#shout out to men who are cool about that sort of thing

[weaver-z]

There was a really big cowboy-looking dude in the coffee shop, and after a while I realized he seemed to be staring at me, and I was getting uncomfortable until he suddenly startled and came over to say "I'm so sorry, ma'am, I wasn't trying to stare at you. There is a HUGE bird behind you." And lo and behold, right outside the window, there was an absolute unit of a crow.

[peterparkersnose]

Spoil

pairing: Prince Regent!Aemond Targaryen x reader

word count: 3.6k

warnings: lowkey dark!aemond, alys river type themed, reader’s family gets killed, reader is a plaything, sexual themes and descriptions (not a smut), fluff at the end :)

a/n THAT GIF OML uuhhh this came to me in a fever dream apologies.

summary She’s his spoil of war, and his new found confidant.

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read time: 13 mins 26 seconds

A spoil of war. 

Is the one thing you had been demeaned down to. From a visiting Lady to Harrenhal, a betrothed to one of the Strong sons, and now to nothing. A spoil of war. 

The first time you ever saw him was weeks after the fateful night that your life collapsed. You still remember the cool breeze in your nightgown and the loose hair around your shoulders. How the moon shone so brightly, but only in the early evening before the fight began. Smoke then filled the air as your new home was captured. 

And then they were gone. 

The Blacks had just packed up everything and… left? The castle you once knew to be lively, despite its cracks, was suddenly sullen and empty. Few staff remained from the ones who fled. You clung to your betrothed along with the rest of his family. Life felt like a ticking time bomb. 

It was midday when you heard the roar of the great dragon, Vhagar. A strange time to invade, but there wasn’t much to do. A glimmer of hope, you thought. A glimmer of hope. 

Hope is only something a fool would believe in now, you truly believed. 

The Strong family was rounded up by the one-eyed Prince. You had heard of him before and knew what the people whispered about him. Kinslayer. Evil. Egotistical. Irrational. 

A plea for help, you thought. How foolish you feel now. The Kinslayer swiftly went one by one, killing every single last Strong, down to the grandchildren. All you could do was scream. Your betrothed was gone, and so was his family. The women and the children were all gone. And all that was left was you. 

The worst death of all, you supposed. It was certain now, you were the last one on your knees pleading for your life. Perhaps in another lifetime, you deserved this. Watching your new family die one by one, knowing of your fate. As the Kinslayer approached you, his sword bloodied in his hand, blood splattered all over his armor, and his face, his white hair matted with the blood of your betrothed. His facial expression was unreadable as you stared him dead in the eyes. A soft prayer came from your lips as he looked at you like you were the most disgusting thing he had ever seen now, as a scowl moved to his lips.

His hatred for the Strong family was inconceivable. Why did such a man hate a family that much? 

He stared you down, taking in every single inch of you. An evil snarl approached his lips as he grunted. “Mmm…”

“She’ll do.” he called out to a man in armor, an older one than the Prince and with Dornish features. 

She’ll do? What in the Seven Hells is that supposed to mean?

The Dornish Knight took you by the shoulders and forced you off your feet and whispered into your ear softly as he was escorting you to horseback, his hand resting on the small of your back. “Just be quiet and listen. Pledge your allegiance to King Aegon. Then you’ll be fine.” His words were far from comforting as he intended them to be. Your betrothed blood was still fresh on your hands. 

A war camp was your new home. One of the dirtiest places on earth, not for a Lady such as yourself. Men were constantly poking and prodding at you, calling and shouting at you all sorts of terrible names. When you first arrived, you were brought into a quiet tent away from the evil eyes of the soldiers. The Dornish man sat with you and spoke softly. He seemed as if he didn’t want to scare you, but he still did nonetheless. You pledged your allegiance to King Aegon and kept quiet, listening to the first piece of advice he gave you. He introduced himself to you as Ser Criston Cole. You feared for your life, and the only thing seemingly keeping it here was this Ser Criston Cole. 

After a while, Ser Criston left you alone. And for a while, you sat confused as so many things were running through your head. Your cries continued as well did the trembles in your hands, the hands you couldn’t pull your eyes from as they were covered with your love's blood. 

A maid who was silent the whole time came in with a tub and began to bathe you after you were alone for a while. Why? You had no clue. A bath did seem nice though, you wished to be rid of the horrors that painted your body. You cried as the maid washed you, traumatized by the events of that day. The clear water turned a murky brown as your old life was washed away. A new dress was gifted to you. One of a deep green and a sinch in the middle, tied with golden strings. It was long-sleeved and floor length, keeping you warm in the harsh, cold, rainy environment where the camp was located. And along was an optional green coat of fur, embroidered with beautiful designs. Something you would never normally choose, but there wasn’t really a choice. The dress was soft and felt a bit snug around your body, but you didn’t feel like complaining would be a good idea at the moment. 

Your hair was combed by this maid as her quick hands moved through your locks. It reminded you of your old life and your old Lady maid. Who you thought must be dead by now. The soothing words of your old Lady maid calmed you for a bit, as you closed your eyes and pretended you were simply not there. 

The maid dressed you and quickly left. You didn’t know the Dornish man was guarding this tent until the maid left, and you saw a glimpse of his armor from the flap of the tent that was exposed when she left. 

Ser Criston returned and looked you up and down. It was not in a perverse way though, more of an inspection. Like you were some… some item being prepared. He sighed. 

“He’ll be happy.” Ser Criston stated, crossing his arms. 

“Who, may I ask?” you finally spoke. 

“Prince Aemond.” Ser Criston replied, giving you one last look up and down. “He spared you for a reason, my Lady. You should be eternally grateful for him and his grace when it came to you.” 

Prince Aemond? Having grace? 

Ser Criston escorted you to another tent. The men whistled and whooped as you walked by, looking like a fresh piece of meat to the soldiers who hadn’t felt the touch of their ladies for weeks. Heat rose to your cheeks as you looked at your boots, praying this nightmare would end. But oh, it had just begun. 

Prince Aemond sat in his tent. It was identical to every single one each soldier had on the outside, but on the inside, it was quite different. The delicately carved chairs and a large bed of hay with many pelts over it caught your eye before the Prince did. You didn’t even notice Criston leaving your side until you turned to speak to him, and he was gone. 

He was sitting in front of the fire. His armor was gone, and his hair was cleaned. His stockings were hung by the fire as they seemed to be drying as he sat in a chair, not looking in your direction. You stood still, fear wracked your body as you tried to think of something to do. Should you speak? Just stand there? Wait for him to approach you? 

“Come,” he said commandingly as he flicked a few of his fingers towards you, beckoning you over to his side. The Prince didn’t even look your way. His voice was much calmer than it was at Harrenhal. You listened, approaching him with hesitance. 

He looked up at you, taking in your features with the same blank look as he did at Harrenhal.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked harshly as you stood next to his chair awkwardly. You nodded. “Mmm…” he hummed once again, moving his hand in a way to ask you to sit in the opposite chair. The chair creaked a bit as you sat, giving an unexpected chill down your spine. 

“When I speak to you, you respond to me in words. No nods. Understood?” he scolded you, his tone of voice making you twitch. 

“Yes.” you squeaked out, almost silently. 

“Yes, what…?” Prince Aemond asked you, testing you to see your limits. “Yes, my Prince.” 

“Good girl. You learn quickly.” he purred, standing up from his chair to approach you. You froze as he did, not wanting to mess up. This was your only chance at survival. The Prince circled you, almost as a lion did to its prey not once, not twice, but three times. You couldn’t meet his gaze. 

“What is your name…?” he asked, now standing in front of you. You answered him swiftly with your name and your house. 

“Your father bent the knee to the Princess Rhaenyra, is that correct?”

Your heart skipped a beat. He had? You genuinely had no clue, as you were already living in Harrenhal with your betrothed as the war broke out. 

“M-my father, your grace, I have not seen him in many moons.” you quivered, your eyes fixated on the brick of the fireplace. 

“But yet you are his kin…” Aemond sighed, picking up a lock of your hair in his hands. “Such a shame. Ironic, isn’t it? He had pledged his allegiance to Rhaenyra, and yet you are mine.” he chuckled. His laugh sent chills down your spine. You stayed silent.

“How old are you?” he asked, dropping your piece of hair and looking down at you menacingly. 

“Twenty, your grace.” you replied hastily, afraid of his presence. “And I suspect you were betrothed to a Strong boy, is that it…?” 

You nodded.

“Use your words,” he said demeaningly, his long lanky fingers meeting your chin as he pulled your sad eyes up to meet his gaze. “Yes, my Prince.” “Good girl.”

His words went straight between your thighs. “I think I’ll like you,” he says, letting go of your chin. Tears brimmed your eyes. “Do not worry. I will not touch you tonight.” he says somewhat softer, as he grabs your hand. You didn’t even realize they were shaking. “Touch me?” you asked, looking up at him. 

“Oh yes. Don’t you understand what this is…?” he asked, making her feel like an idiot. The way he spoke was so demeaning, making her feel like she was the stupidest person alive. How had she not figured out what this was yet? “No.” she whispered. It was all making sense now. 

“You are mine. Mine to do with what I please. My spoil, as some say. You will do as I say, won’t you?” he asked, letting go of your shaking hand. You felt like your tongue was numb as he spoke. No emotion was shown on your face as you felt him kneel down in front of you. He placed a hand on your thigh. 

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked after a while. You met his gaze as he looked up to you, he seemed like an evil spirit had possessed him. His face was different, his lips curled into a cruel smirk. You were speechless again. Aemond was getting obviously annoyed by your lack of response. “You should be,” he said, his grip on your thigh tightening as your breath quickened. “Tell me, my Lady. Are you going to be a good girl and listen to me? Be my plaything, my lover, my company… or would you rather join the Silent Sisters? I cannot kill such a beauty as yourself.” 

His other hand moved to caress your cheek. He awaited your answer. 

“I-I…” you stuttered. The Prince grew impatient. “Answer me, now!” he yelled at you. You finally cracked.

“Yes, yes, I’ll listen, I'm sorry.” you cried, cringing at the sudden raising of his voice. His cruel smile only widened. “Good girl.”

-

He was gentle to you at first, but every time after grew harsher and harsher. He often prided himself on seeing you at his mercy, his hand on your stomach as he fucked you slowly. He liked the way you muttered his name as he held you in his arms as you were about to reach your peak. He enjoyed watching you leak his seed out on your thighs as you rested in bed after a long night of pleasure. 

Even if he was rough, he never treated you as his whore. He would often put your own pleasure above his, which was quite unexpected. In many senses around the camp, you were seen as his Queen. Even if that was far from the truth. 

He never liked it much when you spoke. He had no desire to know about your life, your dislikes, and interests, or anything remotely personal about you. He used you. He took and took and gave nothing in return, besides a mutual pleasure for each other. He took your company, as you would sleep next to him in his bed every night. He never held you or whispered sweet nothings to you as you fell asleep. He took your time, as you waited around for him all day. You had grown quite lazy and bored, with close to nothing to do. He took your worth. Yes, he didn’t treat you as his whore. But he would call you names that made you feel like one. You figured it made him feel better about himself, making you beg for his cock and calling you a slut afterward. Aemond would often tell you mid fucking about how beautiful you would look bearing his bastards. Or how good you looked with him buried inside of you. 

Aemond had returned for the night. You had gotten used to the angry footsteps and the sudden whooshing open of the tent door flap when he would return from his days. You hadn’t seen him for five days. You heard of his return to the camp by a few passing soldiers and expected his presence in your chambers tonight. But tonight seemed different. It was eerie how quiet he was. He was usually eager to get his armor off and to fuck you, but tonight was more solemn. He angrily threw his eyepatch on the floor and kicked his armor. It startled you a bit as you watched him seemingly throw a tantrum. Mentally preparing yourself for a night of torture, you began your routine as you had in the past few weeks and began undressing.

“No,” he said, emotionless, not facing to look at you. You stopped. This had never happened. He took off his armor and set it aside, and made his way slowly to the bed in his underclothes. You sat on the bed, unsure of what to do. He couldn’t look at you. Aemond could sense your confusion and your uncertainty. 

“Not tonight.” he said, his voice sounding weaker and weaker with each syllable. “Oh.” you said quietly, adjusting your nightgown back on comfortably. You sat in bed next to him. 

He reached up a hand and took a lock of your hair in it and twirled it in his fingers. He hummed. You just looked down at what he was doing and watched his fingers, then looked into his gaze. He seemed to have revealed an emotion, for the first time in weeks. Sadness. 

You wanted to ask what was wrong but decided to keep your mouth shut. He didn’t like when you talked. 

He waited a long time before he spoke. He sat there, not moving, and seemingly staring into space. Groups of soldiers marched by, the only sound breaking the deafening silence between the two of you. You knew better than to speak. 

“How has Hilda been treating you?” he asks quietly, still not meeting your gaze. 

“Hilda?” you asked, confused. “Your maid.” he said annoyed that you didn’t know what he was talking about. His tongue had a sharp, defensive tone to it. 

“Oh,” you replied, confused as to why he was making conversation. He never usually did. “She’s been kind.” 

Aemond nodded. He was trying. So hard. He just didn’t know how to approach you with what he really needed tonight. Kindness was something he had not equipped in a while. 

“Come,” he said, placing a hand on your back suddenly. You were hesitant. “I won’t hurt you.”

You listened to him and scooted over in the bed, lying next to Aemond as he wrapped his arms around you in a sudden movement. Your stomach was filled with butterflies and fear as he did, he pulled you closer to him. You had so many questions, questions you wished to ask and knew you couldn’t. And you stood still as touched you, confused as to what he wanted from you.

“Do you want me to embrace you?” you asked softly. He nodded, burying his head near your chest and the crook of your neck. You could feel his warm breath on your neck.

What the fuck was this…?

One of your hands wrapped around his head and cradled it as the other moved to his back and gave him some small circles with your fingers. He let out a long sigh. 

He looked up at you as he rested in your arms. His eyes were wet and his face was one you had never seen before. Aemond seemed like a complete stranger at that moment. “Do you love me?” he asked her with a tired voice.

She most certainly did not. But that was not the answer he was currently seeking.

“I do,” she said, caressing the side of his face and moving stray strands of hair out of the way. He just held her tighter and placed his head back on your chest, his breathing becoming shallow as he tried to hold in the tears. You were so utterly confused. He knew she truly didn’t love him. But he needed to know if she was obedient enough to lie for him. To hold his secrets, to be an extension of just his thing to toy with. He needed somebody desperately right now, and the only thing he craved was touch. Touch and your attention. He didn’t love you and you didn’t love him. But it hurt nobody to just play the part they were supposed to that night. He was in need.

“I-I went to Rook’s Rest,” Aemond began to speak. His tone was different from his usual commands, he sounded scared. You had never seen this side of him before. She nodded, stroking his hair as he spoke. “My brother, Aegon, and I…” 

You had never heard him speak of the King so informally. 

“We fought our cousin Rhaenys and her dragon… and we won but-” his voice hitched. He was… he was shaking? “It’s okay.” you said softly, daring to speak as your lover shook in your grasp. 

You knew tears were now falling down his cheeks but didn’t dare to say a single thing about it. You knew deep down, he was just a scared little boy. Aemond was only twenty as you were. His big persona of being a ruthless kinslayer was peeling back and he was revealing himself to you. It was something he never did, only in the solemn private moments with his mother years ago. 

He had broken at the sight of what he was about to tell her.

“Aegon got hurt. Really bad.”

He was telling you confidential information about the King. He was trusting you. “I-I’m sorry.” you replied sincerely. His hands moved around your ribcage and the other snaked around your back. He felt the fabric of your dress and played with it between his fingers as he tried to calm himself. “H-he can’t walk and he’s burned terribly and he’s barely conscious, and his dragon is injured, and... You-you mustn't tell anyone.” he whimpered, his tone stiffening at the last sentence as his ramblings came to an end. “Never,” you whispered, combing through his hair with your fingers to try and calm him. 

“I’m- they made me… they made me Prince Regent.” Aemond confessed as the words left his lips with a sour taste. You could tell he was terrified. 

Oh shit.

Aemond in a sense, was King. She finally understood how dire King Aegon’s condition was and understood why Aemond had been acting so strangely that night. 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” you asked him softly, trying to look to the positive side. If the positive side even existed in this situation. 

“No!” he seemingly barked at you suddenly, making you tense a bit. “I’m sorry…” he whispered, running his hand over the side of your ribcage and down to your hips. You had never heard this man once apologize for anything. He looked up to you with his red eyes as he craved your touch. You cupped his cheek, clearing the tears from his right cheek with your thumb. You knew he was afraid. Shocked. Terrified. And he was asking for you. 

“I will pray for the King’s recovery, your grace.”

“Aemond…” he said softly. You were confused and he read it on your face. “When-when we’re like this. Don’t bother with the titles. I am just Aemond.” 

You nodded. 

“I will pray for the King’s recovery, Aemond.” you corrected yourself. “And that your reign may be successful.” 

She kissed the top of his head. He held her close. 

“Everything will be okay.”

He held you like that for the rest of the night. No violence. No sex. No words. Just you and him, in a moment where he could have his last bit of clarity before he had to put the mask back on and perform for everyone else in his life. He was quite thankful for you that night. Aemond wept quietly as you held the most powerful man in Westeros all throughout that night. 

-

tag list: @dani5216 @uwiuwi @alohastyles-x @mandoloriancookie @maddieinnit0 @alexxavicry @scoliobean @avengersfan25 @nyotamalfoy @milly-louise @mxtokko

[mangowafflesss]

Garrick's Garage

Mechanic!Kyle Garrick x Fem!Reader

A/N: This has been in my drafts since July... I don't wanna talk about my babies that are drowning in there right now.

*clunk*

*clunk*

You groaned while turning up the sound on your radio and ignored the sound your car was currently making. You knew you probably should get it checked out but you knew it sounded expensive and your bank account was screaming at you already.

When you turned the corner to where you work you drove over a pothole and cringed when you heard something make a bang sound. On second thought maybe you should visit the garage on your way home... if you make it home that is.

When you finished your day at work you got into your car - which was sadly still making the same noise as this morning - and drove in the direction of where you knew your local garage was. You felt a flurry of nerves in your stomach as you knew you're either going to be charged a hefty fee due to the damage to your car or because you're a woman who had no idea where to start with cars. Perhaps both.

As you drove up outside you saw the sign 'Garrick's Garage' and sighed before getting out and walking under the shutter doors. You noticed the tools scattered around a car but no one was around that you could see so instead of venturing further you decide to call out.

"Hello? Is anyone here?" you stayed pretty close to the entrance just in case you needed to run away or something like that. Playing with your fingers nervously you looked around at the walls and saw a photo of different men, perhaps different generations of owners.

"Hello? oh- hi sorry for the wait there was a squirrel on the loose in the back" a man says while pointing his thumb behind him where you assume he just came from.

A squirrel?

"So what can I help you with?" he smiles and you swear your brain froze for a second.

"Um well… there's something wrong with my car" you avert your gaze from his face and copy his movements from earlier and point your thumb to where your car currently sits. He moves forward with the same smile on his face "Let's go take a look at it then"

You show him your car and let him take it for a little drive, you cringed as you watched him go up the road and hear the monstrosity of a noise it was making. He came back and drove it inside of the garage, turning off the engine and stopping the noise. He exited the vehicle and turned to you with a grim look on his face.

"How long has it been making this noise?"

"Nearly a month?" 

"A month?! please tell me you are joking" you don't say anything and he sighs heavily while resting his hand on the top of the roof. He taps his fingers against the metal before pushing himself back and walking into the back of the garage.

Another man appears as soon as he disappears and gives you a warm smile "Hey darling, this yours?" he sucks in his breath as he takes in the sight of your car and lets out a whistle "This is a blast from the past if I ever saw one" he chuckles before knocking on the window and peering inside.

You have quite an old car due to it being the only thing you can afford, and only being able to afford a rustbucket means more… rust. 

“Had one of these in this exact colour when I first passed, his name was boris and phew the amount of women I got with this thing-” 

“Could you please not scare away our customer with your ancient history John. Sorry about him, it's the old age” he whispers the last part behind the back of his hand and you giggle softly and watch as John whacks him over the head with a dirty rag. 

“Cheeky fucker, my ears still work fine you know. If he bothers you any love, give us a shout and I’ll sort him for you” he shouts to you while giving you a wink and retreating away into the back. 

What the hell was back there? A magic kingdom of hot men? 

You stood awkwardly against a cool wall while watching the mechanic do his work, he mutters something about your car to himself and pulls open the front. 

He pokes his head out from the side and beckons you over with his hand. Moving away from the solid wall your legs carry you to the front of your car where the hood is open to you. Looking inside you raise an eyebrow and turn to him “What am I supposed to be looking at?” glancing at you from the corner of his eye his hand moves down and wiggles something with his hand. When he looks at your face for a reaction you just shrug your shoulders and he sighs before pulling his hand out of your car.  

“This. This isn't supposed to move, like at all” he emphasises the words and you open your mouth like an idiot “ohhh right… bad?” 

“Very bad, yes” he lets out a breathy laugh and you bite your lip nervously “Sooo is this an easy thing to fix? Or no?” 

“I’ll have to take a look underneath as well but it should be” a small sense of relief ran through you at his words and he pointed to a chair in the corner you could go and sit on. You retreat to the wheelie chair and sit down while looking around. 

You had checked your phone for at least ten minutes until you got bored, there was a radio playing in the background and the man hummed along. 

“How long have you worked here?” you ask, hoping you’re not disturbing him. 

“My whole life. My dad owned this place and ran it alongside his father and now it's mine” your eyes wandered back over to the wall with photos on and spotted a young boy that looked a lot like the man you were talking to.  

“So I'm guessing this is you?” He looks up and smiles while unscrewing something with his right hand. “Yup all me, missing teeth and everything” you look closer at the gappy smile and laugh softly. 

“Love the freaky bear in your hand” you say while eyeing the stuffed bear that has one eye and a missing arm in his iron grip. 

“Ah Gaz the bear, accidently left him on a beach to defend my sand castle while I went swimming. Never saw him again” 

“Well wherever Gaz is now I hope he had a good life” you fake a salute and hear a snort come from behind you. “You're saluting my lost bear?”

“What? I know how it feels to lose a loved one” 

You let him go back to his work as you sit back in the chair. The conversation goes silent until he slams the hood of your car down and it startles you. He sees you flinch and holds his hands up in the air “Sorry, didn't mean to scare you” you wave him off and regain the normal speed of your heartbeat. 

“I'll just take a look underneath and we’ll be done here” he says while holding his finger down on a button and waiting for your car to lift up into the air. “That didn’t take long” 

“Were you expecting it to take longer?” you shrug your shoulders and think for a moment. “Well yeah… it sounded awful so I just assumed something would be seriously wrong with it” 

“Well from what i'm seeing under here, your car is in great shape surprisingly” he chuckles while he holds a light up and inspects the underside of your car. You scoff and shake your head “so the rustbucket isn't a rustbucket?” 

“No it isn't! You should be proud about that” 

“The guy who sold it me said it was shitty and wouldn’t last me a year” 

“And when did he say that?”

“Three years ago…” 

He ducks his head while exiting under your vehicle and wipes his dirty fingers on his overalls, he lowers the car back down and opens your car door. 

Getting inside, he backs it out of the garage and drives the same route he did before. Your mouth opens in shock as you don’t hear a sound other than the car just being on. He parks up against the curb and rolls down the window “how's that?” 

You remain speechless as you realise you could’ve probably just come to the garage sooner than having to torture yourself with listening to that noise for an entire month. 

“I take that as a good sign?” he laughs while pointing to your face, quickly shutting your mouth you smile joyfully at him. 

“Thank you so much, how much do I owe you?” you reach for your purse but he grabs your wrist “Nothing, it wasn’t much trouble” 

“Are you sure? I’ll feel bad if I don’t leave you anything” you look into his brown eyes and see the sun reflecting off them. “Well this is me telling you that you don’t need to feel bad” he smiles again and before he walks away you grab his hand “Can I at least leave a tip?” he looks down at where your hand grips his dirty one but you don’t care about the grime that covers them. 

“There is something you could do”

“What?” 

“Go on a date with me, this Saturday” you see a smile grace his lips and you nod your head at his offer “Okay, yeah I’ll go on a date with you” he asks for your phone and he puts his number inside and sends himself a text before passing it back to you. 

You look at the contact and smile “Well I'll see you Saturday, Kyle” you say while leaving him and getting into your car. He waves as you leave the street and as soon as he turns around three pairs of eyes stare back at him. 

“Unbelievable”

“How does he do it every time?” 

“You're just jealous it doesn’t work for you Johnny” 

“Oh yeah? And how many women do you get Simon, huh?…Yeah that's what I thought” 

Kyle watches as John moves away and Simon approaches with an unreadable look on his face, Johnny gulps and Kyle smirks before walking away. 

“No, no, don't leave me!” 

“You're on your own bro, I'm going for my break”  

[pix3lplays]

This blog is going to single-handedly make me baby crazy I stg. I am omnomnoming on the amount of food you have provided from that pregnant!reader series. Uuuuhhh oh um maybe HSR men reacting when reader actually goes into labor/during the delivery?

Alternatively how they would handle reader going into labor when they’re stranded somewhere with no way to make it to the hospital in time, and so the boys are gonna have to roll up their sleeves and figure it out themselves (and hopefully not panic. Luocha has it on easy mode compared to the others lmao)

Side note: guess who just accidentally melted part of their hair with bleach while typing this lmfaooo

Thank you so much I’m so glad you’ve been enjoying the pregnancy stuff, I’ve been enjoying writing it! And I am so so sorry about your hair oh my gosh!!

Here’s Hsr men when you go into labor!

And here they are after the baby is born!

The shenanigans I’m about to put these men through oh my gosh >:)

And you are absolutely right about Luocha playing on easy mode haha, good for him, good for him

Cw! Violence for Blade’s part, pregnancy

-Reader goes into labor, but the men are stranded!-

Dan Heng: Dan Heng is completely panicked. You two have been taking precautions as the baby approaches, and you were currently staying in Belobog, waiting for the baby to be born. He was on a mission when he got the call. He was waaaay out in the snowfields with March 7th and the Trailblazer. Oh gosh the way they all RAN back to Belobog as fast as their legs could carry them, Dan Heng leading the group by a longshot, desperate to make it back in time for the birth. Poor March and Trailblazer couldn’t keep up. Thankfully (for him and him only) it was one of those horrible 24 hour births, so he made it with plenty of time to spare.

Jing Yuan: I’m losing my mind imagining the cool and calm and collected Jing Yuan suddenly losing his cool when he realizes the baby is coming while he’s out on an assignment. Imagine him frantically running through the streets trying to flag down a starskiff while shouting “the baby’s coming!” Of course people recognize him. You know…as THE GENERAL of the Xianzhou Luofu. So it doesn’t take long for a starskiff out of pure curiosity to stop for him and offer the General a ride to the local hospital. Oh he’s so, so thankful. He won’t shut up the entire ride, at the expense of the poor driver, about how excited he is to meet his child. He makes it just in time!

Sampo Koski: Sampo Koski’s busy making a shady business deal when he gets the call you’re having the baby. The only problem? He’s alllll the way above ground while you’re down in Natasha’s clinic. It’s not like he has much choice…he just has to SPRINT as fast as he can to the underground. And of course every little thing is going wrong. Of course it’s one of the ONLY times there’s a Huge crowd trying to get into and out of the underground today, and he has to wade through all those people in his attempt to make it to the birth. He, unfortunately doesn’t make it in time for the birth, but he makes it JUST after it, so…good enough, right?

Blade: Blade doesn’t usually…freak out or talk unnecessarily or do any sort of panicking. Imagine him holding his sword in one hand and cutting down his enemies while answering his phone with the other. Only to receive the call that you were going into labor! “Kafka! It’s time,” he calls to his partner, and she nods in understanding before pointing out they’re going to have to do something desperate if he wants to make it to the hospital on time. So the two of them team up again, and steal a starskiff so they can make it. Blade is actually nervous. He’s flexing his fingers on the ride over to the hospital. Kafka has to tell him to Relax, they’re going to make it in time. Thankfully, due to the power of stealing and speeding, Blade makes it to the hospital on time for the birth.

Luocha: Luocha is still able to stay calm and collected, even while far from the hospital after receiving the call you were going into labor. His merchant contacts means it’s easy enough for him to find a ride to the hospital to be honest. So he doesn’t have much trouble making it in time, even given how far away he was. He makes it just in time for the birth, thankfully. And he’s so glad he did, I can’t imagine he would forgive himself if he missed being there for you when you needed him the most.

Gepard Landau: Gepard Landau is busy on the frontlines when he gets the call. He’s panicked. He’s so far away from the hospital. He has no choice but to use the most desperate measure he knows. He gives himself essentially a Guard escort to the hospital. Which is…a little bit embarrassing, but also a lot faster than trying to get there on his own. And it’s so worth it. He makes it juuust in time. And thank goodness haha. He couldn’t even imagine what he’d do if he missed the birth of his child.

[alwaysonf1]

who are you?

Pairing: Charles LeClerc x Hamilton!OC

Genre: Slice of Life

Word Count: 3.2k

Warning: Language; Thoughts of violence

Rating: PG-13

Author's Note: N/A

Dizzy is an understatement for how Iman feels as she recovers from Ben shaking her in excitement. Though the race started rocky, and everyone thought that Logan was going to have to retire, he managed P7 despite the way the car failed him. But the biggest victory is that Alex made it to P3. The race lacked any sort of excitement, though there was a light buzz in the Williams garage because the boys were working hard with the hand they were given. Then in the last twenty laps things got spicy. Before anyone knew it Alex was battling Lando for fourth and in a twist of fate ended up in third.

Iman is so excited she could throw up. Her stomach churns with every shout and her body is vibrating with joy. 

It takes a few minutes, but everyone who isn’t needed for things like the car weigh in are given the all clear to rush out and congratulate Alex. She lets everyone else go in front of her, not wanting to be in the first wave since it’s likely to overwhelm her and Alex. But she still finds herself racing behind them so she can see the initial joy of it all.

“Iman!”

The voice stops her in her tracks, and she turns to see James beaming. The man is the picture of cool, calm, and collected at all times that it’s a bit odd to see such a display of emotion on his face. But she doesn’t linger on that, he waves her over and she walks back a little sad to not be with the screaming crowd that she can hear from where she is.

“What’s up?” she asks.

“You’re going to the podium.”

She raises a brow. “But we didn’t win.”

“Yes. You aren’t going up there, but when we confirmed that Alex was secure as P3 he said he wanted you there.”

A million questions fill her head. Being near the podium wasn’t something weird to do, teams always sent people to be there to celebrate with their driver. But it was odd that she was being asked to go so explicitly, as if she would be going up there like whoever Mercedes sent to be there for Lewis since he’s P1.

It wasn’t that deep though, so she just shrugged and nodded.

“Will do.”

“Good. You should get there before everyone else crowds over.”

He was right. It was a disaster getting over there when everyone else wanted to be up front and center. So, Iman gave him a thumbs up and hustled in that direction.

The universe is on her side, because she makes it to where the podium is happening just as a big wave of the crowd is coming in. She moves to where she sees employees of other teams and is thankful there seems to be a good amount of space where she knows she won’t have a lot of people in her bubble.

“Iman!” 

Her head whips in the direction of the voice to see one of the new social media admins, Annalise, near the steps to the podium. The woman waves her over and despite being unsure Iman redirects and jumps through all the weird hoops it takes to get to her.

“Hey.”

“Hey! I don’t know why you were over there. Alex wants you here before. He’ll be over soon and wanted to see you before he went on.”

“Oh. Why?”

Annalise shrugs. “I don’t know. He just made sure to remind me when I was headed here. Lewis and Charles were near and made it clear I needed to make sure you were there too.”

A sinking feeling fills Iman. She’s still very unsure about what the hell is going on, but it honestly sounds like all three of those men are up to no good. If it was only one of them, she wouldn’t have thought too much about it, but them combined is not ideal for her. For a second it makes her a little thankful that Logan isn’t on the podium because adding him in place of Charles or Alex would be worse. 

How she was cursed with being surrounded by a bunch of childish men who enjoyed to fuck with her she was unsure, but even she isn’t delusional enough to act like she would want it any other way.

She spends a few minutes talking with Annalise before the people of the hour start filing in. Alex is first and makes a beeline for her. He pulls her into his arms and squeezes as he lifts her from the ground. Iman squeaks in surprise, but she allows it. She would hug him back, but he has her arms pinned. 

It takes a minute before he puts her down and pulls away. His smile is bright and beaming in a way that makes her match his energy.

“I don’t know what you did, but that is the best that car has felt in a while.”

“It was a team effort. But I told you those new upgrades would do you well. And to think you were so worried.”

“Don’t pretend that you didn’t fight for this. You made sure it wasn’t pushed back and that the day on Logan getting them was only a week later than me. It’s what we need.”

All the praise is making Iman’s cheeks burn and she has to fight to not say something sassy to divert attention. 

“If I must use my job security to ensure y’all do well then, I will. You know this. Now get up there.”

Alex moves to the side and then she hugs Lewis and Charles. They both give her a tight hug, though not nearly as intense as Alex’s. Something she appreciates because it hurts a little bit, even if not bothersome.

“Congratulations, boys. And thank you Sharl for not taking out my driver again.”

Lewis throws his head back in laughter and Charles rolls his eyes, but his dimple producing smile doesn’t leave his face. Both give their thanks and then they are all signaled to head up. 

They all go through the motions. The anthems play and hype is built up. Then they each have a moment with their trophies. Before they know it, the sparkling wine is in hand and being sprayed everywhere. They get each other, the Mercedes rep, and then they turn to Iman as if coordinated. All four move toward her and she tries to back away, but a hand on her back keeps her in place and she sees Annalise snapping pictures while Logan keeps holds her still.

One of her greatest fears - them teaming up - is coming true and then she feels the first spray. In seconds the upper half of her body is soaked in the sparkling wine, and she tries to shield her face, knowing saving her hair is a lost cause. If she didn’t plan to wash it later, she would be pissed.

Shrieks and laughter escape her. Iman fights against Logan’s hold and is failing, but with a slight loss of balance and push back she evades him and he’s now in the path of the last few spritz.

That makes her laugh even harder because he pouts and voices his betrayal because even though they see they have an unintended target they don’t stop.

Iman takes several steps back to safety even though she knows they don’t have anything else to get her with. The rest of the ceremony goes off without her being “in danger” and then as they’re about to walk off the stage she walks toward the route they’re going to take. She wants out of her clothes and to get the residue off her face, but she wants to yell at and hit them more. So, she continues her walk until she reaches the hallway right before the media bay where more interviews are happening.

All of this was overwhelming to her from the perspective of someone who was rarely interviewed, so she never can fully understand how the drivers feel. Especially when it’s like an endless cycle of moving here or there and being “on” for a couple hours after a race that pushes your body to the limits. She commended them for being able to do this after every race, even when they got a result they didn’t love.

The hall was thankfully empty, and she knew it would be for at least a moment more, so Iman stops and leans against the wall. Her eyes flutter close, and she takes a deep breath. 

The excitement isn’t the only thing on her mind. It’s not even the main thing. Instead, she’s running through a mental checklist of everything she needs to do before she leaves for the day. There’s a break and then one more race before summer break comes. Which means that the way they’ll manage checks, meetings, and overall work will be a little different. They’ll have more time and this time they’re planning to front load the work so that they have a cushion to test and adjust. That means when they fly back, she will be so immersed in work that the odds of her being home a lot is low.

Soft curses leave her lips as her eyes flutter open, but she feels like she has a handle on everything.

Iman is so in her own head that it takes a second before she notices the man standing in front of her. He’s not all up in her space, but he is much too close for comfort.

Not wanting to react with the rude ‘can I help you’ that’s on the tip of her tongue she assesses him. Her eyes scan him head to toe and see that his only “weapon” would be the phone clutched in his hand and the bag on his back. In her assessment she sees the press badge with his name on it. It also mentions who he’s with and she notices it as an up and coming source for motorsport content that started as a podcast.

A podcast that she thought was dumb and undeserving of its hype and access.

Her eyes lift and she meets his gaze, which she doesn’t like. Clearly, he was taking in her as much as she was taking in him, but the purpose of both their actions were very different. His vibes aren't a siren going off creepy, but the subtle kind that would be a low level yellow flag if she was into him.

“Hi,” she says.

For too many seconds he says nothing and then he smirks, raising his phone toward her.

“Hi. Iman Hamilton, right?”

She knows he knows who she is and that he knows that she knows. Which makes the encounter a little ickier than it was before.

“Yes. Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’ve been wanting the chance to speak with you. Get an interview or get you on the pod. You’ve done a few interviews, but we wanted the chance to talk to you about your upbringing and everything that got you here.”

Iman notices that he doesn’t introduce himself and that he speaks of his podcast in a way that implies she would know what it is. Of course, she’s seen the name on the badge he wears, but it feels more like he thinks that he and his little friend group are such hot shit that everyone knows them. Most do know them, but despite how many opportunities they’ve been given to be up close and personal with the behind the scenes stuff it’s not because they’re seen as this great new motorsport content hub. Mostly the opposite. But hey, white men who refuse to actually learn anything about what they speak of despite wanting to be taken seriously do tend to fail upwards.

Another thing she notes is the way he phrases what they would want to talk to her about. At some point she would call it paranoia, but since her grand reveal to the world she’s been in enough situations to know that the between the lines is talking about Lewis, talk about being a nepo baby, and poke holes in her ability. The first two were no skin off her back, but she didn’t have it in her to deal with people who she knew would try to make it seem like she was handed two degrees and her job with no work done on her part.

“Oh. Sounds like a good time. It would be a bit hard since things are getting busy this time of the season.”

A dip in his expression, but he recovers quick.

“I get it. Definitely an uptick in work for us guys. So much traveling and all the recording we need to get done.”

Iman was not one to compare jobs because they were all tiresome in their own ways, but it was hard not to roll her eyes.

“Yeah, so…”

“But I have a quick question while I have you. Hope you don’t mind,” he pauses just long enough to unlock his screen and start his voice recorder app. “You’ve had the interest of everyone since your debut in what has led to a new kind of F1 content. Everyone is wondering about you at every step of your career and the question becomes how do you deal with all of it? A mother who is at the top of her field and a dad who helped mold a man like Lewis Hamilton. I mean there has to be a lot of pressure when they push you into this field and use their connections within to make sure you succeed.”

Slapping the shit out of this man will cause problems. Slapping the shit out of this man will lead to a report being filed. Slapping this man might lead to assault charges. Slapping this man will give him fodder of what to talk about as a “first-hand experience to the privileged little life of Iman Hamilton who doesn’t have to work and just gets things handed to her.”

“What did you just say?” Lewis says.

Iman didn’t realize that people were coming down the hall because she was so focused on repeating those words in her head when she felt her hand lift slightly. But as she turns to look at her brother, Alex, Charles, and staff members of both teams she’s grateful to see them.

“Oh, I was just…”

“He asked you to repeat yourself, not give excuses,” Charles says, his voice oddly calm and his accent stronger than usual.

“I wanted to get a quote about…”

“Something to imply she can’t do her job. That my mechanic is somehow only here on connections and not ability.” Alex quirks a brow.

Though there was a shift in demeanor when he saw everyone, Chad - his actual name - finally starts to realize the gravity of the situation. Iman would never think he didn’t expect some push back from her when asking the question, but he could spin that. What he couldn’t spin was three drivers and the people they work with calling him out for a question he asked in bad faith.

“I… No… My intention wasn’t…”

His stumbling over words is a little funny, but also annoying. He wasn’t so slick with an audience but felt comfortable as hell trying her. 

As he opens and closes his mouth trying to find the words that get him out of the situation unscathed the drivers move like a unit. Charles takes the lead while Lewis and Alex flank him. All three have their arms crossed and have looks that would make even Iman rethink some things.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that she is unqualified or anything.”

“Sure.”

Sarcasm drips from Charles uttering that single word. It makes the tension sky rocket.

Not wanting to stand here any longer, Iman holds up a hand and Charles closes his mouth. A saving grace because the man has been withholding his feelings less lately and what he was planning to say was probably scathing.

With him and the other silenced Iman turns her full attention back to Chad.

“Let’s be clear, I own all the ways having a mother and brother who have helped me and opened almost every door I’ve even looked at has gotten me to this point so quickly. But neither they, my father, or Logan Sargeant were in those classes. They didn’t take those tests. Didn’t work those jobs and internships. Didn’t push themselves to the brink to fight off people like you who assume I’m just here with none of the work done like I’m some girl who has all the connections to be where I want but is doing none of the work to back it up. You and everyone else can keep playing that game. Giggling amongst yourselves while ignoring facts, but you’re never going to play directly in my face about it. Understood?”

Chad nods, looks around, and then scurries off like the rat he is. He doesn’t dare look back and with the path he’s taking it’s clear he may not even stay for the last set of interviews.

An arm wraps around Imans shoulders and she looks down to her brother’s tattooed hand and then up to his face. Lewis looks beyond pissed, but a tad softer than he was moments ago.

“Proud of you,” he says.

Iman smiles, but then rolls her eyes. “One of us had to give a response that would have minimal blow back on their team.”

“Speaking of, I never want him invited by Williams again,” Alex says.

“Same for Mercedes.”

“And Ferrari.”

Those are a tad extreme demands and Iman opens her mouth to reassure them it’s not necessary, but every single person outside of the drivers nods and some whip out phones. 

None of her feels bad about this, but there's a slight weight that comes with it happening for her. She knows it’s not because of her, because she did nothing wrong.

With a sigh she pulls away from Lewis and begins walking toward the media bay.

“Come on. You’re late enough.”

They all whisper behind her, but she tunes them out and finds a seat to watch their interviews. At some point she heads back to the garage because she still has work to do, and things go smoothly. The universe's pittance for that bullshit. 

Wanting nothing more than to continue to have a decent rest of her day she doesn’t bring it up to anyone, though James does tell her it’s handled as he leaves for the day. Him knowing is expected even if she doesn’t love it. However, there is a worse person to know about it and when she hears a yell fill the garage because all three witnesses came to relay the information in person, she hates her life for a second.

There’s a great effort to keep Logan from seeking the man out. Kid has never been in a fight, but you would think he was a seasoned vet at it. Lewis almost lets him go and clearly plans to accompany him, but Iman gives him a look and one of her idiot brothers pulls it together enough to stop the other.

[grapenehifics]

Prisoner 224

I really loved writing Out of Sync for @fulcrum843's @topwan-obikin fest prompt, but fully intended it to be a one-shot until @somethingsteff started feeding me ideas and, well, I'm limited on free time right now so this is still only a ficlet but I couldn't help myself.

If you don't know the fic, the Council finds out about Obi-Wan and Anakin's relationship and they quit the Order. Anakin punches Palpatine when he insults Obi-Wan and gets sent to jail, and Obi-Wan hurries to hit the Chancellor as well so they can stay together. This also fulfills @ficwip's Hey Sweetheart challenge!

Text under the cut:

“Where are we going?” Anakin demanded. His hands were bound at the wrists in front of him, which didn’t make him look very threatening, but he gave his best glare to the backs of the heads of the troopers escorting him down the hall anyway.

Neither the troopers ahead of him nor the two at his back answered him. Their little group just kept marching along.

“I demand to know where you’re taking me,” Anakin tried, not pausing in his forward march but flexing his fingertips in preparation. He didn’t want to use the Force against them – besides the fact that they were probably just acting on orders from someone higher up the prison management chain of command, he was also pretty sure even something mild like knocking four guards out for a few hours would get his sentence extended and that was the opposite of what he wanted considering Obi-Wan was already slated to get out weeks before he did – but he also was not planning on taking a move to another cell block without putting up some sort of a fight.

He and Obi-Wan were kept apart for most of the day – Anakin in his cell and Obi-Wan in his – but because they were part of the same cell block, they were allowed to take both their exercise hour and their meal break together, Anakin holding Obi-Wan’s hand clasped in his as they jogged around the exercise track in their prison-issued tracksuits and rubbing elbows as they sat side-by-side with their dinner trays (and this only because they’d been told off for trying to sit on each other’s laps instead). But it was still a far sight better than not getting to see him at all, and Anakin hadn’t even done anything wrong (lately) and so really didn’t deserve to be punished like this.

“I want to go back to my cell,” he said.

“One of my batchmates is serving under Commander Cody in the 212th,” the trooper behind Anakin on his right said through his helmet vocoder. “CT-3812.”

“Sure. Punch, right?” Anakin said easily. “Yeah, I know him. But what has that got to do with anything?”

“That’s him,” the trooper agreed. None of the prison guards had ever told Anakin their names, just their badge numbers, although not for lack of asking. This one was one of the supervisors. Some of the younger guys were so green they had five-digit designations. “He’s met General Kenobi a few times.”

“Cool. So have I,” Anakin nearly growled. “That’s who I’m trying to get back to. So if you could just put me back in my cell, that’d be great. Or at least tell me what I’ve done.”

“Punch tells me he’s a real stand-up guy,” the trooper continued, as if Anakin hadn’t spoken. “Always makes sure his men have enough to eat. Doesn’t take unnecessary risks. That sort of thing.”

They rounded a corner. Anakin was starting to get desperate. “Just tell me where we’re going,” he practically begged. “I can call in a couple of favors and get myself reassigned back to Obi-Wan’s floor”-

“Punch also said,” the trooper on Anakin’s right said, so loudly he was almost shouting in Anakin’s ear, “that one time you and your troops joined up with their battalion, you threw yourself in front of a blazer bomb. Saved the lives of fifteen men.”

Anakin had done that enough times that that didn’t really narrow it down for him. “Which campaign?” he asked, but the trooper ignored him yet again, which seemed rude, considering he’d started the conversation in the first place.

A commlink chirped – Anakin instinctively looked to his own belt before remembering he didn’t wear one anymore – and one of the troopers at the front of their procession answered it.

“We’re ready for you, Sergeant,” the voice on the other end said.

“Copy,” the man said, replacing the device on his belt.

“Well, I’m not ready,” Anakin said, and he stopped walking. The troopers at his back nearly ran into him. “I’m not going any further without an explanation. If you can’t give me that, then you can just put me back in my cell, because” –

“We do regular maintenance, on all the cells,” one of the troopers injected, talking over the tail end of Anakin’s sentence. “Routine cleaning, things like that. Check that the water pipes are functioning properly, do a little light dusting…”

“I don’t care if my cell is clean or not,” Anakin hissed. “You can skip mine for the next five months if you want. Or let me do it myself. Is that the problem? Just give me the tools and leave me alone. If you’re worried I’m going to break out, I promise I won’t. As long as you’ve got Obi-Wan here I’m, like, the opposite of a flight risk.”

“It might take, say, three hours to finish the whole floor, wouldn’t you say?” the trooper on Anakin’s left asked the trooper on Anakin’s right.

“Maybe as many as four,” he responded.

“And we do these sorts of rounds every other week,” the first one continued.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Anakin demanded.

“If you’d just wait right in here, Prisoner 224,” the trooper who was friends with Punch said, and nudged Anakin in the back with the butt of his rifle.

“I told you; I’m not going. And you’re bluffing. You won’t shoot me.”

“That’s true,” the trooper admitted. “I’m not. What I am going to do is count to thirty, and by the time I get to the end, you’re going to decide to go, all on your own.”

“Ha,” Anakin said. “Like hell I am. What on earth do you think would make me” –

“Here we are, sir,” another of the troopers said, and he punched the button to release the door guard in front of one of the cells. He was wearing a bucket, but he somehow seemed to be able to stare straight into Anakin’s eyes anyway. “Four hours, every other week,” he repeated slowly, enunciating very clearly.

“I don’t care how clean it is,” Anakin insisted, just as he was very unceremoniously shoved forward into the new cell he absolutely did not want to be in –

“Oh. Hello, sweetheart,” Obi-Wan said, sitting up from where he’d been lying on his back across his bunk, his arms crossed behind his head. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“What” – Anakin stammered as the door guard slammed down behind him, locking him in. Locking him into Obi-Wan’s cell. With Obi-Wan.

Anakin opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. The binders around his wrists unlocked and fell to the floor with a clatter. “Send Punch my regards,” he said, without turning his head. He and Obi-Wan hadn’t stopped staring into one another’s eyes from the moment they’d faced one another. Obi-Wan grinned. Anakin grinned back.

“Will do, sir,” his friend said jovially, but Anakin missed hearing him as he launched himself at Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan, laughing, caught him and lowered him down onto his bunk.

“Did I just hear you say something about four hours?” Obi-Wan asked mischievously, one eyebrow raising into a verbal question mark.

“Shut up and kiss me,” Anakin said, and Obi-Wan did.

[super-ion]

Ion & Emily - Best Friends

(Just a little bridging chapter between "How It All Started" and "Unexpected Company")

“She kissed you!?”

Sarah is literally bouncing with excitement while I blush and try not to make a bashful little grin.

It's weird. I'm still not exactly sure how it happened. She kind of adopted me and we just sorta platonically clicked.

I am now best friends with Lady Lacuna.

(Pause here for inner fangirl screaming - seriously though, she's super cool and we hang out all the time in each other's lairs)

“Oh my god! Jen has a girlfriend!”

“Technically Ion has a girlfriend… well, I don't actually know, it's not exactly official. The whole kidnapping thing is kinda weird for genuine conversations.”

I ponder this for a bit before letting out a frustrated sigh and peer back at the circuit board I'm working on for her.

“I… I don't want Ion to be the only side of me she sees. Like I want to spend time with her as Jen. You know?”

Sarah flops back on the sofa next to the bench where I'm working.

“Then ask her out. You two text all the time, she's obviously into you. Text her right now and ask her.”

“Yeah, but what about the whole secret identity thing?”

“Eh,” she says with a dramatic shrug. “That's half the fun. Honestly, I'd be surprised if she hasn't figured it out already.”

I frown and chew my lip.

“Text her. Right now. Get on your phone and ask her out as Jen.”

“It's not that easy,” I protest.

“It totally is.”

“But-”

With a wave of her hand a tiny portal opens up over the workbench and she snatches my phone.

“Hey!” I shout, fumbling with the soldering iron as I scramble to get to the couch where she is now cackling maniacally and tapping away.

“Dear Emily,” she says. “I think you're really hot and we should get married.”

“What?? No! Give me that!”

I tackle her and somehow manage to wrestle the phone out of her grip. It's not as bad as what she just said, but she's still texted Emily. “

Me, 5:21pm

Hey, are you busy Friday night?

“Oh, you are evil,” I growl.

“Duh, I'm a super villain,” she replies with a wicked grin.

I look at my phone and watch three little dots dancing on the screen. Emily is typing a response. I grip my phone with both hands, watching as the dots dance in and out of existence as she composes a reply. Sarah sits next to me, craning her neck to watch the screen and grinning expectantly.

We both wait with bated breath. Finally (finally!) the phone pings.

Emily, 5:23pm

Nope! Anything in particular you want to do? :)

Oh god… she signed it with a smiley face. This is happening.

“What… what do I want to do??” I ask with a wide eyed beseeching look to Sarah.

“Ambient music cocktail hour at the modern art museum.”

I blink at her in surprise.

“That's a thing?"

“Yeah, totally,” she says. “A girl I dated last year was super into that sort of stuff. I think you'd like it.”

I do a quick search and yes, it is in fact a thing that happens on the second Friday of each month. Huh…

I take a fortifying breath and tap out a response.

A few seconds later:

Emily, 5:31

Oh! That sounds awesome! I'll pick you up at 6?

“Yes!” Sarah whoops and pulls me into a tight hug. “When you get married, you have to make me the maid of honor!”

I smirk as I extract myself from the couch to finally finish the upgrades to her boots.

“Enough about me,” I grumble. “How did your date last night go?”

“Uuuugh,” she says, leaning back with a dramatic sigh. “It was awful. He kept trying to mansplain quantum physics to me. Like I totally don't have a PhD in high energy particle dynamics. Seriously, I'm swearing off men forever.”

“Didn't you swear off men forever last month?”

She scrunches up her face and glares at me.

“Yeah, but I mean it this time.”

“Uh-huh…”

I watch her as she sulkily pulls out her phone.

“Have you ever thought about dating another super?”

She frowns and looks at me with a questioning glance.

“I mean… you're always complaining about everyone you date. Maybe you need someone who can meet you on your level?”

An expression flickers on her face, something I've rarely seen, a strange sort of uncertainty and vulnerability. It's gone in a moment and she cracks a smile.

“Relationships between villains can be prickly,” she says. “You remember when Reverb and Osprey leveled half the fashion district? Lovers quarrel.”

Yeah, that brawl was a whole entire thing. I guess I can see how strong villain personalities might cause some issues.

“Unless you mean I should date a hero?” she says with a strained laugh. “Wouldn't that be a hoot?”

Okay, there is definitely some history there, but I'm not going to poke at it.

Instead, I turn my attention back to the boots and slip the circuit board into the heel before running some diagnostics. The heels aren't like stilletos or anything, they're decently sturdy, but still, they've gotta be at least 4 inches.

“How do you even fight in these?” I ask.

“Practice,” she says, not looking up from her phone. “After beating childhood cancer and getting a PhD at 19, learning how to run and fight in heels seemed like the next logical life goal.”

“I could never,” I muse “I'd probably break my ankle in five minutes.”

“Skill issue,” she replies.

I gasp indignantly and she gives me a wink and a cheeky smile. She's not wrong. I mean, I probably could if I really wanted to. But I didn't really want to. I'm tall enough without heels.

“Well…” I say, “they're calibrating now. The updated control loop should boost performance and help you stick more landings.”

“You're the best!” she says, bounding to her feet to examine my work.

“Hey, you wanna rob a jewelry store or something?” I ask.

She narrows her eyes at me.

“You're trying to get out of training aren't you?”

“Yeah…” I admit, hunching my shoulders.

“Jen…” she sighs. “I watched your last fight. You keep missing bunny boy’s right hook. You're going to keep missing it if you don't practice.”

“Nobody told me being a super villain would be so much work,” I grumble.

But I'm already sullenly climbing to my feet and unzipping my sweatshirt as we head to the fighting pit.

Oh, I think I forgot to mention, I'm in Lady Lacuna’s evil lair, which totally used to be Doctor Magma’s evil lair. We're walking past all sorts of diabolical apparatus, like a whole entire mad science laboratory. It is the absolute coolest shit you can imagine. Like imagine the coolest evil lair of evil, now double the coolness of that. That's about where I am when I come to visit this place.

So here I am, about to enter the fighting pit with my best friend where she will proceed to kick my ass for an hour. Not gunna lie, it's actually a really good workout by itself. Even if I still get knocked around by Jackrabbit's right hook, I'm still in the best shape of my life.

I still can't believe how much my life has changed since I got powers. I love what I do and I have more money than I know what to do with. I have a best friend now. I (Ion) have a girlfriend (probably). I (Jen) have a date with that same girl on Friday.

Yeah, life's pretty good.

I feel like I'm ready for anything life has to throw at me.

[dangans-ur-ronpas]

Chapter 18

are we finally getting somewhere with the trial? please??

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

was tempted to start this chapter with toko waking up and gasping 'i think i like girls!!'

wanted to say that everything would've been resolved way earlier if people were just a little nicer to toko before remembering that aoi was literally doing that and she STILL obsessed over byakuya. can we get this girl to a therapist please

shoutout to @digitaldollsworld for reading this at ass o'clock in the morning while i was still writing it. a real hero tbh

Content warning tags: self-deprecating language, implied self-harm, canon-typical manipulation and language

< previous - from start - next >

There’s a moment of stillness. Someone shouts in alarm, and a few people nearly step away from their stands with intention to help. But just as quickly, the dark figure slumped behind the rail begins to clamber slowly upwards, hands bracing against the balusters as she totters to an upright position.

Slowly, carefully, Toko Fukawa stands up straight, trembling all the while. “I-Is this a trial? W-what’s going o-on?!”

The stammer certainly sounds like Fukawa.“...Toko? That’s really you, right?” Asahina tries tentatively. “Um, are you okay? Are you feeling alright?”

“I…” She looks around, hands fisted tight around her braids, twitching with the same nervous quality of a bird. Her eyes must have landed on Byakuya, and the venomous stare he was giving her, because she squeaks and cowers again. “I-!”

“Chihiro’s body was found today. Approximately twenty minutes after you left the library.” He says coldly, words clipped and harsh. “Kyoko says you were both in the boy’s bathroom before the body discovery alarm. Can you verify this?”

“W-what?!” She stutters. “I-I don’t know w-what’s going on, I n-never know-” She’s shaking violently, as if she’s about to faint again.

“Let’s try a different question.” Kirigiri cuts in. “Toko. What were you doing between 12:30 and 1 o’clock today?”

“Wh- A-are you accusing me of s–something?!”

“No. But everyone else has given testimony on their whereabouts during this time. Yours would help grant us a better understanding of the course of events.” Kirigiri says patiently. Fukawa sways for a moment, thinking carefully, before she answers.

“Th-the library,” She half-mumbles, hands twisting in her braids over and over again, the black coils weaving over her pale fingers like eels. “Um, I w-wanted to talk to B-Byakuya alone, so I w-went to the library, a-and we t-talked for a bit…and then-”

He suddenly realizes what she’s about to say, but it’s too late to stop it. “Then, u-um, he h-hit me…w-with a book.”

He can feel eyes turning towards him, and the air turns disapproving. He scowls back. “She’s left out the part where she tried to blackmail me with the secret that she peeked at the other night.” He explains, and at once Fukawa flushes darkly and begins stammering something out.

“I-! I wasn’t b-blackmailing you!”

“What other word should I have used then? Manipulation? Coercion?” He asks sarcastically, and she shrivels and withers at his words.

“I told you m-my secret too, s-so it’d be fair-”

“You told me you were a serial killer who targets the men you fancied. Forgive me if I wasn’t immediately won over.”

The atmosphere turns a little less hostile at that. “Okay, yeah. If it’s like that I kinda get it.” Hagakure is nodding sagely, as if he understands everything. “But, seriously. You shouldn’t hit girls, man…”

“...Are you really going to do this now?” He just needed this trial to be over, already. The adrenaline of the earlier reveal had worn off, and now he felt sick with anger and exhaustion. “The whole thing barely took ten minutes. I wasn’t interested in dragging it out any longer than I had to.”

“Still, hitting is sort of-” But Hagakure shuts up at the glare Byakuya gives him, and quickly amends. “Never mind. Gender equality. Especially in self-defense. Cool, got it, my bad.”

“So, I suppose it is safe to assume that the source of the blood on your hand, and the book from earlier, was because of this confrontation?” Celeste asks. And, without waiting for an answer: “Then, that would also mean that the reason you were holding that file on Syo was due to what Toko had revealed to you.”

She sounds all too satisfied with herself for reaching that conclusion. “And so, it seems that the most damning evidence that had been implicating you has been disproven. Is that not reassuring?”

“...Don’t patronize me.”

“Why, I wouldn’t dare.” She laughs lightly, a soft sound that perfectly conceals her shrewdness.

“Toko. Please, continue.” Kirigiri says again, and there’s a quiet rustle as Fukawa yanks at her hair, the strands scraping over her fingers.

“A-after he h-hit me, I left…u-um, I went to the bathroom t-to w-wash my face, and when I touched the faucet - I-I mean, I wiped my f-face with my hands earlier, a-and the b-blood…” She trails off and shakes her head, and shoves her face into a fistful of her hair. 

Byakuya suddenly recalls something, something that Fukawa had mentioned during their confrontation in the library in a hurried, muttered tone. “Syo comes out when you see blood.” He remembers aloud, and her incoherent words begin clicking together.

Her pale face immediately darkens to an ugly, blotchy pink. “Yeah, um. I-I’m scared of b-blood, so…a-and when she’s out, I d-don’t have any m-memory of what s-she does.” She cradles her face in her hands, swaying a little like a swooning maiden. “S-so you did remember…” She mumbles, apparently to herself, and he feels his stomach turn with disgust.

It’s not worth wasting the effort on her to think of a response, so he opts to ignore her fawning instead. “So Toko left the library and went to the boy’s bathroom, and fainted after seeing the blood on her hand.” That seems logical enough, but something about this sequence of events bothered him. 

According to Kirigiri, Syo only woke up shortly before the body discovery. If Fukawa went to the bathroom right after leaving the library, why had it taken so long? And that aside, there was something that bothered him about her story. Something that he couldn’t place a finger on.

He’s not the only one who noticed the fallacy. “Excuse me, Toko,” Makoto tries tentatively. “So…that means from around 12:40 to one, you were unconscious?”

“Y-yes? What, do you n-not believe me?” She immediately goes on the defensive, cagey and snappish. “Y-you think I’m l-lying, right? J-just because I’m l-like this, you th-think that e-everything I say is a l-lie-?! Y-you all think I s-strung Chihiro up, I kn-know it!”

“Toko…no one said that.” Asahina has her hands raised, in some attempt to calm her down. “We just want to know what happened.”

She was proving to be an impossible witness. Byakuya raises a hand to press to his temple, feeling his pulse throbbing beneath his fingertips. “Kyoko. Can you verify what Toko has said?” He asks, exasperated, and Kirigiri actually seems to startle a bit, head snapping to look at him.

“...I can’t.” She says, after a pause. “Because she did not enter the bathroom at that time, or else I would have noticed it.”

She remains fixated on him for a moment longer, before turning away. Belatedly, he suddenly realizes this was the second time he’s caught her off guard. The first time was when he pointed out the fact that access to information on Genocider Syo was limited.

He doesn’t have the luxury to dwell on that though. “So, that means that either you, or Toko, is lying about their whereabouts during this time.” He sighs. “For now, we need to identify which one of you both is deceiving us.”

Both are equally suspicious. Kirigiri has been mysterious, even more so than usual, and purposefully vague about her activities. And he didn’t trust Fukawa at all to start with, but she was also clumsy and awkward. It was hard to imagine her being able to plan everything ahead to this degree, from planting the evidence, to staging the actual murder…

“Wait. Something’s not right.” Makoto says suddenly, and his voice is clear and contemplative, his chin tucked over his knuckle. “If Toko fainted before she actually washed her hands, then how come her hands are clean? Remember, when we first met Syo, she showed us that her hands were totally free of blood.”

“I-I-!” She squawks, indignant, but she can’t seem to formulate a reply for a few moments. “M-maybe Syo washed my h-hands or s-something, I don’t know! S-she’s the one that k-kills people, so o-of course she would h-hide her tracks!”

“But, again, the sinks of the boy’s bathroom were all dry.” Makoto points out, and Fukawa sputters some more. “And…”

He pauses, and his head dips for a moment, enough for a shadow to cast over his face. “Toko. How did you know that Chihiro is dead?”

Byakuya figures it out a half-step after him, and silently kicks himself for not picking up on it earlier. And the others pick up on it as well, and the atmosphere turns dark, thick with unease and suspicion. Same as the elevator ride down, but this time, directed at Fukawa.

She’s gaping like a fish. She turns left and right, shuffling slightly. The rails of the stand stand tall and straight like the bars of a cage. “I-that’s-the portraits!” She yelps, and jabs out a pale hand in Byakuya’s direction. “Ch-Chihiro’s portrait, i-it’s crossed out! Th-that means s-she’s dead, so-”

“He’s dead.” Byakuya corrects sharply, and glares so fiercely the confused question that Fukawa was preparing simply vanishes. “But the fact that you weren’t aware of that means that Chihiro never came to speak with you about it. When he already discussed the matter with the rest of us.”

“I-that doesn’t m-mean I k-killed he-him!”

“Maybe that doesn’t implicate you,” Kirigiri concedes. “But earlier, you said ‘strung Chihiro up’. How were you aware of what the crime scene looked like?”

Fukawa squeaks, and smacks her hands to her mouth, as if she can retroactively shove the words back. “Th-that- i-isn’t that like S-Syo’s habits? S-so o-of course I would a-assume-”

“Syo said the crime scene doesn’t match what she does.” Makoto interjects. “All her victims are pinned by her scissors. Like you said, Chihiro was crucified using a cord.”

“I-”

“The time period doesn’t make sense. If we assume that Kyoko is being truthful - why did it take so long for Syo to wake up, in the time between you fainting and Chihiro being found?” Byakuya stares at her icily, and she squirms and shudders beneath his gaze. “You woke up awfully quick just now. For someone accusing us of labeling you a liar, you don’t seem inclined to tell the truth about anything, do you?”

His words drip with vitriol and acid, and Fukawa digs her fingers into her scalp and stamps her foot and screams, a long, strangled noise of frustration and anger. It’s a piercing sound, sharp enough to make Byakuya flinch, and it echoes for a moment up to the high ceiling of the chamber. And then everyone is silent as she catches her breath, hands pulling slowly away from her thoroughly disheveled hair.

“Fine,” She spits, and somehow, her voice is steadier than he’s ever heard it. “I hung up Chihiro. A-and I framed Byakuya for it.”

The confession sounds almost giddy with how breathless she is, but maybe Byakuya was imagining it. After a moment’s pause for people to register what she said, there’s no small amount of shock.

“You- you did?!” Yamada, standing directly next to Fukawa, cows as far away as the stand will let him. “Wha- but you seemed so…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the implication of the word ‘harmless’ hangs in the air. “Yes, I did.” She snaps back savagely. “I-it was easy. H-he’s so small, a-and I knew B-Byakuya would be l-looking for s-stuff on Syo…and, t-the extension cord…”

Byakuya suddenly remembers, then. How she had stumbled as she left the library, foot smashing through some box and getting tangled in its contents. And how he hadn’t paid any mind to it, already too preoccupied with his own survival to care.

“How did you manage it without turning into Syo?” Kirigiri asks, and Fukawa’s face twists. It's only as she turns her head, and Byakuya notices the subtle glint of her bared teeth, that he realizes that she’s grinning.

“He had been i-ignoring me f-for so long…I was w-working so hard. T-to be normal and good. S-so he would l-look at me…” It’s not hard to figure out who she was referring to by ‘he’. Byakuya feels eyes on him once more. But his attention is turned to her raised forearm, exposed by the sleeve drooping around her elbow from how her hands are clutching at her scalp, and the strip of white that is almost imperceptible against her already pale skin. “I-I thought if I could - I could g-get over it, I could prove th-that I could be normal, then…”

She trails off, energy quickly depleted. “So, you had been training to not immediately faint at the sight of blood.” Kirigiri concludes, and Fukawa nods once, jerkily.

“Wait, so you did all that just because he ignored you?” Hagakure asks, mouth agape.

“Yes!” She shrieks vehemently, so sharp and sudden that Byakuya nearly jumps. “You don’t get it! None of you g-get it! I-I can stand it i-if he was mean to me, o-or if he h-hated me, but- it’s the worst when h-he acts like I’m n-not even there!”

Her voice breaks, and for a long moment the only sound in the room is her quiet sobs. To some degree - and Byakuya is furious with himself for even thinking this - he understands why she might behave this way. Clearly, she had been abused, and likely neglected, and this manifested into the extreme, self-demeaning, aggressive behavior she displayed now. Her actions had a twisted logic. She herself was pitiable.

But just because he understood, did not mean he had to accept it.

“Well, you have my full attention now.” He says coldly. “Congratulations. Why don’t you try and keep that attention by telling us what we all want to know?”

“Yeah, how about you tell us how Chihiro died?” It takes Byakuya a moment to place that the question came from Owada, who had been mostly quiet for a while now. He’s not blazing with fury anymore, but there’s an edge in his voice now that Byakuya can’t read. “I don’t give a shit about your fucking crush. I want to know how you killed Chihiro.”

Fukawa tilts her head in thought, and the action is somehow reminiscent of Syo. “B-but, I didn’t kill Chihiro?” She says, and she sounds almost innocent. “I-I just found the b-body…I-I think if I d-did kill him th-then Syo w-would have woken up r-right away.”

As if anticipating it, Kirigiri raises her hands, as if trying to stop the rush of questions and shocked exclamations from the others. It’s no use though, as Owada bellows: “Like hell we’re believing that!”

“Guys, the time limit-!” Makoto has to shout above the din. At that, Byakuya glances at the clock hanging over Monokuma’s chair, the flashing red digits initiating a countdown. How long had it been already? How much time was left? There was no way for him to tell. He’d totally forgotten about it. “Just. Toko, can you tell us how you found the body? Please?”

“W-why should I?” Byakuya feels his jaw physically creak with how hard he’s grinding his teeth. It seemed that in the time Fukawa spent unconscious, she had absorbed the worst aspects of Syo’s personality.

“We may all perish if you don’t.” Sakura points out, a low threat in her voice.

“I-I don’t care.”

Byakuya thinks he might scream. “Why?! What else do you have left to lose?” He demands, and his voice rasps slightly, throat sore from how much he’d been talking. “We know what you’ve done already. You’ve already revealed everything about me. What else do you want?!”

And she giggles, a breathless, insane sound. “I-I don’t c-care what happens t-to me,” She sings. “I hate you. I h-hate everyone here. I kn-know I-I’m gonna get t-targeted no matter w-what I do, b-because you all th-think I’m so horrible…so I should h-hit back f-first, right?” She wobbles, hands knotted in her hair again. “B-but I hate you the most. I-I wanted y-you to know how you made me feel, even j-just a little.”

Even without seeing her face, he can sense her malice, thick and unpleasant like the smell of rot. He hasn’t been the target of such blatant contempt in years, and the complete hostility that she radiates makes him feel a little unsteady.

“Fine. We will figure out the details ourselves. You’ve given us enough clues already.” Kirigiri replies coolly. “Unfortunately for you, only one person will be dying after this trial.”

He’s not sure how she can be so confident about that. The pounding in his head is getting worse, and as his eyes slip closed, he finds he’s not even sure where to start with everything; after all this, they were still not any closer to a definite conclusion. All they had done so far was run blindly around each other, getting lured to dead-ends and circles.

Through the low throb of pain in his skull, he can just barely make out the sound of quiet muttering fromMakoto’s direction. If he opened his eyes, he might have seen the other boy tapping his foot, resting his chin in his hand as he thinks. And if he could have seen, he might have noticed how Makoto’s eyes were darting, drawing invisible lines between fixed points in his mind.

“The place where Chihiro died. And Toko found the body. That’s what we need to figure out,” He says aloud, slowly. “I don’t think Chihiro died on the second floor. There’s no place with enough blood that could justify it, or enough evidence of a clean-up to suggest that it happened there. Even in the hallway where the body was found, the only blood there was against the wall from where Chihiro was crucified. There’s no splatter to match the method of death.”

“Yeah, but there’s no place on the first floor to suggest that Chihiro died there, either.” Asahina points out.

“No, there is one room. There was no blood there, but there was evidence that it was cleaned recently.” Even as he says this, Owada is beginning to gasp, ‘Wait-’, but he continues. “And, it’s somewhere someone got injured recently, so any blood that was missed can be explained away.”

He turns to the pale, silent figure of Kiyotaka Ishimaru, as still and unobtrusive as a ghost. “Taka. Can you please tell us what happened?”

___

Of course, Mondo blocks him before Taka can even respond.

“How dare you.” His voice is a low rumble, and he somehow looks angrier than Makoto has ever seen him. He can practically hear the creak of wood where Mondo was gripping the bannister, knuckles white and bulging. “What the fuck are you trying to pull, Makoto? What the fuck are you trying to say?!”

Makoto swallows, his heart feeling like it’s about to pop out of his chest. He’s seen Mondo both at his most violent moments, and at his kindest ones, his face softening with sympathy as he was listening to Chihiro, the hearty reassurance and gentle clap on the back he had offered to them both. But now Mondo looked like he might actually kill him, and would make it hurt while it happened.

But despite that, he presses on. “I know you said that a trophy fell on Taka’s head, and that’s how you found him. When I went to look at the trophy room, the floor was still wet, and it was clean - like, really clean. And I assumed it was because you went back and cleaned it up after Taka got injured, but looking back, that doesn’t make sense.” He glances briefly at Kyoko, who merely closes her eyes in silent assent. “If your friend had a concussion, wouldn’t you stay by his side?”

Mondo’s face pulls into a snarl, a vein bulging at his temple. “So what if I went back and cleaned it up? Maybe Taka wanted to rest alone. What the hell does that matter?”

“No, I think it does matter. You don’t act like it, but you’re really nice, Mondo. When you were talking with me and Chihiro, and told us about your bro-”

He cuts himself off for a moment, suddenly hesitant. He’s already revealed Byakuya’s secret. He didn’t want to have to reveal Mondo’s as well, even now. He didn’t want to betray anyone else, but-

He already hates me for what I’m doing. He thinks to himself. Whether he reveals Mondo’s secret now or not, he knows that no matter what, he was going to be hated; there was no chance at the friendly ribbing and pleasant exchanges they had in the past. But even despite that, he finds himself unwilling to form the words on his tongue.

He needn’t have bothered though. Kyoko is the one who speaks up in his stead. “There’s no point in hiding the fact that you care deeply for Taka. We all remember the display of friendship the two of you put on the other day after spending weeks at each other’s throats. And as someone who’s familiar with violence, I imagine you’re also familiar with basic first aid; so why would you abandon someone with a head injury to clean up the other room?”

Mondo glares at her furiously, but there’s sweat beading on his forehead now. “You-you meddling bitch, what the fuck are you-?!”

“Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not trying to accuse you of anything.” She sighs. Makoto thinks she looks a little haggard, with dark rings of exhaustion under her eyes, and wonders when the last time she slept was. Despite that, her eyes are still sharp, and meet Mondo’s glower with a cool stare. “But, since we are missing out on Toko’s testimony, I think we should have our last witness speak for himself.”

And before she had even finished her sentence, Taka was opening his mouth.

< previous - from start - next >

[djarrex]

The Gray

Captain Rex x f!reader

masterlist | read on ao3

He’s had enough of black and white, so Rex leans into the gray.

18+ only | about 3.3k words | smut. umbara mention. rex is discovering how to cope with everything. kind of angsty. this was sort of inspired by the song The Grey by Thrice. might throw out a part two someday / eventually.

There's the black, and there’s the white. But Rex has found another way – hands unintentionally grasping at something unprecedented. On the outside, and to all of his men, Rex isn’t known to or expected to stray from regulation, but something about the way you make him feel has him walking a dangerous line – dipping a toe into the gray. 

On one end of the spectrum is his duty – the black – the reason why breath fills his lungs in the first place.

It's the undeniable truth that Captain Rex is one of a thousand upon thousands of others who were created for the sole purpose of soldier – men with genetic enhancements that make them qualified for such, long before their accelerated development. He can still remember the very first time he saw battle, which was also the first time he saw terrain that was the complete opposite from the planet–the home–where he’d been trained for a decade. 

Sand – it was everywhere. In his boots, in the barrel of his blaster, in his lungs. The sunlight was harsh and hot, and the air was dry. It felt as if he’d entered another dimension, one alternate from the torrential, overcast, ocean world he’d come to call home, a place where he’d drank in a quenching air that had cooled his internal temperature with every breath. The sound of rain constantly crashing against the domes had grown on the up-and-coming captain, filling him with a sense of peace at the end of a long day training for the leadership role he’d inevitably play.

That sense of peace, the only one he’d truly ever known, hadn’t been present when he felt he needed it the most. That complete change of terrain, paired with the first tangible experience of firing at real hostiles, had been the very first eye-opener for the budding commanding officer. 

Ever since that first battle, Rex has looked straight into the eyes of death more times than he can count. Blood and shouts and those final glances directed his way from beneath the buckets – the way his men look to their captain before meeting their fate – have been long ingrained in his bones. It’s something that can never be erased. 

But the pain sure as hell subsides when he’s with you.

That’s the other end of the spectrum – the white – a glimmer of light that guides him through the dark.

You take his pain – his deeply buried fears, regrets, and treacherous ideas – and absorb it all so that Rex may feel a semblance of peace. Even if only for a short while, and even if it causes his eyes to open in the direction of something bigger than what he’s been told he’s fighting for.

Those treacherous ideas of his – they include life. The real thing, not in the way his heart began to beat because some government body had or hadn’t given the order to make it so. With you, Rex feels alive. He feels and even sees a life outside of everything. He could meet a fate worse than death should anyone become privy to his thoughts – his feelings for you and what they’re making him think – but he accepts the risk. 

Nobody can know. Nobody can know just how good the two of you are together. Nobody can know how well you take him, how sweetly he speaks to you when in the safety of your arms, how your body accepts him like it was made for him. Rex may have been the one constructed in a laboratory, but he feels as though he’s met the one person who was created just for him. 

You’re his escape. You’re the reason why Rex is able to stay so strong. When on the front lines–the absolute epitome of the front lines, with the Jedi general he serves under–he’s invincible. Even though you’re not physically there with him in battle, you’re an added layer of armor, stronger than the plastoid he dons. You’re there with him in the trenches – by his side when holding a fading brother’s hand as they take their last breath. That dying soldier could be Rex, but he makes it out every time because of you. He makes it out because he has to – to get back to you – to see and feel you again. 

He could perish out there and no longer feel guilt for the tremendous loss – or how he’s in love with a civilian, someone he’d abandon duty for if at all feasible. His life could end with one blaster shot fired at him just the right way, that way he’d never have to come to you for consolation again, but it doesn’t. Rex continues on – lives with the pain that only you can soothe.

It’s not so simple anymore. Not only has Rex seen glimpses at what life could look like outside a warzone, he’s felt too much loss to want to come to the widely accepted justification of the war’s endgame. 

What’s the purpose of all this?

Rex never used to feel so torn over his purpose. Maybe something’s wrong with him, he thinks. Maybe he is defective – a malfunction in his design that causes the trooper to dream of you and to miss you, and to think about things other than war. 

One day, this war is going to end. But what will happen to us then? We’re soldiers.

From the outside, Rex is either loyal or a traitor – though Rex doesn’t truly believe those are the only two routes. Not anymore.

There’s more to life than this.

He’s had enough of black and white, so Rex leans into the gray. 

-

He comes to you every time, without fail. 

For a man burdened with the weight of massive allegiance and responsibility to his duty, Captain Rex always makes it back to you. It could be days, weeks, months – time doesn't matter. He’ll always message you from his private frequency, one he has encrypted and hidden behind multiple passkeys, to let you know when he’s back on-world.

Most of the time, he comes to you after finishing up hours and hours of reports and debriefings. He’ll come to you an exhausted, worn down soldier with armor muddied up or scuffed with plasma markings from baster fire that had just skimmed by him. Underneath it all, when the walls come down and his armor with it, Rex is vulnerable – tired. He’s tired of all the fighting, the loss, the guilt. In moments like those, he seeks only one thing:

You.

Sometimes he wants to talk. Other times, he wants to hold you, and to be held, wordless, laying there with all lights extinguished. And then there are times when Rex wants nothing more than to get lost in the way you feel – in the pleasure he can give you – the sounds and sensations you grace him with. 

When he’s feeling the latter, it can be slow and passionate.

Rex will unclasp and remove all his armor, stacking it neatly in a corner you had designated for it all long ago. You’ll remove your clothing while he does that, and then gently remove the underclothes from his battle-hardened body. He’ll lean in to kiss you, deeply, and grab his favorite parts of you tenderly. Sometimes, the two of you make it into the shower, Rex letting you wash him, running your hands down his body, paying extra attention to his cock. You’ll get on your knees for him, taking care of the man you love with each inch passing between your lips.

He’ll cum down your throat – 

"Gods, you're so beautiful like this, on your knees for me, taking care of me. 'M gonna cum, baby – and you're gonna swallow it all, yeah? That's my good, sweet girl."

– Or will stave it off so he can take you right there in the steamy stall of the refresher, your back against the moistened wall with your leg hitched up against his hip, your foreheads mashed together as Rex thrusts into you slowly. 

"I wanna feel you cum, sweet girl. Please."

Two fingers strum your clit and his name is breathed from your lungs on repeat until you’re cumming around him, granting him his own release once he feels the way you tighten and writhe with your climax.

It'll be silent after that – wordless under the soft spray of water cascading over the two of you.

Rex will follow you into your bed, hands clinging to you in the dark room until you're both collapsing into the sheets, and you'll fall asleep like that, tangled in his warmth with Rex's head on your chest.

"Am I hurting you?" 

He'll always ask you that question, softly with concern. His head is heavy, but you always adjust to where it's comfortably situated just above your breasts. Rex could never hurt you, your answer the same no matter how many times he asks.

"Not at all."

Followed by a gentle reassurance for Rex to rest – his body and mind.

"Get some sleep, love."

It depends on just how heavy the burden is weighing on him, but it can also be frenzied and desperate when he comes to you.

Rex can be intense – a tidal wave of fervor. He can be so incredibly hungry for you that his armor doesn't even make it off his body, save for the one piece that hinders his cock from the haven of your cunt. He’ll back you up against the wall by the door that he'd only entered through minutes prior, his lips finding yours in a crazed dance. While he’s ensuring nothing is in the way of him entering you, you’re doing the very same, making quick work of removing everything from your body, allowing Rex access to anything he could want.

"That's my good girl – all ready for me. You're probably soaked too, hm? All ready to take me."

After using the wetness of your cunt to slick himself up, he'll enter you in one motion then fuck you hard, right there against the wall, the armor that stayed on smacking against your bare skin almost painfully. It’s the sting that spurs you on – makes you arch further into him. Rex’s hands never fail to find your breasts, pinching and tugging at your pebbled nipples as his body moves quicker and more determined than any ordinary man would have the energy for.

"Fuck – you take me so well – take my cock like a good girl. That's it, mesh'la. Say my name, tell me who's fucking you this good, and I'll keep giving you what you want."

When Rex speaks utter filth to you, grunting and huffing out curses with abandon, you take it and run with it. 

"Yes, baby. Just like that – ruin my pussy, Rex. It's yours, all yours, use me however you want – I'll take whatever you give me, baby."

Rex loses it when you talk back – breathes out a ragged groan as his thighs shake, his hands gripping your flesh like a lifeline when he cums deep inside you.

The armor will come off – but not until after he gets on his knees for you, his tongue dipping into the intoxicating tang of your cunt. He'll get you to cum for him again, because fuck, he needs it. He needs to taste you, to feel you, to consume you. You'll ride his face and fingers right there against the wall until he can no longer breathe.

"Rex, baby… it's too much. I– I need a break, love."

Those are the only words that can stop him, because Rex could eat your pussy for hours without a break for himself – tongue and lips having long gone numb. 

It's easy for him to lose track of time when you allow him to use your body in any way he pleases – and the same goes for you whenever you take a semblance of control.

"Lay back. Let me ride you, Rex."

He never argues with you, though there's always something more to say, that much is evident by the way his eyes search your face for any signs of doubt. Rex is a selfless lover, always taking care of your needs over his own, even when he's the one coming to you, so it causes him to buffer when you make suggestions like those to him. It usually takes an added plea, one you back with reason.

"Please? You deserve to lay back and just watch. I wanna take care of you, baby – make you feel good. Please let me?"

Rex will lay back, his hands switching between running up and down your parted thighs, reaching up to squeeze your breasts, and holding steady at your hips as you bounce on his cock. His eyes always stay on you, never letting himself get whisked away to the throes of pleasure. 

He wouldn't miss it for anything – how you look in those moments. 

"You're so beautiful. Come here."

He'll sit up to hold you against him, hands splayed on your lower back and gently guiding your movements.

“I love you.”

Rex breathes out the words so softly, always almost as if he’s afraid someone else would hear, mumbling them into your skin or against your lips.

But it’s always just the two of you, bodies pressed together in the safety of your home. Shelter. Rex can find it with you, skin on skin, under your roof, in the sound of your voice and wordless sounds. So you’ll make him say it again, gently cupping his jaw and having him meet your eyes.

“No one’s here but us, Rex. Just the two of us. It’s okay.”

You’ve noticed in the past several times that Rex has been over he’s been more open. Emotions flow not as encumbered, though you sense there may always be a hesitance in what he chooses to share with you, knowing full well that not everything he experiences on the field of battle is appropriate to unload onto you. Rex spares you the horrid details, the ones that no doubt haunt him the most. Those memories sit on the tip of his tongue, a bitter, foul taste trickling down his throat – and you notice, taking over in the conversation or even switching to another means of consolation. 

He’s given you names – hundreds of names – all of them unique, just like each of the men who owned them. Rex has taken his time speaking highly of each one of his men who’ve perished, throwing in a lighthearted, personal anecdote and genuine smile with the remembrances. He cares deeply, loves deeply, holds compassion and responsibility deeply. To have such depth in the way one feels can be beautiful – but also tragic. 

Rex once showed you something he wrote in an addition to a debriefing, a personal grievance he hadn’t shown his superiors. It was the truth layered with guilt, the words typed out on his datapad, more things to say than were necessary for the official campaign reports. His personal report included a piece of information that would have been detrimental if the event had occurred the way it was meant to.

… The transmitter had been sabotaged. We were led into traps. We were ordered to fire upon our own men. As second in command, I followed orders and killed our brothers. I should have listened to Fives, Jesse, Kix, and the rest of them from the beginning. I should have realized sooner that I was being used, and because of my naivety, my brothers suffered greatly. 

It became clear to all of us that General Krell was against the Republic, against us clones, and there was only one thing we agreed that had to be done. The traitor had access to vital information, all of our intel and defense codes, and would have turned it all over to Dooku and the Separatists if I hadn’t ordered his arrest and subsequent execution. 

Even with his hands bound and a blaster pointed in his direction, General Krell was still able to get inside of my head, the same way he had throughout the entire campaign on Umbara. He could sense my fear and my hesitation. In truth, I felt conflicted, confused about my duty. What I was doing was for the Republic, for my brothers, but I knew then that it wouldn't have been seen that way after it was all said and done. With our Jedi General court-martialed, and without more men on the way, we would have lost the airbase that Hardcase had sacrificed his life for. The Umbaran insurgents would have freed the traitor Krell, and the Republic would have been hit with a crippling blow. As Captain, I had to act. I had to do what needed to be done, for my brothers and for the Republic.

But I could not go through with it.

It was CT-6922, Dogma, who fired the shot at General Pong Krell, effectively ending his life and carrying out the execution I had ordered. By doing so, Dogma spared me from having to take the shot, and consequently spared me from bearing the weight of committing a mutiny, and the murder of a Jedi. 

Even though it was not on him to do so, Dogma did his duty to the Republic, as I failed to do mine.

Whatever happens to Dogma is on me, and I must live with that.

Somehow him surviving that campaign was even more detrimental than if he hadn’t.

As the months go on, Rex loses more and more of his closest friends. The war is really aging him quicker than he should be; you can see the creases in his eyes and sunken features on his face become the teeniest bit more prominent every time you see him. You’re not sure how much longer this is going to last, but if there is one thing you do know, it is that Rex can power through. He’ll survive this war because of what he’s told you.

Rex has experienced hell, seen things that made his heart twist then drop, but he’s also had the privilege of seeing glimpses of what lies outside the realm of all the fighting. Eye-opening, mentality-changing experiences – ones that gave him hope. Because of those optimistic encounters, Rex now believes that there is a vast, green meadow on the other side of all this. He no longer holds the ideas near and dear of how he was created for only one purpose and will die serving that very purpose. 

While he does still firmly believe that serving the Republic and being allegiant to his duty is crucial, and that deserting is not the right course of action, Rex finds that mentality in between – a safe mental space that allows him to do his duty while giving himself enough wiggle room to continue to explore what being alive truly means and should feel like, even if that does mean he’s straying from regulation. It’s not illegal if no one finds out.

A gray area.

In the gray, Rex can feel a semblance of peace. You’ve noticed how much he’s changed since he first rationalized his decision to tiptoe around regulation. You have, of course, expressed hesitance about it all, reminding him what could happen should he get caught, but it’s not like Rex doesn’t already know the risks, fully accepting them and taking it one rotation at a time. 

He always tells you not to worry – that he won’t get caught.

You believe him, trusting in him fully. Rex is a very calculated, brilliant man, having been competent enough from early on that he was put into leadership training before the war had even begun. They saw something in Rex long ago that you’re now having the pleasure of watching grow. 

[emblazons]

hELLO do you have any fun specific hopes/theories/headcanons for st5?

HELLO STRANGER 😂

Honestly I am not like super headcanon forward as a watcher because I think I have expectations trust issues from other television and therefore stick to what I can see on screen before speculating, BUT!

Headcanons + some things I would love to see explored (that aren’t just aggressive amounts of pining byler)?

The whole “Will is suppressed in his queerness being attached to soteria/suppression of powers” is like. 11/10 concept imo. It goes along with horror history so well (shout out @pinkeoni for that analysis) and plays so well into the whole relating to “Alan Turing” bit that we were introduced to start of S4, given his history as a gay man.

re, the last point: the contrast in queerness between Mike and Will being explored as someone who shows more blatant attraction to men but struggles to accept it as an identity versus someone who accepts their identity while suppressing their attraction (by outside forces or not) is also a dynamic I think would be cool to explore. I am not an ace Will truther at all but. I do think he shies away from his own sexuality a lot in a way they don’t do with Mike.

I really want “samfro caught on mount doom together while the rest of the fellowship fights an army” byler vibes—something about El and Lucas as Aragorn & Legolas with Dustin (Gimli) and Erica (Merry/Pippin) while Will struggles with feeling alone carrying the heavy burden of a connection to Vecna? Some “I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you” heroism from Mike? El getting a moment to reunite with Max (Arwen) at the hand of Lucas, just like in Return of the King? Fucking mint lmao

I need scenes of Max in whatever place she’s still alive in like I need oxygen. Working from “the inside” to do exposition on Henry + the UD while she’s in a coma while the party sorts through it in Hawkins feels like such a phenomenal writing opportunity I’ll be desperately sad if they don’t explore it. I hope they include some elements of like. The duality of presence a la The Talisman in that given Lucas was reading it to her in the hospital? But 🤷🏽‍♀️

GIVE ME TIME FKERY OR GIVE ME DEATH. I know it’s pretty much guaranteed at this point but. I need Mr. Clarke back stat, with some convoluted ass theory explained on a paper plate again. I need the most elaborate UD reality just, absolutely borderline nonsensical lore for like a full episode so I can watch this series back again and see it from SECOND ONE (or minute 8:15) and giggle like a schoolgirl knowing the duffers really are smart/the haters were wrong.

I want more Wheelers! I know Nancy is central to the supernatural given she was the only other one pulled in by Vecna and not killed—just sent as a messenger—but. I have so many Wheeler and Creel thoughts at this point I don’t know where to start, but. They are the PERFECT family for exploring picture-perfection against horror themes (just like the Creels) and I want it. Like “don’t care how, I want it now” level focus on them, along with their Byers.

I said it before but: an exploration of motherhood as a theme makes so much sense to me, and it seems to be important to The Duffers too, so. I want it.

Kinda want RoVickie as the couple who introduces the idea of the supernatural + queerness v Hawkins element at the start of the season, and for byler to be the ones who “end it.” I think that would be a fascinating way to parallel them more, though…I haven’t much thought this through.

If they don’t make Finn Wolfhard sob his little eyes out this season I’m going to feel betrayed. I need him like. Noah level pressed at least once next season, for the culture (Finn said he wanted to do more dramas. Let him defeat the bad actor allegations here so they let him LMAOOOO)

That’s all I can think of for now! I’m sure there are more, but. Those were the firsts that came to mind haha.

Thanks for the ask!

[ilikeyoualive]

Free Fall

Warnings: Modern Warfare 3 (2023), Major Character Death, Angst, Hurt No Comfort

Word Count: 1,189

Additional Tags: John Price POV, Gen or Pre-Slash GhostSoap

Main Masterlist

Price could only hear a high-pitched ringing in his ears after the shot went off, the ensuing cacophony of gunfire drowning out his own desperate shout. He barely even registered the arrival of Simon, Gaz and what remained of their team, unable to look away from Soap as gravity dragged his lifeless body to the ground, his brain forcing him to witness every horrid second of Soap hitting the unforgiving concrete in slow motion like some sort of sick punishment.

Then he heard Makarov's muffled voice as the man most likely ordered his men to retreat now that reinforcements had arrived —not fast enough to save Soap, a masochistic voice in the back of his head whispered— and his vision rapidly flooded the same shade of red that was currently surrounding Soap’s head like macabre halo.

The next thing he knew, he had his gun back in his hand and was firing wildly in Makarov's direction —continuing on despite the train that had come between him and his target— until he unloaded the entire mag, only moving his finger away from the trigger once the gun had clicked empty for the third time.

He turned back to where Soap was lying to find Simon already kneeling down next to him, Price once again stuck being a useless bystander as Simon ignored the unmistakable perfect circle that the bullet had carved into Soap's skull in favor of violently tearing his own left glove off —as if the cloth barrier would somehow impede him from getting an accurate reading— revealing his pale, scarred hand. He wasted no time placing his fingers against Soap's neck, checking for a pulse despite the fact that they all already knew he wouldn't find one.

"Captain, the bomb. How do we stop it?" Gaz asked, carefully keeping his gaze angled away from the body that Simon was kneeling next to as he rushed past him and Price, firmly focused on the bomb that he could faintly hear ticking down the seconds. Though Price's attention was solely on Simon, watching the man's chest heave as if he were struggling to get air, the minute shake of his uncovered hand as he pulled it away from cooling, bronze skin. 

Simon didn't move from his position, didn't even acknowledge having heard Gaz's warning, and Price watched with a sinking feeling in his gut as the man hesitated with his left hand hovering over Soap’s body before Simon gently pressed his bare palm against Soap's still chest.

"Price! The bomb!" Gaz's sharp bark managed to pierce through the haze that had descended over Price, the urgency in his Sergeant's voice prompting him to turn his back on Simon and Soap in order to move toward Gaz on numb legs.

He took note of how Gaz's hands were shaking where they were uncertainly poised near the mess of wires connected to the metal drums, the man crouched down where Price had been previously positioned with the snake cam before things went sideways, which left the empty spot that Soap had been occupying for Price.

His feet felt as if they were weighed down by lead with every step he took toward the now empty spot, his brain running in endless circles as he tried and failed to wrap his head around the fact that Soap had been squatted there, breathing and talking and alive, not two minutes ago. Even thinking about it had something in Price's chest seizing, his lungs stuttering painfully before he stubbornly forced the panic bubbling up his throat down in order to focus on the task at hand. 

He ignored the fact that the soft beeping of the countdown became faster in favor of quickly relaying the directions that he'd gotten from Soap to Gaz, who obediently followed his count, the two simultaneously cutting the red wire and successfully disarming the bomb.

“Disarmed… disarmed. We’re clear.” Gaz declared breathlessly, Price watching  him get his feet under him long enough to stumble over to Soap in his peripheral vision.

The Sergeant stopped at Soap’s feet and stared down at Scot’s body for a long moment before the fact that Soap was dead finally seemed to sink in and Gaz went down hard, Price wincing at the sound of his Sergeant's tailbone connecting with the floor. Though Gaz didn’t seem to register the pain, merely staring at Soap as the shock of losing a team member settled over the trio like a thick, suffocating cloud.

"—ice? Captain, do you copy? What's your status?" A static-riddled voice asked, the sound echoing out into the silent Crossover from Price's radio and abruptly piercing through the numb shock that had been muffling the world around him, everything snapping back into stark focus all at once and leaving him somewhat disoriented.

Price's hand reached up and grabbed a hold of the radio that he had attached to the strap of his gear on muscle memory alone, his shaking fingers pressing down on the button before inhaling sharply, his jaw working as he tried to figure out what to say.

He decided to start with something easy. Something familiar.

"Threat neutralized. The bomb has been disarmed." Price said into the radio, his voice sounding distant —as if he wasn’t the one speaking— as he stared down at Simon, who had made his intent to stay with Soap's body very clear the moment that his knees hit the floor.

Price released the button to let whoever was on the other side of the line talk, finding himself much more concerned with observing Simon, who still had his left hand pressed to Soap's unmoving chest as the other moved up to the Scot's pale face in order to carefully ease Soap's eyelids shut, hiding those dull and unseeing pools of blue from view.

Gaz was sitting on the ground near Soap’s boots where he'd gone down onto his ass like a puppet with its strings cut. He had one arm propped up on his knee, his lips pressed into a thin line as his palm rested against forehead. His signature cap was in his other hand, which he had resting limply in his lap, his gaze fixed on Soap's expressionless face.

"Soap is… Soap's gone. He's dead." Price stated woodenly into the radio, unable to believe the words even as he said them, even with the evidence laying prone at his feet, the gunshot wound that snuffed such a bright light out of existence still lazily leaking crimson out onto the concrete.

He noticed the way that Gaz flinched as if he’d been struck at hearing it said aloud, as if speaking the words made it more painful, more real. Simon, however, remained unmoving, the man blankly staring off into the middle distance with vacant eyes that had once been steadily gaining life since meeting a certain Scot on the tarmac. As if he too were dead.

And Price swallowed hard against the bile threatening to crawl up his throat, unable to shake off the feeling that even though Soap had been the one to receive a fatal shot, he’d lost two of his boys today.

[ciaossu-imagines]

For the polyshipping day of the event, I used the below prompt for a polyship for Draluc and Ronaldo from The Vampire Dies in No Time! A new fandom to this blog, I hope any fans will enjoy these small headcanons!

Send me a pairing and I’ll tell you who:

Falls asleep on the couch?

It’s definitely Ronaldo. Draluc really does need his coffin to sleep comfortably and it’s rare to see him nap on the couch. Like, once in a blue moon, something is terribly wrong rare. Ronaldo, on the other hand, kind of just crashes wherever he needs to.

Makes friends with the neighbours?

I feel like  all three of you would make some sort of friendly acquaintances out of your neighbours but none of you would make fast friends with any of them. Draluc is popular because of the food he’ll cook and share with the neighbours and his lack of hesitation in inviting them over to play games with him, but he’s a bit of a gadfly who kind of finds it amusing to learn gossip and to play pranks on the neighbours, making them upset fairly regularly. Ronaldo is very charismatic and quite a few neighbours thought he was really cool, until the shouting matches between Ronaldo and Draluc, where Ronaldo’s absolute filthy mouth was show-cased were heard by one or more of the neighbours. You, meanwhile, are the one the neighbours all like the best but you hang around with those two weirdos and date both of them, so they think there must be something wrong with you.

Is the adventurous eater?

Both of the boys have foods they will absolutely never go near. For Draluc, it’s garlic and as garlic is used in a lot of dishes, it does severely limit the number of things he’s willing to try. Ronaldo, meanwhile, hates celery more than anything and though it doesn’t make it as difficult to find new dishes to try, he’s the pickier eater of the two. So, I’m going to have to say you would have to be the adventurous eater or nobody is.

Hogs the cover at night?

Honestly, nobody. I really don’t feel like this is a polyship where you share beds. That doesn’t mean you never share a bed for fun things, but when it comes to sleep, because Draluc sleeps in a coffin that doesn’t exactly allow you space in it, you can’t really sleep with him. He feels really bad about this and thinks it’s really unfair that Ronaldo gets to sleep beside you and there is a rather large fight about it that leads to the rule that you all have separate beds to sleep in, that way nobody gets an unfair advantage in cuddle times and getting to be more ‘coupley’ than the other.

Forgets to do the dishes?

Ronaldo just doesn’t do the dishes. Honest to God, because Draluc is so good at the house chores and Ronaldo knows that Draluc will do them, he’s really lazy when it comes to little things like that. He leaves his dishes just laying wherever too, since he knows the ‘cleaning maid’ will take them to where they need to go.

Tries to surprise their partner more often?

I do feel like both men go through periods where they get really into doing sweet things for you, their shared lover. Draluc goes with cooking your favourite meals as a surprise, buying you a new game so that the two of you can play together, buying you merch from a show or game he knows you’re a huge fan of and things like that. Ronaldo, meanwhile, will spoil you with big date ideas, with lots of little individual trips with just him where you get all of his attention, and things along those lines.

Leaves dirty laundry on the floor?

That is, again, Ronaldo. He’s not a neat and tidy person naturally and he’s been spoiled in how willing Draluc is to do the cleaning up around the place. While you probably try to be a bit more considerate, you might also sometimes do the same thing, especially since it will be cleaned for you and with much less complaints than Ronaldo’s.

Stays up until 2 AM reading?

It can be all three of you, if you’re someone with a tendency to do that. Draluc really likes manga and certain novels and when a series really sucks him in, he’s totally engrossed in it. Ronaldo is not only a talented writer, but like most writers, he’s very much a reader and if he’s close enough to finishing a book, he’s pushing through no matter how late the hour gets to finish it all in one go.

Sings in the shower?

The answer to this one is mostly nobody. Ronaldo isn’t a sing in the shower kind of guy, though he’ll hold conversations with himself while he’s in the shower. Draluc sings in the shower but it’s only every now and then and it sounds less like singing and more like the most discordant squawking you’ve ever heard. So, it would have to be you or nobody 😊

Takes the selfies?

Ronaldo takes the most couples selfies, but Draluc takes the best selfies, even if it’s not super easy for him to show up on the camera film.

Plans date night?

Draluc tends to be spontaneous and just lets the evening with you take the two of you wherever, while Ronaldo is the one who puts more effort into taking you on actual dates instead of just having the two of you hang out spending time together!

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Eye of the World! Chapter 27: Shelter from the Storm

It's that time to warn people about spoilers again! My reread has spoilers for the whole damn series and if you don't want to know all the cool secrets, you should go be somewhere else. I try to make this paragraph long enough to hide everything under the "expand this post" thing, but also hopefully you'll just block spoiler posts already jeez!

This chapter once again has the leaves on a vine icon, which as I said before just reflects the Tuatha'an among other things. Perrin and Egwene are traveling with them so this all checks out. Not much to discuss.

Any suggestion that they might go further, or more quickly, was met with laughter, or perhaps, “Ah, but would you make the poor horses work so hard?”

Werthead of the Atlas of Ice and Fire wordpress did a series on Wheel, and one thing he concluded that always stuck with me is that judging by the distances and the timeline, the caravan is actually traveling pretty damn fast! Perrin must just not be good at judging the distances covered on the Caralain Grass.

But Perrin had learned that hidden beneath the surface was the wariness of a half-tame deer. Something deep lay behind the smiles directed at the Emond’s Fielders, something that wondered if they were safe, something that faded only slightly over the days. With Elyas the wariness was strong, like deep summer heat shimmering in the air, and it did not fade.

Perrin seems to be gaining his empathetic powers of Wolfbrotherhood. He does describe the ways any person might notice, but based on the speed of his thoughts so far I'm going to assume he figured that stuff out after getting the supernatural push. Like Rand, he's got a lot of denial.

“Something tells me it’s important to wait. A few more days. I don’t get feelings like this often, but when I do, I’ve learned to trust them. They’ve saved my life in the past. This time it’s different, somehow, but it’s important. That’s clear. You want to run on, then run on. Not me.”

Perrin wants to leave, but his own ta'veren-ness won't let him. It's good that Jordan was planting the seeds for this, since we'll be getting to it in a few more chapters.

“Three Girls in the Meadow,” for instance, the Tinkers named “Pretty Maids Dancing,” and they said “The Wind From the North” was called “Hard Rain Falling” in some lands and “Berin’s Retreat” in others. When he asked, not thinking, for “The Tinker Has My Pots,” they fell all over themselves laughing. They knew it, but as “Toss the Feathers.”

I absolutely love this particular bit of worldbuilding and will probably quote it every time it happens even though I have absolutely nothing to add to it.

“I have to thank you,” Elyas told him, his tone sober and solemn. “It’s different with you young fellows, but at my age it takes more than a fire to warm my bones.” Perrin scowled. There was something about Elyas’s back as he walked away that said even if nothing showed, he was laughing inside.

Perrin really hates sexuality. If he weren't trapped in a narrative where all men coming of age had to get married as quickly as possible, he'd be aggressively asexual. It makes the whole "becoming a werewolf" thing mesh all the more poorly with his character, since raw instinct and wild abandon are things that he never, ever becomes comfortable with.

Then Aram held out his hand to her, and she darted to him, already laughing again. As they ran away to where fiddles sang, Aram flashed a triumphant grin over his shoulder at Perrin as if to say, she is not yours, but she will be mine.

Honestly, as much as I despised the bizarre love triangle angle the show brought in to things, between this and the fact that Perrin's fight with Egwene never mentions her sort-of relationship with Rand, it may not be as entirely out of left field as I thought. Perrin is just extra shitty this chapter.

Sometimes he wanted to shout at them. There were Trollocs in the world, and Fades. There were those who would cut down every leaf. The Dark One was out there, and the Way of the Leaf would burn in Ba’alzamon’s eyes.

I mean, if you talked to them about it, you might either convince some of them or at least hear about the justifications their culture, which is nearly as old as the Trollocs, has come up with? Surely there's answers you could find? Especially without shouting? Come on bro.

Hopper was a scarred and grizzled fighter, impassive with the knowledge of years, with guile that more than made up for anything of which age might have robbed him. For humans he cared nothing, but Dapple wished this thing done, and Hopper would wait as she waited and run as she ran.

And he's going to spend his afterlife being Perrin's babysitter. Not gonna lie, I refuse to believe he's gone-gone as of the end of the series, just because bro deserves something better.

He crooked a finger, and the wolf howled as fire burst out of its eyes and ears and mouth, out of its skin. The stench of burning meat and hair filled the kitchen. Alsbet Luhhan lifted the lid on a pot and stirred with a wooden spoon.

Props to Ish for managing to make Perrin's absolutely normal dream seem so much more terrifying. Just absolutely terrifying.

Beyond the trees where the wagons lay, the wolves howled, one sharp cry from three throats. He shared their sensations. Fire. Pain. Fire. Hate. Hate! Kill!

It's interesting to me that Ish's dream raven seems to have accelerated Perrin's powers developing. Obviously he didn't mean to do that at all, but the stress probably helped open his mind even more. And here Ish thinks he's done this a trillion trillion times before but he's still making rookie villain mistakes.

Egwene did not notice the regretful, sidelong looks Ila gave her. She asked what was going on, and Perrin prepared himself for her to say she wanted to stay with the Tuatha’an, but when Elyas explained she only nodded thoughtfully and hurried back into the wagon to gather her things.

Perrin has absolutely no idea what's going on in Egwene's head, Wolfbrother powers or no. Of course she doesn't wanna stay forever, dummy! She's just been enjoying not spending every other night being chased by demons. If it's time to go, it's time to go so she can get to Tar Valon, the thing she actually gives a fuck about.

Why the hell is Perrin the people person ta'veren when the other two could be dead and Perrin would still be the least socially aware? Rand displays martial and political aptitude from the beginning. Mat's got martial and trickster qualities from the start too, he just gets a bit screwed up by the dagger. But while Perrin is a good fighter, he has absolutely no qualities that explain why people might follow him without reality literally rewriting their minds. I think this is why his arc is the worst of the three boys: he doesn't follow their structure so he wouldn't have had anywhere to go even if Jordan did have content for him.

“Peace be on you always,” Elyas replied, “and on all the People.” He hesitated, then added, “I will find the song, or another will find the song, but the song will be sung, this year or in a year to come. As it once was, so shall it be again, world without end.”

And here's Perrin's ta'veren again, making Elyas be more socially aware (again: Perrin is the people ta'veren even though he's the worst at this stuff) and kind. It's clearly pretty out of character since Elyas bitches about it once they're out of earshot, but it's a kindness that helps bind him more to the group, which would be nice if he ever saw them again. Sadly, I don't think he does, though I feel that if Jordan had lived to write the ending that Perrin would have folded at least some of the Tuatha'an into his group in a better way than what he pulled with Aram.

Perrin did not want to think about his dream. He had thought that the wolves made them safe. Not complete. Accept. Full heart. Full mind. You still struggle. Only complete when you accept. He forced the wolves out of his head, and blinked in surprise. He had not known he could do that. He determined not to let them back in again.

It's also very difficult to accept that Perrin is supposed to be the smart one when upon hearing, "Your dreams could be safe if you were more comfortable with this," is to go, "Fuck no get the hell out!" It's just... Damn. If it were specifically some psychic side effect of the dream raven or something, that might be one thing, but Ishamael never mentions any such thing and the reasons to avoid wolfiness just multiply. The character arc that has the most potential for Perrin is the one where Jordan makes damn sure he never tries and apparently I'm just going to be frustrated as all hell about it this whole reread. Alas.

“Ila was giving me advice on being a woman,” Egwene replied absently. He began laughing, and she gave him a hooded, dangerous look that he failed to see. “Advice! Nobody tells us how to be men. We just are.” “That,” Egwene said, “is probably why you make such a bad job of it.” Up ahead, Elyas cackled loudly.

On the plus side, while my love of Perrin POVs has diminished since middle school, I can safely say that this exchange is just as funny now as it was then. See y'all next time!

[captainpoopweinersoldier]

Night & Day P5

Battinson!Bruce Wayne x F!Reader x Neil

Ratings/Warnings: Mature; attempted mugging; gun mention; angst if you squint; smoochie smoochieee; implied threesome

Words: 4.5K

Link to AO3

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Epilogue

Tagging: @ursulaismymiddlename​ @salt-is-a-terrible-currency​ @sassymemesfanficfestival​ @afro-hispwriter​ @lokidoky​

“Time itself hasn’t accelerated or reversed, rather an object’s entropy has been inverted, making it appear like it’s moving backward through time even though its environment is stable. Everything else stays the same.”

“So if you were trying to go back to a certain point in the past, you’d have to be inverted for however long it’s been since that point.”

The smug look Neil sent over his shoulder didn’t go unmissed. “Exactly. Not really time travel, see?” 

Bruce cocked his head to the side like he couldn’t entirely agree with that.

It had been a silent agreement among the three of you to walk back to the Tower after dinner. The staff was accommodating where privacy was concerned, seating you in a secluded section meant for parties where you wined and dined well into the night. But one look at the still bustling entrance was enough to opt for sneaking out of the emergency exit at the back of the restaurant instead.

The clear weather from the afternoon had held up, a rarity for Gotham, the humid air strangely cool and refreshing as you leisurely strolled through a poorly lit alleyway. There was the typical underlying city stench from overflowing dumpsters and murky sewers, but even that couldn’t damper the mood. Dinner had been an overall success, the effects from a drink or two buzzed through your veins, and you hadn’t been able to stop smiling for hours.

You adored the way the two men bonded with each other, hanging on to every word with avid interest. It was plain to see how they rubbed off on one another, steadily becoming clear it was obvious even to them as their interactions wove anywhere from intellectual intrigue to downright flirtations. You contentedly tucked your hand inside of Bruce’s as Neil gestured away emphatically, hardly able to fathom the chances of it all.

“What if you wanted to change something, do it differently?” 

Neil dropped his favorite line. “What’s happened’s happened. The policy is to suppress. What if you did - acted, reacted differently, who’s to say the outcome would be the same, if not worse?” 

There was a moment of deliberation, then - “I don’t like it.”

Neil pouted, metaphorical bubble visibly bursting. “Why not?” 

“What’s the point if you can’t change things? Who’s to say you can’t do it better?”

That sort of contemplation was likely trained out of him a long time ago. Having faith in a mantra was bound to be more grounding than constantly wondering about the what if’s. 

“Well, at its most basic foundation, it’s simply an advantageous military tactic -”

Before you could grasp what was happening, Bruce suddenly had you in a painful vice-like grip. Neil whipped around as he dragged you harshly behind him, shielding you with his body, and only when a voice shouted - “Wallets! Money - now!” - did you notice the assailant rushing at you from the shadows.

He had a gun aimed - but no sooner had he approached than Neil’s arm shot out. One hand grabbed the barrel, forcing it upward, while the other hooked somewhere around the man’s elbow. He pivoted under his upraised arm, twisting it in a way that looked unnatural, and the resounding snap that followed sent the man screaming to his knees. 

Neil snatched the gun as it slipped out of his limp grasp. There was a weighted pause as you wondered if he might turn it on the would-be thief and Bruce’s offensive half step forward showed he thought the same. 

But Neil simply disassembled the weapon. The magazine slipped out into his palm, which he tucked away in a pocket, then quickly checked the chamber before pulling the gun apart by the slide, and tossed the pieces aside.

In the next second, Bruce’s worried face filled your vision. Eyes darting everywhere checking for harm, and given your sound state, you were more worried for him at the moment. 

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” you reassured him. “I think it happened too fast for me to freak out. Are you okay?”  

“Yeah.” He looked back at the mugger as if to be certain he was no longer a threat, only to grow appeased and perhaps even impressed that Neil had total control of the situation. “He’s fast.. I’m not used to being on the sidelines.” 

The whimpering pile of a man winced up at Neil. “B-Bruce Wayne?”

“That’s me, all right,” Neil drawled sardonically. He withdrew his wallet and rifled through it; collected all the cash contained within and dropped it on the ground in front of him. “Next time just ask. No need for violence.” 

Bruce was holding you again, protectiveness reeking off of him in waves you were more than happy to soak in. “Are you sure you’re okay? It’s late - maybe we should’ve just taken the car.”

“Trust me, Bruce.” You set a comforting hand on his cheek. “Between you and Neil, I’m probably the safest girl in the world right now.” 

His tension practically melted right in front of your eyes and you had half a mind to feel foolish over how easily you could’ve swooned. 

“Take that for example,” Neil piped up, apparently resuming the conversation from where it was left off. He joined the pair of you, kissing the crown of your head before taking your other hand, and together you continued on the stroll down the alley. “Run me through all the ways the situation could have been changed if we went back in time…”

The mugger was left behind and soon forgotten, his spree of criminal pursuits presumed to be cut short with an inevitable visit to the hospital.

~

Though you rented an apartment of your own, Wayne Tower had become somewhat of a second home over time. With Bruce’s generosity in lending out his seemingly infinite resources, hours had been spent on independent casework while his nighttime routine was dedicated to battling the criminals of Gotham. Sleepless nights blending days seamlessly together was something you both had in common.

His emergence from the cave in the wee hours of the morning grew into something of an alarm clock. You’d make him a small breakfast - half the time too much of a zombie yourself to know if he ever actually ate - then see yourself out with the occasional rap on Alfred’s door should a tricky stitch need to be sewn. 

This all crossed your mind, of course, as a night at the Tower had never been spent quite like this.

The beats of Nina Simone played through bluetooth speakers as Neil led you back and forth across a balcony terrace. You couldn’t consider yourself much of a dancer, but it was impossible not to eagerly kick off your boots and try to keep up with him and his boisterous moves. Voice saccharine as he sang along, hand glued to your waist while his fingers interlocked with yours to effortlessly spin you again and again.

“No - no, Neil, don’t - !” Uncontrollable laughter turned into a high pitch squeal as you twirled once more, heaving a relieved breath once the tone finally mellowed into something slower. 

Neil pulled you flush against his chest, his face lit up with a contagiously beaming smile, and you let your limbs hang weakly over his shoulders. Sweat beaded at your hairline, and even he’d since shucked away his blazer and vest, breathing hard after such exertion. 

“You’re insatiable,” you told him.

He mulled that over with a quirk of his lips, swaying your hips with his. “I have a healthy appetite,” he insisted. “In any case, when did we last have each other like this, hm?” 

It wasn’t difficult to remember. The romantic getaway meant having to make up not one, but three final exams… So worth it.

“Sardinia.”

A throaty noise rumbled as he nuzzled at your temple. “We’ll always have Sardinia.” 

Though it likely wasn’t his intention, there was a sudden nostalgic heaviness that tugged at your heartstrings from deep within your ribcage. Dared to regurgitate a younger version of yourself fighting the urge to beg him to stay, stay, stay the very same way you’d done long ago.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you squeaked, even if you could feel your bottom lip pushing out despite yourself. 

He chuckled dryly before heaving a sigh. “You are looking at me in a way that makes me want to make endless promises to you.. Promises we both know I can’t keep.” 

Chalk it up to the dramatics of it all - still dancing to the music; the balcony, and stars above - the whole damned day - Neil had barely finished speaking and you were rising to your toes, fingertips needily snatching at his collar to capture his lips with yours.

It was heated and bruising, locked together with desperation seeping through opened mouths. Your eyes clenched shut, wanting to savor this moment forever, the bitter and the sweet. You clutched the nape of his hair, carding through his soft locks while his hands swept greedy, squeezing and groping. Drifted to graze above the swell of your backside as he leant you backward into a lazy dip.

Neil groaned low when he tore himself away. “Now, that’s simply unfair.” His hungry gaze perused your torso before gently lifting you to stand upright. “I believe it was you who said I was not to be romanced.”

And somehow like that, the angst was squelched. It was a special talent of his, and you snorted with a roll of your eyes.

“You were the one that kissed my boyfriend.”

His smirk was salacious. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“Typical.”

“He’s very kissable. And I thought he wasn’t your boyfriend.” 

“Can the boyfriend cut in?” 

You nearly screamed. For the second time that day, you flushed with embarrassment like a schoolgirl caught in the act - worsened as Neil merely laughed and unraveled you from his embrace with one last flourished spin. The floor length gown billowed, you nearly tripped, then came to an abrupt halt with Bruce stood before you. 

“I’m sorry - he - that’s what - earlier Neil kept calling you  -”

“It’s fine,” Bruce said. And it was clear he was amused, even if there was something else unrecognizable simmering in his eyes. He moved in closer, height towering until you were nose to chest, then a palm sought your waist while the other raised up in question. 

“May I?” 

Neil mimicked his hold from behind, his grasp sliding over his, the combination setting your body ablaze as he tenderly set your hand onto Bruce’s. He responded before you could stutter out an answer.

“You may.” 

Suddenly, there was a gasp of surprise from the terrace doors that caught collective attention.

“So sorry, dears!” Dory chirped. She couldn’t be blamed, what with the compromising sight, but being surrounded by either man afforded such distraction there was no room for further mortification. “Just checking to see if I could get you anything before I tuck in.”

“Dory, you little minx!” Neil exclaimed. “You can get over here this instant and give us a dance!” He practically cackled as he raced over to the petite woman who squealed and tried fruitlessly to evade him. 

The exchange faded quickly into white noise as you slipped further into Bruce. With hands entwined, he began to lead you to the pace of another slow number. And while historically his coordination skills were infallible, you couldn’t help but be somewhat surprised. 

“I didn’t know you could dance.”  

“I’m Bruce Wayne, of course I can dance.” 

This newfound nonchalant poise of his was going to be your demise… You swallowed hard, trying to will away this sudden nervousness that decided to take hold, unable to fathom where it was even coming from.

“Is that right? You mean to tell me we could’ve been tearing up the dance floor when I dragged you to those galas?” 

“I don’t know about all that,” he reasoned. “But I would’ve asked had I known you wanted to.” 

He met you with a long, leveled stare that - for someone so opposed to eye contact - kept your heart racing; the warmth behind it raised goosebumps on your skin, and only then did you realize what the difference was.

With Neil, there was such familiarity in all you’d shared together that falling in love with him again was all too easy. But this - this was new, and resonated a hope for something you’d long since tried to squash down and ignore, imagining your feelings for Bruce would always be one-sided. 

Now he was looking at you in a way you didn’t think him capable of looking at anything, gaze so penetrating with those complicated blue eyes, you wondered if he could peek inside your brain and read your very thoughts.

“You can relax,” Bruce murmured, answering the question. “It’s just me.” 

You huffed sheepishly at the sentiment. As if the large palm drifting over the small of your back - the whole damned solid mass of him holding you tight wasn’t enough to go weak in the knees over for the umpteenth time that day.

With dinner since passed and back in the comfort of his home, Bruce had swapped the fancy blouse and blazer for one of his raggedy old sweaters and his scent was everywhere, currents clouding your resolve. His hair was mostly slicked back now that he was safe to untidy Neil’s handiwork, and one thick tendril arced across his handsome face. He appeared more like himself than he had in hours - just Bruce didn’t come close to covering it.

“Bruce, I hope you know - and with me and Neil, what just happened -”

“You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“Don’t I?” His level of mature calm was slightly daunting amid your internal spiral. Not that you’d expect him to freak, but you were well aware this was a concept neither of you were accustomed with.

“I know how you feel about each other, and I don’t wanna change that.” The dance came to a pause and you were thankful for it; between this line of conversation and the lively background commotion, concentration on your feet was short lived.

“I’m not - jealous.” he added, grimacing at the word. But he offered a soothing caress along your spine. “Maybe I would’ve been once, but.. I can see why you love him.” 

You couldn’t help but pout. “That doesn’t mean I don’t feel that way about you, too.” 

“I know.”

But there was a sudden urgency in you to profess and never stop. “Bruce, I mean it, I -”

“Okay, maybe it took a little guesswork before today.” 

You froze mid-whining, overwhelming pining abruptly turning into bewilderment as you watched a lopsided grin pull at Bruce’s lips.

“Are you fucking with me right now?” 

“Well, it’s not every day someone calls in a favor from a special operative to give me a makeover.” 

“Fine,” you groaned, face-planting against his chest. “Go ahead, I said you could.” 

His chuckle was a pleasant rumble you could’ve burrowed into. “I’m not gonna scold you… It was - different, but.. Probably the closest to fun I’ve had in - well, it’s.. been a while.”

“Not too much?”

Gentle fingers lifted your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “Not too much.” 

You gloated in quiet victory, arms draping over his shoulders as he started moving again, though to what type of song or beat didn’t really register. There was little else left to worry about, particularly as the ludicrous sight of Neil waltzing Dory crossed by. 

“How long is he here for?” 

“Hard to say. He’s sort of like you that way.” He followed your wary glance at the sky, as if the moment you paid it any mind, the symbol would turn up and Bruce would be gone. “Could be a week, or he could be called away any second.” And since you were on the topic - “Think you can take the night off? I mean - obviously if someone were to call - but if not -”

You were relieved to feel his grip only tighten around your waist. “Will you spend it here if I do?” 

Many nights had been spent there already, but the meaning behind the invitation went without saying. Especially when his face hovered just a hair's breadth over yours, gaze notably drifting toward your mouth and you hoped those strong arms of his were secure enough to catch you when you inevitably slumped to the floor.

"If I can borrow a change of clothes."

"I think I can manage that.” He was purposefully teasing, inching so temptingly close you were just short of grazing his lips. “But you're not returning that dress."

"Uh-huh.. Sure." You'd concede to anything he said at this point. If you tilted your head just a smidge -

"And Neil.. He’ll stay too, yeah?”

The sensation of your stomach dropping must’ve been written across your face, as even in the dim light, the freshly blooming rouge of Bruce’s cheeks was plain to see. You practically simpered at him.

“If you’re trying to seduce me -”

“I’m having a hard time of it with Dory giggling like that behind me.”

You snorted with laughter, then jumped at Alfred’s voice cutting through the air as if perfectly timed.

“Good god, man, unhand the woman!”

Neil’s exaggerated whine matched the severity of his affronted expression, jaw unhinged. Dory scuttled away as if being scolded by her father, but not before he could give a gentlemanly peck to her knuckles. 

“Shown up now just to spoil the fun?” Neil accused as he sauntered over. 

“That’s my job,” Alfred said coolly. But he remained at his spot in the doorway to the terrace, refusing to cross over the threshold in fear that he too would be roped into a dance with Neil. He patted Dory on the shoulder as she rushed inside. “We’ll leave the night to you young ones. Shall I show you to a set of rooms?” 

Before anyone could respond, you tugged Neil by the belt, stopping him in his tracks to insinuate there’d be no separating just yet. Alfred watched the pointed looks exchanged between each of you; Neil with the unspoken question in his eyes sent back and forth between you then Bruce and back again. Whatever was settled on spread a cheeky grin on his face.

“No need, Moneypenny. Looks like we’re having a slumber party.”

~

“This is the last time I’m trying on any outfits.” 

“But I haven’t even seen the batsuit yet.”

Neil’s protest was whispered quietly enough for only you to hear, and you glared at the top of his head. “I’m sure you look just fine, Bruce.”

You and Neil were already lounged atop a king-sized bed. With Bruce’s bedroom still in complete disarray, the three of you retired to one of the more spacious guest rooms of the Tower. Neil was sprawled on your lap, skimming through a beat up paperback while you kept your hands busy with his hair, toying at the soft locks with the occasional scratch of his scalp between glances at the bathroom door. Even at this distance, Bruce’s inner struggle was audible.

“I feel a little silly.”

“Everyone needs a formal pajama set,” Neil assured. He licked the tip of an index finger before turning a page. “What if you were hosting breakfast?”

“I don’t see either of you in formal pajamas.” 

As you looked at each other, it was clear he had a point. Neil was clad in nothing but a pair of thin grey sweatpants, hair falling into his eyes as held the book just above his bare torso. And you wore the opposite. A retired Gotham Academy t-shirt that - belonging to Bruce - was long enough to nearly reach your knees.

“Well - that’s not to say we don’t own any,” he insisted.

You definitely didn’t own any.

Bruce huffed from the confines of the bathroom before begrudgingly stepping out.

In an instant, you smacked your hand over your mouth, stopping the squeal over how adorable he looked in its tracks. The pajama set was a black silk long sleeved button-up with matching pants and a silver trim. Bruce shuffled along, visibly displeased, raking a rough hand through his hair as if an act of aggression. 

“They’re not half bad,” Neil remarked, though the amusement was clear in his voice.

“You look cute,” you chimed in, giggling at the way he balked in response.

“Am I really supposed to sleep like this?” Bruce lamented, already moving to unbutton the blouse.

“Think of it as decor,” Neil told him as he turned another page of his book. “It’s too bad I didn’t have the time to get them monogrammed. Do you perhaps prefer to sleep naked, Brucie?” 

There was a flutter in your stomach at his lack of segue and you gave a strand of hair a scolding tug. But Bruce’s expression lightened and he let out a small laugh as he approached the bed, the blouse mostly undone.

“Actually, yeah.” 

Neil chucked knowingly as you squirmed beneath him, taking it upon himself to soothe his hand over your knee. Between the two of them, it was all too easy to become quickly overstimulated. Worse still when the blouse came off, revealing the undershirt Bruce had been wearing underneath. 

“It’s a little tight,” was all he said, and it was no understatement. 

The white nylon might as well have been painted onto his body, it was sized so snugly. Both yours and Neil’s stares were obvious; you could feel your mouth run dry as the fabric strained around his muscles as he moved to climb onto the bed, chest flexing, shoulders rolling. And even the smallest sliver of skin peeked out above his pants. 

“Jesus..” you blurted out, then slapped your hand over your mouth once more. Surely, Neil was well aware of what he’d done when picking the outfit, and you silently communicated the appreciation with a firm clench of your thighs.

“Your best interests, darling…” he murmured under his breath. Though the volume wouldn’t matter now, Bruce was so close. And if he paid the little peanut gallery any mind, it didn’t show. He considered himself a moment, shifting as if trying to get comfortable, then finally tore off the shirt in one fluid motion.

The tiny thing was forgotten as soon as it was tossed aside, and you swallowed hard. After a days’ worth of pent up frustration, your strength of will had waned; it was impossible to resist ogling the span of him as he settled next to you. His body hardened and pressed over time until he appeared cut from stone amid beautifully pale skin. Marred with scars that, at this very moment, only made him more enticing. 

Meanwhile, Neil’s touch hadn’t stopped wandering along your skin. A hand still held his book upright, long fingers keeping the pages splayed open. But the other freely traversed each time he could feel you wriggle beneath him until he eventually snaked around your thigh, hiked it up alongside him so you were partially hugging his waist. 

You released a slow, shaky breath.

Bruce had a small smile on his face. You shivered as his hand curled around your neck, fingertips nestling at your hairline. 

“You okay?”

His voice was smooth and low, at a timbre you’d only ever heard under the cowl, and it was doing numbers on you now.

“H-having trouble with words at the moment…” you whispered back.

Neil hummed with delight. “Resorting to incoherent noises for the rest of the evening?” You watched Bruce’s gaze drift over the length of him, pausing where he was tucked so intimately between your thighs. Then his eyes were on yours again, leaning toward you in a way that sent you into a pucker, silently begging, only for his kiss to land on the cusp of your jaw.

A whine dared to escape at his descent, mouthing into the curve of your throat with a husky sigh that sent a chill down your spine. Was this really happening? 

You wouldn’t have thought Bruce for such a tease, but your writhing was uncontrollable as his lips dragged further down, finding your exposed collar bone just above the hem of his shirt. You felt sharp teeth nip there and gasped loudly, clenching your eyes shut only to feel Neil twisting around, obviously wanting a better look. 

Bruce licked the sting away with a gentle swipe of his tongue and made his way back up, dotting your neck with kisses. Hot and heavy enough you were chasing his lips before he landed on yours and -

“Neil,” His breath on your lips teased you further, a dark glimmer in his eyes as you both looked over at the man in question.

You found Bruce swiping his thumb over the cleft of Neil’s chin, just as he’d done to him back in the car, and the effect would’ve been instant if Neil hadn’t already appeared drunk with desire. 

“Think you can show me what she likes.. Maybe what you like, too.”

Fuck.

“Oh,” There was a clatter as the book was dropped haphazardly to the floor. “I thought you’d never ask.”

~

Some hours later, Bruce stood before the guest room window, staring out over the glowing Gotham below. At a time this late, he was usually in the throngs of the city, the sound of nightlife and hailed cabs and rattling trains echoing around him while he navigated through dank shadows. But up in the Tower, there was only quiet as he looked down, and it was equal parts comforting as it was unnerving. 

It was a rarity for him to take a night off. Even if he wasn’t on the streets, he was in the cool  depths of the cave, and enjoying the still of this moment felt almost too self indulgent, but… The large bed behind him was anything but cold.

When he had woken up that morning, there was no foreseeing how the events that followed would unfold. Least likely of all, to wind up naked, body flushed with a different kind of aching, with you and your other lover tucked sweetly around each other, while he - 

Well, even Bruce couldn’t brood on a night like this. 

“As much as we enjoy the view,” Neil suddenly spoke, voice thick with sleep. “Please come back to bed.”

Bruce smiled; Neil had certainly grown on him, and he could only imagine what surprises the next few days would bring. Wondered if Neil’s work would call him away sooner than Bruce let himself hope for. 

And with that thought, he cast one last look to the sky. Thankful for the small favor that the moon was the only thing lighting up its darkness.

He climbed back onto the bed and slid under the sheets, greeted almost instantly with a welcome tangle of limbs.

Gotham could rest for one night. So could the Batman.

[bittercandysweetrain]

Wakasa x Chubby reader pt 3

(sorry for a late one I have no Wifi so I am using a simple phone.)

Wakasa laid his head on the desk he was exhausted he didn't even know why he stayed. "Alright class today we will be starting the showa period." His teacher said as he walked in Wakasa groaned from the back. "Am I bothering you Wakasa?" He question "yeah you are with studies we learned last year isn't there anything new you can teach. Your starting to sound like a one trick pony." Wakasa sat up glaring at the teacher. "Let's move on to this century and what's going on." Wakasa remarked "how about since you know so much about this shows you write me a 1000 word essay on the shows period, in detention." Wakasa rolled his eyes "whatever." Despite hating school this is exactly what wakasa wanted, detention.

After what seemed like more than the needed hours y/n made her way into the classroom that would hold the detention. She paid no mind to anyone that was in there. "What do we have here, ms.piggy where is Kermit?" There was a group of boys in the back snickering as their eyes landed on y/n "I don't know why don't you ask your mother she seems chummy with married men." Y/n retorted "what the fuck you say bitch" one of the boys shouted standing up. Y/n turned in her seat "so you're the one who said it" she looked at him unamused. "let me guess you lost your virginity to a bigger girl and she told you your tiny cock couldn't get her going." Y/n said as she smirked "your dead bitch" the boy stomped towards her. he was suddenly kicked in the back falling to her feet y/n looked down at him shocked. She looked back up to see wakasa. Wakasa had changed a lot he was more swaggy and had a gangster vibe to him. Y/n stared at his violet eyes "you're so fucking loud" he said while itching his ear with his pinky. "Waka?" Y/n whispered she wasn't sure if it was him "oi you" wakasa walked onto the boy's body he used him as a stepping stool to lean down onto y/n face. "You got any snacks?" He asked y/n was shocked at how monotone he was she pulled the chocolates that her friend gave her "here" she said. Wakasa smirked taking them "thanks" he said.

After detention y/n was perplexed about the whole thing she didn't even know wakasa went to the school. Why didn't she see it, why didn't she see him? Was she really such an airhead then again why would it matter it's not like they were friends? "Hey Jigglypuff," wakasa said hurrying to walk next to her "How original," she said glancing at him. "You literally have a Jigglypuff keyring," he said looking at her hip the keychain was hanging out of her pocket. Y/n would have thought that it was a mere glance however wakasa had been staring at her thighs. Thick, plump, round thighs rubbing against each other with knee-high socks hugging her tightly. Her skirt didn't help either because she was thicker which made the skirt shorter. He was obsessed with her thighs since becoming an older teenager he found that he had a sort of fetish for the thicker ladies. but not just any there was something about y/n herself that just made him feel wild and yet sane. "what are you doing?" y/n questioned, "what do you mean?" he asked "I mean why did you decide to help me?" she asked, "Did I? or was I just annoyed at the loudness of the guy." he said "we're not friends okay I don't need you" she said storming off. wakasa stood there with his hands in his pocket he wondered what had happened between them that made them break apart they were once really cool friends.

[saints-who-never-existed]

Episode Seven: Random Rewatch Observations

These posts are rapidly becoming “Just Things I Like” rather than “Observations” but still, I forge on!

1. Shout out to lovely, lovely Tom Hartnell being a good friend even in a flashback and allaying wee David Young’s fears about engine noises. I wonder if they just met or if this scene is suggesting they knew each other somehow already?

2. Hodgson, you hilarious motherfucker.

3. I love that Hickey’s response to any opposition or problem is a sly little smile and a bobble of the head. He did it to Goodsir earlier and he does it to Tozer here – as if to say “Oooh you just became interesting to me…! You’re definitely on my radar now, son!”

4. On the subject of Goodsir – he apologises! He’s trying to do the job of four men taking care of everyone, fighting against absolutely unwinnable odds in terms of illness, and still when it’s not enough the first thing he does is apologise!

5. I’ve just noticed that right after Crozier speaks with the men being left behind on board, it cuts to reveal he’s already got his slop trousers on underneath his usual fancy uniform. I know all of them do have a combination of clothes on now but I just found it funny to cut from him giving a serious, noble speech to him looking like a giant ill-proportioned toddler while he does so.

6. I’d love to know who the fuck the dude is just casually lying on top of one of the sledges when they’re about to leave. Presumably he’s just one of the already-ill but still, makes for an interesting image.

7. Check out fuckin’ Cool-Guy Crozier flinging his hat out for Jopson to catch in an equally cool manner. They’re so in sync!

8. Hickey’s not even pulling that boat! The rest of them are straining forward in their harnesses and he’s out for an afternoon stroll on the ice!

9. God, that’s all it takes! For one single person to actually bother to ask how he’s feeling, and Collins is gone! Heart-breaking!

10. Hickey doesn’t actually take the lead in a good bit of the mutinous talk in this episode I don’t think, at least not initially. It’s Gibson that starts talking about abandoning the main party and Armitage/Pilkington who make the observation about Neptune’s rations. Hickey does, however, look delighted to have people starting to agree with him and then I suppose he’s very much front and centre when they’re trying to win over Hodgson later on.

11. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again – the huge redeeming feature of Tozer as a character is that he’s not just out for himself and he never has been. Look how quickly he flings himself down to help Morfin when he slips – not a single second of hesitation to help another person!

12. Only when Crozier directly refuses his request to be euthanised does Morfin step back and the lamplight illuminates his eyes. I don’t even want to say it’s in a demonic sort of way because he’s definitely not that but that light in his eye is haunting and it definitely does signal a fundamental shift within him, his mind made up about what he’s about to do.

13. There’s a very subtle little change in Collins’ expression in that very quick shot of him in the tent listening to events outside. He’s so troubled already by it all but at the line “Mr Morfin is in great pain… He’d like us to end it for him…” his gaze widens right up and I have to wonder what terrifies him more - the idea that, damaged as he feels he is, he sees himself making a similar request to be put down in the future, or the idea that he’ll be refused when he does so. Gut-wrenching!

14. When I first watched this scene I thought Morfin’s gun went off accidentally as he was lowering it but no, it’s a very deliberate decision he makes. You see him glance over and spot Tozer taking aim and only then does he lower his weapon and fire at Fitzjames in a deliberately non-lethal way in order to force their hand.

15. Jopson even holds back the flap of the tent for wee Hartnell! How lovely of him!

16. I know the main answers are basically plain old racism and hubris and whatnot, but it’s always baffled me that in all the time they’ve been in that part of the world, no one but Goodsir bothered to learn any Inuktitut! Like, we know that it was a thing for the Navy to hold classes in their downtime on various subjects as well as languages like Latin and Greek, and teach illiterate men to read etc. so why oh why couldn’t they have done it for the native bloody language? Even Crozier/Blanky/MacDonald passing on their own imperfect grasp of it to the officers could’ve made a difference!