flight always think I need a sedative because I usually get a severe case of the giggles. I try so hard not to laugh out loud out of respect to the sleeping passengers near me. I just can’t help myself. I wet my knickers laughing so hard.

My perspective on and indeed my insatiable need for comedy in my life can best be summed up by that 18th Century man of letters, Horace Walpole who wrote, “The world is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think.”

For me the best comedy is hilarious and humane but equally brutal and true. Like many people I grew in a home where humour was the life blood of our family especially around the dinner table and just generally goofing off. The jokes to point out our foibles or pratfalls acted like glue to bind us together more strongly. As times goes on and as one matures you also learn to lean into humour as a personal coping mechanism when dark clouds gather above. But it’s also a mark of maturity that you also become self aware of humour as a commentary on things that lie just beneath the thin skin of society.

Humour has been on the minds of thinkers for centuries. My eldest sister who is a neurosurgeon and is interested in humour as a side topic of interest gave me a book on the psychology of humour as a birthday gift. As Peter McGraw and Joel Warner explain in their insightful book, The Humor Code: A global search for what makes things funny, “Plato and Aristotle contemplated the meaning of comedy while laying the foundations of Western philosophy… Charles Darwin looked for the seeds of laughter in the joyful cries of tickled chimpanzees. Sigmund Freud sought the underlying motivations behind jokes in the nooks and crannies of our unconscious.” A good read.

We tend to see comedy through the romantic lens of the one-off inspired comic whose unique view of the world is entertaining. But the focus on the individual witty voice misses the gigantic, political nature of the task of comedy. Comedy isn’t just a bit of fun. We don’t laugh at things unless they cause us very serious problems at other points in life. We can see this in the standard category of jokes: about relationships, family, sex, money, impotence, bowel movements, identity etc. We laugh most readily around things that in other ways are very distressing. A good joke invariably has a relationship with darkness, anxiety and pain.

I’ve always valued humour in people as a precious gift. I love having a laugh and even more if it’s at my expense. Perhaps that comes more readily to the British who appreciate the existential absurdity of life and don’t particularly make an effort to climb out of the hole they fell into…and if they do then we bring them down a peg or two.

But Northern Europeans have an even drier sense of humour, yes, including the Germans (it’s there…somewhere) but in the Swiss it’s totally absent. Norwegians have perhaps the driest sense of humour in Europe and that partly stems from the fact of its social code of janteloven - the idea that you mustn’t think of yourself better than anyone else. Because of this I firmly believe humour should be an equal opportunity offender. Moreover what I love about enjoying a good joke is that one the singular properties of certain comedy when done well is the freedom to explore ideas in an unconventional or counterintuitive way, to subvert society’s norms.

No one does that better than a comedian in culture in flux. As the great George Carlin put it, “I think it's the duty of the comedian to find out where the line is drawn and cross it deliberately.“

I’ve always been naturally drawn to dark humour from an early age and I suspect that had a lot to do with being packed off to boarding school at a young age (for my peers it was as young as 7) and just learning to develop coping mechanisms in the face of parental abandonment (or it seemed that way).

However I didn’t know the real importance of dark humour until I actually served in the British army and found humour as a form of therapy to deal with stress and situations of life and death with my army brothers and sisters. Our shared jokes were so off colour and un-PC that we would dare not repeat them in polite and respectable company. But that kind of shared humour served a crucial importance as any soldier will tell you. By mocking dangerous things or the situations you might find yourself with others, humour can embolden us. It helpfully paints what is potentially very frightening as deeply ridiculous. Joseph Heller’s ‘Catch-22’ captures the spirit of the absurdity of it all.

The comic perspective fills a central need of every society; it enables us to cope much better with our own follies and disappointments, our troubles around work and love and our difficulties enduring ourselves. Comedy is waiting to be reframed as a central tool behind the creation of a better world.

Comedy offers us a way of having a better time around things which, otherwise, can feel pretty disastrous. Ideally, in the utopia, comedy and its therapeutic potential wouldn’t be left to chance. Humour would be deliberately cultivated as a benign response to a range of entrenched difficulties. Previously, certain countries had an elaborate carnival season devoted to enforced comic activities. For a brief time, the weak could boss around the powerful, priests and nuns were supposed to hold obscene rituals in their churches, serious people were required to get drunk and throw bags of flour over each other’s heads. Humour wasn’t just left to those who felt so inclined: it was a kind of duty.

Black humour was a means of reducing anxiety of the awareness of death. Historians now know that one of the things that helped the persecuted Jewish community survive the demented Nazi persecution creeping into full blown genocide was humour, often of the darkest kind.

An example well-known joke went like this in Warsaw: "Moishe, why are you using soap with so much fragrance?" - "When they turn me into soap, at least I will smell good”. Jokes about soap were in response to rumours which started circulating in 1942 about soap produced from the fat of the Jews. Other jokes of this kind: "See you again on the same shelf!" or "Don't eat much: the Germans will have less soap!"

Indeed Jewish humour did not die in the Holocaust. In fact, Jews depended on humour to endure the period after liberation, both as a psychological weapon to grapple with what they had endured under Nazi persecution and as a source of coping with the displacement of the postwar period. After the war, humour was a poignant affirmation of mir zaynen do - we are (still) here - a declaration that the Jewish people had not disappeared and indeed could at times have the last laugh.

Does comedy have something to teach us or can we use comedy to teach? That is an interesting question in itself.

When I discuss this with friends across the political and non-political spectrum, some have argued comedy can’t be didactic as its the ultimate contradiction in terms. It’s why they hate woke comedy that often pervades the BBC these days and even the comedy clubs. These friends and I would sometimes go to the Edinburgh Festival to see comedians live on stage. But they say none of what passes for comedy on stage is funny because of the politics of woke.

I would disagree. Not about woke comedy - which ranges from pedestrian to just awful. But I will say that some of the best comedy is didactic. That’s because the best comedy is about revealing hilarious truths.

The ancient biblical books of Jonah and Esther, for example, have comedic elements that are clearly didactic. William Shakespeare’s ‘Much Ado about Nothing’ is didactic. The Marx Brothers’ ‘Duck Soup’ and ‘A Night at the Opera’ are didactic. Mel Brook’s ‘The Producers’ (original only) and ‘Blazing Saddles’ are didactic.

For us Brits, Monty Python is didactic, especially in its masterpiece, ‘Life of Brian.’ For Americans, ‘Seinfeld’ is didactic precisely because it’s about nothing. From ‘The Great Dictator’ to ‘Dr. Strangelove’ and ‘Blackadder series’ to ’South Park’, you will find that great comedy can be didactic.

The problem my friends identified is not that woke comedy is didactic, but rather that the woke side of the moon has no light of knowledge to impart. Woke ‘comedy’ tries to be didactic and fails because it has nothing profound or interesting to teach.

Comedy is not merely an event that produces laughter. A fart is not comedy (although it could be). The difference between comedy and tragedy is tonal. Both stem from the inflexibility of the ego.

This is why for example Shakespeare’s ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ is such a remarkable comedy. The two people who want to be viewed as most principled in their objection to romance are so easily pushed over into love, because their hearts are ultimately farcical. The hilarity stems from the disconnect between their inner and outer selves.

While the ridiculous disconnect between the ego and reality makes us laugh here, it could just as easily make us weep if the situation were changed. The fundamental difference between Shakespeare’s comedies and his tragedies is the ending. Everyone gets married at the end of his comedies and everyone dies at the end of his tragedies. Yet Hamlet and Macbeth are still felled by their own inflexible egos, just as Benedict and Beatrice are made to be wonderful, humorous fools for love by the same principle of human nature.

Comedy’s didactic nature is even clearer when we look to films like ‘Duck Soup’ or ‘Blazing Saddles.’ ‘Duck Soup’ is a scathing indictment of goose stepping fascism (of the real kind and not the lazy insults lobbed over these days) and arguably the Marx Brothers’ funniest film. ‘Blazing Saddles’ does the same for American racism. Neither is necessarily meant to be interpreted along propositional or pedagogic lines. Regardless, those films teach and they teach well. They expose the absurdities of reliance upon authoritarian government and identity politics to solve our problems.

The problem with woke comedy is that woke comics want to convince people to do the right thing, to hold the right view, in other words to moralise if we want to be considered good people - which we all do. But the politics behind woke politics is fundamentally ridiculous. That’s why it can be so easily used for comedy: their core concepts and assumptions (gender and biology in trans ideology or the darker you are on the colour spectrum, the greater your societal victimhood) are easy to mock.

In ‘Life of Brian,’ the Pythons did not mock Jesus. They mocked institutionalised religion. When Jesus appears, it’s in the background, he only speaks scripture, and his portrayal is markedly respectful. Nothing else in the film is respectful - everything else is treated like a huge hilarity. John Cleese said the reason they didn’t try to make Jesus funny is that they didn’t think he would have been funny.

According to John Cleese, Jesus didn’t have an ego to bruise or be inflexible. Yet Jesus was a complete and humble person. If he slipped on a banana peel and fell, he would have found it just as funny as anyone else. That’s because Jesus was self-forgetful. You can’t mock someone who gets the joke. So you can’t turn Jesus into a joke, because he’s not threatened by jokes.

One of the most enduring theories of humour arrived courtesy of the philosopher Thomas Hobbes. It asserts that humour is ostensibly about mocking the weak and exerting superiority. While this is clearly the function of some comedy – anyone who has flinched at a comic’s lame attempt to poke fun at, for example, disability will attest to this – it’s a relentlessly bleak and far from complete explanation of the purpose of humour. It’s better for a comedian to punch up then down.

So the real question today’s politically charged climate especially in the so-called culture wars (more visible in the Anglo-American world rather than in the rest of the world) is who is doing the punching up and who is punching down?

It depends as each side of the political divide claims the lower ground ie they are the weaker and therefore don’t deserve to be punched down upon but they can freely punch up.

Dave Chappelle’s comedy is the absurdity behind the so-called victim olympics that pervades behind woke culture. So making jokes about people of colour by white people is punching down but, as Chappelle alludes, people of colour can’t make jokes about white men in skirts ie trans because that’s now a greater sin and it would be punching down. In accepting the Mark Twain Prize for American Humour in 2019, Chappelle said a good joke is a finely crafted joke and one designed to offend regardless of one’s feelings or of one’s politics. Victimhood in terms of giving personal or political offence has no place in comedy.

I believe a joke is a joke. It doesn’t matter where it comes from so long as it’s funny. If you laugh, you own it.

I personally think much of our popular culture is overwhelmingly left - from Hollywood to the BBC - I don’t think that should be a controversial statement. It’s nearly always been that way as it attracts a certain kind of creative content maker whose values are liberal in the classical sense. There’s nothing wrong in that because this liberalism of the past didn’t necessarily inject itself into the art except in very benign ways but mainly it just told a damn good story or made us laugh because they told genuine funny jokes (from Python to Blackadder and Frasier to the Simpsons).

I think that’s changed now as woke ideology is increasingly the raison d’etat of a new generation of creative content makers. The message is more important than the craft itself.

Anyway, I digress.

Punching down is a charge of course that has been levelled at Dave Chappelle for his many jokes about different groups who have invested a great deal in their identity and also exert their own social and political power. But does he really do that? I don’t think so.

The mainstream media critics publicly hated his comedy special, but the ordinary audience overwhelmingly loved it (if rotten tomatoes metric score of 96% approval is anything to go by). It’s clear that many in the mainstream media had not really watched the show or gave an accurate account. Indeed the mainstream cultural critics in the US and in the UK prevented its readers from knowing that a debate was even happening, let alone what it is really about. If the argument about gender theory is mentioned at all, it is dismissed as a bunch of “anti-trans” bigots - aka ‘TERFs’ - hurting a beleaguered and tiny minority, for some inconceivable, but surely awful, reason.

As one of my favourite conservative writers (and gay rights advocate) and as an authority on the conservative philosopher, Michael Oakeshott, Andrew Sullivan put it really well, as he always does:

“Chappelle’s final Netflix special, ‘The Closer,‘ is a classic. Far from being outdated, it’s slightly ahead of its time, as the pushback against wokeness gains traction. It is extremely funny, a bit meta, monumentally mischievous, and I sat with another homo through the whole thing, stoned, laughing our asses off - especially when he made fun of us. The way the elite media portrays us, you’d think every member of the BLT community is so fragile we cannot laugh at ourselves. It doesn’t occur to them that, for many of us, Chappelle is a breath of honest air, doing what every comic should do: take aim at every suffocating piety of the powers that be - including the increasingly weird 2SLGBTQQIA+ mafia - and detonating them all.

‘The Closer‘ is, in fact, a humanely brilliant indictment of elite culture at this moment in time: a brutal exposure of its identitarian monomania, its denial of reality, and its ruthless tactics of personal and public destruction. It marks a real moment: a punching up against the powerful, especially those who pretend they aren’t. Bigoted? Please. Anyone who can watch this special and think Chappelle is homophobic or transphobic is either stupendously dumb or a touchy fanatic. He is no more transphobic than J.K. Rowling, i.e. not at all, and the full set masterfully proves it to anyone with eyes and ears.“

I would argue it’s hugely reassuring to see the ‘powerful’ laughing at themselves - in this case the LGBTQ+ community’s more shrill and self-righteous social justice warrior activists that brook no public criticism of their conduct against women and other critics who don’t have the power to fight back and are instead cancelled. It is a trusim to say that finding oneself comical is a token of maturity. It means being able to see one’s faults, without being too defensive about them. This, I argue, was one of the messages of Chappelle’s comedy show.

The thing that intimidates us isn’t actually power. It’s power that looks like it’s going to be inhumane: insensitive, unkind power. So we’re intently interested in things that reveal a mature, kindly sort of power.

Humour often provides a mechanism whereby the powerless (or at least the less powerful) can give constructive but pointed feedback to the powerful. Whether the powerful - in Chappelle’s view that would be the trans and social just warrior crowd - can take social commentary masked as a joke says a lot about their level of maturity.

Humour, as one neurosurgeon sister put it, is a form of psychological processing, a coping mechanism that helps people to deal with complex and contradictory messages, a response to conflict and confusion in our brain. Humour that is in bad taste or cruelly targeted at particular groups may generate conflict, but humour is also our way of working through difficult subjects or feelings. In this sense the comedian’s role is not validate our feelings but to make us think.

In olden days, the idea of the court jester - an officially licensed and salaried comic  - was built on the importance of humour to the mental health of the powerful. Even if in the council room or around the dinner high table, the leading people didn’t feel much like joking, the jester was required to make barbed, witty and perhaps mocking remarks to deflate pomposity and restore sane perspective. The high table may not be occupied by the feudal elites anymore but by a more egalitarian society now.

Who can disagree with the fact that all of us - leftist, conservative, revolutionary, traditonalist, straight, gay, lesbian, bi, trans, different colours and many creeds - are not in need of our inflexible egos and the self-important pompous bubbles we inhabit from being burst open from time to time?

If we live in a world where everyone demands equality, in other words to sit at the same high table, then we also sign up to be equally ‘offended’ by the court jester, however fair or unfair it may feel.

The shrill of cancelling a comedian is not the answer if we find a joke offensive. We have the right to protest. We can protest by...not laughing. It really is that simple.

Thanks for your question.