#where it looks vicious but the big guy is actually being so so gentle and careful <3

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

some misc Barn & Wally doodles from the past week or so <3 i heart them

[ninnodesu]

“More Than One Use” || Jealous Thomas

AN: I’m finally done with the pollwinning short/smutfic! It was really fun letting you guys choose my next shortfic and if you guys liked doing that, I might do it again! Please do let me know if that's something you would like, because I have a BUNCH of titles! This has NOT been beta read by any betareader! Thank you, @your-local-possum for giving me the idea/inspiration for this one! Reblogs are always appreciated! 

Genre: smut, 18+, fem!reader. Warnings: Bondage, dubcon, like real dubcon, somewhat graphic depiction of violence, mentions of cannibalism, creampie, jealousy, mentions of blood, forced to watch, lowkey forced orgasm? I have no idea and a really bad joke. Please ignore the joke, I had to google bad jokes to find it. This has also NOT been beta read.

                                                      *** *** *** *** 

For you, this was punishment. Punishment for forgetting who you belonged to.

For Thomas, this was proof. A way to claim you as his in front of the man who had shamelessly flirted with you and lured the kind of giggle from your throat that he knew wasn’t fake.

Thomas was going to make sure you’d never forget who you belonged to.

 You sigh as you look out over the barn floor at how much you actually had to clean after today’s brawl with a new group of dinner guests. You always did prefer when Thomas made it quick. Like snapping their necks or literally anything other than shoving his entire chainsaw through a poor person’s chest. Because that always meant more cleaning to do.  A groan crawled from your throat as you went off to fill the bucket of water used for scrubbing the floor. Your mind wanders back to that joke you’d heard by one of the men now waiting to be butchered.

  “Turn that frown upside down, sweetheart.”, the man had said. You played along, knowing your role in the family is to lure victims in.

  “Tell you what…”, you replied, throwing a glance over his shoulder when you saw a huge shadow in the living room window, making you put a hand to the stranger’s chest and push him towards the house. “If you make me laugh, I’ll invite you into my house and you’ll meet my parents.” He raised an eyebrow as it connected in his mind what you implied.  “ Alright… Why are there gates around cemeteries?”, he says while barely keeping it together.  “ I don’t know… Why are there gates around cemeteries?”, you reply, internally laughing at the fact that the family recently did put up a gate at the edge of the property.  “ Because people are dying to get in”.

And you laughed.

 It was such a stupid joke but it’d still hit you straight on your giggle nerve. Something Thomas had not appreciated. You’d ended up fighting about you laughing a joke, him thinking you would leave him for it. His jealousy had really bubbled over then. Him being convinced that you were fully ready to leave him and the family.  There had been yelling, a cup was thrown close to his head by you, and doors slammed behind him. The biggest fight between you two this far in your relationship, and was about a joke.

 As you expected, it took almost three full hours to finish cleaning the floors and walls of the barn clear of blood. Wiping your brow clean of sweat, you groan as you realize you’d just used the same rag you cleaned the walls with, your brow now having a clear streak of blood.  Ah well…, you thought. You’re used to blood by now anyway. Suddenly, you feel a pair of big meaty hands wrap around your waist and hoist you up.

“THOMAS!”, you yelp out as he just throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Thomas! Let me go!”, you punch him hard at his back, kicking your legs wildly and doing everything in your power to get away from his grip.

 One kick connected with him hard in the ribs making him groan slightly at the sudden pain.

“I’m done with you today, Hewitt! We’re done! Fuck you!”, you’re so pissed at him. Still pissed about the fact that he dared to think you were going to leave him. You’ve worked so hard these past years to help him overcome his jealousy, and then he goes and acts like this over a joke. But he doesn’t care about your words, only increasing his grip around your waist and growls at you, his own way of telling you to shut up.

 The basement is cool, bordering on cold and you shiver as Thomas sets you down on the blood-drenched table. You cross your arms over your chest and glare at him as he walks over to one of the supportive beams where all the meat hooks hang. All you can do is watch him as he prepares one of the hooks, as he always does right before hanging cattle up.

Your blood runs cold and your heart rate picks up.

"T-To-...Tommy, what are you doing?", you're only met with dark blue eyes. "Honey, come on.", you laugh nervously as he stalks over to you, his eyes flicker over you for a second, but you're fast enough to catch it. Turning your head, you follow where he was looking. In one of the slightly lit corners, you saw the man who made you giggle earlier, still alive, naked, and ready to be butchered. A hook pierced between his shoulder blades, a big bucket under him to catch the blood being drained from him, blood steadily dripping from slits in his wrists.  Seems Luda Mae was planning on making blood sausage later.

 You turn your head back to look at your giant, who was now standing right in front of you. His hands balled into fists, shoulders heaving with every breath he takes. He’s furious, and his eyes make you cower under the shadow he casts over you. “Th-Thomas?”, you try again, desperate to know what’s going on in his mind.  Your breath gets caught in your throat when he with lightning speed grabs your jaw in a firm grip before he growls at you again. Again telling you to shut up, and all you can do is swallow and do your best to nod at his command. With a heart beating like a panicked bird behind your ribs, thoughts of death start creeping in your mind.  You’ve seen him angry before, of course, just not with anger directed at you. Never has he forcefully brought you down into the basement like cattle and never has he directed the preparation of meat hooks at you.

 As the hand at your jaw disappears, he yanks you off the table, even if you’re standing upright he still towers over you. His shadow imposing, sending chills down your spine. All you can do is look up at him and when you do; you’re transported back to the first time you met him.

How he loomed over you, the only one in your group who didn’t shriek as he approached you even though your friend told you to run. You couldn’t. The first thing that caught you were his eyes, those blue soulful eyes that told you of hurt, of love, and betrayal. Eyes that swam with unspoken emotions, thoughts, and feelings, but also of someone strong and loyal.  The only difference then compared to now being that now those eyes were shrouded in shadow, only a dark silhouette of a brute stood before you. You saw him as the cattle saw him: Like death itself.

 Suddenly, big hands take hold of your wrists and a rope is twisted around them. You hiss as he pulls the rope closed in a tight knot. Your brain together with your heart starts racing a million miles an hour at what he’s planning, and for the first time in years, he’s actually scaring you. It’s when that realization hits that you start feeling tears prick at the corner of your eyes.  Your gentle giant scared you.  The notion that this is the day you die hits you and you scream as he hangs you up on the meathook, the sharp edge cutting open a small slit on your arm as he maneuvers to hang you by the rope tied around your wrists.

 You try talking to him again when he steps back and observes you.

"Hun, p-please, it's me. I-I'm sorry!". Panic sets in as you see how the gears in his head start turning, but all he does is stand there, looking you up and down before he walks behind you.  A shiver runs down your spine as you feel a warm hand slowly glide from your lower back and up around your ribs under your shirt, stopping just under one of your breasts. He tickles you slightly as he drags his thumb just under it, lazily tracing the shape of it. That’s when Thomas remembers why he had forcefully brought you down here. His hand envelops your neck and he can’t help but smirk when he hears you whimper at the contact.

 Thomas actually wasn't all that furious, maybe a little annoyed, but mostly; he was jealous. And he felt an urge and a carnal instinct deep inside him to punish you and to remind you who you belonged to. Remind you that no one could ever make you feel like he could. The hand not wrapped around your throat took a firm grip on the breast he traced earlier and massaged it a way he knew would make you melt.

 Sure enough, his attention to the soft flesh and his rolling of the nipple between two fingers lured a small sigh from your lungs. And when you felt his teeth suddenly graze that one spot on your neck, you moaned.  He knew your body so well.  You tried wiggling away from the hook, however, not wanting to do this in the basement, where the carnage took place and where people got slaughtered. But as you did, the hand around your neck got tighter.

A warning.  And you relaxed. Your eyes snapped towards a groan coming from across the room. The man who had flirted with you was waking up. It seems as though Thomas also heard him because he lifted his head from the spot on your neck he'd been attacking. You took a big gulp of air when the hand around your neck vanished and sobbed quietly as the giant of a man pulled your pants down in one vicious movement.

"Tom-... please don't. Not here."  Any tries to get through to him were met with a growl as he grabbed you around your waist and pulled your back against his chest.  Suddenly, a burning sensation on your neck made you scream. He bit you. Hard.

 His teeth came down hard enough to draw blood. It wasn't until now that you fully understood; Thomas was pissed at you. And now you got your punishment. Your punishment for laughing at that joke, for letting that stranger, that piece of meat, get close enough to you to make that joke. Sure, you’re supposed to lure people into false security, a false sense of home, and a promise of something cold to drink to get them close enough for Tommy to do his job. But apparently, this time your job had been too good.

 Thomas groaned slightly as he heard you whimper as the stinging sensation of his tongue dragging over the bleeding bite marks registered in your brain. He disappeared into his head in the midst of marking you as his.

You’re mine. His inner voice growled as the grip around your waist was hard enough for his dull nails to leave marks.

And I’m going to remind you. The clinking sound of his belt made him grin at the full-body shiver running through you.

If I so have to fuck you until you can’t walk. Another long lick over your neck made you exhale a shuddering breath as his strong arm lifted one of your legs.

 And until you scream my name loud enough to wake the dead.

The fingers on the hand not holding your leg up were pushed into your mouth, making you suck on them. You obeyed, swirling your tongue around them, feeling the coppery taste of blood invade your mouth making you shut your eyes, and doing your best to not gag.  When he felt you’ve wet them enough, the hand disappeared downwards and you tensed as he pushed them into your cunt. Even if this was only supposed to be a punishment for you and a reminder for him, he didn’t have the heart to actually hurt you. He barely prepared you for him and a loud and raspy moan came from his throat as you screamed loud when he forcefully pushed himself into your - wet enough - cunt. It was a stretch, a stretch that you’ve felt so many times, and that you usually loved more than anything.

As he started moving, tears started streaming down your cheeks. But you weren’t fully sure if they were from pleasure, pain, or a mixture of both at this point. Thomas is never this forceful with you. Sure, he can be rough when he wants to be. But he always makes sure you’re fully prepared for him, not today. Today he seemed content in just feeling any kind of wetness actually existing.

 Thomas grunts as he feels you tighten around him at the same time he, once again, bites down on your neck. And the more he thrusts and pounds into you, the more both of you feel the ever-growing wetness and arousal gather inside of you. He growls when you try to reason with him again;

"To-... Tommy… it hurts!"  

When you wiggle your body against the meat hook holding you firmly in place, he moves one hand up to your jaw and makes you look at the man whimpering across the room. His own twisted arousal fully on display at the scene happening in front of him. Every thrust he made into you was hard, deep, and spoke of demands. "I- I'm sorry!", you sob. You were just crying now. You didn't care about the reason anymore. "I didn't mean it, Tommy!", his cock hit you just right and you clenched around him by reflex, causing him to groan.

 You better be sorry. He told himself in his head.

 Releasing your jaw and taking a firm hold of your hips. Angling you and him to help him hit your g-spot and you wailed as he started moving harder against it. The place where the rope dug into your wrists was starting to burn and you knew you’d be red and sore after this. Thomas got lost in his pleasure as he felt that familiar feeling of his climax creeping up on him. Making him forget about "punishing" you, now he needed to feel you cum around his cock, making him snake one hand to your front, quickly finding your clit.

 You moaned as his fingers rubbed you in a way he knew would have you cumming in no time.

There you are. You thought as you recognized your sweet Tommy as he gave attention to the one spot that needed him the most. But what really set you off was hearing him demanding you to do one thing: "Cum.", his member ramming against your g-spot, his finger rubbing quick circles around your clit and that deep and raspy voice had you shaking. Screaming his name and thanking whatever higher power existed that the rest of the family wasn't home as you came, hard enough to see dots dance in your vision. The feeling of your cramping walls around him made Thomas’s movements stutter to a halt as he came in you, letting out a loud moan into your ear while emptying everything he had in you.

Coming down from you high, you remembered your audience.

 The man straight across from the room was still looking at you both, his face red and eyes almost popping out of his skull. Glancing down his body, you saw why as his own member twitched post-climax. And over your shoulder, you felt Thomas tilting his head up, radiating both pride and anger. Pride at how he knew that skinny twig of a man would never have made you feel like he did, and anger because this… piece of meat had orgasmed because he had watched you.

You turned your head towards Tommy and tenderly kissed any part you could reach, mumbling how much you loved him and that no man could ever change your feelings for him before telling him to end the sad existence of the man bleeding out. Thomas playfully growled and nipped at your earlobe making you giggled before he with pure possession whispered;

"You're mine."

[jokertrap-ran]

(时空中的绘旅人—For All Time—)  罗夏 SR 「波波雪糕」 Rorschach SR [Bobo Ice Cream] Painting Story Translation: Azure Island

*For All Time Master-list / Rorschach’s Personal Master-list *Spoiler free: Translations will remain under cut *Card is Free Event-Obtainable. *T/N: Ice cream hotpot is just… fondue, of sorts.

“The taste of summer is delicious.”

His figure never failed to attract my attention. His overwhelming confidence when surfing is similar to that of Poseidon, the one who directs the waves of the sea.

✥ Chapter 1: 造浪池 Wave Pool

MC: AHHHHHH!!

Rorschach: Don't worry, (Y/n). I'm holding onto you.

That’s what he said, but the ferocious artificial waves that came at me made my control over my legs falter.

Rorschach: You don’t need to firmly ground yourself on it all that hard. Try to feel the rhythm of the wave.

MC: I feel nothing! Absolutely nothing!

I faintly heard the sound of his low chuckle and my face instantly heated up.

It's all his fault!

It was only because Rorschach had mentioned that he was good at surfing that the curiosity even started taking root in me.

And that was precisely why I’d invited him to be my coach for today and ended up trying out the cruise’s popular surfing simulator.

But now, looking at the situation I was in, I couldn't help but regret having bugged Rorschach to become my personal surfing coach for the day when I'd clearly overestimated my athletic prowess.

MC: I’ve overestimated my motor skills...

My low mutterings under my breath were completely blocked out by the rolling of the artificial waves.

Before I had the time to react, Rorschach had reached out to extend a gentle hold around my waist as he swiftly plucked me out of the surfing simulator.

Rorschach: Looks like you still need a personal demonstration from your dear coach.

He walked down to retrieve the surfboard, tied his feet to the ropes and slid smoothly onto the waves with practised ease.

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

Rorschach: Look, (Y/n). The waves are a little big, but don't fret. You are now riding it…

Due to my having dragged him out of his room in a hurry, Rorschach was dressed in clothes that were at risk of getting utterly ruined by water at any given moment.

However, he didn’t seem to mind it at all and continued sharing with me the technique of how he rode the waves along with how it felt to ride one.

Although he looked no different from his usual self now, I could sense that he'd broken free of the chains of gravity, now soaring freely.

His pose was as carefree as that of an unshackled seagull. Faint droplets of water splashed all about. His gallant confidence was way brighter than even the sun itself.

All eyes were now on him, firm and unwavering. Even the professional coach was giving occasional nods from where he stood not too far away.

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

Rorschach: Ack—!

MC: Watch out!

I'd somehow unwittingly grabbed his hand the moment I heard his yelp.

Although I knew that doing so wouldn't do anything to help stabilize him, I still did it anyway. Do first, think later, as it goes.

Rorschach: Ahem. Pardon me, my tongue slipped.

MC: RORSCHACH!

I couldn't help but bristle in anger, seemingly having thought that he had been in danger of flipping over. However, I never asked why he still didn't let go of my hand.

The warmth from his palm was similar to a reassuring promise, telling me not to fret any longer.

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

Through Rorschach's patient coaching and my unremitting endeavours, I finally managed to strike and maintain my balance on the surfboard for a few minutes with him holding onto me as support.

MC: And this is JUST a surfing simulator…

MC: I suppose you can say that I've now experienced a smidge of the true terror that is the sea.

Rorschach: Mother nature's no weakling, that's for sure, but people will always find a way to go up against her when the need arises.

Rorschach: What do you think? Was today's experience satisfactory in your book?

I vigorously nodded.

MC: Of course I'm satisfied with it! But I think it's better to actually head out to the beach and watch you ride the waves rather than cooping you up here as my coach.

Rorschach: ...Why does that feel like you've just given me a negative review?

MC: Huh? Why would I?

Blame you and your flamboyant popularity.

I silently groused.

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

✥ Chapter 2: 冰激凌火锅 Ice cream Hotpot

Just then, a familiar figure not too far away caught my attention.

MC: Hey, Rorschach? Look, over there. Isn't that Feng Junhao?

Rorschach: The little rascal can’t keep to himself, can he?

A small water gun attached to his waist, looking left and right, he looked like a little officer, here to inspect things.

Being distracted, he didn’t notice both of us as we approached him. He bumped into Rorschach’s leg with a resounding smack.

Feng Junhao: Huh. It's you guys again.

Rorschach: You don't sound too happy

Feng Junhao: Hmph.

He avoided the question but fixated his gaze on me.

Feng Junhao: (Y/n), why do you like hanging out with this guy so much?

My face inexplicably flushed a deep shade of red

Rorschach: You don’t understand, do you? My artistic flair will naturally attract other artists to me.

Feng Junhao didn’t refute Rorschach; an unusual occurrence.

Feng Junhao: Hey, Rorschach…

We exchanged a dubious glance with each other.

Feng Junhao: ……

Feng Junhao: Nevermind.

Before we could even reply to him, he ran away.

MC: Rorschach, I think we should follow him and see what he’s up to.

Rorschach: Agreed.

We tailed him from a distance, watching as he walked into a fine dining establishment before coming out with a glum look on his face.

Rorschach shook his head, walking up to him.

Rorschach: Okay, little devil. What are you up to this time?

Feng Junhao seemed rather unfazed by our sudden appearance.

Feng Junhao: … The ice cream hotpot I want to eat is only sold here.

Rorschach barked out in laughter.

Rorschach: This establishment’s members-only. Let’s see, how about you and (Y/n) go take a seat and I’ll buy one and bring it over to you guys?

Feng Junhao: You’re not making fun of me? You’re buying it for me??

Rorschach slightly bent down, ruffling his hair.

Rorschach: It’s rare to see you being so honest. Consider it a reward.

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

The ice cream hotpot, a dazzling array of vibrant colours and fresh ingredients exuding cold air all around, was placed on the table.

Just looking at it alone was enough to make people feel a little cooler under the scorching heat of summer.

Feng Junhao’s eyes shone bright, seemingly satisfied beyond measure at having his wish fulfilled. He had a brief exchange with Rorschach before heartily digging into the ice cream before him.

Rorschach: Is it tasty?

Feng Junhao: Can the ice cream that yours truly favours not taste good!?

Rorschach: My turn to dig in then.

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

Rorschach reached out and unceremoniously dug a big hole into the sweet treat.

Feng Junhao: Hey, hey, hey! Isn’t the whole hotpot supposed to be mine!?

Rorschach: Hm? When did I ever say that?

Rorschach: I was the one who bought it, and I was also the one who brought it here.

Rorschach: I’ll let your ungratefulness slide, but why are you so adamant against sharing?

Feng Junhao: E-Even if that’s so… too much ice cream does no wonders to your teeth and stomach, so let me shoulder this burden alone.

Rorschach: No way. As a gentleman, I do not advocate kid bullying actions.

Feng Junhao: Who’s. The. Kid. Here!

Rorschach: Plus, (Y/n) and I have been out in the sun for so long, so we need a little dessert to replenish our energy.

Rorschach: And since you’ve already helped us taste-test it with such enthusiasm, I’m now sure that we can eat it without a worry!

Feng Junhao: Can’t you just go buy another?

Feng Junhao: (Y/n) likes chopped peanut snow cones, not ice cream hotpots. Right?

Feng Junhao winked at me, making me nod in response, albeit reluctantly.

Rorschach: I see you always acting so manly, but you choose to “threaten” a girl now?

Rorschach: Heh, looks like I should let you have a taste of how vicious society is out there.

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

Rorschach: Here, (Y/n). Open up.

I subconsciously did as he instructed and a strawberry, carved into the shape of a rose and topped with some ice cream, was swiftly delivered into my mouth.

Feng Junhao: AH!? But that’s the nicest strawberry I left for last!

As the two of them bickered on, I smiled, my eyes closing to form crescent moons of happiness.

Yup, the taste of summer truly is delicious.

[julek]

five times jaskier does nice things for roach, and one time she returns the favor.

(or, jaskier spends a ridiculous amount of time and money on a horse).

*

“i told you not to touch roach,” geralt says when he hears his mare stomping her feet on the ground, displeased. she’s tethered to a tree near their fire and geralt, now busy brewing some potions, had finished brushing her a few minutes ago.

jaskier curses himself mentally, still not used to geralt and his witcher hearing, capable of listening to a bird’s cry three towns away. reluctantly, he draws his hand away from the horse, grinning innocently in geralt’s direction.

“i was just saying goodnight!” he says, sitting down cross-legged on his bedroll, “first impressions are very important, you know. wouldn’t want her to think i was being impolite on purpose, not when we are this”—he pinches his fingers together—“close to being best friends.”

geralt looks up at him, unimpressed. “she doesn’t like you.”

behind them, roach snorts in agreement, and jaskier splutters in indignance.

*

the forest is quiet.

no birds chirping, no predators lurking around, no sound. ideal work conditions, in geralt’s opinion. he’s crouched down next to a fallen tree, waiting for the drowners to take his bait.

suddenly, the swamp’s stillness is breached by soft singing and feet stepping on branches. rolling his eyes, geralt stands up as quietly as possible and walks over to jaskier, who’s busy picking flowers from a nearby meadow.

“i told you to stay with roach,” he says in greeting, his eyes narrowed in annoyance.

jaskier yelps and turns around to face him, clutching his heart and letting the flowers fall to the ground.

“gods, geralt! warn a guy, would you? i thought you were one of those, um… what do you call them? swimmers.”  

“drowners.”

“my words exactly,” he says, gathering some long stems. “i was waiting with roach, mind you, but i got bored. so i looked around and thought hey! roach looks awfully dull without some pretty flowers weaved in her mane, so here i am.”

geralt lifts his eyebrows, abandoning all hope for a peaceful, quick hunt.

“she’ll trample you to death before she lets you touch her,” he deadpans.

jaskier tsks, already making his way back to their camp with his fresh selection of flowers.

geralt waits for the inevitable.

“fucking ow!” he hears, and feels a smile tugging at his lips. “that doublet was new! that is not how one reacts to gifts, you vicious horse. did that witcher teach you nothing about manners?”

he did, actually. he’s glad she’s putting them to use.

*

“fuck, i’m cold.”

they’re in the outskirts of blaviken, and much to jaskier’s chagrin, they’re making camp in the forest. winter’s near, and as much as he would have liked to sleep in a warm bed, he would have turned it down anyway. he’d seen the look on geralt’s face as they approached the town, and that had been enough of a reason to follow him into the forest.

jaskier is pacing around the fire, his woolen cloak snug around his shoulders, doing little to protect him from the biting wind. geralt had gone deeper into the forest to hunt something for their dinner and hadn’t yet returned.

he looks over his shoulder at roach, who’s laying down on the ground, her legs tucked under her body. geralt had slung a blanket over her back, and she’d been dozing off for the last half hour, seemingly unfazed by the cold.

he knows it’s a bad decision, and he’ll probably be kicked and yelled at, but right now he can’t find it in himself to care. his fingers are frozen and he can’t feel his ears, and he’s sure he’ll drop dead any minute now from hypothermia, so why not?

“hi, beautiful,” he whispers, crouching down next to roach, watching her reaction. “do you mind if i sit next to you? you see, it’s horribly cold,” he sits down, carefully as not to startle her, “and it’s something my brothers and i used to do, you know? huddling for warmth.”

if roach notices him laying against her side, she doesn’t show it. he gently places his head on top of her spine, and drapes himself in his cloak.

“you’re incredibly warm, did you know that? had i known that before, i would have cuddled you sooner.”

he’s so warm and comfortable he almost doesn’t notice geralt coming back. he hears his footfalls but decides to ignore them, too cozy to move, but roach has other plans. all of a sudden, she stands up, leaving him on the floor, confused.

“wha—roach!” he exclaims, picking himself off the ground. “we were doing fine! what happened?”

geralt smirks as he starts to skin the rabbit. “maybe that will teach you not to bother her.”

“but you don’t understand, i—we were happily laying side by side just a minute ago!” jaskier says, sitting in front of the fire. “you startled her.”

geralt snorts. “i did?”

jaskier rolls his eyes and looks at roach, who’s laying down again, unperturbed. “traitor,” he whispers.

*

spices, curated meats, oils, and baked goods are all geralt can smell, meaning this particular market isn’t too big and they’ll be out on the road soon. that, if he can get jaskier to hurry and get whatever he so desperately needs.

“oh, that stone is beautiful,” the bard says to a bald salesman, keen on selling him a new ring. “alas, it’s much too expensive for me.”

he gives the salesman a sheepish smile and moves on to the next stall.

“i just need one more thing, dear witcher, and we can be on our way,” he says, grinning.

geralt arches a brow, but says nothing. better not to distract him, he’s learned.

“hello, madam!” he chirps, looking at the goods displayed on her counter, “if you would be so kind, i’d like a full bag of sugar cubes.”

huh. that’s not what geralt had been expecting. cherries, maybe, or a honeycake, not sugar cubes.

jaskier pays the woman and kindly thanks her, then ties the small bag to his belt. “well, i’m done. are we leaving?”

geralt nods.

they make their way to the side of the road, where roach is nibbling on the outgrown grass. he takes the herbs he’d purchased and places them inside roach’s saddlebag, while jaskier resumes his daily chattering.

“you’re looking quite dashing today, my lady,” he says, gently stroking the mare’s neck.

geralt expects roach to hastily brush jaskier’s hand aside, but much to his surprise, she doesn’t, snorting happily instead. he looks at them for a second, dumbfounded.

“geralt? are we going, then?”

“hmm.”

*

summer is kind enough to let a gentle breeze filter through the trees, giving jaskier a breath of clean air.

he’s got his breeches rolled up to his knees, and his doublet is nowhere to be seen. they’d been traveling nonstop for two long, humid days, the burning sun above them, and jaskier had been too tired to even sing, lazily strumming his lute as he walked next to geralt. then, in the middle of a pointless rant about how the world would be better off without the sun and its infernal heat, jaskier spotted a stream.

grabbing roach’s brush from geralt’s saddlebags, jaskier takes her reins and gently leads her into the stream. she complies, braying lightly as she feels the water on her legs.

“i know, girl,” jaskier says, gathering water on his cupped hands and letting it pour on her head, minding her ears, “it’s too hot out, even for you.”

he looks over to geralt, who’s got his back to them, scrubbing mud from his boots.

“you know,” he murmurs, smoothly brushing her mane, scratching behind her ears, “he doesn’t think we’re friends, you and i.” she snorts in response, and he chuckles. “he still thinks you don’t like me.”

she moves forward, and jaskier’s about to move out of the way to let her walk out of the stream when she bumps her head affectionately against his chest.

“oh,” he whispers, overcome with emotion. “as you know, i’ve become quite the expert at reading geralt’s hums and silences, but this is uncharted territory. animal behavior is foreign to me.”

she swishes her tail, and jaskier huffs out a laugh.

“i’ll give it my own meaning, then,” he says, pressing his nose against her snout. “i love you too.”

*

the tavern is packed to the brim, overflowing with hearty patrons who served as a great audience, generously rewarding jaskier with applause and tankards of ale with his name written on them.

“thank you, my good men and women, for listening to my tales!” he exclaims, hopping off the stool he’d been using as a makeshift stage.

he heads to the bar, picking up two of the mugs and moving toward the corner where geralt’s sitting, half-hidden under the shadows.

“help yourself, witcher,” he says, smiling brightly. “the crowd was kind to us tonight.”

to you, geralt thinks but doesn’t say. instead, he takes a swig of ale. “so i’ve seen.”

jaskier beams at him, his cheeks flushed and his hair matted with sweat. he downs half his glass, sitting back on his chair, sighing contentedly.  

they spend the evening in comfortable silence, jaskier casually making remarks about the town or the last contract, taking small bites out of a piece of bread. after a while, geralt stands up.

“i’ll go check on roach.”

“oh, good!” jaskier says, standing next to him. “i forgot my quill in her saddlebags, i’ll go with you.”

geralt hums, and they walk past the people at the tavern. they reach the half-lit stables at the back, where roach chews on some straw in her stall.

“hey, sweetheart,” jaskier greets, stroking her snout. geralt starts brushing her down, and jaskier looks into her saddlebags for his forgotten quill. a long time ago, geralt had given up on trying to split their belongings into different bags, realizing the your side, my side logic meant nothing to jaskier.

after all, they shared everything. coin, wine, food. beds, sometimes, waking up with their legs entwined, jaskier’s head on geralt’s shoulder, embraced in what they both tried to pass off as the natural seeking of warmth on cold nights, nothing else.

jaskier leans against a pillar, watching geralt take care of his horse. they’d been traveling together for so long, yet it still amazes jaskier to see geralt move around roach. how his gaze softens, and a small smile stretches across his lips, only for roach to see. how he murmurs sweet nothings, rubbing that spot on her jaw he knows she likes.

“okay,” geralt says, “go to sleep, now. we’re leaving at dawn.”

roach bumps her head against geralt’s chest, lovingly, and he gives her a smile.

“goodnight, darling,” jaskier says, sneaking a sugar cube into her mouth. “i’ll see you tomorrow.”

when he turns back, geralt’s looking at them with a fond expression, a small smile on his lips. he moves toward jaskier, his eyes soft.

“you’re spoiling her”, he says, amused. this close, jaskier can see geralt’s got a little bit of mud on his chin, and he wants to wipe it off.

“she’s a good horse,” jaskier tells him, feeling roach’s eyes on him. “she deserves nice things.”

“hmm.” geralt closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling softly.

jaskier moves forward, licking his thumb, and gently wipes geralt’s chin. he opens his eyes, watching jaskier.

“there,” jaskier whispers, his thumb now stroking geralt’s cheek.

suddenly, he feels roach nudge him forward with her snout, and he stumbles onwards, clutching geralt’s shirt for balance. they’re close, geralt’s breath on jaskier’s cheek, his hands on the bard’s waist.

“she’s a clever horse, too,” geralt says, pressing the tip of his nose against jaskier’s, rubbing softly.

“she is,” jaskier murmurs against geralt’s lips.

roach nickers softly in agreement.

[uponrightful]

I've been wanting to send this one in for a while. What was going through the Wolfpacks mind and how much did Wolffe hear?

“I’d heard about him a lot from your brothers, how angry he was and that they thought he could use someplace like here. Home. But I didn’t think that he would ever show up. And, after a couple times something happened. I don’t know who really even started it.” The girl took another steadying breath, before continuing on the now spilling thoughts and feelings she’d been bottling up for months now. Completely unaware of the three men’s attention being drawn out the window where a grey and blue painted trooper walked towards the front door.

“I think about him, all the time. I hear his voice when I wake up, and I constantly dream about him. It’s like I’m constantly in this fever dream where I’ve finally been given something that I can’t deny I want.” All of the confusion crashed down in a wave of crystal-clear realization. Audience of troopers aside, the girl hadn’t thought it all through so straight.

She was brought back to Rex, sitting there drinking his caf with a look of disappointment when she’d mentioned that there wasn’t anything she wanted out of life. Other than helping the troopers. It hadn’t been the first time he’d asked, and she hadn’t realized why until now. She had the ability to have what she wanted. Regulations didn’t affect her, and neither did anyone else who didn’t have her best interests at heart. Rex hadn’t meant love specifically, or anything of the like, but what she didn’t get was why it mattered. His constant reminders spoken to the fact that without knowing… she couldn’t possibly go about getting it. Whatever “it” is. The girl’s sudden epiphany was that she finally knew -for once in her life- that there was something she wanted more than anything.

And that was Wolffe.

Her awestruck reaction and frozen posture thawed to see not a single pair of eyes focused on her. Boost, Sinker and Comet were all watching high above her head into the kitchen at something positively damning. Behind her, the heavy sound of boots thumped against the floor echoing off the silent walls of the house. Her heart, already thrumming with personal-realization began working double-time as the steps got closer.

Commentary Track for Welcome Company

Copy 500 words -or more- of any of my fics and I’ll give my thoughts/rambles on what was going through my head -or the character’s- when I wrote it!

*Send one in here*

@taz-107 You and I have some of the best discussions on literally everything Clones, and I'm so happy you sent this one in! I kinda went all-in, because I know you don't mind my word vomit 😅

I love you dearly 🤍

***

Let's start with the Wolfpack shall we?

Comet and Sinker know Pup the best, obviously. They think she's sweet, and they've always had a sense of little-sister vibes from her. It's the way she always invites them in, and never let's them leave without being adamant that they come back again... Preferably leaving less time between visits. Her home is one that the Pack really doesn't get to spend much time in, but when they do get the chance it's like they never left. Habits are created very easily, so the same dinners are almost always on the menu and there's almost a bedtime ritual they both have which never goes abandoned. Comet and Sinker are men of habit, but they never miss out on Pup's willingness to oblige them basically anything they want.

For Boost, his normal happy-go-lucky (and troublemaker) attitude is absent. This is the first time he's meeting Pup, and like most troopers he's hesitant for a number of reasons. It's illegal what they're doing, and although this girl has been nothing but a god-send for his brothers, it's nerve-racking to be in an unusual situation like sitting in a living room and talking just for the enjoyment of it. In a matter of an evening though, he's already falling into that same trap of love and affection that everyone else does when they meet Pup. She's sweet, and overly worrisome about his boots not being comfortable. (Something Boost wasn't sure he'd ever thought about before.)

The Pack's decision to make a visit wasn't a difficult one to make. Each of them had seen the changes in Wolffe's personality, whether big or small, and right away they knew that it was because he'd finally went for his own visit. It wasn't until Chapter Five that they realize there's something more going on than just what Comet and Sinker are familiar with experiencing during their stays at Home. It's the way their Commander doesn't seem to respond to them quickly -like he's off somewhere else in his mind- and the many times they've caught him taking a nap during a mission, mumbling to himself with the occasional slip-up of her name crossing his lips. The entire Wolfpack -Plo Koon included- know that their Commander has it bad. And initially, they're a little bit confused as to why Pup would ever take a liking to someone as harsh as Wolffe.

Note: Until this point, no one has seen Wolffe interact with Pup, and I made this decision very carefully. It was crucial that Wolffe come to form some sense of habit and security with her before this moment happens. It's to better display the completely different way Wolffe acts as a Commander, versus when he's with Pup. Wolffe is extremely talented at prioritizing tasks, whatever they may be. Therefore, when he's a soldier that's the only thing he normally has the mental capacity for. But when he's with Pup, he takes that romantic role just as seriously as he would directing troops on the frontlines.

The Pack know Wolffe is the one coming in the door. They also realize that they'd incidentally forced Pup's hand, and now they had no way of stopping her from talking without making everything even more awkward than it's already becoming. With every second that passes between seeing him walk past the window, Pup just keeps talking and the collective hope of the 104th is that Wolffe's change in attitude isn't just a passing fancy for Pup, and that her proclamation of love is one that their brother will see as something significant. In the background of this apprehension for Wolffe's reaction, they're actually shocked to hear Pup admit what she does about Wolffe.

They've always known Wolffe to be a little on the stiff side of rules and decorum, and even the mention of him being the least bit romantic enough to capture her attention is just another blow to these men's (hopelessly misguided) ideas about their Commander. He's not the most gentle person, and Pup is nothing short of an angel... (That's literally Sinker's nickname for her.) They make for a strange pair, and there's a bit of all three of them that have the same worry that Rex does; Can she actually handle him?

Note: I've always thought of Wolffe as a tortured soul, that never deserved the copious punishments that was handed to him in his life. And in the fic, there was a huge motivation to really play up just how worried troopers get about their brothers who end up the way Wolffe is when we see him post-cybernetics. He's angry and vicious to an extent. Not that he was a really carefree guy to begin with, but it's such a contrast that all of the men who knew Wolffe closely can see a very scary change in the Commander once he's brought back for duty. (Fives and Rex's conversation in Chapter Five is where I tried to make that fear a little more palpable and realistic of what war has done to Wolffe through the eyes of men who've seen things similar...)

They hear her words, and they're all staring at Wolffe who's got the most impassive expression they've ever seen before. It's stiffer than when he's at a parade rest, and even his posture looks like it could fucking snap at any second. But the second Pup's pause of realization hits her, Wolffe suddenly decides to join them all. Every last one of the Pack are holding their breath for this; Literally none of them have any idea of what to expect. They're all making subconscious guesses, trying to read his movements, literally anything that might help try and relax this tension. But when Wolffe just sits himself down at Pup's feet; Stretching out his leg and visibly melting back against her chair...

It's utter shock.

Note: I chose Boost for the next POV because he fit the need perfectly. Not only does he know Wolffe extremely well, but he doesn't have this predetermined idea of what Pup is like. He knows on a surface level that she's very kind and a little shy. But I needed him for this moment because it's truly perception-bending to see Wolffe take such a submissive posture towards this girl. (Her admittance that she loves him aside.) Boost has never seen Wolffe carry himself like that, and I wanted you to see it through his eyes because that's Wolffe's constant personality. Pup is the only one who's seen Wolffe soft -so this isn't new to her- but for the Pack, this is unprecedented behavior.

Now for our sweet, sweet, Commander 🤍

Wolffe was very preoccupied with his conversation with Anakin from Chapter Six and the upset over being forced to come back so late in the evening. He wouldn't dare not return after promising that he would, but the idea of making her wait up so late didn't sit right with him in the slightest. Being so caught up in his own head, he doesn't notice the Wolfpack staring at him through the open window dressings, and he's completely unaware that they'd chosen to come and see her as well. (He tries not to worry himself too much about what they do on planet-leave, and this was just one of his weaker moments.) Not that Wolffe would ever admit to being constantly worried about his brother's getting into trouble, and him not being able to get them out of it.

But all of that changes the second he walks into the house and hears Pup talking. It's not what she's saying at first; But instead just hearing her voice is enough to make Wolffe pause and listen as he pulls his bucket off his head. She's so soft, but this time there's a different edge to it; And standing in the hallway is when Wolffe finally realizes that she's talking about him. It's a miracle he didn't drop his bucket in a loud clatter to the floor in that instant.

Pup is saying things that Wolffe couldn't have dreamt about even coming from her mouth. Admitting that he’s in her dreams like she constantly takes a place in his. Detailing just how surreal it is to have him around her, just like it feels in his own mind. Pup is speaking exactly what Wolffe has been feeling for months and it's all Wolffe can to do try and stay quiet, just so he doesn't miss another word. Every syllable is spoken like she read it right from his heart, and Wolffe is so speechless that he's on the verge of busting through the house to find her and really show her exactly what a fever-dream he could provide for her.

But the moment he sees his brothers, all staring at his shadowed figure in the kitchen he realizes that they knew he was listening, and that now there was no turning back. Wolffe is feeling really pressured at this moment. Not because he doesn't love Pup -because he really does- but it's hard to traverse the admission with his men watching him for a reaction. They know nothing about his relationship with Pup, and he's kept it that way for fear of someone thinking it was unprofessional, and attempting to do something about it that would not only risk himself and the other men who need her, but Pup herself for providing care and warmth to men who were considered GAR property. He doesn't suspect that his men would ever do something like that, but there's this sense of fear that makes Wolffe present himself so emotionlessly. That is, until he can collect his own emotions for hearing her, and try to play it off.

Note: Wolffe is very skittish. And that's all to do with the treatment he faced after his fight with Ventress. He thinks very lowly of himself personally, but has an unbreakable expectation that he do everything exactly as it should be done without failure. This makes him a wonderful leader, but god-awful at admitting he has feelings aside from diplomatic neutrality. He's struggling to do the right thing here, when there really isn't a textbook example of how to handle expressing the emotion of know the person you love, admitting to loving you back in front of a small crowd. Wolffe doesn't understand that anything he could've chosen to do would've been acceptable here. But in the end, Wolffe's diplomacy is what guided the plot. (Once again, I only write for the characters, I hardly ever get creative liberty when coming to the conclusion of what my non-OC characters do. Even then, my OC's are very diligent in reminding me that they have their own personalities and I can't just make them do anything.)

Wolffe chooses what feels comfortable to him in this moment. At this point, everyone -including Pup- is waiting for him. And when he walks into the living room, his first instinct is to go where he feels the safest. And that's with her. (It's important that he sits at her feet and I'll tell you why in a moment.) Wolffe wants to be with her as best he can in this moment. He still feels that emotional relief and warmth of hearing her say she had the same feelings for him, but the last thing he wants to do is put either of them on the spot in front of his brothers that are appearing very worried and utterly confused at the moment. So to tone down the tension he'd accidentally created, he just does what feels right; And that's to let Pup know he's happy to see her, and give the apology he'd been meaning to all along.

"Sorry m'late."

From there, his men -sharp as ever- realize that he has wants to do this one his own, and Comet takes the initiative to take conversation somewhere else for the time being. He's silently grateful for that, and although he never says anything to them about it, Wolffe is certain that they did so on his behalf and wouldn't expect a thank you for it.

The rest of the night is easy to get lost in. His boys -always needing to show off- take turns coming into themselves again, and decide that a competition of war-stories and funny -albeit stupid- stories are in order. It feels natural like this, and Wolffe hasn't ever felt so proud having all of his brothers and his precious lady all in the same room where they can just be normal for a little while. He's extremely attentive to Pup's attempts at touching him, and he has to bite back a smile when he feels her secretive touches against his back. She's doing it on purpose to avoid his brother's notice, but Wolffe realizes she's probably just as nervous to be outright about it as well. After all, he'd not made a single comment about what she'd said, but he was kriffing surprised that it didn't change her desire to be close to him.

Note: Wolffe sat on the floor for a reason. And it wasn't my decision in the slightest. The way the living room sits, Pup has the best view of the room. Her back is to a corner, and the couch and chair that Boost, Sinker, and Comet occupy and positioned to face in her direction. It's strategic -and instinctual- that Wolffe put himself at the center of attention. That is basically a requirement that he head his squad at all times, and naturally he doesn't distinguish this scenario apart from any other. It's simply the Commanding Officer in him. But to a -wonderfully complex- part of Wolffe's character, he's doing it because that puts Pup at his back where he knows she's safe. His brother's aren't harmful in the slightest, but Wolffe knows that should there be a threat, he'll see them coming, and they'd have to go through him to get to her first. Protecting Pup is one of Wolffe's greatest motives throughout the entire fic, and this was one moment I wanted to play that theme out silently. (I don't know if anyone really picked up on it.)

This choice to sit at her feet appears very submissive to the Pack, and to Pup for that matter. But really Wolffe is subconsciously staking claim and protective charge over Pup without even realizing that he's doing so. For example; he could've picked her up and sat down in the chair with her in his lap, he could've sat down next to one of his brothers instead, or even chose to stand somewhere. But all of those choices leave Pup undefended. Wolffe doesn't see that he's doing it, and neither does anyone else in a very direct way. But if you pay attention to the way I toned the scene, you'll notice that Wolffe doesn't ever lose control of the room. Focus and power is always on him even when no one thinks wiser. It's what makes Wolffe such a commander figure all of the time. He has a natural predisposition to hold command, so even when Wolffe isn't trying have dominance, it's always present in the subtle way he moves, speaks, and presents himself to those around him.

***

Thank you for sending this in my love ☺️ I hope it wasn't too long, and you covered everything well enough! If not, let me know what I missed and I'd be glad to fill in the blank spots!

Much Love, Rightful 🤍

[jayeray-hq]

He’s My Best Friend: Aone Takanobu

Post Time Skip/Manga Ending Spoilers!

Warnings: fluff and very, very slight implied NSFW and innuendo

Choose your own ending platonic or romantic!

He’s My Best Friend Masterlist - Character Masterlist

Thank you as ever to the wonderful and talented Tay @deathcab4daddy​, thank you for beta reading for me! I don’t know what I’d do without you!

The Past: How You Met

           You’d met Aone Takanobu the day you’d started school for the very first time. It had been an exciting day for you, one you’d been looking forward to for a long time. You distinctly remembered putting on your fancy new uniform, admiring your reflection in the mirror. You’d almost missed out on breakfast because you ignored the calls for you to join in, you’d been so caught up in how grown up you looked and fantasizing about how amazing school was going to be.

When the time had come for you to be dropped off, you’d pranced happily out of the car without fear, and entered your classroom with your head held high. The teacher had greeted you warmly and helped you find your desk, and you’d immediately set about trying to befriend the people next to you eagerly chatting away.

             The desk mate on your right, whose name you’d long forgotten, had been all too happy to speak with you at the time, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get the boy to your left to talk. He’d look at you, and he seemed to be listening to what you said to him, but no matter what questions you asked, no matter what you said or did, he didn’t respond to you, not even when you asked his name.

             In the end, your short attention span meant you’d given up on talking to the quiet white-haired boy, and instead interacted with the others around you. It had been an incredibly enjoyable morning, and it only got better when you were invited outside for recess after lunch. You and some of the girls you’d befriended over the course of the morning had all plopped down together so you could show them how to make flower crowns. It was a skill you were rather proud of at the time, one that your next-door neighbor, who you’d thought was the coolest girl ever- a middle schooler, and clearly knowledgeable about all the best things, had taught you.

             It had all been going extremely well, right up until you’d heard a ruckus on the other side of the playground. You’d looked up from the crown you were making to see a bunch of boys all gathered around the white-haired boy who’d refused to speak to you. Looking at them all grouped together you’d realized rather abruptly that he was really big, standing at least a head taller than the tallest of the other boys and rather broad too.

             Curious you’d tuned into what the other boys were saying to him. You’d gotten the shock of your young life when you realized they were making fun of a boy who looked like he could easily take them all on if he wanted to. Bloodthirsty little thing that you were, you’d watched on eagerly, sure that the boys were about to get beat down, as they called the white-haired boy all sorts of mean names, insinuating he was stupid and slow.

             However, you’d gotten another shock when you realized he wasn’t doing anything. Instead, he just stood there, taking their words, head down and unmoving, not bothering to protest or stand up for himself. It had confused you quite a bit, as you couldn’t fathom why he didn’t try to make them stop one way or another.

             The taunts had increased in fervor a couple seconds later, calling the white-haired boy a cry baby of all things. Concerned and nosy, you’d gotten to your feet and edged closer to the group of boys trying to get a better look. Up close you could see the boy really was crying, though he still wasn’t making any noise, fat tears were running down his pale cheeks. It was a sight pitiful enough to tug your heartstrings, so you’d decided in all your five-year-old glory, that you couldn’t allow it to continue.

             Like the warrior of truth and justice that you’d thought you were at that age, you’d launched yourself at the group of boys, small fists swinging, doling out sharp kicks to the shins and telling them off for being mean. You’d taken them all by surprise, and between that and the fact that you threatened them very fervently with cooties if they didn’t leave you and the white-haired boy alone, they scattered.

             You’d then rounded on the boy, who flinched but still didn’t move, staring at you with wide brown eyes. He’d looked so scared at that moment, clearly afraid that you were about to be just as bad or worse than the boys you’d scared off. Instead, you’d grabbed one of his hands and dragged the confused stumbling boy after you, back to the nice patch of grass where you’d been making flower crowns.

             You’d pulled him down onto the grass next to you, and started back on your work again. As your fingers moved to piece the crown together, you’d lectured him firmly about letting those other boys push him around, and then showed him how to make a proper flower crown. You’d then plopped the one you’d just finished on to his head, and admired your work, extremely pleased with yourself.

             Aone had gazed at you for several long minutes, clearly bewildered, but then had finally spoken to you in a slow, stuttering voice, introducing himself as Aone Takanobu. It turned out the reason he didn’t speak very much was because he had a bit of a speech impediment that made him stutter. It was the reason the boys had been making fun of him earlier, which you thought was just silly.

             You’d told him firmly that it didn’t bother you at all, because you’d given him a flower crown, which meant the two of you were friends for life now. Aone had stared, wide-eyed and clearly astonished, a faint blush on his pale cheeks, but had apparently accepted your declaration at face value. By the end of that recess, you’d had a flower crown of your own in your hair, messy and clumsy but made with care, and the two of you had been best friends ever since.

 The Present: Your High School Days

             Frustrated beyond belief, you slowly beat your head against the table, hoping that you could somehow beat the information into your brain since nothing else seemed to be working. Fortunately, before you could give yourself a concussion on the table, a large warm palm slipped beneath your head.

             You turned your face, keeping your cheek pressed to the hand underneath your head, and looked up at your best friend who was peering at you with clear concern on his face. Seeing his apprehension, you heaved a long sigh and lifted your face up, not wanting to make him worry. Though most didn’t realize, because they judged him solely by his appearance, Aone was an enormous worrywart and would fret himself into anxiety, especially when it came to his friends.

             Despite growing taller, broader, and more muscular, Aone was the same sweet teddy bear of a guy, with a heart made entirely of marshmallow fluff, as he had been when you’d met way back when you were five. The only difference was that these days he was no longer picked on, both because he was too intimidating for most to try, and because you and his other best friend had done your best to encourage him to stand up for himself.

             Futakuchi had been an interesting addition to your group. He’d apparently taken one look at Aone, and much like the other people you met, assumed just because he was big he would have the attitude to match. However, unlike other people, he’d simply thought it was cool and had wanted to befriend him because he thought they’d enjoy the same things.

             He’d been just as stubborn and persistent as you had back when you’d first befriended Aone, coming around all the time and acting like an enormous pest. He’d followed Aone around everywhere, and as his one and only best friend at the time, it had seriously irritated you. It angered you to the point where you and Futakuchi got into petty squabbles almost every day. He thought Aone should stop hanging out with you because you were a girl and obviously lame, while you thought Aone should stop hanging out with him because he was a jerk.

             Things probably would’ve continued like that, except one day both of you had been caught up in squabbling, and suddenly Aone had once again been approached by others looking to bully him. Unfortunately for them, both you and Futakuchi were entirely wound up from fighting with one another, but when presented with other, easier prey had rounded on them. The two of you working together had been enough to bring them to tears, the group of boys running away with their tails between their legs.

             After both you and Futakuchi had gained a grudging respect for one another. Futakuchi had realized that you could be just as vicious as he was in defense of Aone, and you realized that he was willing to stand up for your friend who you were incredibly protective of.

             Things had been easier after that, though the smart-mouthed brunette was still closer to Aone than he was to you, you still got along fairly well. It helped that after Futakuchi had dragged him into volleyball, a place where Aone’s height and size were something to be praised rather than something to make fun of, Aone had gotten much more confident. These days, if your bickering with Futakuchi got out of hand, Aone was right there in the middle of the two of you, pushing you apart, and giving you both scolding looks.

             A gentle hand resting on your head pulled you from your thoughts and you refocused on your friend, who was looking even more worried than he’d been before. His brow was furrowed with concern, his face close enough to yours that you could actually see the pale hairs of his eyebrows that tended to look nonexistent from a distance because of how light they were.

             “I’m alright,” you assured him, pulled back to the present by the gentle weight of hi hand as he set it atop your head, clearly trying to regain your attention, quickly explaining, “Just struggling with math as usual.”

             “Do you need help?” he asked, his voice a low rumble in his chest, the words coming out confidently.

             Aone had managed, with the help of some speech therapy and budding confidence, to get his stutter mostly under control. It rarely ever appeared these days, and never in your presence. He still had to think over what he wanted to say before he said it, which made him a little slow to respond sometimes. However, as long as you waited patiently, he would never leave you hanging, even if he still didn’t talk much around others for fear the stutter would come back.

             “If you don’t mind?” you asked him, giving him the most pitiful look you could muster, earning an amused huff from your friend who knew exactly what you were doing.

             “Show me,” he agreed, taking a seat beside you.

             You did as asked, sliding your work toward him and watching him work through it patiently. You probably should’ve continued to focus on work, but you’d had something on your mind for a while now.

             “Hey, Aone?” you asked, hesitantly.

             The tone of your voice must’ve tipped him off that you had something serious on your mind, because he instantly looked up, all his attention on you. He waited patiently for you to put together the words, not rushing you, simply waiting to hear whatever you had to say.

             “Are you alright?” you managed finally, peering at him worriedly, “I mean, with the third years leaving and Futakuchi being named captain.”

             The words ‘instead of you’ hung between the two of you, unsaid but clearly heard. Honestly, you’d been more than a little shocked that Futakuchi had been named captain, with his oftentimes caustic personality you weren’t sure he had the disposition for it. In your own personal, and likely highly biased opinion, Aone would’ve been much better. He had the patience for it, along with the admiration of his kouhai, and was the best player on their team. It just didn’t make sense to you that he’d been passed over in favor of Futakuchi.

             “I will miss the third years,” Aone told you, after a moment of contemplation, “But their decisions are their own. We will simply have to do our best to make them proud, though they are still coming to practice fairly regularly.”

             You couldn’t help the small smile that flitted across your face at that. You’d known despite their decision to leave that the third years were going to have a bit of a hard time letting go. You’d gotten to know them fairly well, having come to as many games and practices as you could manage in support of your friend, who’d done the same for you.

             You’d honestly really liked Moniwa, and had hoped the captain would stick around a bit longer. He’d been really good both to and for Aone. He was also an incredibly sweet guy, and you’d admired that he was able to deal with both Futakuchi and Kamasaki who was like an older and only slightly mature version of him.

             “Futakuchi will be a good captain,” Aone expressed, quiet but resolute, without any form of regret in his gaze, as he answered your other question, “I trust him to make the right decisions for the team, and will do my best to support him as vice-captain. We’re going to go to nationals next year.”

             That was honestly just like him. Aone was probably one of the most supportive people you’d ever met and a fantastic friend. He wasn’t upset at all and had instead chosen to instead be happy for Futakuchi and focus on what he felt was most important.

             “I’ll be right there, cheering you on,” you told him with a smile, because if he was happy, you were happy.

             He smiled at you, small but sincere as he gently rested his hand on top of your head in thanks, before indicating that you should get back to work. You sighed, but went along with it, glad that he was so willing to help you. You didn’t know what you would’ve done without him.

 The Future: Platonic

             “What are you doing?” the deep voice of your best friend asked, his words startling you enough that the nails you’d been holding in your mouth dropped to the floor with a clatter. You turned to look at Aone, who was standing in the doorway, a distinctly unimpressed look on his face.

             “Fixing it?” you replied, the words coming out more like a question than the statement you’d intended.

             The look he gave you for that was one more judgmental than you’d ever thought your sweet, teddy bear of a friend would ever be able to manage. It made you both simultaneously proud, and a little irked knowing the credit for that lay almost entirely at the feet of you and Futakuchi. You’d never thought it would be turned on you in quite this manner though.

             Aone strode forward and began to thoroughly inspect your work. His hands handled the bookcase parts with care as he gently turned them over seemingly without effort despite the fact that you’d struggled to lift them on your own. The stupid thing had broken after one too many books had been stacked on it, which you’d found rather infuriating. Still, you hadn’t wanted to get rid of it, and so had been trying to fix it yourself. Judging from the look on his face, you hadn’t been doing nearly as well at it as you’d hoped.

             “Well, Mr. Construction worker? What’s the verdict?” you asked curiously, “Is it salvageable?”

             “Maybe,” he told you, completely noncommittal as he held out his hands for the hammer you’d been using. Reluctantly you passed it over to him, knowing full well it would be much safer in his hands than in yours.

             Gently he caught one of your hands with his before you had the chance to pull them back, as quick as ever despite only playing volleyball recreationally these days. He tutted audibly over the state of them, clear disapproval and accusation in his gaze that had you wilting in shame.

             “Why didn’t you call me?” he asked as he gently tugged you to your feet, pulling you toward the bathroom where your first aid supplies were kept.

             “I didn’t want to bug you, you’re a busy man these days, and I totally had it under control,” you told him, even as you hopped up on to the bathroom counter, well used to Aone behaving like a mother hen by now, holding out your hands when he asked for them.

             “Next time, call,” he scolded firmly, the words making you smile despite the fact that he was telling you off. He’d come a long way from the shy little boy you’d met at recess all those years ago. Back then he never would’ve dared to scold you, now he did so without a second thought.

             Being vice-captain of the volleyball team had been good for him, and he’d really come into his own, helping Futakuchi lead them to nationals during interhigh that last year and retiring shortly after. You’d actually been a little surprised he retired, especially since you’d fully believed he had the talent to go pro, a belief backed by several offers from different places for a sports scholarship. However, Aone had confided that while he loved volleyball, life in the spotlight simply wasn’t for him. All he wanted was something peaceful where he didn’t have to talk too much and could work with his hands.

             He’d certainly found that in construction, and was slowly but surely working his way up the ladder. The maturity and assuredness he’d found through volleyball had really helped him become independent and strong, so much so that at times you wondered if he really needed you anymore.

             However, the moment intrusive thoughts like that flitted across your mind Aone was suddenly there, with his quiet but insistent presence, assuring you he would never, ever leave you alone. The two of you were best friends for life, and you knew it, though it was nice to see just how far the two of you had come together.

             At times you found it almost ironic, the one who’d needed looking after, and become the one who did all the looking after, your dynamic flipped. Not that you minded. You found it sweet how he fussed over you still despite both of you having other people in your life nowadays. Speaking of which…

             “How did you know I was trying to fix something on my own again anyways?” you asked, more than a bit suspicious.

             The look he gave you in turn spoke volumes. You were going to kill Futakuchi, that little jerk, he was such a tattletale. It was no matter though, you’d just have to remind him once again, that Aone loved you most.

             The clear exasperation in your friend’s eyes told you he knew exactly what you were thinking, and you couldn’t help the joyful laugh that escaped your lips. Honestly, dragging Aone away to make flower crowns that day was probably the best decision you’d made in your whole life.

 The Future: Romantic

             You would’ve thought that of the two of you, it would be you who would initiate a romantic relationship with Aone, that you would jump into it just as fearlessly as you had jumped into being his friend. However, despite the feelings that had slowly but surely grown over the years, you hadn’t been able to take that last step. Something always held you back.

             A part of you desperately wanted it, so badly you could almost taste it. You knew the two of you could be good together, your years of friendship over two decades now, had certainly proved it. However, you were afraid. Back then, Aone had accepted your friendship in part because he simply hadn’t been able to say no. He’d been too shy and unsure to do so even if you both thought that it had worked out for the best in the end.

             He’d grown a lot since those early days, and you liked to think he was much more assertive about getting what he truly wanted these days. However, you’d noticed very early on that Aone never, ever, said no to you. It didn’t matter how much it might inconvenience him or how much he might dislike doing whatever it was you requested. He would quite literally bend over backward for you.

             It meant you’d had to be very, very careful about how you framed your requests, doing your best to be extra considerate of him and his feelings. It also meant that you were now too afraid to confess, afraid he would say yes to you just because it was what you wanted and not what he actually desired. Accidentally forcing a relationship on your friend because he was too sweet to say no to you would be the absolute worst, which meant you were stuck.

             Futakuchi, who’d noticed and teased you rather relentlessly over your feelings, had tried to insist that the only reason Aone never said no to you was because he was head over heels in love with you. However, you were pretty sure he was just being a jerk to you again, and you had done your best to adamantly ignore everything he said, much to his mounting frustration.

             You’d convinced yourself that it was for the best, that if you just waited you would get over your silly one-sided crush. Unfortunately, said crush had lasted over a decade and was showing no signs of fading any time soon. In fact, a part of you knew it was far beyond a crush at this point, but you were absolutely adamant about keeping silent, sure that you were doing what was best, not just for Aone, but for you as well. Because getting into a relationship with him, only to discover later that he’d only ever loved you platonically was a blow you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to recover from.

             Thus, you’d allowed yourself to stay firmly in denial, and didn’t suspect a single thing when Aone came by to pick you up from work that day. The two of you had planned to hang out together, and you were more than a bit excited, especially since he’d said he had a surprise for you.

             You’d noticed as you walked that he was dressed rather nicely, in dark jeans and a plaid button down rolled to the elbows to show off muscular forearms. It was actually a bit unusual for your friend who seemed to prefer comfy clothes in his off time, usually sticking to t-shirts and sweats, or athletic wear when he could. You’d hastily shoved the thought as far down as it would go the second it occurred to you though, locking it up with all the other non-platonic things you’d thought about your friend over the years.

             Instead, you’d focused on pestering him, trying to figure out what this surprise he had planned for you was. However, as to be expected, he was incredibly tight lipped about it, simply offering you amused, indulgent smiles that let you know he knew exactly what you were trying to do, and wouldn’t cave in.

             To your surprise, he’d driven you to a beautiful park, one filled with beautiful fields of flower. You’d been utterly ecstatic about it, practically bouncing as he showed you the picnic basket he’d brought along. The two of you had set up in a nice spot and hung out for a while.

             You’d been so preoccupied with the food and talking to him that you hadn’t noticed that he’d been doing something with his hands, right up until he carefully plopped a neatly formed flower crown on top of your head. You stared up at him in shock, fingers gently brushing the petals of the flowers set among your hair, confused but feeling a surge of warmth at the nostalgia of it all as you peered up at him.

             “No matter what, we are friends for life,” he told you, his voice serious as he held your eyes, the words making your heart squeeze painfully as conflicting emotions warred in your chest. The nostalgia and love you had for him, fighting with the fact that you wanted so much more with him.

             “Futakuchi has told me that I haven’t been obvious enough with my feelings,” he continued solemnly, the name of your nemesis helping to jolt you out of your internal conflict.

             You stared at him wide eyed as he gently took your face in one of his large hands, cradling your cheek as he stared down at you intently and told you, “I’m in love with you, bunny, and would like to be romantically involved with you.”

             It took a moment for the words to process, especially since you got caught up in his nickname for you, a byproduct of an unfortunate incident with marshmallows, Futakuchi, and the fact you were smaller than him. However, once what he said finally reached you, you immediately reached out to pinch your thigh, wincing slightly at the sharp burst of pain. You apparently weren’t dreaming.

             “Are you sure?” you asked him, unable to help your worry or your disbelief that this might actually be happening. Your hands were clenched tightly in your laps, nails digging into your palms as you tried to fight the rising hope, “This isn’t because Futakuchi told you I’m in love with you is it? Because you have to be sure, and if he did tell you I swear to all the kami I…!”

             Your torrent of babble was cut off by a gentle finger on your lips, one that instantly made you fall silent and stare up at your friend in confusion. However, seconds later the finger was replaced with gentle lips, sweet and surprisingly soft against your own, the feel of them enough to make your heart race as your eyes fluttered shut.

             You savored the feeling of his mouth on yours until he pulled back. You blinked your eyes open to find him watching you with the softest expression you’d ever seen on his face, full of affection and care.

             “Futakuchi did nothing but encourage me to confess my own feelings,” he assured you, gravely, then reiterated, “I am in love with you.”

             “I love you too,” you confessed, the words spilling out, raw and unfiltered, your heart racing, giddy joy flooding through you as you realized this was actually happening.

             “Good,” he affirmed, leaning forward to kiss you again.

             You reached for him eagerly, wrapping your arms around his neck and basking in the euphoria of knowing your feelings were returned, noting that you probably owed that idiot Futakuchi a gift basket or something. For now, you were just going to savor the feeling of his lips, and enjoy the fact that you were absolutely and irrevocably in love with your best friend.

[creoterative]

AoT x GoT Headcanons

This just came to my mind and in a few hours, I built a whole story with this sh*t, but who cares, so I’m gonna focus on the dragons for now ;)

warnings: mentions of blood and murder, mentions of ehhh.... not so good bed scenes

and of course, spoilers for both

Daenerys Targaryen

-portrayed by Historia Reiss

-although she entitles herself as the ‘Mother of Dragons’, she sees herself as more of a big sister and the Dragons see her as such too

-is a very openhearted and -minded person, just as Dani was in the first seasons

-wants to break the wheel and earn her right to the Iron Throne by releasing every single slave in all of the Seven Kingdoms, because she was used by her father to gain him more power (she was forced to sleep with several generals)

-loves her three dragons and if something happenes to them, she goes on full rampage

-when Reiner gets shot by a spear, she feels extremely guilty and apologizes to him even weeks after 

-her favorite of the dragons is Reiner because he is strong, kindhearted, but a beast in battle, she trusts him the most, which is why she has a connection with him

-Galliard is her favorite when it comes to insulting and threatening her enemies, because that boy knows how to use his teeth and scowls

-Bertolt is her favorite when she needs someone to talk especially when it comes to serious decisions, Reiner can’t decide either and Galliard always wants someone to die, so Bertolt is the only one with a little bit of a brain to work with

-she enjoys laying on top of any of them in their dragon forms, because their bodies are extra warm then and can protect her from the cold, no matter what

-Historia hates it, when her boys fight, so if they do, she will start crying and plead them to stop, which, of course, they do immediately

-because of her experiences with her father and his trusted allies, she doesn’t know how to handle new faces and gets really shy around them, so her dragons get a little... overprotective in these situations

-but she can be a damn strict ruler, if anybody does something, that she doesn’t want to be done, fist on the f*cking table and a stern look, everybody will crawl on the floor

-she gets to know Armin Arlert later in the series and is attracted by him, although two of her dragons do not like him that much at first, has a relationship with him later on, but is killed by Armin right in front of the Iron Throne

-the reason why she gave all her ‘sons’ different last names, or last names at all, is because they actually aren’t related to each other and her consultants didn’t allow her to give them her own last name, since the Reiss family is highest royalty to them. Many of her consultants actually only see the three dragons as tools for battle and not actual members of the empire, Historia creates.

Drogon

-Reiner Braun, there is no better one for him

-but the role of Drogon himself would be a little... different

-Reiner can transform into a light golden dragon, bigger than a Boeing 747, with even brighter horns and claws, his scales shine in the sun and sometimes, when the light is just right, slight glittery patterns can be seen all over his body, giving him some kind of royal appearance

-his flames are bright as well, still orange, but intensive

-also his armor is the strongest among the three brothers

-he is Historia’s choice to ride into battle, which he is very honored by

-is very proud of his origin and powers, but doesn’t show this pride as much as Galliard does

-doesn’t interfere too much into politics, is more of a fighting guy and wants to prove his value to the queen, Historia

-his roar is veeeery deep, can smash a grown mans eardrums into pieces and scares the enemies even before they see him

-as he grows up, he realizes, that killing people gets to be a habit and Historia isn’t just breaking chains anymore, but also kills those, who don’t want to bend the knee, which he highly disagrees with

-nevertheless, he doesn’t interfere until the last day of Historia’s reign, he is the one to melt the iron throne in rage and carries Historia’s corpse to the place, where she gave life to all three of them

-as a dragon, he can fly, but he actually isn’t too good at it at the beginning, Galliard and Bertolt get way ahead of him, which is why Historia almost decided to ride Galliard to battle

-he likes to sleep in human beds more, being out in the open is more a Galliard thing

-gets in fights with his brother Galliard wayyyy too often, but gladly Bertl is there to reason with them, if that doesn’t help, Historia will just start crying right next to them (as they grow older, they don’t harrass eachother as much because... they would burn whole villages)

-he was the first to learn how to breathe fire

-his title amongst the people is ‘the one who breathes gold’

Rhaegal

-Bertolt Hoover would earn the role of Rhaegal, the fierce green dragon, Armin Arlert gets to be his rider later on

-in his dragon form, Bertolt is even bigger than Reiner, a good amount of bigger I should say

-his scales are actually green as well, but a lot darker than Rhaegals in the series, while his teeth are black, as they should be according to the books, his wings are the only ones being without any cuts or wholes, since he doesn’t really fight with his brothers

-he is known for his technique of clapping his wings together and creating a whole storm to send people flying, when he is asked to fight by Historia

-Berts flames are a dark green colour, sometimes a bit of black can be seen as well

-although he isn’t Historia’s first choice in battle since he is rather calm and shy, he can be a real threat because of his size alone

-he actually prefers to fight in the dark, because he can hide more easily even though he is the biggest of Historia’s dragons

-Bertl is the one, who is the most aware of his powers and controls them perfectly, which is why he always reminds his brothers to be careful with their tails or their wings, much to their confusion, I mean, he is the biggest of them, by far

-he’s a gentle giant, most of the time, and Historia’s preferred place to sleep on is his back in dragon form

-that boy can be such a d*ck, when it comes to sleeping, accidentally of course, because, well, he sleeps, but his positions while doing so are... random. In both forms actually, a house was smashed to dust one time

-politics are absolutely his thing, he loves to be a part of tactical meetings and enjoys to help his queen/mother with difficult desicions, although he is pretty shy around other people, who don’t belong to his closest family

-his roar is deep, but not as deep and loud as Reiner’s, even though he should have the lung capacity to make it even louder than his, which is because he actually hates to roar, is more of a silent assassin, you almost can’t hear his wings

-as Historia begins to grow a darker queen, he keeps himself out of it, only follows her orders, but deep inside, he questions their actions and feels sorry for what he has done

-he is really sceptical at first, when Armin approaches him, but as soon as he senses the Reiss families blood, he calms down and lets Armin ride his back

-they actually have a connection similar to that of Historia and Reiner later on, which allows Armin to lead Bertolt into battle and give him commands, just like Historia does

-he has this look, when he is in his dragon form as well as in his human form, a look, that can easily make anybody uncomfortable, though he just looks very directly at somebody. That is his way to say ‘back. the hell. off’

-Bertolt is shot down by three scorpion bolts in the battle at Dragonstone, Galliard isn’t there to whitness this, but Reiner and Historia are right next to him, leading to Reiner wiping out a whole fleet of ships in blind rage

Viserion

-the best one to play this part is Porco Galliard, just called Galliard by everyone, he hates his first name

-Galliard is the smallest of the dragon brothers, but he is actually the toughest and fiercest, leading to him being used in most of the battles Historia fights as the first one to attack the enemy

-in his dragon form, Galliard is of a smaller statue than his brother Reiner, but still pretty big, has copper scales, which pretend to seem a little bit darker, than they actually are, his claws look as if they are really made out of pure copper, but his teeth are pure white

-the fire of this boy is HOT, like he can literally melt rocks and metal like frikin wood, also his flames are of dark orange colour and sometimes a little bit of yellow sparks through

-he actually likes to use his claws to crush catapults and sink ships rather than using his fire, although it is really strong

-is the fastest of the dragon brothers and loves to speed through the enemy lines

-he often teases his brothers because he is the first to rush into combat and ‘makes things easier for them’ (actually he has to save Reiner a lot... and teases him for that as well)

-always the first one to say ‘let’s just kill them all, we know they deserve it, mom’

-he is rather harsh and cynical, but can be really sweet with children, tries to convince them that dragons are not always vicious beasts

-he often wanders around alone, sometimes disappearing whole months only to return from some smaller battles, because of that he has the best orientation amongst his brothers

-he absolutely hates fish

-Galliard actually would never allow any human to ride his back, not even Historia, doesn’t matter if Reiss blood or not, he HATES to be controlled, so Historia can only tell him what to do if he agrees to ‘help her out’

-has no interests in politics. AT ALL.

-Galliard doesn’t like other people, but is loyal to the kingdom and its queen, protecting Historia with his life, if he has to, still, no other people, except maybe some children, he grew fond of

-when he roars, it sounds like a damn hurricane is coming, high pitched, but terrifying as well, people sometimes actually think, that a storm is coming, when he roars, which he is very proud of

-is the first to notice Historia’s turn to the darker side of herself but thinks, that she finally accepted his sight on things, but as soon as it resolves in killing people just for the effect, he starts to question her, and actually speaks his mind to her very openly, only receiving stern looks from her

-he absolutely hates Armin when he first arrives at Dragonstone, shows that by growling at him and just flying away

-Galliard is the first of the dragon brothers to get killed, an ice spear pierces through his shoulder and neck, which kills him mid flight, is later revived by the Night King, also known as Eren Yeager, to fight against Historia

-he gets killed again when Mikasa Ackermann stabs the Night King in the chest, right after Galliard destroyed the wall of ice and fought his brothers in a devastating battle, in which Bertolt gets injured badly

[19red]

hello, this is me trying to strong-arm my brain into stopping the constant tweaking and re-tweaking of the same stinking 3k so I can write on and get to the good parts of this project namely p and j having all the sex thank you very much

+

The day after Patrick and Jonny bang a chick together, Patrick wakes to the weight of an alien limb squashing his bladder. The alien limb belongs to a furnace-hot, tentacular mass plastered all along his back. The mass smells oddly familiar, kind of citrusy—as if it stole Jonny’s body wash.

Patrick squints his eyes open. A blade of sunlight filters through the half-drawn curtains and stabs him in the face. Right under the window, Jonny’s suitcase dribbles clothes onto the floor.

It shouldn’t be hard to put two and two together, but Patrick’s really dumb first thing in the morning. Plus, he needs to pee. Bad. Which is pretty distracting.

He paws at the tentacle swung over his waist, fingers catching on—a beaded string. Did the alien mass steal Jonny’s bracelet too? Patrick struggles to lift his head. He wants to see.

The alien mass stole Jonny’s whole arm. What--?

A growl spills in a damp, ticklish huff into the crook of Patrick’s neck as the mass coils itself closer. Something hard pokes Patrick’s ass. His nostrils fill with a waft of scent his hindbrain understands as so viscerally Jonny that recognition smacks him dizzy.

The mass is Jonny. Last night, he and Patrick banged a chick together. That thing wedged between them, growing firmer by the second? That thing is Jonny’s—

Patrick’s heart plummets straight to his dick.

It’s okay. It’s whatever. Patrick isn’t gonna freak over a physiological response. Bodies are also really dumb first thing in the morning.

“Jonny,” he says, wriggling to catch Jonny’s attention. Jonny has always been his go-to guy in a crisis. Except, in this instance, he is also the crisis itself. Jonny’s hips buck forward once, twice—Patrick stops breathing for the handful of seconds it takes Jonny’s sleep-drenched, horny-ass body to lose interest and stutter back into relative stillness.

Fuck, Patrick thinks. Visions of impending awkwardness swarm his brain. If Jonny were to wake up right now, full-mast boner pressed to Patrick’s ass, and discover the tent pitched in the front of Patrick’s sweats, he might rush to conclusions. Their ability to make direct eye contact would definitely endure permanent damage. They’d have to restructure their life with the aim of reciprocal avoidance. Patrick would have to request a trade. Jonny would probably drop out of the NHL. He’d forsake hockey and society at large and end up trampled to death by a giant moose while he hides from Patrick in the Canadian wilderness.

Fuck, Patrick thinks again. When a whole minute drips away and Jonny doesn’t stir, he thanks the hockey gods. With very little, very slow movements, he dislodges the arm pinning him to the mattress. By the times he’s free, the light slanting in from the window changed the angle of its assault to his pupils. Still careful, he slides the covers off himself, sits up, swings his legs off the bed. His feet land on the floor just as a variation in the pattern of Jonny’s breathing alerts him it’s all been for nothing. Jonny is awake. Or, like, as close to awake as Jonny manages to be coffee-free and before noon. Which is not much, thank fuck.

“It’s early,” Patrick reassures him. Jonny gets real pissy when he doesn’t get his full eight hours. Patrick doesn’t want to get stuck with Captain seriously cranky and his legitimately lethal death glare on the flight back to Chicago.

Jonny hums, lids fluttering open and back closed immediately, dark lashes kissing the top of his cheekbones. Patrick expects him to just roll over and sink back deep into snoring, the man is easy like that, instead he plumps an arm over the empty space next to him and mumbles, “Come back,” so low Patrick feels the vibration of it in his belly more than with his ears. Jonny must think Patrick’s some chick, maybe his ex or the one from last night.

“Dude,” Patrick chuckles to clear his throat. This is prime chirp material. Jonny’s such a clingy loser. “It’s just me.”

The side of Jonny’s mouth that isn’t squashed into the pillow tugs up in a smile, then his eyes tremble open, searching the space in front of them for Patrick’s, as if he knew where to find him, as if he weren’t surprised. It’s a bit like being punched but with weird, devastating gentleness. Patrick’s left breathless and dazed, a slow ache spreading below his ribs. “Sorry,” he says, legs moving on their own accord. “Sorry, gotta piss.”

Jonny flops onto his belly and sprawls across Patrick’s side of the bed. With a sigh, he hugs Patrick’s pillow to his face. “Be quick,” he whines—or maybe not. It’s muffled and Patrick is already halfway out the door so he can’t be sure. It doesn’t really matter.

***

“Where’s Tazer?” Duncs asks in lieu of good morning when Patrick shows up at breakfast almost two hours later, no captain in tow.

Patrick chomps on a hunk of strawberry toast and shrugs. Contrary to popular belief, no clause in his contract bids him constant awareness of Jonny’s whereabouts.

Duncs squints, clearly feeling entitled to a degree of eloquence involving efforts of the verbal variety and resenting their lack.

“Don’t tell me he’s sick,” Shawzy says.

The legs of Stromer’s chair screech against the floor as he scoots away from Patrick. He ends up almost in Brinsky’s lap. “It better not be catching.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick puffs the words fat with annoyance. “He’s sleeping. I mean, I guess he...” He is for sure. No chance Jonny is still waiting. If Patrick barged back into his room right now, Jonny would laugh, would tell him to stop trying to make things weird. Patrick knows this rationally. Yet some spiked grip squeezes his insides with the same vicious strength of an anaconda trying to crush itself a snack.

People can’t die from upset conscience, can they? Especially not if the upset is unquestionably misplaced, right?

“I mean,” Patrick snaps after a second, “the fuck do I know.”

Duncs eyebrows shoot halfway across his forehead.

“Whoa,” Stromer gasps.

“Wait,” Shawzy says. “Are mum and dad fighting?”

Patrick grinds his molars. Everyone’s so fucking pressed. It’s not like Jonny is a regular at team breakfasts. In fact, unless attendance is mandatory, Jonny prefers to limit the number of people upon which he inflicts the ghastly spectacle of his slow de-zombification to a minimum.

Patrick casts his mind back to the last time the two of them didn’t resort to room-service during game trips. He dredges up both no recollection of that happening in years and the stomach-sinking hunch that maybe this is weird. Maybe he should have gone back. Maybe that would have been the normal thing to do.  

“Shut up,” he says, to the voice in his head and everyone else. He grabs a pitcher of coffee and fills his cup until it brims. “Don’t talk to me. I’m waking up.”

“He’s rubbed off on you,” Shawzy appraises.

He’s more right than he’d probably care to know—nope. Patrick yanks his thoughts away before they can trip over that precipice and splat into the phantom embrace of Jonny’s body and its heft, its warmth, its neediness.

“Shut up,” he repeats, and with big emphatic motions designed to put a period on the conversation, he whips out his phone. He trusts the mindless scrolling will work its time-warping, mind-numbing magic and when he’ll look up next, all the weird will have been purged from this day.

Between sips of coffee, he pores through the stats for the last game, skims the emails in his inbox and rage-reads a review trashing the new Twilight book. He considers sending the link to Erica so he can vent about the snobby assholes who think they’re smarter than everyone else just because all the books they read are boring as fuck, but she’s probably at work already. He scrolls through his contacts. The one of the chick from last night jumps out. Her name’s Chelsea, which is pretty lucky. She was hot, Patrick recons, and thinking that feels normal. Feels safe. Feels like something Patrick would love to feel more of, thank you very much.

Hi, he types, riding the spur of the moment. This is Patrick from last night.

Stupid and risky, his inner Jonny warns. Never give your number to one night stands. Patrick ignores him and for the sake of clarity and glory, adds, The one who made you see god with his tongue.

“Look who’s joining us,” Shawzy’s voice announces just then.

Patrick’s gaze springs up, landing squarely across Jonny’s chest. Patrick knows it’s Jonny’s chest even though he doesn’t let his gaze climb up to the face attached to it for confirmation. The chest is sailing across the breakfast hall toward Patrick. Well, not toward Patrick specifically. Toward Patrick and the rest of the guys.

“Morning,” Jonny mumbles, dropping his scrambled eggs on the table and his ass between Seabs and Crow.

Patrick’s phone chimes.

well hello patrick 😜

“Slept well?” Shawzy probes, feigning innocence. Patrick’s hackles rise.

“I guess,” Jonny says.

Patrick allows himself another quick glance. Jonny looks good, which means like his usual self, which means nothing like a dude who went through the transformative experience of witnessing his best friend o-face.  It’s kind of annoying, actually. Patrick’s nerves are all fried. He’s half-convinced in the right light anybody could look at him and simply—tell. Patrick Kane got off with another dude in the room and enjoyed it. For a blink he’s fourteen and trying to fight a guy almost double his size who called him a cocksucker, that slammed him against the boards and told him not to bother standing up since everyone knows he does his best work from his knees.

His phone chimes again.

“Tell me the truth.”

totally hit me up again next time ur back here

“What?”

Patrick’s heart rate spikes. Would Jonny even be up for it?

Won’t be for the rest of the season :(, he types.

Maybe things feel weird because threeways are a novelty, maybe they just have to work up an immunity. People have threeways all the time and afterward their lives go on undisrupted. But if you’re ever in Chicago… his fingers are so clammy they smudge the screen when he hits send. He reaches for his cup.

“Did you keep our Kaner up all night?”

Patrick’s head jerks up.

“What?” Jonny says, flat.

For the first time since Patrick sneaked out on him, they make direct eye contact.

Shawzy drones on in the background, “Saw you trying to score that hot--”

It last precisely long enough for a sip of coffee to get its lanes mixed as it plunges down Patrick’s throat and somehow u-turn its way out of his body through the nostrils.

Patrick’s lungs try their best to turn inside out.

“Dude,” Shawzy says.

Stromer slaps Patrick’s back a couple of times, hard.

Duncs throws a handful of paper napkins in his general direction and winces in open disgust as Patrick snatches one mid-air and uses it to dab at the liquid leaking out of him. “Gross.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Patrick informs them tartly between fits of coughing. Some treacherous asshole on his right is fucking cackling. He sweeps the table with an encompassing glare and catches Jonny’s eyes again, all dark with concern. The back of Patrick’s neck prickles with embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he repeats, steadier, and Jonny looks away so Patrick does too, hurriedly withdrawing like from the touch of something scalding.

He zeros in on Chelsea’s new message.

might fly in for a couple of weeks around christmas actually

Patrick latches on to the conversation, blocking out his surroundings, trying his hardest to look busy. Fuck everyone and Jonny too.

We could catch up then if you have time ;)

totally 👅🔥🍆🔥, she texts. And after a moment, say hi to porn dick from me btw

Who?

🙄

Patrick bristles. For some reason, the thought of this random stranger sitting around with her head full of pictures of Jonny’s dick makes him hitch. His chest riots with some misguided protective instinct. Jonny would be insufferably smug if he knew, no doubt about it. It’s not that big.

it is! 100% porn worthy

You don’t know what you’re talking about

???

I’m just saying, are chicks even into that? he writes, just to be an asshole but also because he’s pretty sure chicks hate porn. It’s supposed to be a feminism thing. Erica once made him a whole speech about it or whatever.

big dicks? They are

Haha

their also into porn btw this aint the middle ages AND they have way better taste in it then men

Can you prove it? he asks, hoping it sounds flirty and not confrontational. He wants this chick to bang him again but not over the head with a blunt instrument.

maybe if u stop trying to outdick ur bf with ur personality ill send you some recs

“Who are you texting?”

Patrick elbows his cup off the table and scrambles to catch it before it crashes against the floor. “Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his coffee-soaked hand.

Jonny laughs and at the sound, Patrick’s heart stumbles, then sprints up his throat. “You’re a mess,” Jonny says. He stole Stromer chair.

“Yeah, no, fuck off.”

Stromer is nowhere to be found. He and the rest of the guys must have migrated to the lobby. Patrick picks up the phone from where he abandoned it to make the save and shoves it deep into his pocket just as it pings.

Jonny quirks an eyebrow. He’s smiling.

It feels like Patrick trudged around all morning with a lead rib-cage before the universe caught the glitch. The sudden slack from gravity makes him giddy.  “Don’t be nosy.”

“I’m not!” Jonny protests, all put upon outrage. He flicks Patrick on the hand. “Just saying, team’s gonna suffer if you sprain a thumb.”

A laugh bubbles up Patrick’s chest, loud and easy, and just a little embarrassing.

For a moment, Jonny looks impossibly pleased but then he catches himself. “Everything alright, yeah?” he asks, turning bashful. His eyes drift to the small heap of crumbs he’s sweeping together with his pinkie.

Patrick nudges his thumb against the back of Jonny’s hand. “Yeah. You?”

Jonny’s lips curl up at the corners. “Of course,” he says, looking up, gaze dark and soft.

Of course, of course, of course. Jonny would never let anything happen to them. Patrick stomach flutters. “Okay,” he smiles, dimples out, and Jonny beams back. Time goes fuzzy as they stare at each other in silence—until the ping of an incoming text makes them both startle.

“Again?” Jonny bitches. A moment later, his forehead creases and he puts his serious face on, “Everything okay with your sisters?”

“Yeah, no. It’s not--” Jonny’s eyes flicks to Patrick’s mouth. Patrick hadn’t realized he’d been chewing on his bottom lip. He stops and it tingles, his own breath turning chilly enough to sting as it laps over the bite. “Just-- the chick from last night,” Patrick’s tongue says forgoing any input from his brain. It’s fine. It’s whatever.

“Oh,” Jonny says.

The world keeps rolling. Unfortunately, so does Patrick’s tongue, “Yeah. She’s cool. She was fun.”

“She was okay.”

Patrick can’t believe the understatement. “Okay? Just that? You’ve got some tough standards, man. She was--” as he searches for the right adjective, it suddenly hits him that Jonny has more experience, at least when it comes to threeways. It’s fucking unfair, but entirely possible, the mind-blowingest sex of Patrick’s life would barely chart as okay for Jonny. While he was dating Lindsay, the two of them got up to some kinky shit, Patrick’s pretty sure. Not that he spent any time thinking about it. He licks his lips. “It was hot, right?”

Jonny scoffs. What an asshole.

“Fuck you.”

“It was hot,” he grants. His cheeks are turning pink. He means it.

It feels like scoring the game-winner in the Stanley Cup final. The rush of triumph makes him cocky. “Hotter than the one you had with Lindsay?”

Jonny scoffs again, to Patrick infinite delight. “It was!” Patrick surmises.

“Lindsay’s hotter than her.”

“No way,” he is so offended on Chelsea’s behalf, he barely registers the deflection. Lindsay dumped Jonny. No matter how she looks, her insides must be rotten. Patrick hates that Jonnys is still hung up on her. He kicks Jonny’s foot to make sure he has his attention. “Maybe we should try again. Chelsea’s coming to Chicago around Christmas.”

“Is she?” Jonny kicks him back. “You two move fast.”

“She’s got family there, I think.”

“Sure,” he sounds skeptical. He admitted it was hot, why wouldn't he want a rematch? He and Patrick and some hot chick, she doesn’t even have to be Chelsea, she can be whoever. Small and blonde, like Jonny likes.

“Or we could find someone else,” Patrick says, growing more committed to the idea each second it lives in his brain. “Just go out and see what happens.”

“You think that’s smart?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “I think you’re boring.” He goes in for the kill, “Captain serious.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’d even let you pick, I don’t care.”

“Starting to sound a bit desperate there, Kaner,” Jonny flashes his most punchable smirk, the one that’s a little lopsided and always makes Patrick squirm.

Patrick starts a mental list of ways to wipe it off his face. Maybe if he shoved two fingers up Jonny’s nose… “What?” he asks, kind of distracted.

“I’m just saying, If you want to see me naked that bad, you only have to--”

“Fuck you,” Patrick sputters. “I was being generous. Bros before hoes or whatever.”

“I’m telling Erica you said that.”

The thought is terrifying. “Don’t,” Patrick shrieks, so loud people in their proximity stop mid-munching to give them the stink eye.

It’s their cue to clear off, a pretty timely one, considering they barely make it on the bus. They’d probably be yelled at, if they weren’t Kane and Toews.

Jonny saunters past Colliton’s glare and flops down next to Seabs. Patrick takes the two seats right behind, stretching out until he’s almost horizontal.

He checks his phone. Chelsea sent him a text and a link. The texts says, one of them looks a bit like your boy. you’re welcome. The link-- Patrick slaps the phone face down on his thigh.

“You okay there, Kaner?” Jonny asks, glancing over his shoulder.

Patrick feels his ears burn redder than the Hawks home jersey. “Yeah, no. Real peachy.”

[bjornthorsson20]

Chapter 2

Hermione Granger was many things, but patient was not one of them. Today, she had arrived at the library early to study (though most people would say she didn't need to, which was simply preposterous), and to help Ginny with homework, which apparently seemed to run in the Weasley family.

She was currently seated at her favorite spot in the library, the one furthest from the entrance where no one would bother her, and the library itself was thankfully empty at the moment. Ginny was late for their study session, and Hermione was beginning to think she had forgotten about it, but went back to studying in the hopes her red-haired friend would arrive soon.

No matter how much she tried concentrating though, her mind kept wandering back to a certain infuriating ginger boy that insisted on plaguing her thoughts as of late.

For a while now, Hermione was aware that she was infatuated with her best friend, Ron Weasley.

The first signs were during her second year when Malfoy called her a mudblood and Ron jumped in to hex him, which he would've done had his wand not backfired on him. Despite that, Hermione felt touched by Ron wanting to protect her, and that idea made her feel things she didn't entirely comprehend at the time. She knew even then that had it been Harry, those feelings would not have been the same.

From then on, Ron would continue to prove to her that what she felt towards him was different. Everytime Ron did something for her, like when he stood up for her in third year after Snape called her a know-it-all, Hermione imagined the same scenario playing out with Harry instead, and everytime that euphoria just wasn't there. She even remembered feeling excited at the prospect of spending an entire Hogsmeade trip with just Ron, then immediately feeling guilty for being happy that Harry had been left out. It wasn't that Hermione didn't care for Harry just as much as she did for Ron, but Harry was simply like a brother to her and, likewise, she was sure Harry viewed her as a sister, regardless of whatever mindless drivel that wretched, repugnant, heinous excuse for a reporter spewed into her disgusting, detestable articles. Merlin, she hated that woman!.

Hermione still remembered the moment she was hit with the realization of her attraction towards Ron in full. It was sometime after the trip to Hogsmeade, when the three of them were in the common room doing homework. Hermione was sitting between both boys, and she noticed Ron had sat closer to her than usual, though she decided not to point out that fact in fear he would get self-conscious about it and move away (she didn't mind the proximity, after all). She was in the middle of her "insert-Harry-here" scenario, when Ron's elbow bumped into hers, sending her back to reality. She immediately blushed and attempted to go back to her essay, though she only managed to stare at it as if she were interrogating her paper. She couldn't help glancing at Ron to check his reaction.

That was when she looked at him, as in, really looked at him.

She noticed the way his hair stuck out at odd angles, creating a messy arrangement of flaming red that she wanted to run her hands through and feel it slide perfectly between her fingers; the pattern of freckles spattered across his face creating a constellation-like mosaic on his complexion that she wanted to take a closer look at and count one by one for hours on end. His blue eyes (Hermione couldn't tell the exact shade) resembled two small bluebell flames which seemed to be brimming with magic the longer she stared at them mesmerized; the subtle movement of his facial muscles as he concentrated on his essay, the furrow of his brow, the narrowing of his eyes which accentuated his beautiful golden lashes, and the pursing of his lips, lips she found herself wanting to know how they would feel against her own.

And that was the moment it hit her like a ton of bricks. Hermione Granger fancied Ron Weasley!

The suddenness of that conclusion was so overwhelming that she couldn't pretend to concentrate any longer, so she quickly gathered her things, muttered a goodnight to Ron and went up to her dorm room, wanting to put as much distance between them as possible.

From that day on, Hermione would continue noticing things about him, like how big yet gentle his hands were, how his freckles seemed to cover his arms just as beautifully as his face, leaving some parts of his skin looking almost tanned, or how he now stood a full head above her (and he showed no signs of his growth stopping anytime soon, a fact that left her with a weird fluttering sensation on the inside). Now, Hermione had a hard time keeping herself from staring at him so much, and she had caught herself a couple of times on the verge of straight up confessing to him.

That was when the logical part of her brain would come in and try to reason with her why she shouldn't be so impulsive with her emotions. For one thing, she still had no indication that Ron returned her feelings, and it wasn't worth taking a risk like that, potentially ruining their friendship or making things awkward between them, just so she could find out what Ron’s lips tasted like. Oh, but the sweet temptation. For another, and this was the hard pill to swallow, Hermione had to concede the possibility that a guy like Ron would perhaps not be interested in a girl like her.

Hermione knew herself — she wasn't model material; she was plain, unremarkable, simple. Her hair was too bushy to be tamed in any way that could be considered eye-catching; her face was a little too thin to be called charming; her body shape was too slim to be regarded as attractive. She wasn't one to be superficial like this, but when analyzing the type of females that might hold Ron’s attention, she needed to face the reality of it; she wasn't a Veela, and she wasn't Madame Rosmerta. She was just Hermione Granger.

But it wasn't just a matter of not being physically suited for Ron. Hermione was also well aware that she was a difficult person to deal with; she could be overbearing, nagging, and unbearable at times. She tended to be very stubborn, and hated being wrong most of all, which didn't make her the easiest person to debate with. She had a vicious temper that could dish out the nastiest retorts when she was hacked off (not counting those days, of course). She could go on, but as Ron had so bluntly put it back in their first year, Hermione Granger was a nightmare. Back then, she convinced herself that her tears were because Ron had insulted her and it had hurt, and that was part of it. However, she knew now what had stung most about his words.

The fact that he was right. Hermione was a nightmare. She had no friends growing up before Hogwarts, and even after coming to the magical world, she still struggled to form bonds, to interact with people in a way that wasn't completely off-putting. Even her dorm mates didn't seem to like her very much, so she was still an outcast. It was baffling that her two best friends even put up with her. They were everything she wasn't; they had fun, they were relaxed, easygoing, funny (especially Ron), likeable. It was clear that Harry favored Ron over her, and who could blame him?

Then, there was the matter of Ron himself. Hermione truly believed that he liked her, admired her even, cared for her genuinely. She just couldn't understand why that was. Honestly, Ron could be so infuriatingly confusing at times. One moment, he would be making her laugh and having fun, then later he’d snap at her and act all moody for no reason.

The Scabbers and Crookshanks incident stuck out in her mind. Even though they had already settled that matter and she had apologized for it, Hermione still didn't understand why that had upset Ron so much. Ron always complained about his poor old rat, then got devastated when it was gone. It didn't add up, and she spent the entirety of that situation confused, but most of all scared for the future of their friendship (she even cried over it to Hagrid, for Merlin's sake!). Hermione had wanted to apologize sooner, but after the disagreement she had had with both boys over the Firebolt — which was another thing that contributed to Ron being hacked off with her, adding to the stress she was already undergoing due to her bloated schedule — she was just too upset and felt ganged up in both situations, so she held on to her stupid sense of pride instead of just admitting that she was wrong to let Crookshanks run free, even if it turned out that Scabbers wasn't actually dead and Crookshanks was trying to help them. The point is, they didn't know that.

Reflecting back on it, Hermione realized she had been very insensitive to the whole issue, and that maybe had led Ron to believe she didn't care for him or what he had. But that was the biggest problem! Hermione just wasn't good at being sensitive — she was far too logical and prideful to deal with things on a deep emotional level. Ron was the complete opposite, as he was much more emotionally driven and didn't overthink things like her. Just more confirmation to herself that they weren't compatible at all.

Oh, but she certainly allowed herself to believe otherwise. It hadn't escaped her that Ron had given her signals, however mixed they were, that he could possibly feel the same for her.

He had stayed by her bed in the infirmary every night he could after her Polyjuice mishap in second year, and, as she had learned from Harry after the fact, Ron had done the same when she was petrified. There was that awkward handshake they shared in the Great Hall after they had hesitated on a hug (she had had no problem hugging Harry, though). Then, the way Ron kept glancing at her and blushing when she caught his gaze, smiling shyly at her, or how his hand kept brushing against hers as if debating if he should hold it during their trip to Hogsmeade. He had a general caring nature towards her, making sure she ate and didn't overwork herself (even when they were in the middle of their big fight in third year), as well as helping her relax and have fun. He helped her with the Buckbeak case, jumping in to her aid without hesitation despite her still not having apologized to him. He also demonstrated possible jealousy and annoyance over Hermione's admiration for Lockhart (what was she even thinking?!) and Cedric.

These were somewhat weak points, she could admit. The infirmary visits, and his caring nature, are a couple of things that could just be brushed aside as Ron just being Ron; selfless, protective, loyal. These were all characteristics that defined Ron's behaviour towards everyone he considered important. These were the things that attracted her to him beyond his superficial beauty. His behaviour in Hogsmeade and in the common room, that might have simply be due to Ron being a teenage boy, and as Hermione very well knew, teenage boys were attracted to any girl on a base level, so perhaps it wasn't so much Hermione that was causing this, as was simply the fact that she was a girl (though she still found it laughable that she would be attractive to any boy even on a superficial basis).

It was a constant battle with herself over this. Her emotions would argue one thing, clinging to what little hope she had of something more with Ron, and her mind would immediately attempt to shut it down. It was a defense mechanism; she was just too scared of the possibility of rejection and wanted to lessen those intense feelings to avoid a potential heartbreak.

And then, the Yule Ball was announced. That seemed like the perfect opportunity for Hermione to finally get confirmation of Ron's true feelings towards her. He would either ask her, which she told herself would only happen in her wildest dreams, or someone else, which would crush her inside before she eventually came to accept it.

Well, the Yule Ball was now almost here, and so far, Ron had not asked her or anyone else for that matter — not counting his invitation to Fleur under the influence of her Veela charm, something she knew he couldn't help, but left her feeling jealous all the same, which her mind once again reminded her was baseless considering their current relationship status. Hermione had asked Harry if Ron had said anything about the Ball, or if he had anyone in mind already. Harry would look at her with an odd expression, before shrugging and telling her he had no idea. She found his behaviour a tad suspicious, but otherwise didn't press further. So, Hermione had been left to merely speculate on Ron's behaviour.

For now, Hermione came up with three possibilities. First, Ron already had a specific someone in mind but was afraid of the possibility of rejection. Second, Ron was afraid of being ridiculed by his dress robes. She knew how much he loathed them, and he had whined about it whenever the Ball was mentioned. Third, it was merely a combination of the two previous ones; they weren’t mutually exclusive, after all.

There was a fourth possibility, actually, but it was so ridiculous that Hermione felt dumb just entertaining the idea. However, maybe (and that was a very huge maybe), Ron did want to ask her, but was afraid of being rejected, ridiculed, or both. That would be a nice idea for her heart to cling to, if it wasn’t for the fact that Ron had no reason to believe Hermione would reject him or ridicule him (she had told him she didn’t find the dress robes that bad). She knew Ron didn’t have a lot of confidence in himself, she had told Harry as much, but surely he knew that even if he wanted to go as just friends, she wouldn’t shoot him down (the Ball didn’t require the pair to be a romantic one). If Ron believed she wasn’t available anymore, it’d make sense he’d be hesitant to risk it. But, again, he had no reason to believe anyone would be interested in asking her. Okay, to be fair, there was Viktor and he had already asked her three times, with her letting him down gently each time saying she wasn’t sure she’d go. That’d been puzzling even to her; why was Viktor asking her when he had dozens of fangirls starving for his attention? They barely interacted; she just helped him with homework, therefore Ron had no basis for any suspicions.

“Hey,” a familiar voice broke Hermione out of her musings. She looked up to see Ginny, having finally arrived.

“You’re late,” said Hermione, trying not to sound too irritated, only succeeding a little bit.

“Or maybe you’re just too early,” replied Ginny, sitting down across from Hermione, taking out her books and parchment.

Hermione decided to let that go and to focus on helping Ginny with what she needed. They started working, and after a while, Hermione began wondering if she’d get to interact with Ginny more often. They were a year apart, and as such, she already had her own friend group, but Hermione hoped she could call the ginger girl a friend one day. She would like a girl friend she could confide in, and talk about subjects she wouldn’t dare bring up with her boys. Harry had asked Ginny to the ball, and lately, seemed to be cozying up to her a lot more, which gave Hermione hope she would become a part of their circle soon.

Given Ginny very clearly fancied Harry, there was the possibility of something more developing under the surface there if Harry ended up infatuated with her as well. Now, if only Ron could ask-

Hermione noticed Ginny smirking devilishly at her, and was about to ask what it was, when another familiar voice from behind the bookshelf caught her by surprise.

"C'mon, mate, stop pretending to be interested in this. You're gonna talk to me." She heard him snort. "Immediate Transfiguration. Mate, you seriously expect me to believe you were willingly reading up on homework?" Hermione didn’t know who Harry was speaking to, but her immediate guess would be the same person who occupied her thoughts earlier. If this was indeed him, Hermione couldn’t deny it was a surprise to hear that he was reading one of their textbooks but she wouldn’t doubt him doing so. She knew Ron could be brilliant when he set his mind to things and didn’t second guess himself.

Suddenly, Harry stopped laughing and everything behind the bookshelf went quiet. The silence felt tense somehow. Hermione wanted nothing more than to go up to Harry and demand answers as to what this was all about. Ginny’s smirk, Harry’s position, having Hermione obscured behind a bookshelf; she was pretty certain that this was a plan for her to eavesdrop on some important conversation. If the person Harry was with was indeed the one she had in mind, she didn’t want to hear some potentially embarrassing secret and break his trust; it was just wrong.

And yet, Hermione couldn’t bring herself to move a single inch from where she sat. For some reason she couldn’t quite put into words, Hermione knew that whatever he was going to say, she needed to listen. The voice that spoke next confirmed her suspicions, but this wasn’t how Ron spoke at all.

"Yes, I was reading this book for real. Figured I could finally follow Hermione's advice and try to learn something to make myself worthwhile in class, saving McGonagall the stress and disappointment. But judging by your reaction, I guess I'm too much of a joke at this point to be smart in any way. I should've left it to Hermione. It's her thing."

Hermione was hit by a barrage of emotions from his statement, none of them good. She didn’t even know where to begin. Ron was reading up on homework because of her? She thought he found her nagging when it came to her reprimands. Hermione should’ve felt elated by that admission, instead of the cold chill that seeped into her bones from Ron’s tone. She wanted to get up and tell him that he wasn’t a joke, that he was smart, but felt like intervening wouldn’t be the right thing to do here.

She heard Harry try apologizing for what he implied before, but Ron didn’t wanna hear it. Ron didn’t sound angry or anything, and that should’ve relaxed Hermione, but instead it just made things worse, somehow.

"Why won't you take Hermione to the Ball with you? Don't even try to say it's those dress robes, I know that's rubbish." And there was the question Hermione now knew was what Harry wanted her to hear without Ron being aware of her presence. She was definitely curious for the answer, but given Ron’s sudden shift in mood, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it.

"You want the truth, then?" Ron now sounded… normal? Hermione hoped this meant that whatever explanation came next would be silly and they could drop it for good.

What she heard instead shocked her to the very core and once again, she didn't know how to feel about it all.

Ron… loved her? Hermione Granger? But… he didn’t think she felt the same way? Why?

Hermione didn’t need to think too much about it before Ron gave her his reasons. Hearing Ron put himself down like that hurt so much that Hermione had to cover a strangled sob that threatened to come out. Ugly? He was the most attractive person to her in many ways! And he was not stupid, he just doubted himself too much! And who gave a rat’s arse about him being poor?! That wasn’t his fault, and it didn’t make him less of an amazing person! Yes, he could be rude and vulgar, but he was allowed to be flawed! He wasn’t perfect, no one was! But his qualities far outweighed his flaws! Why couldn’t he see that?!

"I'm surprised Hermione and I are even friends; that she puts up with me when she can rattle off a list of all that's wrong with me, which just further proves I'm hopeless and I don't have a single worthwhile thing about me."

That wasn’t true! She always let Ron know how great she thought he was! Back in first year, she had told him how amazing he was for sacrificing himself in the chess game… right? No, he was knocked out after that. But she did tell him later… no, she didn’t. B-but, second year, she thanked him for defending her against Malfoy! Then again, he ended up hexing himself, so that probably didn’t count as a win for him. She let him and Harry know she was proud of them for killing the Basilisk. Well, Harry killed it alone, actually… he still couldn’t have done it without Ron! Oh, in third year, Hermione appreciated him standing up for her. She remembered… scolding him for it. Why did she scold him?! She knew why, because she didn’t like that he got detention, and felt guilty over it. But she could’ve thanked him, too! She did thank him for helping with the Buckbeak case… which they lost, leaving Ron probably feeling like it all meant nothing, and he didn’t help at all. And he didn’t get to accompany Harry and her in saving Buckbeak and helping Sirius due to being unconscious. Did she remember to tell him how brave he was for standing up to Sirius on a broken leg? Ugh, why was it so easy for her to point out his less-than-stellar moments but assume he would know when she admired something he did?

Ron’s next words would’ve made Hermione laugh if she wasn’t already trying her hardest not to cry profusely over every word. She was gonna rule the world? More like bore it to death. That whole “smartest witch of her age” always rubbed her the wrong way. What made her “the smartest”? The fact that she read and memorized a lot of books? Anyone could do that if they believed they could do it! Ron could be just as smart as, if not smarter than her if he wanted. It wasn’t fair for Ron to feel like he was less just because of a label people attached to her. Hermione felt moved to hear that Ron actually believed she would make a positive change in the world, when she previously thought he considered S.P.E.W to be pure rubbish.

His mention of Ginny made Hermione look at her for the first time since Ron started talking. Her expression was stony, and she was just staring at her hands with a vacant look, like she wasn’t aware of her surroundings anymore, only listening in to her brother’s words. Hermione could only imagine what it felt like for her to hear Ron speak so low of himself like that.

"Then there's me, honestly, can you point out a single thing you can say I'm good at? And, I don't want to hear you say things like "you're brave, you're funny, you're kind". No, I want actual talent for something." C’mon, Harry, remind him he’s just as good as us! Hermione waited for Harry to go on and on about everything he couldn’t have accomplished without Ron by his side. She was greeted by silence.

"See? Nothing. None of the subjects here, nothing in these books. I'm not good at a single damn thing that at least 10 other wizards can't do better. I guess there's chess, but no one has ever taken that as something serious from me. It's just a game, anyway, not a career potential." Ignoring her anger at Harry for the moment, she sat fuming at Ron instead for downplaying an impressive skill of his. It was not just a game! That skill is what allowed them to pass McGonagall’s test! Knowing how to play it could prove wonders if Ron were to pursue a career in the Aurors as a strategist! And he was not below average in magic; he clearly didn’t remember the time he knocked a troll out by levitating its club and dropping it on its head at the age of 11! What did Harry do? Shoved his wand in its nose and just angered it more?

But Ron still had more to say. She wondered how long he had been keeping all of this bottled up inside, and how much longer she would have to endure this without accidentally alerting him of her presence. It took her a moment to register what he was saying, but once she did, her mind was immediately bombarded by questions. What were people saying in the corridors about Ron, exactly? And how was she not aware of that? She didn’t think there were that many people besides Draco and his Slytherin bunch that said nasty things about them left and right. What was truly shocking was that they were talking about Ron. Harry wasn’t popular with everyone, what with his Boy-Who-Lived notoriety, but many people liked and admired him, even if it was simply for his status. And though she knew Ron tended to be treated as merely the sidekick, she still believed he was generally liked and regarded well. To hear that people in the school have been saying the complete opposite was mind-boggling. She suddenly had the urge to go around the school threatening to hex everyone that dared to speak of any degrading things about Ron.

Ron stopped talking. Hermione kept waiting for him to continue, or for Harry to finally say something. Instead, she heard Ron sigh and stand up, muttering something she couldn’t quite hear, before leaving in a hurry. Hermione wanted to get up immediately and follow him, but she just remained in place, as if binded, finally releasing the sobs she had been holding all this time. She let her head fall on her hands, as she continued to cry uncontrollably.

Eventually, she felt a hand touch her back, either Ginny’s or Harry’s, she couldn’t tell. They were saying something to her, but she wasn’t listening anymore.

She had to find Ron. They had to talk.

[slashingdisneypasta]

Horror / Six: The Musical AU (X Reader) || Headcanons

Explanation: So all the songs are being sun by different readers with different Henry’s (The Horror Villains of course) instead of one Henry. I think its pretty straight forward apart from that! I hope to make a second part to this where the readers actually meet up and complain about their times with their respective horror villains. This is fun XD Had the idea a couple months back and I posted it and one blog commented saying Six is their favourite musical, so this is basically for me and them haha XD 

Character Included: Michael Myers, Chucky / Charles Lee Ray (And Tiffany Valentine), Bubba Sawyer, Norman Bates, Mayor Buckman (And Harper Alexandre) and Jason Voorhees. 

Warnings: Murder of the readers (By respective Horror Villains and a non-explicit difficult birth in Bubba’s), birth / pregnancy, toxic / abusive relationships, sexual harrassment / maybe rape (All You Wanna Do- Buckmans), language, suggested mother / son grossness (Norman and Norma of course). 

I laugh in the face of those who would subdue my mad ideas. 

‘No Way’ (Reader as Catherine of Aragon): Michael Myers as Henry

My name's Catherine of Aragon Was married 24 years I'm a paragon of royalty, my loyalty is to the Vatican So if you try to dump me You won't try that again 

You were in a, of course, very unequal relationship with the shape of Haddonfield. He saw you one day, was completely taken by you, and decided to let you live. He would come by and use you however he liked, kill the people you loved when they got your attention over him, etc. Like any other Michael Myers x Reader.

And, years and years later (Because it’s not like Michael finds someone every day that he gives even a bit of a shit about like he does - did, - you) he comes upon a new person. Someone he, like he was you, is drawn to.

And he tries to drop you like a hot potato.

And this infuriates you. You are not about to let go! He has ruined your life! You have no friends, no family, no life, because of him! All you have, is (regrettably) him and you are going to be his for the rest of your life. That’s what he wanted, that’s what the bastard’s going to get.

(Many, many years with him has caused your courage against him to grow spectacularly. You can say nearly anything to him)

|- ‘You must agree that, baby, in all the time I been by your side

I've never lost control’

‘I've put up with your sh- like every single day’ -|

You give him one more chance- if he can tell you one thing that you have done to him to legitimately hurt him… then you’ll leave willingly.

…

But he has nothing. And he doesn’t care.

|- ‘You got me down on my knees

Please tell me what you think I've done wrong

Been humble, been loyal, I've tried to swallow my pride all along

If you can just explain a single thing

I've done to cause you pain, I'll go

No?’ -|

//

|- ‘You wanna replace me? Baby, there's

N-n-n-n-n-n-no way

You made me a wife, so I'll be queen 'til the end of my life’ -|

He ends up strangling you to death when you won’t shut up.

‘Don’t Lose Your Head’ (Reader as Anne Boleyn): Chucky / Charles Lee Ray as Henry (And Tiffany as Catherine of Aragon)

I'm that Boleyn girl and I'm up next See I broke England from the church Yeah, I'm that sexy Why did I lose my head? Well, my sleeves may be green but my lipstick's red 

Chucky and his filthy ass catches sight of you. Young, French and vivacious and he’s got heart eyes on the spot. He wants you, but he also doesn’t really want to lose Tiffany.

So... yeah, you end up living with them both for a while and its very awkward and a very hostile situation.

|- ‘Here we go

(You sent him kisses)

I didn't know I would move in with his misses

(What?)

Get a life

(You're living with his wife?)

Like, what was I meant to do?’ -|

You don’t like it. No one likes this. Chucky! Make up your mind!

|- ‘Three in the bed and the little one said

If you wanna be wed, make up your mind

Her or me, chum

Don't wanna be some

Girl in a threesome

Are you blind?’ -|

Tiffany is of course Catherine, and the fandom (The people of Britain for the sake of this AU) loves her (As we all know), so when you come along and insult her because Chucky is now your man (Supposedly.) and of course you two aren’t getting along with each other in the first place because of him … you get a bad name.

|- ‘Ooh, why hasn't it hit her?

He doesn't want to bang you

Somebody hang you

(Wow Anne, way to make the country hate you)

Mate, what was I meant to do?’ -|

When eventually Chucky is able to grow the balls to boot Tiffany out (My heart hurts writing this, trust me), he pulls a ‘Once a cheater, always a cheater’ kind of shit and has no loyalty to you or respect for the sanctity of your relationship, and starts having one night stands here, there and everywhere. He tries vaguely to tell you you’re being silly and that’s not true- but he has lipstick on his shirt collars and perfume smell all over him.

Its not a nice living condition.

So you, still very much being the vivacious bitch that he ‘fell in love with’, go and flirt with some other guys. Just to make him a teensy bit jealous! I mean, its not like he’ll really care, right? You just wanna spark the fire again!

|- ‘Henry's out every night on the town

Just sleeping around, like what the hell?

If that's how it's gonna be

Maybe I'll flirt with a guy or three

Just to make him jell’ -|

But he finds out as planned… and is p i s s e d. He threatens that if you do that again, he’ll fucking kill you.

You, not going to let him talk to you like that, flirt with one more man. Just to be disobedient. 

|- ‘Henry finds out and he goes mental

He screams and shouts

Like so judgemental

You damn that witch

Mate, just shut up

I wouldn't be such a b-

If you could get it up’ -|

And you find out that he very much meant it when he said he would kill you.

|- ‘And now he's going 'round like off with her head (No)

(No)

Yeah, I'm pretty sure he means it’ -|

‘Heart of Stone’ (Reader as Jane Seymour): Bubba Sawyer as Henry

Jane Seymour the only one he truly loved (Rude) When my son was newly born, I died But I'm not what I seem or am I? Stick around and you'll suddenly see more 

You were an intended victim of the Sawyers, but like with Stretch, Bubba crushes on you instead. The difference here, is that you see the gentleness to him compared to his brothers, and how scared he is when one of them yells at him, and all the other little signs that he’s not as vicious or evil as his first impressions might convey. You have a big, brave heart, and you realise right there that its death and cannibalisation or understanding and caring for this man and you choose to love.

|- ‘You came my way, and I knew a storm could come too.’-|

//

|- ‘You've got a good heart

But I know it changes

A restless tide, untameable’ -|

So you take his hands in yours, all shaky and meaty as they are, and promise him that you will never leave him. You’ll protect him. You’ll take any mess he and his family can throw at you- you’ll always be with him. Your promise.

|- ‘But I took your hand, promised I'd withstand

Any blaze you blew my way

'Cause something inside, it solidified

And I knew I'd always stay’ -|

And he believes you, of course. Its so nice to be looked at so softly, especially by someone as pretty as you.

I- ‘You can build me up, you can tear me down

You can try but I'm unbreakable

You can do your best, but I'll stand the test

You'll find that I'm unshakeable

When the fire's burnt

When the wind has blown

When the water's dried, you'll still find stone

My heart of stone’ -|

And you prove yourself. You prove over and over again that no matter what he, or the twins, or Drayton, or even Grandpa throws at you- you’ll survive and you’ll stay, and you’ll never stop looking at him in that lovely soft way.

|- ‘You say we're perfect

A perfect family’ -|

You get pregnant of course because everyone in the Sawyers / Hewitts family has a breeding kink and you can’t tell me otherwise, and the birth is of course very difficult because Drayton isn’t about to pay for hospital bills. So you’re in their home, in all the mess and the dirt and with no sort of aesthetic, and…

|- ‘Soon I'll have to go

I'll never see him grow’  -|

You don’t make it. Your babies born fine and healthy, and you bring another strong Sawyer boy to the family, but you’re gone.

‘Get Down’ (Reader as Anne of Cleves): Norman Bates as Henry

Ich bin Anne of Cleves Ja! When he saw my portrait, he was like Ja! But I didn't look as good as good as I did in my pic Funny how we all discuss that but never Henry's little- 

So, one day, Norman decides its time to properly settle down (Long after his mother… ah… ‘dies’) and get a partner, and because there isn’t really anyone around where he lives to date or, even, who wouldn’t get creeped out by him and his taxidermy, he turns to online dating.

He meets you there. You own and run your own hotel in the next state over, you don’t mind his taxidermy at all, and your profile picture looks… hauntingly familiar (If you look nothing like Vera Farmiga go by the original movie- she was but a skeleton there so she really could be anyone).

|- ‘Sittin' here all alone

On a throne

In a palace that I happen to own

I'm not fake 'cause I've got acres and acres

Paid for with my own riches’ -|

And you two get along great over messages! You online date for a good year before Norman proposes you elope and come to live with him! You think you’ve known him long enough, and you trust him!

So you fly right over, and he meets you at the airport, and…

He’s disappointed.

Like, ‘sorry, nah, you don’t look enough like mama so this isn’t gonna work’. In a more fidgety, quiet, subdued kind of way though. He’s so awkward with communication that he even suggests that you doctored your profile picture.

I- ‘You, you said that I tricked ya

'Cause I, I didn't look like my profile picture’ -|

And, understandably, you’re p i s s e d, and disgusted! But ya’ll already got married over the internet, so theirs no stopping that! This is your husband. You realise you’ve made a huge mistake and go right back to your home and your hotel to get divorce papers drawn up.  

You’re the queen of your own fucking castle, who needs him?

|- ‘I'm the queen of the castle

Get down, you dirty rascal

'Cause I'm the queen of the castle’ -|

You are understandably, very very mad. And you say some things to Norman about he and his mother, that… may be true… but that he certainly doesn’t appreciate.

When you finally get the papers, and you’ve been separated long enough for it to be legal, you go back to the Bates Motel to get Norman to sign them and stay over a night. You’ve calmed down enough that you’re able to have a pleasant conversation with him, and you decide that you’re too tired to take the plane back home right away so you take up Normans offer to stay in one of vacant rooms (*Cough* So you basically have the run of the place. Or they do. *Cough).

Norman is also pretty calm about the whole thing as well, like you! But… Norma, is still seething.

You don’t wake up the next morning.  

‘All You Wanna Do’ (Reader as Kathrine Howard): Mayor Buckman as Henry (And Harper as Thomas)

Prick up your ears, I'm the Catherine who lost her head (Beheaded) For my promiscuity outside of wed Lock up your husbands Lock up your sons K. Howard is here and the fun's begun 

Right, so, you haven’t had good luck in love throughout your life, so you decide to give up on boys entirely. 

|- ‘So I decided to have a break from boys

And you'll never guess who I met’ -|

… And meet a man, not much later. A man in power; A mayor. A man who’s been married before and has a beard (So you know; He’s a man. XD No little boy.). This is of course Buckman. He calls you love, and you get a job in Pleasant Valley that keeps you comfortably busy. You feel like, finally, you’re where you belong. You feel fulfilled- no committed relationships are necessary.

|- ‘Globally revered

Although you wouldn't know it from the look of that beard

Made me a lady in waiting

Hurled me and my family up in the world

Gave me duties in court and he swears it's true

That without me, he doesn't know what he'd do

He cares so much, he calls me love’ -|

But then Buckman tells you that he cares about you. You have a connection. He doesn’t feel just ‘friendly’ feelings towards you- he wants more. And, though you are a little disappointed that your solitude didn’t last, you decide that he’s decent enough (’He is rather kind to me, and he does makes me smile a fair bit’, you try to reason with yourself that this is a good idea) and so you start to go out. Its not long before you’re married.

|- ‘So we got married Woo…’

Woo…’ -|

But being married to him isn’t easy. Not at all. You’re not use to politics; There are so many rules now, and he’s always too busy to help. And the rest for Pleasant Valley are a bit… odd. And you just don’t fit in. And this is wear Harper (Thomas) comes in.

|- ‘With Henry, it isn't easy

His temper's short, and his mates are sleazy

Except for this one courtier

He's a really nice guy, just so sincere

The royal life isn't what I planned

But Thomas is there to lend a helping hand

So sweet, makes sure that I'm okay

And we hang out loads when the King's away’ -|

And he’s so lovely and caring towards you (Never more then when Buckman leaves for business in other towns), helping you through the transition from your old life to this one. He’s a good friend, to you. And that is most definitely all he is, on your side of it. A friend. You don’t feel attractions towards him at all apart from that, and he doesn’t try to make any moves. Its wonderful!

|- ‘This guy, finally

Is what I want, the friend I need

Just mates, no chemistry

I get him and he gets me’ -|

… Until one day when Buckman has been away for a month, he tells you he cares about you. You have a connection. He doesn’t feel just ‘friendly’ feelings towards you- he wants more.

|- ‘He says we have a connection

I thought this time was different

Why did I think he'd be different?

But it's never, ever different’ -|

Lets just say one things leads to another, despite you at first turning him away and saying no. He’s so insistent, and a little scary, and you’re lonely because your husbands’ has been away so long, and… something happens that you regret and feel gross about.

|- ‘Squeeze me, don't care if you don't please me

Bite my lip and pull my hair

As you tell me, I'm the fairest of the fair

Playtime's over.’ -|

You tell Buckman when he gets home, and you watch as every bit of warmth and love in his eye disappears, just like that.

Its not long after that that his jealousy and betrayed rage takes over… and… you die with a rope around your neck and your feet swaying above the ground.

|- ‘Playtime’s over’ -|

(Alternatively, Sheriff Hoyt as Henry and Thomas as Thomas)

‘I Don’t Need Your Love’ (Reader as Catherine Parr): Jason Voorhees as Henry (Your last love was Jason when he was alive)

Five down, I'm the final wife I saw him to the end of his life I'm the survivor Catherine Parr I bet you wanna know how I got this far I said I bet you wanna know how we got this far Do you wanna know how we got this far then? 

So, you’re like the leader of the ‘Slashers Ex Squad’ because you, unlike the others, survived your time with Jason. This is because Jason did, truly, love you (To an extent- not enough to let you go and live your life without him or be free). None of the others really did. Not like he did.

|- ‘Became the one who survived’ -|

Your story:

You and Jason had an adorable little 11-year-old puppy love relationship when he was alive. You were his only friend, and he had it bad for you because of it. Pamela loved you, too.

When he died you were of course devastated, and years later when you were 30 (Making him also thirty- not that you know that. You still think he’s dead at this point) you’re taken by the need to go back to Camp Crystal Lake and pay your respects to your childhood love / friend. Its just one of those nostalgic days.

When you go, and you set flowers down by the lake, Jason catches sight of you. He thinks about killing you… but then your features start to make sense to him. He recognises you, and for the first time since his mother was killed, he feels his heartbeat speed up and swell with hope.

Jason of course kidnaps you then, and keeps you hostage for himself. He missed you. He doesn’t want to survive anymore time without you. You’re all he has left!

… After you realise that this is Jason Voorhees, you quickly learn that this Jason is, of course, not the boy that you cared, and care, so deeply about. He’s done horrible things, and he is never going to stop; And frankly, deep inside… he scares you.

But its not like you can leave him! He would never let you, he’s made that clear. You are all he has, and now, he is all that you have.

|- ‘I don't have a choice

If Henry says "it's you", then it's you

No matter how I feel

It's what I have to do’ -|

So you write a letter to the old Jason (And your old life), saying goodbye, in admittance to the fact that you’ll never be able to get away from this new Jason. This is you letting go of your freedom and any preconceptions that anything will every be the same- with Jason, or otherwise.

|- ‘It's true I'll never be over you 'Cause I have built a future in my mind with you And now the hope is gone There's nothing left for me to do’

'Cause I have built a future in my mind with you

And now the hope is gone

There's nothing left for me to do’ -|

You never stop hating him for how he’s changed (How he’s taken your Jason away, and wont even attempt to go back) and how he’s stolen away your freedom.

|- ‘I'd say "Henry, yeah it's true

I'll never belong to you

'Cause I am not your toy, to enjoy till there's something new

As if I'm gonna give up my boy, my work, my dreams

To care for you"

"Ha, darling, get a clue”

But I can't say that

Not to the king’ -|

You eventually die of natural causes at, like, 60.

[bluebellwriting]

Mom-Friend Looking For A Dad-Friend - Part 3

Sylvia’s POV

Sylvia knows she should feel guilty. You look so uncomfortable at the party, back pressed against the wall, eyes darting around like a stalked animal watching out for a hunter. Your arms are crossed over your stomach in what she recognizes as your signature move--something you always did during your one year of overlap at Starfleet when she dragged you to the occasional party--quite effective at hiding your body from the world. 

You look so out of your element in the fit and flare dress she forced you into, even though you shouldn’t. Your curves look fantastic and after hours of deliberation you were both able to tame the signature Tilly Sisters Frizz TM. She’s actually quite proud of the smokey eye she was able to slather on you and the lipstick she convinced you to wear. You look beautiful, I mean, you’re her big sister, her first and bestest friend, of course you look beautiful to her. 

But she’s hoping that you can see that in yourself too because she knows another certain someone on the ship sees you as absolutely enthralling.

Her eyes flit between you and the door, hoping that Saru will take the hint and actually show up. She’d been dropping little details to him all week about the party and how you had wanted to attend (which was a lie) to meet someone (another lie). 

What? She’s desperate. She’s been watching her basically-Captain/resident dad of the entire ship quietly fawn over her sister for months and vice versa. She needed to up the ante if she was going to get you two together, and well, nothing is more motivating than jealousy. One thing about post-vahar’ai Saru that everyone was picking up on was that he was far more expressive and a lot less shy. Especially, Sylvia noticed, when it came to you. She actually heard him growl once at an ensign that got a little too close to you in the cafeteria.

Actually, said ensign is making his way over to you right now with two drinks and a drunken smirk on his face. Her eyes glance nervously at the door. Still no sign of Saru. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

(Y/N)’s POV

You were going to kill your sister. You hated parties with a passion. All the people rubbing against each other, rubbing against you and spilling your drink, the form fitting clothing. Especially the form fitting clothing.

Not to mention that the few times you have gone to parties always ended in you being abandoned by friends who found someone to go home with while you were left alone and feeling unwanted. 

The other reason you’re absolutely miserable at this party is because the one man you actually want to dance with isn’t here. Because why would he? A room of his crew mates grinding against each other isn’t exactly his scene. But your eyes still dart to the door, willing Saru to march through those doors and take you in his arms like in a typical Earth romantic comedy. 

Except why would he? You’ve been ignoring him for days and have most likely effectively destroyed any interest he could have had for you. He probably thinks you’re so shallow and immature and weird.

“Hey there.” 

Your eyes meet the drunken smile of Mark, an ensign on the ship who has flirted with you on more than one occasion. He’s come to your office numerous times, always feigning emotional distress so that he has an excuse to flirt with you. You’ve turned him down time and time again, sighting that you were not interested. Mark doesn’t seem to get the hint.

“Good evening, Mark.” You straighten your back but keep your arms around yourself, mindful that the dress your sister gave you is low-cut and showing off more cleavage than you’ve ever showed in your life. You shudder when Mark’s eyes immediately wander to your ample chest. You push yourself away from the wall but Mark steps in front of you, effectively caging you in.

“I got you a drink.”

“Oh. Thank you, but I’m not thirsty.” You try to take your leave again, really just wanting to go home and wallow in a bowl of ice cream.

“Actually,” you continue, “I was just about to head out.”

“Aw, why?” He leans forward, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath. “Don’t you want to dance with me, Doctor?”

“I’m not much of a dancer. Now if you will excuse me--”

“What the hell is wrong with me, huh?” Mark snaps and slams both cups on the ground. “I’m a nice guy. A good looking guy. You could do far worse.” 

His words are slurred but none the less furious. His eyes are dark and glaring at you now, something evil within them. 

You glance around for help but the music is too loud and there are just too many bodies. Nobody seems to notice your distress or the sudden violent nature of Mark.

“I’m sorry, Mark. I’m sure you’re very nice but I--” One of his hands punches the wall next to your head and you yelp.

“You’re fucking right! Better than any guy you could get with in your life, you fat fucking bitch--” In an instant you’re pulled away from the wall by a strong arm while Mark is lifted from the back of his collar and pressed harshly, face first into the wall. 

Saru POV - a few minutes earlier

Saru stares at himself in the mirror, scrutinizing what is now the third outfit he’s tried on. It has to be perfect. Tonight has to be perfect. Because you’re perfect and you’re at that party waiting for someone to sweep you off your feet and damnit, that someone is going to be Saru. He’s not sure what he would do if you found someone else to dance with tonight, to hold and to love. It would completely destroy him. So yes, everything has to be perfect. 

This whole week, Saru has been completely miserable. He’s sure you’ve been ignoring him and he’s not entirely sure why, except he’s completely convinced that he’s done something wrong. He’s tried reaching out, but you keep turning him away at every turn and it’s truly breaking his heart. He misses his meals with you, he misses relaxing in the observation deck with you, and he dreads seeing the exhaustion on your face when he passes your office (which he’s found time to do every day under the guise of “checking in on the med bay” -- everyone knows he’s definitely not checking in on the med bay). 

And then there was Ensign Whatever His Name Is, who has become the bane of Saru’s existence. The last time you had dinner with him, Ensign Asshole decided to sit at your table and unabashedly sidle up to you. It wasn’t that Saru saw him as a threat, it did not go unnoticed how uncomfortable you were at the ensign’s advances and, let’s face it, Saru knows he’s far better suited for you. But it was your discomfort, and the way the ensign’s eyes lingered on you like you were a piece of meat for him to consume and then toss aside, that made Saru want to flip the table and launch the man across the room. 

Maybe that’s why you’ve been shutting him out, though. Maybe for some inexplicable reason, you were incredibly attracted to this man and you were leaving Saru in the dust. His heart clenches and his stomach feels pained at the thought.

Saru runs a hand over this new outfit, debating whether you would approve of the color, if he should wear something more casual, or something fancier? Maybe something... form fitting? Michael had mentioned that humans tend to wear something a little tighter to seem attractive...

Michael alluded that you might be at this party tonight, and immediately he began thinking up ways to woo you, to show you that he was obviously the right man for you. Or at the very least, it would be a reason to talk to you, to figure out how to get back in your good graces. He doesn’t have to date you at all, he just needs you back in his life in any capacity.

A ping on his PADD interrupts his ruminating. He grabs it, smiling and hoping that it’s a message from you. 

It’s not.

Sylvia: Are you coming?!

Saru: Yes. I just need a few moments

Sylvia: You need to come right now!!! It’s (Y/N)!!!

Saru’s eyes widen and his heartbeat accelerates in an instant. He tosses the PADD on his bed and makes quick strides to the common room where the party is being held. His mind races as he imagines what could have happened. Were you injured? Were you asking for him?

When he arrives at the party he stands in the doorway, scanning the many heads below him for the curly (h/c) hair he knows so well and loves so much. 

“Saru!” Sylvia has been by the door waiting the moment he walked in to yank on his arm. She frantically points to a spot on the wall and looks at him with helpless eyes. “I can’t get to her. There are too many people.” 

Saru’s eyes track from her finger to the wall, where he sees your small form cowering under that same ensign’s body. Seeing the fear in your eyes, the helplessness, and the tears starting to pool, stirs something deep and vicious in Saru. His instincts go into overdrive, like he isn’t in control of himself anymore. Or maybe he is, this new, fearless version of himself has taken over. 

Saru marches forward, shoulders tensed and his mouth set in an uncharacteristic snarl. The crowd seems to part for the seething Kelpien until there is nothing between him and Ensign Dickhead, who can’t seem to read the room. 

With one arm he pulls you out from your spot between the wall and this scum of the earth. With his other arm, he snatches the ensign’s collar, lifts him off the floor and smashes his head into the wall, holding him there. He growls, a low and savage sound. Everyone is looking at him but all that really matters in this moment is your wellbeing and the man who tried to threaten you. 

Even though the ensign is off the ground, he is nowhere near as tall as Saru, who is looming over him. Saru leans down, ignoring the whimpers of pain from the ensign who definitely has a broken nose.

He snarls, “Don’t touch what isn’t yours.” 

He wants to do more to this man. He wants to beat his head against the wall. He wants to drop him on the ground and kick his stomach until he can’t breathe. He wants to shove him in the airlock and hit ‘eject.’ He’s basically the captain, he can do it. But your gentle hands wrap around his free forearm, reminding him that you’re here and that everyone is watching.

He glances down at you with a serious gaze, looking to you for guidance. ‘What do you want me to do to this man?’ his stare asks. Because he’d do anything you asked him. 

You give him small shake of the head and Saru drops the man immediately. As two security officers and your sister swarm the bleeding man on the ground, you tug on Saru’s arm, signaling him to follow you.

Your walk together is quiet. Saru still feels the anger coursing through him. He really wants to turn around and finish the ensign off, and he doesn’t particularly care how out of character this is for him. That man deserves every bit of pain Saru can muster for what he did to you, what he was going to do to you. But there’s also the stress, the concern that you are furious with him, that he was too violent, that he had startled you. Would you hate him now? Are you afraid of him?

You tug his arm one last time, taking him to... his room. 

Third Person POV

You drag him inside and lead him to his bed. After a few moments, Saru realizes that you want him to sit. So he does. He’s still taller than you, but your face, your eyes, your lips are infinitely closer to his now. Your hands slowly trace from their hold on his forearms, up his arms and shoulders, to hold his cheeks. Your eyes look deeply into his own, and he can see that there are still tears in your eyes.

Instinctually, Saru’s arms find their way around your waist and tug you closer to him. You ease into him immediately because after that display, you know that there is nowhere safer than Saru’s embrace. One of his hands rubs soothing circles into your back while the other stays around your waist. Your head buries itself into his shoulder while your arms wrap around his neck.

You both stay like that for a few moments, relishing each other, acknowledging that you are both together and safe in the garden that is Saru’s room.

“You’re not mad?” Saru whispers.

“A little startled.”

“Oh.” 

You pull away slightly but your hands return to his cheeks. 

“I’ve never seen you so...”

“Angry?” Saru’s eyes are downcast, waiting for the moment you tell him yes, you were so vicious, I could never love someone so violent.

“Valiant.” You give him a shy smile with a hint of embarrassment. 

Oh. 

Both of Saru’s hands return to your waist and give it a comforting squeeze. 

“Did he hurt you?” Saru’s eyes scan over you.

“No, no. He just scared me.” 

He pulls you closer so you can lean your head against his chest. Like you weigh nothing at all, he lifts you onto his lap and wraps his arms around you again. You don’t know where this forward and overly affectionate Saru came from, but you’re not about to start complaining. You’ve dreamt of this after all.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “You really didn’t need to get that fierce with him.”

“I know, I know but... That wasn’t right. He was horrible and he was going to hurt you and you deserve so much more than that.” You shrug slightly, not fully believing him. Your whole life you’ve only attracted less-than-sub-par men and at some point you just started to assume that you never deserved better. 

“(Y/N) Tilly I am being serious. You deserve the best that this universe has to offer. You deserve someone who will respect you and love you, who thinks you’re the most brilliant and stunning woman who has ever lived.”

“And who thinks that?” You reply meekly, really hoping he’s about to confess to you. But the mind is a horrible, merciless entity, dead set on dashing such hopes.

“Well... If it wasn’t already obvious,” Saru gulps and takes a deep, steady breath. “I think that.”

Screw you, mind. 

“Really?”

“I do. I have thought so since the moment I met you and each moment spent with you has only reinforced how I feel.” Saru bows his head and nuzzles his forehead against yours. 

“I love you,” he whispers, as if those three words have the power to end his entire existence

You release a shaky breath and let your tears fall.

“I’m... I’m sorry,” you whisper and Saru’s shoulders deflate. 

“You don’t feel the same,” he whimpers in the most pathetic way possible. It causes your heart to wrench.

“I was so convinced that you felt this way about Michael or, or somebody else, anybody but me,” you sniff. “And I was ignoring you because I couldn’t stand the idea of not being able to love you. You must think I’m such a child.”

You look away from him but his hand immediately moves under your chin and directs you to look up. He’s beaming at you, eyes glassy with joy, and it’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen.

You lean up and capture his lips in yours, conveying all the love you feel for him. Saru inhales sharply through his nose but lets out a breathy moan as he leans into your kiss. His hands tighten their hold on you and pull you closer, until there is barely any space left between you both. 

You pull back by barely an inch, not daring to stray too far from this man.

“I love you too,” you whisper. 

Saru beams at you, shyly, but the glow of that smile speaks volumes. He kisses you again, one of his hands moving to the back of your neck, securing you to him. 

[skinks]

I had a REALLY intense beatles phase in my late teens and i had the hots for paul mccartney and one time i found this story where this woman said she met paul at a party in 65 and he took her home and they talked until the sun came up and then he got a call telling him to come to the studio and he started to say he had to leave and she was like "not before you fuck me" and he laughed and then he DID and he left her alone in his house after and she stole his underwear (1/2)

(which she kept for decades until her husband threw them into their muddy front yard one day in a fit of jealousy) and a teapot and it always made me absolutely FERAL with jealous horny rage and like?? just this incredulous feeling of How On Earth Did That Really Happen and anyway bill hader’s dumpster mattress one night stand story is my new version of that (2/2)

The fucking journey this just took me on, holy shit. Did she at least get to keep the teapot?

I love that you had an intense teenage horny phase for a Beatle, I had one for Bob Dylan and I remember watching one of his electric era tour documentaries and being HORRIBLY jealous of the 60s girls hanging around outside his hotel... anyway that’s besides the point

I UNDERSTAND!!!!! THE MATTRESS STORY HAUNTS ME.... Bhader knows what he’s doing, he can try to couch it in as much self-deprecating oh-I’m-just-an-awkward-nerd fronting as he likes but he KNOWS what he’s doing and that woman knew it too. You ever notice how it’s the most competent ones who don’t feel the need to loudly prove themselves by being anything other than humble?? What did he SAY in that club! “It was going well,” he says, what does that MEAN, BILL, what did he fuckjfdkjcnnfkcning do that convinced this woman to leave the club, go to her place, lift a bed onto a car, go to HIS place and move furniture when she was literally moving to a new city the next day all so sHE COULD FUCK HIMMMM HOW IS HIS GAME THAT GOOD I FEEL LIKE A CHARACTER IN AN EDGAR ALLEN POE STORY BEING SLOWLY DRIVEN MAD BY THIS UNANSWERED MYSTERY

Ok sorry, I’m back. This is making me want to read a fic where (before they get together) Eddie watches an old interview of Richie telling the mattress story and he’s a seething ball of jealousy too. Then Richie comes out, he and Eddie sort their shit and get together, and one day Eddie laughingly comments that he had no reason to be jealous after all since Richie was obviously making the story up.

Richie looks at him weirdly. “I didn’t make up—that story did actually happen, Eds, I only changed it so people thought I went home with a chick.”

They are lying in bed. Eddie’s eye starts twitching. “Pardon?”

“Yeah?” Richie stretches, draping his right arm over his own head to scratch his left ear. Eddie will not be distracted by his chest right now, what the fuck. Richie squints at the ceiling. “I think his name was... Marco, or something. At least, that’s the name he gave to quote unquote Chris.”

“Marco, okay. Huh.”

“I wanted to be Lance or something cool, but my friend said I inhabited Chris better, I dunno. I didn’t even tell him why I needed a fake name, he was just like, big into method.”

“Yeah, mhmm.” Eddie sits up, nodding. He can’t stop nodding. His head feels like a champagne cork fizzing at the top of his spine. “So you, you uh—you were such a fucking player in your plaid and your baggy jeans that, that, that were the only things you even owned back then, Rich—don’t try to deny, it I’ve seen the pictures—that you convinced some guy who was moving town the next fucking day—”

Richie’s eyebrows shoot upwards. It makes his eyes look rounder, more delighted. “Convinced? Eddie—”

Eddie can’t stop, twisting the sheets in his hands til his knuckles go white. “Yes, convinced, you convinced him to go pick up some dirty mattress right off the street with a complete stranger even though you always make such a big deal about how awkward and nervous and repressed you were, you still, you still—”

“I was probably on molly or something at the time, man.” Richie’s beaming up at him. He pokes Eddie in the arm. Eddie feels how tense the muscle is, and fights to relax. “I’m kidding, at worst it was just a little tipsy driving. A little Wacky Races. Just call me Dick Bastardly.” Richie grins at his own dumbass joke, poking Eddie some more. “And it wasn’t just the mattress by the way, it was the whole bed. That’s a key detail. Headboard and everything.”

“The headboard?!” Eddie tries not to yell, but it comes out louder than he means to anyway. More of a shriek, embarrassingly. He lurches around in place to glare at their own flat bar of wood behind them. He holds onto that thing! It supports him, even when Richie’s fucking him into the wall!

Betrayal is neverending today, apparently. Eddie turns his glare onto Richie, who is laughing. “Stop laughing!”

“Your face,” Richie gasps. He covers his own face, then changes tack and yanks Eddie down over him to cackle into his flaming-hot throat. “What’s the problem! You’re acting like this is the same fucking bed, oh my god, you think I haven’t at least changed my mattress since I lived like a—like a Beavis and Butthead parody in Westwood, fifteen years ago?”

Eddie squirms miserably. Not even Richie’s broad nakedness against his can salvage this, he’s well and truly destroyed their sweet afterglow with his stupid overreaction. Feels like being fifteen again, ruining clubhouse hangouts with his snappy sulking as soon as Richie mentioned some girl at school. “No! No, obviously fucking not, just. I dunno.”

He doesn’t really deserve the gentle tease in Richie’s voice. “What don’t you know?”

“I don’t know!”

And that’s the part he hates most.

“Okay, okay. I think I do. Jesus, you’re actually jealous,” Richie breathes. He bites his lip, the way he does when he’s so happy about something he’s making a real effort not to talk over it. He’s still a little sweaty and pink from their Friday night activities, bedraggled hair and no glasses. The expression always scrunches his left eye into a full squint, something Eddie finds so helplessly appealing he can’t imagine what it’s like to watch that interview and not feel jealous.

Eddie grunts, shrugs as best he can under Richie’s heavy hug. Fucking Marco.

Richie’s hand is firm on the back of his neck. There’s pressure from his thumb at one point of Eddie’s jaw, the soft part between ear and bone that has him gulping open for Richie’s low murmur, “Eddie baby, don’t be jealous.” Their mouths meet and Eddie sighs into the slick warmth of it, feeling grateful and abashed and idiotic all at once.

They separate with a little snick of spit. Richie lids his eyes open just a touch, looking drowsy with affection. Eddie lowers his forehead to Richie’s shoulder and speaks to his collarbone. “I just—I hate it when you act like people are just doing you a favor for, for liking your shit or fucking going home with you when clearly it was—you’re fucking hot, Rich, and, and sexy when you’re not trying to be, and you were hot back then too, but you still act like it was a miracle anyone wanted to even touch you when I—I always would’ve picked the stupid dirty bed up off the street too. For you. And I wouldn’t’ve moved town the day after. So.”

Richie doesn’t speak for a moment. There is a cloud above their shared, clean bed, implicit with shared memory of all the times they dirtied each other’s sheets with grass stains and grubby feet, chip crumbs and even tears, just once, just before Eddie really did move town and forgot all the things he cared about so much more than he ever cared about getting sick.

He would never leave again though, is his point. Richie always seems to know what he means before Eddie does. He tries to think it loud enough, brings his hand up blindly to Richie’s face and strokes back his hair, not because Richie is a mind reader, but because he knows what it means that Eddie has never wanted to touch someone else like this.

Eddie’s spine then, curving under Richie’s knuckles like brushing a shiver along a set of wind chimes. His hand lands on Eddie’s tailbone, an X marks the spot that still throbs with loosened heat and pleasure from his orgasm. Lying on your front is bad for your posture.

I’m not lying on my front, Eddie thinks, with a little of the vicious defiance he doles out to that cloying voice sometimes, the one that tries to ruin quiet moments with its fretting. I’m lying on Richie’s. He’s good for my posture. He’s gonna snap my spine back into place and this time I’ll let him touch me.

Richie presses their temples together, small-voiced. “I guess... I find most of the flattery shit hard to believe. I didn’t like myself or the stuff I was making, so I’d automatically assume they were lying, y’know? If I agree it implies I believe them, which makes me feel like some giant, arrogant dick—don’t say it.” He pats Eddie on the ass. “But, on the other hand, if I think I’m somehow important enough for people to lie to, that’s kind of an arrogant dick move too.”

Eddie pushes up to eyeball him. “Even with sex? That’s so fucking dumb.”

This second ass-pat is harder, more of a stinging smack. Richie’s guarded look coils into a grin again at Eddie’s bared-teeth hiss. “I never said it wasn’t.”

“Well, I mean, what do you think it meant that fucking Marco—” Richie snorts at the projectile venom burning acidic holes through Eddie’s voice, “—was clearly willing to catch fleas or goddamn tetanus just to fuck you? What about me? You think I’m pretending it’s good just to encourage your weird, unnecessary inferiority thing? ”

“No, you’re right,” Richie laughs. His snorts have bubbled into full-blown giggles now as he squints down at the mess between their stomachs. “That’s pretty hard evidence you’re providing there, Eds.”

Getting harder too, rubbed up against the soft crease of Richie’s hip. Eddie can feel the lingering red throb of heat on his ass, like closing his eyes and still catching the gold-coin flash of the sun branded on the inside of his eyelids. Richie digs his blunt nails into the stung tenderness of his skin and gently pulls Eddie’s asscheeks open. He feels Richie’s quickened breathing against his wet mouth, and wonders how to ask for another spank in a way that isn’t gonna make him want to enter witness protection afterwards.

“I can’t believe you were jealous, you’re the last guy in the world who needs to be jealous,” Richie moans. Eddie feels the vibration of it on his tongue, now sucking on the knot of Richie’s adam’s apple. “Wait, can you really get tetanus from abandoned street beds?”

“Ugh!” Eddie bites him there and pulls off slowly, sucking so the stubbled skin of Richie’s strong throat is released from his mouth’s suction with a wet pop. Richie’s hips flex against him. “I almost wish this was the same fucking bed just so I had something to throw out into the yard!”

“O-ooh, how telenovela of you, I like it.”

Oh Christ, Eddie has to put some kinda stop to this before Richie starts speaking Spanish. He needs to last. He needs to beat Marco. “I’ll throw you out with it,” he says, too breathy and honest for anywhere else but here. “Trashmouth. Sweetheart.”

Richie’s face is flushed, eyes dark and desperate. He grips at Eddie’s ribs so hard Eddie feels them bending. “Dumpster diver.”

Eddie rolls his hips down, plants his palms on either side of Richie, shoves them under the pillows. He braces his elbows hard into Richie’s shoulders and grinds their sweaty foreheads together, but whatever aggression there is within him is softened by his catapulting heartbeat, harmonising with his own laughter. With Richie’s, always.

“Nah, ‘fraid the only thing left to remember that half-night stand with Marco is, well.” Richie looks down between them again, eyes almost crossed. “It’s me. My dick, more specifically.”

Eddie can feel as much. Another wave of possessiveness froths through him, crackling in the pockets of his joints, feels like cartoon steam whistling out his ears. “It better not be half-standing because it remembers anything about fucking Marco,” he snarls.

Richie raises his hands in a down boy gesture. It shifts his arms and shoulders in the way that sometimes makes Eddie wish he were a door, just so Richie could ram him open, and so he pins Richie’s wrists to the bed instead.

“Please don’t throw my dick out into the yard, babe,” Richie says.

“Gonna give you something to remember this fucking bed by,” Eddie says, and slides down Richie’s body to do just that.

[the-holy-ghosted]

I had never known love

Statement of Hope, regarding the beginning of his relationship with Breekon.

this is an old fic too but shoutout to my mutual @skelelephant who sits and makes up insane backstories with me about b+h. what would i be doing without them

I did not know what love was. I never knew how it felt to gain something I didn't know I missed. But now that knowledge is with me always, and I suppose I shall share that knowledge with you.

It is only sensible that I start from the beginning. Yes, the annoying beginning. I don't care if you don't want to hear it; you asked for a statement so I shall give you one. I was hardly a tolerable child, just as loud and violent as I am so well known for now. My behavior only worsened as I grew, and oh did I grow. Even as a young lad I loomed over my peers. I was a snarling, feral thing, hungry to terrorize the innocent teenagers forced to be in my presence. But I mellowed slightly as I reached adulthood. The hunger was there, and I was still vicious, but I found I needed only to exist within the space to feed on their discomfort. However, there was then a new hunger. A hunger I could not name settled in my chest behind my heart. I did not think about that hunger.

I did not know what love was, then. I had never understood that warm softness others spoke so wistfully about. What I knew of the world was cold and mean, no room for comfort. I did not know of love, and I did not care to. Until he appeared. I never had a name for the hunger that lingered in my chest. It was not obvious, nor was it particularly strong. But the moment I laid eyes on Breekon I was all but starving. The man we worked for told me his name, though I can't remember it now, and said we were to work together. Partners, so he called us. Breekon had not said a word the entire time, yet he stared me down with the eyes of a hawk, and that hunger in my heart sang so loud.

Breekon was tall, nearly half a foot taller than me. I knew the only reason we were paired together was that they thought he was big enough to steer me out of trouble. He was the only person bigger than me, which you think would have intimidated me, as our overseers had hoped it would. It did not in the slightest, rather, it enraptured me. I was not used to people looking down at me, being stronger than me. It was a fun change. He was not a talkative man. For at least a week I had not heard him utter a sound, no matter how much I chittered or how many questions I asked him. The rabid desire I felt gnawing at my ribcage was maddening and craved his notice so desperately. I was greedy for Breekon's attention, so I would be as obnoxious as possible in the hopes of getting him to just look at me. I would make jokes, and sometimes I'd get a huff. I would get snappy at other people who tried to turn his attention away. I would get into scraps and shouting matches and he would yank me away like a mother cat grabbing its kitten by the scruff. It was childish, but it worked. And then one day he spoke. I was pestering him, as I usually did, but he was not having me that day. My focus locked onto some small, spiffy-looking gentleman, dressed nicely and looking like he was in a hurry. He bumped into my arm as he scrambled past, and I took it as an opportunity to let off energy and I snapped at the man. Asked him where he thought he was going, what he was in such a hurry for, did he think he could just push everyone out the way like that? The poor fool stuttered and apologized, but I was not satisfied. I grabbed him by the shoulder, prepared to break it if I so pleased when Breekon spoke behind me. "Enough." He said, in a growling voice deeper than my own. I stopped dead and turned around with wide eyes to see him staring knives into me. His eyes told me to let go, and I did. I let go of the small gentleman and walked wordlessly back to the carriage and he stared at me the whole way, silent and stern. He got back into the carriage and we wordlessly continued on. For the rest of the day, my heart was silent. Satisfied.

After that I began getting him to talk a little bit more. He still didn't say much, only saying a word or two at a time, but he always answered when I asked him things. I think he saw how it settled me, how I would stop fussing if he said something, and he figured it was better than dealing with my usual annoyances. I couldn't tell you when we started to become friends, but after a while, we were comfortable with one another's company. I didn't feel so ravenous, and he would speak in full sentences. We became a hard-working pair. Although I mellowed out, the hunger never ceased. In fact, it only grew, filling my chest with a deep ache that I could not understand. I was too afraid to analyze it, too afraid to become self-aware of how I truly felt. All I understood was that I felt better when I was with Breekon. I felt better when he was paying attention to me, speaking to me, listening to me talk. It felt so nice... so rewarding. Desiring his notice of me still led me to poor decisions. I would start trouble just to feel him fuss over me and call me a fool and insist that no, he clean my wounds because my hands were unsteady and I couldn't see my face. I lived for those moments, where he cared for me. I devoured them.

He cared for me like that often. It was my fault, of course; I would get into fights I knew I'd lose, and he would feign his concern as annoyance yet still insist I let him clean me up himself. It was almost routine, to be honest with you. His tenderness was what my heart craved so dearly, the feeling of his hands so gently tending to me felt divine. His doting came more often to me after some time. More often and more by his own free will. I think he had the same hunger in his heart, now that I think about it. He just expressed it differently. While I was persistent in getting his undivided attention, he did not beg for mine. Rather, he just stared at me, almost looking like he was trying to understand something, something he'd figure out if he just looked hard enough. He stared at me with such intensity, a gaze that spoke to me in whispered words I could hear in the back of my mind. I know he heard me say things, too. That became a phenomenon between the two of us. We'd move together wordlessly, already aware of what the other was going to do. At first, we didn't speak of it. We didn't want to have an awkward heart-to-heart and ruin what we had going on. But the whispers I'd hear in the back of my mind turned into clear, coherent words as we spent more time together. He heard them too, I could see it in his eyes. We would peer into one another, and we would hear the words, and we would both startle ourselves and turn away. We never spoke of it. There was something deeper, there. Within the words we projected to one another was a reason for the desperate aching need I had for Breekon that resided in my chest, and if I thought hard enough I could unlock it.

I did end up figuring it out, actually. It was quite funny in retrospect, I hit my head after getting my jaw punched out of place. I was in and out of consciousness and felt so incredibly far away from the world. My eyes were heavy and reality was blurry, but when I did occasionally open them, there were fuzzy visions of Breekon's face looming over me. It was not always his face, though. His face would melt into the face of someone else, a few times. In my dazed state, I did not consider it coincidence or just the concussion twisting my vision. I knew it meant something. My mind was full of incoherent thoughts and feelings and memories that weren't mine, suddenly placed in my head with no warning. Memories I had of Breekon, from someone that was and yet was not me. Not really with him, of course, but no matter the face he wore in these memories that were not my own, it was still him every time. My heart ached. It was pounding. It was throwing all these puzzle pieces at me, screaming for me to put them together. Screaming for me to understand, to remember for myself. To wake up. That last part was very clear. A voice echoed in my conscience to wake up. It was not Breekon's voice, though I could hear him speaking far off in the real world. The voice in my head was my own, but at the same time, it wasn't. It was my own voice from a separate entity, an entity that felt the same as the aching in my heart. It felt so angry, so tired, so brutally desperate for me to just wake up. I couldn't understand what it meant. The memories and screaming and feelings were too much to bear at once. I think I must've started to cry wherever my body was, I felt hot tears roll down my cheeks into my ears, I hadn't even realized they laid me down. Through the static mess, I heard Breekon's gentle coo and a thumb brush over my cheek. He hushed me quietly and I felt his breath in my ear. It was incredible how quickly I stopped shaking and quieted down. The voice in my head wanted me to reach for him, to hold him, but it hurt too much to move. I think I must have grabbed some part of him, his bicep or his leg, and I squeezed. He hushed me some more and comforted me in words I couldn't make out. The screaming was still loud, but whenever he spoke, his voice cut through and brought me ease. He must've understood, telepathically or not, and he kept reassuring me until I finally drifted away into sleep.

Can't say I remember much after that mess. I recall being told the guy I got pummeled by was found bleeding out in a horse paddock. It wasn't hard to guess who did it, especially when Breekon came to check on me with bandaged knuckles. He looked after me by himself for the rest of that week. Not a soul was permitted to bother me but him, a very strict rule that nobody was brave enough to disobey. I think I started feeling like myself again near the end of the week. I was throwing little quips at him again, teasing him about his busted hands, half-joking that I'd kiss them better for him. He let me, once. Sometimes I'd whine about him making my cut lip feel better. Usually, he'd just scoff and turn away. He did, though, sometimes. I remembered those.

I still didn't know what to make of my revelation, though. The voice in my head still screamed, still ached, still reached for Breekon, but there was no explanation as to why. It stressed me greatly, and he took immense concern about my behavior. What could I have told him? That I remembered him from what I can only assume is a past life? That something in my soul woke up and threw a fit over him? Would I have told him to wake up? I couldn't talk about it. He wouldn't understand. It was a few days after getting back into work that I realized I missed him. It made zero sense, and yet it was exactly how I felt. How I could miss someone when I spent every day with them was beyond me, and yet my heart cried it out with such confidence. It was sure. He would be right in front of me and still, I thought I missed him. He tried so hard to understand what little I could tell him without sounding insane, but he still couldn't grasp it. I think it hurt him seeing me so distressed but unable to understand why. The concept was so abstract that no amount of telepathy could properly explain whatever the hell was going on. However, I think he felt it too. Maybe he couldn't quite get it just yet, but something inside him yearned just as painfully. He'd hug me a little tighter, kiss me a little longer, search a little deeper into my eyes for some sudden explanation. He probably wouldn't get it unless he hit his head, though. I knew that, but I wasn't preparing to sock him just to activate what we were both looking for. Somehow, though, he figured it out. I don't know how he did it, he never told me, but one evening he ran to me and told me he loved me. He told me he understood, he gets it now, he knows what we are. "Soulmates" was the term I believe he used. I didn't care what word he called it, the screaming that filled my mind came to a crescendo, and I could think of nothing but to tell him I missed him. He understood what I meant, that time, and he missed me too. We spent that evening holding each other and whispering sweet nothings. I understood the gravity of love, then. Looking at Breekon made it make perfect sense.

We were a hell of a mortal duo for a while there. Absolutely nobody could explain our sudden inseparability, and it frightened them a little bit. We liked it when it frightened them. We started speaking in sync together, I would begin and he would finish as we so love to do now. Sometimes we'd go back and forth just to freak people out. They all wondered what went on between us, but we never told them. They stopped seeing us as two people together and instead as one huge, terrifying thing that came in the form of two men. The fear they emitted was intoxicating, and we took it all.

And then I got sick. Of course I got sick, we handled dead bodies, and I would play with and prod at them like they were rag dolls, like it was a joke. Of course I got sick. It felt cruel to kill me that quickly. We had only a few weeks completed together before I caught that dastardly illness. It was a peculiar thing, that plague. Constantly mutating and killing people in new, more disturbing ways. It certainly wasn't natural, what caught me. It was unlike any disease you've heard of. It did not behave like a regular sickness, putting terrible things inside of your body to kill you. It hollowed you. I remember so vividly ripping some poor dead peasant open to feed his pieces to the pigs, and the ax cut through him clean. No blood, no resistance. I pried him open and found nothing but an empty body and his skeleton. That disease was nothing normal, turning your skin thick and rubbery and carving you out like a pumpkin and ripping your vocal cords to shreds. It hurt, too. Oh, how it hurt. It was not a searing pain that causes you to whimper and wail, but a pain so seething and deep you can't even breathe let alone scream. Breekon did not leave my side as I withered away. I would have told him to save himself, but I knew there was no life for him without me there. He wouldn't have listened, anyway. Whatever time he didn't spend laying and suffering with me, he spent looking for a cure. There was none, of course, but that did not stop him. He was gone for a whole day, once. Wherever I don't know, but when he came back, he came back with a book. A hardcover leatherback, with uncomfortably thick paper and writing I couldn't read. To be honest, I didn't think he could read it either. He could, though, and he told me it would fix me, make me new. The only catch was that I had to die first.

Would any sane person have listened to him? No, of course not. But did I? Of course I did. I trusted him with what little life I had. He explained to me what the book told him and how he found it and how it would work, but I didn't retain anything. Something about a new face granting a new life, I didn't care. I let him talk and he gave me one last kiss goodbye, and finally, I died.

I don't quite recall what it felt like to be dead. All I remember is my body feeling numb, so wonderfully numb, and then I awoke. It wasn't sudden, I just woke up as if from normal sleep. My body felt hollow, as I suppose I should have expected. Breekon was sitting in a chair next to our bed, the book in his lap, a blood-soaked knife in one hand, and holding my own in the other. His head rested upon my thigh, and the dark circles under his eyes suggested I must've been gone for a few days at least. It was then I noticed my face felt strange. It felt like it... fit wrong. It didn't hurt, just felt too stretched out and tight. I felt refreshed, though, funny enough. Like a brand new man, if you will. I eased myself up with my free arm and stared down at Breekon. There was blood covering the floor next to his chair, and I think there may have been a human foot poking out from under the bed. My head was empty, however, and I had no mind for what atrocities he committed to bring me back. I reached my left hand over and gently pushed my fingers through his messy, unclean hair. I squeezed his hand to try and rouse him gently. He stirred, and I tried to speak. My throat was shot, and what came out of my mouth sounded raspy and hoarse, yet I still called him my love with as much tenderness as I always do. He awoke, and he turned his head up slightly to look at me. His face was struck with the most subtle horror at first, which concerned me a bit, but his horror turned to joy and tears began to well up in his eyes. We held each other for a little while. He wept into my shoulder and I realized I forgot how to breathe. I had no lungs to do so, so perhaps it didn't matter. Not many things mattered anymore, I was alive.

He told me how he spent three days looking for the perfect face. He wanted to find someone that looked nearly identical to me, to make things easier, and that I could pick out my own face after this was over. I had no idea what he meant, but I listened anyway. He taught me how to read the strange book he found, and how it gave me my life back. I took it in and read it over a couple of times while he slept next to me in bed. I was to replace his face, apparently. Not the most mortifying thing I've done, if you'd believe me, but certainly up there at the time. After a few days of scouting for a face that looked like Breekon's, he started to fall ill. I felt horrible knowing the exact pain he was dealing with, but being able to do nothing to ease it. I could at least soothe his worries of resurrection and tell him it wouldn't hurt. He seemed to take comfort in that. At last, I held him close to me as he took his final breaths and died in my arms. I shouldn't have cried, I knew there was no need. I knew I was bringing him back. I knew he died as comfortably as he could. I cried anyway. I hunted down his doppelganger and killed him quickly. It wasn't simple, dragging a huge, dead man back to our bedroom without anyone noticing, but nobody liked to question us anymore. The ritual I had to perform was simple. I would peel the face of the stranger, and place it over Breekon's. The passage I was required to read from was... quite vague and metaphorical, but in some strange way, it made sense.

He was corrupted. His body diseased and decrepit, eyes so sunken and lips so cracked and pale his face is unrecognizable. As his conscience fades out of existence, he succumbs to The Rot. But an unrecognizable face is not what The Rot desires. The Rot does not care about who you are and aren't. Instead, he shall never look like himself ever again. With a new face comes a new life, and with a new life, he shall take many faces. With a new face comes many new names, and with new names, he loses his real self to the nature of a Stranger, and all he knew will look upon him and say I Do Not Know You.

Somehow the wind was knocked out of me, even though I lacked lungs. I fell back on the floor, covered in blood, and looked frantically at Breekon. The stranger's face had melted with his, looking frightening and uncanny. I stared in awe. Somehow the divine powers of fuck all managed to fuse his face with someone else's. I kneeled in front of the bed and held his cold hand. He didn't move for a long time. It could have been hours, days even, and I stared at him the entire time. Sometime later, his eyes fluttered open and he appeared to be taking in the new sensations. He looked around the room, and his eyes fell on me. I greeted him with a smile, and a kiss hello.

If nobody could understand us then, they certainly didn't now. We walked out of our room however many mornings later and acted as if nothing happened. We knew they would remain confused and terrified, and we adored it. I'm sure you get it now. I became quite fond of changing my face; it felt liberating to look nothing like me. We gained knowledge of the fears but cared not about what gods there were to consume us with love. We loved each other, and that is all we desire.

I had never known love. I never felt the warm embrace of the being the other half of my heart belonged to. But now that feeling is with me always, and I wish nothing but to share it with you.

[alexlabhont]

I didn’t mean to fall in love with you

Chapter five

Book: Queen B - Choices (Universe)

Pairing:  Poppy Min-Sinclair x Trans!Male MC (Beck Hughes)

Genre: Canon re-write (Because I can)

Rating: Ehm... 13 years < , I mean, is not that hard, but just to be sure.

I´ll be posting this one over here because Tumblr, for some reason, thinks my secondary blog is a bot...

This is me trying to write by and for the Trans community, specially FTM community, meaning, trans guys, but I actually took the liberty to use They/them pronouns for everyone out there who´s interested (Also, the name Beck was the most neutral one I could find, trying to use the cannon Bea Hughes)

Now, about the PAIRING... I will be using choices style, kinda, because I want to give you choice at some point. If you have any comment, PLEASE BE RESPECTFULL and patient with me. This is also my first english fanfic and english is not my mother language, so... i’m sorry fo the grammar errors

CHAPTERS 

The beginning

Chapter one 

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

ONE-SHOTS 

Just a dance (Zoey x MC)

—————————————————————— 

“No.”

“What?”

“I'm not doing it.” Poppy laughed, trying to hide her anger towards them.

“Farmsville, come on…”

“I said no.”

The strawberry blonde closed her fist so hard she could almost feel the earpiece cracking.

“Honestly… This seems a little extreme. And I will never support any kind of hurtful pantomime.” Those icy eyes pierced right through her, a strength and courage radiating from them so powerful that Poppy would´ve been turned on if she wasn’t very pissed.

“Am I missing something? I thought you hated Chloe as much as we do.” Oh, right. There was Bradley. She almost forgot about him.

“As we do?” The irony in Beck’s voice was so palpable that she could see it slapping Bradley right in the face. “Has Chloe ever done anything to you that I´m not aware of, Hollywood?” Beck smiled tired, as to making fun of themselves. “Zoey was right; I shouldn't have come… “The simply mention of that girl´s name set on fire her blood to an unexpected level.

“That bitch…”

As Beck tried to walk away, Poppy intervened, full of rage.

“I didn’t think of you as one of those who´s afraid to actually do something!

And that´s where Beck stopped, as if something made click inside them. They turned around and for the first time in her life, someone’s look made her feel naked, completely exposed. The more Beck analyzed her, looking for something they only knew, the more vulnerable she felt. That moment lasted just a couple of seconds, no-one around them notice it but both of them.

“You’re right.” They finally said, reaching out for the earpiece which Poppy gave them doubting, giving out the other one to Bradley. For some strange reason she didn’t want them to participate anymore, but now they were necessary, it was too late. The operation had already begun, so she didn’t have other choice but linked her arm with theirs, walking into the dance floor.

“I´m counting on you tonight, Farmsville. Don’t disappoint me.” Once on the dancefloor, Poppy gave Beck a light shove and took a deep breath, trying desperately to erase any residue of the feeling they made her have. “You take the left side of the club. I´ll take the right. And remember, don’t let Chloe out of your sight.”  That was the last thing she told them before parting ways.

~~X~~

The thing is…

She hasn’t seen Chloe in all the fucking night.

What were the odds? Surely the stupid blonde should be in Beck's side, the very thought of it tasting bittersweet… deep down, she knew the real reason to involved Beck.

They were a good person.

The heaviness in her chest was there since the moment she found out Chloe was taking the hook. At first she was thrilled, smash enemies, that was her favorite thing, having plans, blackmailing, humiliating… that was kinda her thing, and she loved it at some point… but Chloe…

Gosh, she hated her. But the memories of them playing, laughing, crying, growing together… a big part of her really wanted to make her pay for her betrayal.

But the other one, the little, small other one… the other one begged to have her best friend back.

Maybe that’s why she didn’t stop Beck when she saw them warning Chloe, telling her she should not trust any word coming out Bradley’s mouth. Maybe that’s why that previous moment with Beck was so intimate yet personal… Yes, definitely they were more observant than she gave them credit for.

After making sure Chloe was far away and all the attention was on Bradley, Poppy walked towards Beck, her bitch mask on as always. She would rather be caught dead before admitting she needed their help to protect her from herself.

“It’s go time. Let’s make this bitch bleed.”

Her words claimed, but her actions were something else. Feeling stupid, like a child, Poppy wrapped Beck's arms around her, searching for comfort, but giving them her back. She could feel their chest behind her, their heat warming her body and their breath close to her hair. Without realizing, her fingers caressed their forearms tenderly, her eyes never looked away from the stage, where Chloe was dazzle by Bradley.

This was it. Her plan was marching flawlessly, even though the first words spoken by Bradley were… well, definitely he did not know how to improvise.

“You’re up, Farmsville. Feed him his first line.” Poppy felt Beck taking a deep breath and hugged her tightly but gentle. Their mouth hided behind her ear, and suddenly, she forgot about the purpose of all the things she was doing.

Because for one moment, Poppy felt as a regular girl, hearing sweet nothings from her significant other.

“She’s got an amazing sense of style… Seriously, she dresses like a runway model. Whatever she walks into a room, everyone turns their head.”

Her heart was beating fast, a strange warm in her chest was growing, and their lips moving closer made her snuggle even more against them, being reciprocate immediately by Beck, holding her still.

“Whenever I’m around this girl, I feel like the king of the world. Not only is she so hot, she’s also compassionate… She shines this amazing light on everyone and everything around her. People who are lucky enough to be her friend can always count on her support.”

Poppy felt the playfully smile on Beck’s mouth, that idiot, even in times like this still managed to crack some joke around.

“You’re a moron.” She whispered.

“Think you could do it better? Be my guest.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“This might sound like a stupid question, but… do you know who I'm talking about, Chloe?”

And, as simple and quick as that, it all went down to reality. Beck broke the hug apart, walking away to the bar so quickly it actually made Poppy shivering from the sudden cold, feeling unprotected, like something was missing… someone was missing.

“Of course I do” she heard Chloe said. A weird mix between excitement and fear taking over her, while looking perfectly neutral from outside. “It’s Poppy, isn’t it? You’re talking about Poppy Min-Sinclair.”

Poppy's honey eyes went straight to Beck, who was pretending to do a toast, alone, in her behalf. She didn’t even pay attention to what was on stage. Beck admitted to her having sabotage her revenge.

And she couldn’t be more relieved about it.

She also reached for the bar, standing up next to them, neither of them looking at each other.

“Poppy, you have to understa…”

“I can’t say I'm not disappointed, but at least we got Chloe to look a little stupid up there.” Poppy interrupted them. Beck looked surprised for a second, nailing their gaze into their drink after that. “… By the way, the lines you fed Bradley were pure, vicious gold.”

“I got inspired, that’s all.” They murmured, almost ashamed.

Poppy didn’t had time to respond, because The T notification buzzed in her phone: Beck was now top nine, and, of course, herself was back on top one.

“Oh, it worked all right. I’m right back on top, where I belong.”

She couldn’t help but smile to them, a real, happy smile. She got her crown back, and the damages weren’t so bad after all. And it was thanks to Beck, they were a completely live saver. No wonder why Zoey was so eager to protect them…

Speaking of her… if she was as serious as she claims to be towards Beck, and since The T spies were already here… maybe it was time to make a really good move to prove her who's better. And she knew exactly how.

“You did your part. Now, let’s dance.”

Decided, Poppy grabbed their hand, trying to lead them out on the dance floor, but she didn’t get much. Beck was rock still, looking uncomfortable… Like with all of those girls.

“No, I… I don’t dance, Pops.” Are they really rejecting her? To her? No, she was not another stupid whatever girl, she was, again, the Queen. Nobody says no to her.

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course you do!” she said. “I’ve seen you dancing around with Wade. Don’t you try to deny it.”

“That’s different.” They defended themselves, making Poppy raise an eyebrow, challenged, before changing it to a flirty grin.

“Well… maybe I want to be different to you, too.” There it was, that precious lamb’s look she wanted so badly to see. “Just this one, tushi-face…”

Beck started walking almost right away. There it was, their soft spot for her Beck didn’t wanted to acknowledge, but it was already within them.

Not letting go their hand for a second, Poppy and Beck reached the dance floor right away to start to move to the beat in time, Beck trying… really trying to do the same.

Seriously, this dude was bad at this.

Was Zoey the answer?

No, they’re nervous, she could feel the tension in all their body. But why?

“What are you so nervous about?” She asked, feeling a little insulted.

“Paranoia.” They said.

“To what?” Beck only managed to shrug, something in their eyes was off, remembering something from… the past? Beck was afraid? Hell, what did Farmsville do to them? Poppy threw up her arms around their neck, leaning closer, trying to make him forget. “Don’t repeat this to anyone, Tushi-face, but… I needed you tonight.”

“Sounds to me like… You want me, too.” They joked, Poppy could feel the tension disappearing, nothing really to do with the conversation, but with the small petting she was doing to the hair close to Beck’s nape. “Be honest. Was this whole plan an elaborate ruse to get me on the dance floor?” Poppy smirked.

“Don’t be ridiculous, this was all about sabotaging Chloe.” She said, laughing. “Of having wanted it from the start I’d already have you.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I want you now, and I’m having you.” Beck expression was a poem, the surprise written all over them for a moment, processing the information.

“What are you saying, Poppy?”

“I’m a woman used to get only the best, Hughes. And once I put my eyes onto something… or someone I want, I’ll do anything to make them mine…” The sexual tension was in the air so thick it made everyone around just disappear, the sparks between they both, the way they looked at each other… full of hunger, of need… She wanted Beck, and they wanted Poppy just the same. She could feel it so clear in the way they were touching her back, delicate, yet strong, longing, like begging to the devil to stop, but not wanting to. Please, just end my misery… those eyes claimed, but their body, moving along with hers was screaming to continue, and Poppy got drunk on it, needing more… a lot more.

“Baby, you got lucky cause you're rocking with the best… And I'm greedy… so greedy” She sang whispering, stroking her nose against theirs, playfully, softly, their lips oh so close to hers she could somehow feel them tremble, the sensations intoxicating them both so badly. “I ain't talking money, I'm just physically obsessed… And I'm greedy…”

“Poppy…” They moaned and the strawberry girl couldn’t take it anymore, desperately claiming Beck’s lips with her own.

Her heart exploded.

Beck’s mouth was warm, soft, addictive. As the kiss continued, the need became more and more insufferable, she wanted all and everything. She wanted to feel these heady fireworks on each part of her skin, that tongue taking care of the flames in her body, their hot lips heating her as fire, their breath became poison and the cure at the same time, she stuck her body even closer, trying to feel theirs desperately… Never, anyone, had made her feel so much with just a kiss…

A kiss that suddenly went to a rude ending.

Beck broke apart the touch so promptly that it actually hurt inside her.

“No, I… I just can’t. I gotta go.” Beck was trembling, that was the last thing she managed to understand before being completely alone.

-----

Next

[daddies-disappointment]

Something Not So Secret [Klaus Hargreeves]

Request: By a friend of mine who wanted me to bruise Klaus up and have him lie to his family

Summary: Klaus is trying to practice levitating and he gets covered in bruises. His family asks about it and he lies to them trying to keep it a secret until he can levitate safely. The family gets suspicious and calls a family meeting.

Words: 1,728

Warnings: referenced domestic violence, a very brief reference to sex, a few cuss words, lying, and a bruised up Klaus

A/N: She enjoyed this so I hope you will too! It can also be found on ao3. I also didn’t really edit this.  Let me know if I need to add onto my warnings.

1. BEN

"Klaus, where did that bruise on your cheek come from?"

Klaus glanced over to his loving brother Ben who decided to appear next to him. He wondered what lie he could tell, turning back to the mirror. His training needed to remain a secret. He could say he fell, which wasn't a lie, but Ben probably wouldn't believe him. He needed something specific for him. Five was a vicious little human, so he could use him as an excuse. Ben could never ask Five what happened, anyway. Klaus looked back at him with a large grin, "Our little psycho."

"What did he do?" Ben asked, eyebrows furrowing. Ben leaned in closer to study the bruise.

"I was bothering him, and he shot a rubber band. It hit me in the face," He lied, "He didn't mean it though, Benny."

"Make sure to be more careful around him, okay?" Ben said, with a loving smile.

Wow, Ben was gullible.

2. DIEGO

"Klaus, where did that bruise come from?" Diego asked, pushing the large bruise on his right hip where his shirt had ridden up.

Klaus was currently lying in Diego's bed stretched out as the said brother sat at the end of the bed cleaning his knives. He had been staying in Diego's room for the past few days because his nightmares were rearing its ugly head. Diego was a secret cuddle bug, which made his nightmares stay away.

"Do you really want to know?" Klaus asked, fixing his shirt.

Diego nodded, setting his knives down.

Klaus knew making Diego uncomfortable will make him drop the subject. Sex would do it. "Well, Di, A few days ago I had toe-curling rough sex."

He watched Diego's face turn red and look down at his knives. He dropped the subject completely. Klaus chuckled and grabbed his yarn and knitting needles. He felt bad for lying, but he needed to train more before telling them.

3. FIVE

"Where the fuck did this come from?" Five asked, lifting Klaus' shirt.

"Wha- Five!" Klaus said, shoving Five away and fixed his shirt.

Five's eyes were wide, he was uncharacteristically concerned. "Klaus, your entire chest is bruised!"

"Hush, little brother," Klaus said petting his brother's hair. He was genuinely shaken at his brother's reaction. It felt like five was a child again. Five was usually dismissive towards everyone, especially him, so seeing him on the verge of tears was terrifying.

His lie would have to be funny to get him to relax. Klaus ignored his body screaming at him to keep Five at a distance, he pulled Five into a hug. "It's a funny sorry actually," Klaus said kissing his brother's head.

"What did you do?" Five asked, nuzzling into his shoulder.

"I climbed into a laundry basket and slid down the stairs and landed on my stomach." Klaus lied.

It seemed to work because five started snickering before erupting into full-body laughter. Klaus relaxed seeing his brother perk up and joined in the laughter.

4. VANYA

"Hey, Klaus. How did you get that bruise?"

Klaus was physically exhausted and just wanted to get food and go back to sleep. He hurt his left leg training today so he couldn't leave the kitchen until she left. He was stuck.

Klaus glanced at the bruise on his bicep, "What bruise, this bruise?"    Klaus asked pointing to the large bruise on his bicep.

"Yeah, that one," Vanya said, cocking her head to the side.

"Vanny, I dunno, I'm always banging into stuff. You may have noticed, I'm a bit clumsy," Klaus explained, turning back around and pouring a cup of Five's coffee. He knew that brushing it off was the best option for Vanya.

"oh, it's just big. I thought that maybe someone hurt you." Vanya seemed embarrassed by her assumption.  

"If someone hurts me, I would tell someone. I promise." Klaus gave Vanya a large fake smile and turned his back to her and waited for her to leave.

5. ALLISON

"Holy shit, your entire back is bruised and scraped up."

Klaus groaned lifting his head and glanced at Allison who was standing in his doorway. Klaus put his head back down, "What do you want, Ally?" He asked.

"We are having a family meeting. Klaus, what happened to you?" Allison asked, walking in.

"I slipped and fell in the bathroom." Klaus lied not even bothering to think about it.  He had noticed it was getting easier and easier to lie to his family. No one seemed to be catching on. He was thankful his family ignored him for the most part.

"Are you sure that's what happened?" she asked, stepping into his room.

"I was there, Allison," Klaus said, waving his goodbye hand to get rid of her.

"Oh, okay." She whispered and walked back out of his room, "I'll tell them you'll be down in five minutes." she closed the door behind him.

Klaus whimpered, pushing himself up in bed. His body was begging for him to rest, but he couldn't.

6. LUTHER

"I've noticed that you've been pretty bruised up."

Klaus groaned, hearing Luther come up behind him on his way to the bathroom. He just wanted to take a bath and relax. The pain was almost too much to handle. "Luther, it's late. I want to relax in the bath and then go to sleep," Klaus whines.

"Is everything okay? Something is wrong with you."

"Luther, everything is fine, nothing is going on that is or ever will be of concern. Okay?" he lied, trying to keep his voice even.

He knew Luther was just looking out for his 'team'; He was stuck in the mindset of being number one. Klaus understood that, but it didn't make it any less annoying. He just wanted to be left alone, but it was too much to ask of his siblings.

"Are you sure?" He asked, reaching out and awkwardly grasping his shoulder.

Klaus gave a weak smile, "I am sure, Luther." Klaus said, patting his brother's arm. Klaus pulled out of his grip and made his way into the bathroom.

He leaned against the bathroom door and tried not to cry. Luther had grabbed a bruise. There was pain shooting down his arm. He shoved himself forward, excited to slip into a warm bath, and relax.

+ 1

"Family meeting!" Allison announced as Klaus walked into the house.

Klaus wanted to ignore them and make his way upstairs, He was bone tired, and all he wanted was to curl up in his bed and sleep for days. He shoved down his first instinct and decided it was best to be polite. "Allison, can this wait until tomorrow, please? I am not feeling good," Klaus asked, stepping into the living room where the rest of his family sat.

Klaus was on edge as Luther closed the doors and stood in front of it. He glanced at his siblings, who stared at him. Watching. Waiting.

Something was very wrong. No one was talking. They were just fidgeting in their seats and glancing around. "Guys, what's wrong?" He asked, breaking that awkward silence.  

"Do. . . Are you dating?" Allison asked, her voice soft.

Klaus cocked his head to the side, "Why is that any of your business?" He asked.

"Just answer the question, Klaus," Luther snapped, making Klaus jump.

He wondered what that had to do with anything, "No, I haven't been dating. Why are you asking?" He asked, looking to Five for clarification.

"We can rule out domestic violence," Luther said.

"Domestic wha- Five, what is going on here?" Klaus asked. He could rely on Five to be honest, but he seemed to be afraid to say something. "Five, tell me what this is about."

"We are trying to figure out why you are so bruised up! We thought that maybe someone was abusing you," Five explained, standing up.

Klaus burst into laughter, "Guys, no one is hurting me. I got these bruises training," Klaus explained, sitting down on Diego's lap and untied his shoes. He knew they wouldn't believe him, so he had to show them.

"Training?" Luther asked.

"How did you do that training?" Five asked.

Klaus slipped his shoes off and tossed them aside. He had moved in front of his family to prove he had another power.

"Watch."

He closed his eyes.

He tried not to let nerves and exhaustion get in his way of him showing off his newfound power of levitation. The gasps and disbelief of his family made him smirk. He looked down to see him hovering about a foot over the ground.

"I've been trying to get this under control for the past few weeks. I have a lot of trouble lowering myself. I tend to fall and bruise my body up." Klaus said.

"This is... How?" Five asked, walking closer admiring his brother.

"I was fighting with Ben. . . and I didn't notice I was levitation until He pointed it out. When I noticed, I hit the floor like a sack of potatoes," he explained, trying to focus on staying up. he was way too tired to stay up longer than a few minutes. "Diego, can you make sure I don't fall?" He asked.

"Yeah, come on down," Diego said, moving close.

Klaus closed his eyes and tried to focus on lowering himself. He opened his eyes as he was inches from the ground before he fell. He leaned back into his brother.

Diego helped steady Klaus, "Th-That was ama-amazing! I-" Diego closed his eyes and took a deep breath, "I am so proud of you."

Klaus pulled his brother into a hug. He bit back a groan when Diego held him tightly. He had planned on hiding it until he had control, mainly not to disappoint his family. He was wrong. They were proud of him. he let go of Diego and turned to everyone to see them all with smiles. It felt nice.  

"For now, stop training." Five walked over to Klaus, "We are going to remodel the gym while your body heals up. We will make a safe place to practice."

"Anything you say, old man," he said, pulling Five into a hug.

"Group hug?" Allison asked.

"Group hug. Just be gentle. My entire body is bruised," Klaus reminded them.

They hurried over and hugged him, making sure to tell Klaus how proud they are.

[angryhausfrau-writes]

Dammit, Amos, I’m a Botanist Not a Doctor

Prax's first aid skills are really not equipped to handle the kinds of injuries Amos keeps coming to him with. And he's getting pretty mad that Amos keeps needing that sort of medical attention. Wishes he'd start taking better care of himself. And in the middle of his lecture about Amos doing just that, feelings get revealed.

“You know that I'm a botanist and not a medical doctor, Amos. I don't know why you keep coming to me with this kind of thing.”

They're standing in the harsh lighting of the mechanic shop rather than the sterile med bay and Prax is peering dubiously at the cut on Amos's chest, a cotton swab with disinfectant held in his unsure hand. Exactly how Amos had gotten cut is a mystery – and a mystery that Prax doesn't really need to know the answer to, if he's being honest with himself.

After Jules-Pierre Mao, and Dr. Strickland, and everything surrounding Mei's rescue, he's more than aware of just what kind of man Amos Burton is. Just how far he's willing to go to protect those he's chosen to follow, to guard. And for whatever reason Prax and Mei have fallen into that “protect” category. And there's nothing Amos won't do to see them – and the rest of the kids – safe and shielded from any form of harm.

Including the protective form of harm Amos has been dishing out as the Roci crew attempts to eradicate any remaining pockets of Protomolecule left hidden away by Jules-Pierre Mao or Dr. Strickland and his scientists.

“It's cuz I trust you, doc,” Amos says, clapping a big, rough hand onto Prax's shoulder. “And it's just a little cut anyway – nothing to waste the autodoc on.”

That's not, strictly speaking, true. The cut's deep enough that Amos needs stitches – which he'd opted for over the cellular regen, for reasons known only to him. And it's a wound that falls right at the edge of Prax's limited first-aid skills.

But Amos has this way of looking at Prax – blunt and direct and so full of trust in him. It's almost frightening in its absoluteness. Prax never wants to see that look turn to distrust and betrayal. So this – Amos standing in the mechanical bay, stripped to the waist, while Prax patches him up - has turned into something of a ritual for them whenever Amos comes back from a mission.

And it is every time Amos comes back from a mission, Prax thinks as he starts disinfecting the cut. Because Amos will bodily put himself between his crew and harm every. Single. Time.

And it's a little bit infuriating and a lot concerning. But being infuriated is easier to concentrate on as Prax works to bring the broken edges of skin back together. He needs his hands steady and his head clear of worries about what if.

What if this is the last time they do this? What if Amos gets hurt too badly to fix next time? What if...?

So Prax thinks about how mad he is at Amos for dragging him away from his plants or his daughter or his reading to patch him up, over and over again. Because he has no regard for his own safety. His own worth.

“You should be more careful, Amos,” Prax says, an edge of steel to his voice as he pulls the needle through Amos's tender, breakable – oh, so breakable – skin. “You're not indestructible, you know.”

The point is underlined by Amos's sharp breath as Prax pulls the first stitch taught.

And he can't keep up the steely disapproval. Not in the face of Amos actually hurting. But he has gotten pretty good at gentle chastisement through his being a single parent to Mei. And heading an entire department of younger scientists. So.

“I know you like to go charging headfirst into danger, like to put yourself in the line of fire. Like to protect people. But you're human. Flesh and blood. And you can't – you've got to start being more careful, Amos.”

Prax runs his hand gently over Amos's chest, soothing Amos's flinching at the sting of the needle and steadying himself and making sure – to the best of his limited ability – that his stitches are even and won't scar.

“There are people who care if you come back, you know. Mei would be devastated to lose her new uncle. And the rest of the kids.”

A pause while Prax makes the next stitch. And thinks about his next words.

“And me too, Amos. I – I wouldn't have made it to Io without you. Wouldn't have found Mei without you. And I don't. I can't say what would have happened with Dr. Strickland without you there. But more than that, you're my best friend, Amos.”

That's not. That doesn't come close to describing how Prax feels about him. But it's all the words he can find right now – when he's scared and mad and so, so full of concern for the man who's standing there so still and patient and, and nonjudgmental under his clumsy attempts at doctoring.

“And I don't want to lose you because you were being reckless or, or not valuing just how important you are to us. To everyone on this ship.”

Prax makes another stitch. Almost done, now.

“But mostly, I don't want to lose our friendship. Is that selfish to say?”

Not that Amos has ever cared about things like that. It's one of the things Prax values about their friendship – with Amos, he doesn't need to apologize for how he is or what he feels. Amos takes it all with equanimity. Takes Prax as he is, even at his worst.

And true to form, Amos shrugs – broad chest shifting under Prax's hands.

“It's true, regardless. So you'd better start taking better care of yourself.”

Prax ties off the knot on his suture. It's not professional by any means, but it ought to hold. He wipes away the blood, and he can already see where Amos's flesh is purpling in vicious bruises along his ribs and he runs his fingers over the flesh, pressing in, testing for bruised or broken ribs.

“You'd better come back to me, Amos.”

There's a hitch of breath that doesn't come from Prax pressing at Amos's ribs. And, oh God. What is he saying? What has he done?

After that first gasp, it doesn't feel like Amos is even breathing, he's standing so still.

He's messed everything up, that's what. Messed up his friendship with Amos – as new and tenuous as the tender green shoots of the soja hispida growing in his room. And this. This has to be the end of everything between the two of them. Prax has gotten too clingy, too desperate sounding. And Amos won't want that, won't want his baggage, won't want to come to him for this anymore.

Prax wants to turn away in shame and misery, curl in on himself like the mimosa podica does when touched, so that he doesn't have to face Amos and his look of betrayal. But he finds whatever courage brought him from Ganymede to the Rocinante to Io in search of Mei, in search of vengeance if he couldn't find her, and he steels himself and looks up into Amos's face.

And Amos is looking back at him with such deep emotion, such blunt trust, such naked warmth, that Prax feels himself open up like a helianthus to the sun and before he knows what he's doing he's reached up and cupped Amos's bristled cheek in his hand. And when Amos presses into it, just barely, Prax kisses him.

It's soft and tentative and everything that Amos Burton isn't. So Prax isn't all that surprised when Amos cradles the back of his head in his big hand and pulls him closer, deepens the kiss, until Prax is drowning in it – couldn't think about anything else even if he wanted to.

Eventually, they break apart, Prax gasping for breath, overwhelmed. But Amos is there to hold him up, to keep hold of him, to guide him through this, too.

And Amos is smiling down at Prax, eyes still boring into Prax's soul.

“I was wondering when you'd get the picture, Prax. For a smart guy, you can be a little slow on the uptake.”

“What?” Prax gasps, still feeling breathless – though that probably doesn't have anything to do with lack of oxygen at this point. “What are you talking about?”

Amos laughs. “What, you really thought I had'ta strip half naked for you to patch up a bullet wound on my shoulder? Or this cut?”

And Prax lets his gaze trail down down down Amos's chest to where his jumpsuit is just barely clinging to his hips, riding low enough that Prax isn't even entirely sure he can call him clothed. And yes, Prax can see that it's all a little unnecessary for the kind of wounds he's been tending.

“You were coming on to me?”

Amos shrugs one shoulder. “Yep. Glad the interest's mutual – I thought maybe, but then you didn't do anything. So I'd kinda given up on it.”

“To be fair, I was a little preoccupied with finding my missing daughter at the time to realize that you were hitting on me.” But Prax can feel himself smiling as he says it. Because everything worked out ok and Mei is alive and here on the Rocinante with him and Amos is standing here, steady as a rock, patient, waiting for Prax to catch up with him.

“Well, she ain't missing anymore,” Amos says, matter of fact.

“So what now? We fall into bed together?”

Amos shrugs again. “If you wanna.”

Prax thinks about it for a second. But really, there's not that much to think about.

“Yeah, ok.”

And after, when they're laying together in Amos's bunk, sweaty and a little gross, and very, very happy, Amos turns to him and says, “You're my best friend, too, Prax.”